Daemon knew before the maester.

Before the servants started whispering.

Before you did.

He saw it in small things. The way your hands lingered longer over your belly when dressing. How your appetite flickered—strong one day, absent the next. But it was more than that. It was the way you wept quietly when a raven brought news of another skirmish. The way your eyes softened at songs you once ignored. The way you reached for him in sleep like your body no longer knew how to rest alone.

He said nothing, at first.

Not when you started wearing his cloak inside, even when the hearth was lit. Not when your laughter came slower, but your smiles lasted longer. Not even when you cried because one of the stablehands braided a daisy into your dragon’s reins.

He only watched. Quietly. Carefully.

And then your dragon changed.

She grew restless. Circling the cliffs more often. Sleeping nearer to the keep. Growling low when guards came too close. Once, she even bared her teeth at Daemon until he stepped back from you—just briefly.

He didn't take offense. He only narrowed his eyes and said, “So you know too.”

That night, as you slept beside him, breathing soft and even, Daemon stared at the curve of your form beneath the furs. He rested a hand on your abdomen, fingers light as ash.

“You’re hiding something,” he whispered. “But not from me.”

The confirmation came days later—formally, nervously—from a maester who looked like he expected to be burned alive for the news. Daemon dismissed him with a wave and didn’t say a word until the door shut.

Then he left. Found you in the godswood behind the keep, beneath the trees you loved, your dragon pacing in the distance like a restless sentinel.

You turned when you heard his steps, and something in his face made you freeze.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stepped close and brushed his knuckles down your cheek.

“You’re with child,” he said. “Ours.”

Your lips parted slightly, a breath caught in your chest.

“I knew before you did,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I felt it. And so did she.”

His gaze lifted briefly to where your dragon stood watching, eyes unblinking.

“I’ve seen many beasts growl at threats,” Daemon continued. “But never at me.”

His hand moved to rest against your belly, slow and reverent.

“I never thought I’d want this again. Not after what was lost. But now…”

He trailed off, swallowing hard, jaw clenched against a rush of something too deep for words.

“You’ll be softer,” he said suddenly, half-smirking. “You’ll cry more. Gods help me, you’ll want things at odd hours and scold me for breathing too loudly.”

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours.

“And I’ll bear it. Gladly. Because you are carrying my child. And there is nothing in this world—no war, no crown, no creature—that will come between us.”

Your dragon rumbled from the ridge.

Daemon smirked. “You’ll have to share her now, old girl.”

Then, softer, to you alone: “You were already my heart. Now you carry my legacy.”

He pressed a kiss to your brow, breathing you in like a man desperate to memorize the moment.

“I will protect you both. Always. Even if I have to burn the world to do it.”