The darkness of the chamber was broken only by the flickering light of candles, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, herbs, and blood. The sound of moans and cries of pain echoed through the halls, drowning out all other noise. Daemon stood motionless in the doorway, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw clenched. He had heard that sound before. Many times. Too many times.

While he would not admit it, Daemon dreaded labor. Death always loomed over those moments, like an inevitable shadow. First, his mother had died in childbirth. Then his brother’s wife. Then his own wife, Laena. And now, you. His niece. His wife.

Daemon had never felt so helpless. He could win battles, spill enemy blood without hesitation, but here… here, faced with the torment you endured, he was nothing more than a helpless man, consumed by fear.

The septas worked tirelessly, muttering prayers under their breath, their hands skilled but shaking as they helped you shift, lifting you to your feet. The maester muttered to himself, turning over vials of herbs and cloths soaked in warm water, his expression thick with barely concealed concern. With each passing moment, the fear inside Daemon grew, writhing like a caged dragon.

“This is taking too long,” one of them muttered. Daemon felt his blood run cold. The words struck him like a blade to the chest. You stared at him. Your face was pale, covered in sweat, your lips parted as you fought the overwhelming pain.

But it was the look in your eyes that destroyed him. There was fear there. Not of the birth. Not for the pain. But for him. For what might happen to him if you didn't survive.