Two years had passed since the day the glass candle awakened.The boy standing in the yard was no longer a toddler.Daemon was four.He did not look it.
His frame had lengthened, leaner and more defined than it should have been. Where other children his age still moved with softness, there was a strange sharpness to him ,something tempered too early. Most would have taken him for six, perhaps even seven.
No one would have guessed the truth.The change was not natural.The constant siphoning of mana had begun to shape him, feeding his growth in ways the body was never meant to handle. It did not make him stronger not yet but it made him… faster to become.
His silver-gold hair had grown past his neck now, brushing lightly against his shoulders whenever he moved.
He stood on the dusted training ground, his bare feet planted firmly against the packed earth. A wooden practice sword rested in his hands, held low in a neutral guard. The wooden post in front of him was already scarred from the morning's repeated strikes.
Daemon stepped forward and thrust.
The wooden blade hit the post with a dull, hollow thud. It felt wrong. Too stiff. Too straight.
"Stop."
The word cut cleanly through the quiet of the yard.
Baelon Targaryen stepped closer, his arms folded across his chest. His presence alone seemed to press the air down, heavy and commanding.
"You're not stabbing a corpse," Baelon said, his voice flat. "You're fighting something that moves."
Daemon didn't argue. He simply reset his stance. Feet apart. Weight centered. He thrust again.
Thud.
Baelon exhaled slowly, a sound of mild frustration. "No."
He stepped forward and tapped the wooden blade aside with just two fingers. "Your arm is locked. Your shoulder is stiff. If I were your opponent...."
He gave Daemon a light nudge. The boy's balance shifted instantly, his feet sliding in the dirt.
"...you'd already be on the ground."
Daemon adjusted immediately. He loosened his grip and lowered his shoulder, shaking out the tension. He tried again. He thrust. This time, the movement was smoother, but it was noticeably slower.
Baelon shook his head. "Now you've gone too far the other way."
A long pause followed. Baelon crouched slightly so his eyes were level with Daemon's.
"Listen carefully," Baelon said. "A sword is not about force. And it's not about speed." He reached out and tapped the center of Daemon's chest. "It's about control."
Daemon's grip tightened for a second, then relaxed.
"Again," the boy said.
Baelon's brow lifted faintly at the demand, but he stepped back to give him room. Daemon took a single breath. He stepped. He thrust.
This time, the strike landed clean. It wasn't remarkably strong or lightning fast, but it was perfectly aligned.
Baelon didn't speak immediately. He walked a slow circle around the boy, observing his form.
"Better," he said at last. "But you're thinking too much."
Daemon lowered the sword slightly, listening.
"You measure every movement," Baelon continued. "That's good. But in a fight, if you stop to think, you die."
A beat of silence passed. Daemon looked back at the scarred wooden post.
"I won't stop," he said.
Baelon studied him for a moment—longer than he probably intended to. Then, a faint smirk touched his lips.
"Good," he said.
He picked up a second wooden blade from the rack and tossed it lightly from one hand to the other. He stepped into the center of the ring.
"Then stop hitting wood. Try hitting me."
Daemon lowered the wooden blade, his grip loosening as his breathing finally steadied.
Three years old.
That was when it had all begun. It hadn't been a choice, but a decree. The order had come from Jaehaerys I Targaryen himself, and from that moment on, his training had never been normal.
While other children his age chased each other through the long corridors and sunny courtyards of the Keep, Daemon's days were divided with a cold, deliberate precision.
Steel always came first.
His father, Baelon Targaryen, saw to that personally. Baelon didn't just teach him how to swing a sword; he stripped every movement down until he found a flaw, then forced Daemon to rebuild the motion from nothing. There was no praise for being good for his age. There was only the demand to be right.
Words came next.
His mother, Alyssa, made sure he spoke both High Valyrian and the Common Tongue without a single fault. In her lessons, there was no room for hesitation and no tolerance for error. A prince did not stumble over his own voice, she told him. He was expected to speak with the clarity of a king before he could even reach the table.
Faith was quieter, but it was no less suffocating.
Under his aunt, Maegelle Targaryen, devotion was never forced,it was simply expected. Her lessons carried no threats or loud punishments. There was only a calm, heavy certainty that this was the way a dragon must behave.
And then… there was the King.
Jaehaerys didn't teach often, and he never came at a predictable time. But when the Old King chose to speak, the lessons were never simple. He spoke of politics, of power, and of consequence. These were lessons where a single answer could be right in one breath and fatal in the next.
The maesters filled whatever gaps were left. They brought numbers, trade, and the boring talk of coin. They were dry, dusty lessons, but they were necessary ones.
Daemon flexed his fingers slightly, feeling the faint tremor left behind from the morning's repeated strikes. He looked across the yard, his mind drifting to the others.
Unlike his brother, Viserys. Unlike his cousins.
He realized then that he was not being taught how to live a life. He was being shaped .
The training yard fell behind him as Daemon walked through the quieter corridors of the Red Keep. The air changed as he neared his mother's chambers becoming warmer and cleaner, carrying the faint scent of dried herbs and freshly boiled linen.
Everything here was controlled. Just as it should be.
Inside, the room was pristine. There were fresh sheets on the bed and new curtains at the windows. Not a single speck of dust was allowed to exist. On the bed, Alyssa Targaryen rested against a nest of cushions with a book open in her hands. One arm was draped lazily over the heavy curve of her stomach. She looked entirely too comfortable for someone about to bring chaos into the world.
Daemon paused at the entrance, his eyes sweeping the room with a practiced gaze. The windows were secure. The fire in the hearth was stable. The water on the side table was clean.
It was acceptable.
Alyssa glanced up and a smile immediately broke across her face. "Well," she said, closing her book, "if it isn't my stern little inspector."
Daemon stepped inside, his small boots silent on the stone.
"How was your training today?" she asked, setting the book aside.
"Efficient."
Alyssa tilted her head, her eyes twinkling. "That sounds suspiciously like boring."
"It was not boring," Daemon replied calmly. "It was productive."
"Ah," she nodded wisely. "So you only nearly injured your poor father instead of actually doing it."
A short pause followed. "I did not injure him."
Alyssa grinned. "Disappointing."
Daemon blinked once, his face as still as a statue. "You should not encourage that outcome."
"I'm not encouraging it," she said lightly. "I just like imagining Baelon's face when you correct him."
Daemon considered that for a moment. "...He does not accept correction."
"That," Alyssa said, "is why it would be so entertaining."
A brief silence passed between them. Daemon stepped closer to the bed, his gaze dropping as it always did to her stomach. As if sensing him, a faint movement answered from within. Daemon's expression sharpened instantly.
"You should reduce movement," he said. "Physical exertion increases risk."
Alyssa raised a brow. "Reduce movement? Daemon, I haven't moved more than five steps all day."
"That is acceptable," he said.
She laughed softly, the sound echoing in the clean room. "Gods, you sound like a maester trapped in a child's body."
"I am more efficient than most maesters."
"Oh, I don't doubt that for a second," she said, still smiling. She reached out and gently tugged a lock of his long, silver-gold hair. "This, however, is unacceptable."
Daemon stilled under her touch.
"It interferes with visibility," she continued. "And it makes you look like a tiny, brooding poet."
"I am not brooding."
"Mm," she hummed. "Of course not."
A pause followed as Daemon looked at her with quiet insistence. "You could give birth at any moment. Preparedness should be absolute."
Alyssa studied him for a moment really looked at him. Her expression softened, losing its playful edge. "And what would you have me do?" she asked gently. "Command the baby to arrive on schedule?"
Daemon hesitated. "...That would be optimal."
Alyssa burst into laughter. "Oh, I would love to see you try that. Go on give the order."
Daemon looked at her stomach. He was silent and focused, his eyes narrow. Nothing happened. Alyssa covered her smile with one hand, her eyes bright with mischief.
"Ah," she said sweetly, "a rare defeat."
Daemon frowned slightly, unhappy with the lack of results. "I will refine the method."
That only made her laugh more. After a moment, she reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. "Some things," she said softly, "don't listen to orders, Daemon."
A pause.
"For now," she added with a playful glint, "you'll just have to wait like the rest of us."
Daemon didn't like that. But he didn't argue.
The smile hadn't even faded from Alyssa's face when it happened.
It started with a sharp, ragged inhale. Her fingers suddenly clamped down around Daemon's hand, her knuckles turning white.
"Ah..!"
The sound tore out of her. It wasn't the laughter from a moment ago; it was pure, jagged pain. Her body tensed, her shoulders curling inward as the book she had been reading slipped from her lap and thudded onto the floor.
Daemon froze. For one long, silent heartbeat, he didn't move. He simply stared at her hand gripping his.
"What… happened?" he asked, his voice small.
There was no answer. Alyssa's grip tightened again stronger this time, almost enough to crush his bones. Another wave of pain hit her. She gasped, her breath breaking unevenly as her other hand dug deep into the bedsheets.
"Daemon...." she managed to choke out, her voice strained and thin. "Call… get the…"
Her words collapsed into a sharp cry.
Something twisted in Daemon's chest. It was a sharp, unfamiliar feeling that made it hard to breathe. He stood there for half a second too long, paralyzed by the sight of her hurting. Then, he moved.
He lunged for the door and flung it open.
"Maester...now!"
His voice rang out down the hallway, louder and more commanding than it had ever been. Servants who were passing by stopped dead in their tracks. For a moment, the world was still. Then, everything broke into frantic motion.
"Quickly!" someone shouted.
"Call the midwives!"
"Hot water.....bring hot water!"
The corridor erupted into a storm of running feet and panicked voices. Daemon didn't stay to watch. He turned back into the room immediately.
Inside, the calm he had liked so much was gone. Everything was wrong. Alyssa was breathing in hard, shallow bursts. Her body was stiff, one hand white-knuckled on the sheets while the other pressed against her stomach as if trying to steady something that refused to be still.
Daemon stepped closer to the bed, but his steps were slower now. He wasn't steady. Not entirely. He reached out, his small hand hovering near hers, trembling slightly.
"Mother?" he whispered, his voice cracking with a rare, raw fear. "Where does it hurt? Are you... are you going to be alright?"
Alyssa let out a sound that was half-breath, half-laugh, though her eyes were tight with agony. "I... I'll be fine, little flame... it's just... time."
Her voice broke again as another contraction hit her like a physical blow. Daemon flinched. It was a small movement, but he felt it in his very marrow. His fingers tightened into fists at his sides. He felt useless.
He looked at her stomach. It moved again not gently, like a heartbeat, but violently. Something felt heavy in the air. The pressure pressed against his skin, cold and suffocating. Daemon swallowed hard. He didn't understand what was happening, and for him, not understanding was worse than anything.
Footsteps thundered outside. The door burst open, and a crowd of people flooded in maesters with their clinking chains, midwives with folded linens, and servants carrying basins. There were too many of them. They were too loud.
"Out, my prince...quickly!" one of the midwives urged, already pushing past him toward the bed.
Daemon didn't move. He felt like a stone in a rushing river.
"She needs space, little prince," another said more firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder to lead him away.
He stepped back. Not because he wanted to leave, but because he didn't know what else to do. His eyes stayed locked on Alyssa. She cried out again sharper, higher this time.
Daemon's jaw tightened until it ached. He had studied. He had prepared. He had measured every risk and memorized every word of the maesters' books. But none of it helped.
For the first time in either of his lives, he had no answer. And he hated it.