The heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind Daemon, the sound echoing like a final blow against the stone walls.
The world outside felt wrong. It was too quiet, the kind of silence that held its breath and then, it broke.
A sharp, ragged scream tore through the air from behind the oak doors. It didn't sound like his mother. It sounded like something being broken.
Daemon stilled, his small boots rooted to the floor.
At the far end of the long hallway, Viserys appeared. He wasn't running, but his steps were hurried and uneven. His face was a ghostly white, and he stopped several feet away, his eyes wide as he looked at the closed doors and then at Daemon.
"Daemon?" Viserys whispered, his voice trembling. "What happened? I heard... I heard a sound from the gardens."
Another cry followed. This one was louder, cracking at the edges before it faded into a low moan.
Viserys flinched as if he'd been struck. He stepped closer, his hands bunching into small fists at his sides. "Is she... is she going to give birth now? Is it the baby?"
Daemon said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the closed doors, his mind tracing the muffled, urgent voices overlapping inside.
Then, Alyssa screamed again.
This time, it sounded as though something was being torn directly from her chest. Daemon's breath hitched just once a tiny fracture in his composure before he forced himself to stand perfectly still.
Viserys let out a small, choked gasp. "I don't like this," he said, his voice breaking. "They won't tell us anything. Why is it so loud, Daemon? It shouldn't be that loud."
The sound of thundering footsteps suddenly filled the hall. Baelon Targaryen appeared, still clad in his riding armor. The metal clanked and hissed with every frantic stride. He skidded to a halt before the doors, his massive presence filling the space, his hand going to the latch.....
.. and yet, he stopped. He stayed his hand.
Another scream pierced the wood. Baelon's fist slammed against the stone wall beside the frame. The impact cracked the silence, but it couldn't break through the door. For the first time in his life, Daemon saw his father look truly helpless. The Spring Prince, the man of iron and fire, was reduced to a spectator.
The air in the corridor seemed to tighten around them. Every second stretched until it felt like a wire pulled too thin.
Then, a different set of footsteps cut through the tension. They were quick, controlled, and urgent.
Queen Alysanne arrived.
She did not rush blindly into the room. She stopped just short of the entrance, her regal posture holding firm for a heartbeat, and then she faltered.
Another scream echoed from within. It hit the Queen like a physical blade. Her hand lifted toward her throat, then clenched hard in her silk skirts, her knuckles turning white. The composure she wore like a shield cracked just enough to reveal the terrified mother beneath the crown.
"Alyssa…" she breathed, the name barely a whisper.
Then she moved. She didn't go to the door or to her son, Baelon. She went to the boys.
She reached Viserys first, pulling him into her side without hesitation. His restraint shattered instantly. He clutched at her gown, his face buried in her waist as his fear finally spilled over.
"Grandmother, make it stop," he sobbed. "Why is she hurting?"
Alysanne closed her eyes briefly, pressing her cheek to his silver hair as another cry tore through the chamber. Her other hand reached out for Daemon. She rested it against the top of his head, gentler than anything else in this moment of chaos. Her fingers were trembling, though she tried her best to still them.
"It will be alright," she said.
The words were steady. Her voice was not.
Viserys held onto her like an anchor in a storm. Daemon stood rigid beneath her touch, his body a pillar of unyielding tension.
Another scream rang out, higher and sharper than the last. This time, the Queen's hand tightened in Daemon's hair, just slightly. It wasn't a gesture of reassurance. It was a reflex of pure, raw fear.
Daemon felt the tremor in her palm. And for the first time, he truly understood. This was not a war that could be won with steel. It was not a law that could be rewritten. This was not something even a Queen could command into submission.
His gaze returned to the door. He stayed there, waiting and listening, counting every scream as the sun began to dip below the horizon.
Sometime later, the screaming stopped.
It didn't fade away. It cut off abruptly, leaving a sudden silence that felt far worse than the noise. For a heartbeat, no one in the corridor moved. They all stood like statues, frozen by the quiet.
Then, the heavy wooden doors groaned open.
A midwife stepped out. Her hands were stained, and she cradled a newborn wrapped tightly in blood-spotted cloth against her chest.
"Your son is born safely, my lord," she announced. Her voice was tired, but it didn't shake.
Baelon Targaryen looked at the child for only a second just a single, glancing look and then he was already moving. He pushed past the woman without a word and vanished into the chamber.
Queen Alysanne stepped forward, her own hands firm despite a faint tremor, and took the infant from the midwife. She held the newborn close, her face caught between a mother's relief and a lingering, dark fear.
Daemon didn't wait for permission. He ran.
He darted past the midwife and the Queen, his small boots thudding against the stone as he plunged into the room.
The smell hit him first. It was the thick, metallic scent of blood. There was too much of it. It hung in the warm air, heavy and suffocating. His steps slowed as he approached the bed.
Then he saw her.
Alyssa lay motionless against the pillows. Her face was deathly pale beneath damp, tangled strands of silver-gold hair. The sheets beneath her were soaked through, a dark stain spreading wide across the linen.
For a moment, Daemon's mind simply refused to process it. This was worse than the day he had seen his aunt Daella trembling and broken. This felt final. This looked like the end.
Then, he saw it the faint, shallow rise of her chest.
She was breathing. It was a thin, fragile rhythm, but it was there.
The tight knot in Daemon's chest loosened just a fraction. Relief washed over him, though it brought no sense of safety. Only a grim possibility.
She's alive, he thought, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. Then she can be saved.
A maester's voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. "The princess and the prince are both safe, my lord. With time, they will recover."
Baelon stood by the bedside. His hand hovered in the air for a long moment before finally settling gently against Alyssa's arm, as if he were afraid she might shatter if he pressed too hard. He gave a short, stiff nod. Relief did not reach his eyes.
Daemon didn't believe the maester. He couldn't. He knew the future, and he knew that if nothing changed, his mother would be dead within a year. His newborn brother would follow her into the dirt soon after.
The maesters began gathering their instruments, their grey robes brushing softly against the floor as they moved with practiced indifference.
"We will take our leave, my lord," one of them said. "If the princess requires anything, we will return at once."
Baelon nodded absently, his eyes never leaving Alyssa's face.
Daemon didn't move. His gaze followed every single motion the maesters made. It was a cold, sharp look. If stares could kill, those men would have died a hundred times over.
He saw it all. The same mistakes, repeated again and again. Unwashed hands touching open wounds. Blood-soaked cloths left lying too long. Metal tools carried without any care for the filth they gathered.
They weren't healers. They were gamblers, wagering lives against ignorance.
His jaw tightened until it ached. So this was their care. This was how they preserved the lives of dragons.
A slow, steady breath filled his lungs, calming something far colder than fear inside him. A thought began to form clear, precise, and inevitable.
He would not let this happen again.
If this world did not understand how sickness spread, then he would teach it. If these men did not know how to truly save a life, then he would show them.
Because knowing the truth and doing nothing would make him no better than the men in the grey robes. And this time, he refused to sit back and watch her die.
Alysanne Targaryen entered the room, the newborn held securely in her arms. Viserys followed close behind, clinging to her side as if he were afraid to let go.
The room had gone quiet, but it wasn't the kind of quiet that brought peace. It was heavy, filled with the lingering smell of copper and sweat.
Viserys's eyes went straight to the bed. He watched the faint, rhythmic rise of his mother's chest. A breath. Then another. Relief hit him so hard it looked like he'd been struck. His shoulders sagged, his whole body going limp for a second, but then his face twisted. He looked away, swallowing hard against a lump in his throat.
"I… I can't…" he whispered. He didn't look at anyone. He just turned and vanished out the door.
Alysanne watched him go, her gaze lingering on the empty doorway a moment longer than it should have. Then she stepped forward, passing Daemon without a word, heading toward Baelon.
Baelon hadn't moved from Alyssa's side. His hand rested lightly on her arm, as if he were grounding himself in the fact that she was still there. Still alive. Barely.
Alysanne stood beside him in the silence. In that moment, they weren't a Queen and a Prince; they were just a mother and her son, waiting and enduring the aftermath of a storm.
Finally, Alysanne looked down at the child in her arms. Her voice was quiet, but it reached every corner of the room.
"What name did you choose?"
Baelon exhaled slowly, as if even speaking took more strength than he had left. "Alyssa chose it," he said. His hand tightened slightly on the bedsheet. "We agreed… if it was a boy."
He finally looked down at his son.
"Aegon."
Alysanne's fingers stilled against the baby's wrapping. "A heavy name," she said softly.
Baelon gave a faint, tired breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "He'll need to be strong enough to carry it."
There was no pride in his voice, only the weight of the day. He took the child from her arms with surprising care handling the boy as if he might break with a single thought. He held him for a long, silent moment, then gently placed him into the cradle beside the bed.
"Aegon Targaryen."
The name settled into the room. It didn't feel like a celebration; it felt like something that had been earned in blood.
The door opened again. This time, no one spoke.
Jocelyn Baratheon entered quietly, her presence bringing a different kind of energy like a storm held under tight control. In her hands, she carried a dragon egg. It was dark, with faint veins running across its surface that caught the dim light of the candles.
Her steps slowed the moment she saw Alyssa. For a heartbeat, she stopped. Her composure slipped, and the strength in her shoulders dipped just a little as she took in the sight: the stillness, the pale skin, and the blood that no amount of cleaning could fully hide.
Jocelyn closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, the emotion was gone, replaced by a cold resolve.
"She breathes," she said. It wasn't a question; it was a fact she needed to hear out loud.
Baelon nodded once. That was enough.
Jocelyn stepped toward the cradle. Her expression softened just a fraction as she looked at the newborn. "So this is the one who chose to fight his way into the world," she murmured. There was almost a note of approval in her voice.
She placed the dragon egg beside the child with deliberate care, tucking the cloth around it so it rested securely against him.
"A companion," she said quietly. "May it wake for him… in a gentler world than the one that welcomed him."
Her hand lingered on the edge of the cradle for a moment longer than necessary. Then she withdrew.
Behind them, the door closed. It was a soft sound, but it drew every eye in the room.
Daemon was still standing there. He had been watching everything, silent and still.
Then, he moved.
There was no hesitation in his stride. He crossed the stone floor, climbed onto the edge of the high bed, and knelt beside Alyssa. Up close, the sight was worse than it had been from across the room. She was too pale, the color of winter bone, and far too still.
His hand rose small, steady, and unchildlike and brushed against her cheek. He wiped away the dried salt tracks left behind by her tears. This felt fundamentally wrong to him. In his memory, his mother was never still. she was a whirlwind of laughter and sharp wit. She was never quiet, and she was certainly never fragile.
Something tightened in his chest. It wasn't the heat of a tantrum, but a cold, precise decision. His hand slid down from her face, moving with intent until it rested firmly against her abdomen.
The moment stretched, the silence in the room suddenly feeling brittle. Baelon was the first to notice the change in the air.
"Daemon—" he began, his voice low and warned, sensing the shift in the boy's posture.
It was too late.
The air in the chamber shifted. It wasn't dramatic at first there was no sudden burst of light or a crack of thunder. There was only a heavy, mounting pressure. It felt as if the room itself had drawn a deep, jagged breath and forgotten how to release it.
Deep within Daemon, a familiar, translucent screen flared to life, invisible to all but him.
[System Notification]
Spell Casting: Restoration
Rank: Adept
Description: Restores the body to its optimal state prior to recent trauma. Stabilizes internal injuries, including bleeding and organ damage.
Note: Cannot regenerate lost organs or revive the dead.
Cost: Severe Mana Drain.
Warning: Risk of physical backlash if overextended.