Rhaenyra never returned to King's Landing. She remained in Driftmark; even after Laenor Velaryon had passed before taking her place in Dragonstone's castle. Daella remained in the Capitol with the green spiders that carried their web all across the Keep with the help of the Queen and the Hand. The seeds for a war that the Maester will later call the Dance of the dragons were planted long before 120 AC but only now did they show some affect.

Not even a few moons passed when the news reached King's Landing that Daemon took Rhaenyra as his wife in Dragonstone. The ceremony was quick and secret because Rhaenyra (as said in her letters to her sister) thought that father will be seething with anger if he knew that his brother took his daughter for a wife when Laena nor Laenor had been dead for a long time. And was Viserys truly seething with anger. The court and common people thought of it as an insult; not only to their previous partners but to the Gods as well.

But the happier news came soon as Daella went into labour once more. Her doors were now guarded by Ser Arryk and not Ser Criston who continued his dutiful work with the Green Queen.

There was a storm outside when the labour started; Daella doesn't remember when it was the last time that the sky let so many drops of rain fall over the Capitol. She clung onto the white gown so harshly that she thought it might've ripped from her nails. The ladies tried to coax her into breathing and calming her nerves but the princess kept crying and silently pray to the Gods to keep her safe, to let her life through this.

Her anxiety was only raised when she saw Adrian slide inside, Grand Maester Orwyle speaking to him in hushed tones. She thought that was it – she thought that the story that happened to her mother years ago is now happening to her. That the babe is placed wrong, that she won't come out and that they'll cut her open if Adrian wishes for it.

She doesn't know him well enough; when Orwyle told him, over the grunts and cries of Daella that the ladies helped to slowly move across the chambers, that the babe was placed transversed; that his head and feet are pressed to the sides of the mother's womb and that his head should've been turned down and the man suggests that the princess should've been opened for him to take the baby out, Adrian shook his head, "no – no, you will not do that."

"It will be better for her Grace," Orwyle speaks in hushed tones again, nervous fingers holding his palm; one Queen was already lost like this, he doesn't wish for another one to be lost as well, "it's simple – we cut just below her belly, take the babe out and close the flesh again."

Adrian looks at Daella that struggles, supported under her arms by the ladies before he looks back at Orwyle, "like her mother was?"

The Grand Maester stares at him for a moment before he speaks again, "the death of Queen Aemma was an unfortunate incident that we still deeply regret. But if you wish for the princess to live, we should open her."

"Should?" Adrian echoes back, shaking fingers on his hips, "what happens we wait?"

Orwyle glances at Daella again, "perhaps the babe will turn. But –"

"- but the babe will turn then," Adrian cuts him off.

The maester looks at him again and stays quiet for a moment, "maybe he will, maybe he will not. But if we wait for far too long, the story of Queen Aemma will repeat with her daughter."

One particularly loud groan that escaped Daella's lips made Adrian take a step towards her. She shook her head with her eyes closed shut and Isabella hoisted her up from where she held her under her armpit. She looked at her elder brother with pleading eyes – do something. Adrian turned his head to Orwylle and muttered, "wait for her to turn."

Because Adrian – as much as Daella – was sure the babe was a girl this time around. His mother once told him tales about how if the woman preferred sweet things during pregnancy and if she had a lot of morning sickness, the babe would be a girl; his Holy Grail, the Seven combined.

She didn't want any help with the babe. She never did; she remembers seeing her mother being attended left to right during her labour and she ended up burnt to ashes by Syrax. Daella would rather twist in aching pain than let them help her; it might be the Gods punishing her.

"Mummy?"

Daella and Adrian whipped their heads to the slightly cracked door; Caspian stood there with teary eyes, his lower lip wobbling. He had a habit of sneaking out of his chambers to search for either of his parents since the dragon toy of his was lost. Another contraction hit her like the waves of the ocean that took down the body of Laena Velaryon and she almost crashed forward if she didn't catch herself upon the black wall near the balcony and Isabella held her by her elbow.

Adrian quickly jumped towards Caspian, fingers holding out and shielding him from the sight of his mother, "go back to bed, Cas, please. Mummy will be with you in the mor, alright?"

"Is she going to be alright?" the boy mumbles out, tiny fingers clutching the edge of his nightshirt when Daella let out another groan.

"Yes – yes, mummy will be alright," Adrian quickly responded with a nod, pressing a sloppy kiss atop his head before looking up to see Ser Criston Cole moving down the hallway; far away from where the Queen was at that time of the night.

"Ser Cole!" Adrian called out and the Kingsguard stopped and turned to face him, "would you please take Caspian to his chambers?"

"I should-" Criston started with whatever excuse he could find but he was stopped by Daella's scream and a plead from her husband,

"I beg you."

Only when Caspian turned his teary eyes towards the knight, he nodded and moved closer to the doors. His gaze flickered to the ajar doors, watching as Daella struggled to move around her chambers and his heart raced against his ribcage. He quickly diverted his eyes and offered the prince his hand. Caspian's fingers tugged onto Criston's finger.

"He does that when he wants to get carried," Adrian spoke up when Criston already started to leave.

The knight hesitated for a split moment before he bent down and picked the prince up. Caspian pressed his cheek against the small amount of fabric that covered the cold metal plates on Criston's shoulder. Adrian nodded his head towards the knight because there had always been a mutual understanding – he knew his wife could never love him in the way she loves Criston and Criston understood that he may never have her the way Adrian does and he's thankful for his silence. Adrian isn't sure if any of the children brought on the world by Daella were his; he thinks he doesn't want to know it either. He likes to live in the world where Arthor and Caspian are his blood.

The doors close again when Adrian slips inside and Criston turns around and walks down the hallway. Caspian murmurs against his Kingsguard uniform, teary and tired eyes watching behind as the doors become smaller and smaller, "what is going on with mummy?"

"She's bringing your sister in the world," Criston replies quietly and prays to the Seven that Alicent doesn't see him with the prince in his arms as he turns the corner and walks up the staircase – once adorned with sigils of House Targaryen, now with signs of the Faith.

Hours passed and the night grew the darkest. The princess was by then exhausted yet the babe had no desire to be welcomed in the cruel world. She'd only allow Isabella near her; the girl tried to soothe her, pressing cold and wet cloths onto her sweaty forehead where she laid in bed. Whenever she'd plead her to give the women a try to help her, Daella dismissed it with a shake of her head.

She was chasing something again in her foggy mind – there was fire; burning pyre and she stood among the crowd of people. She looks down at a puddle but instead of seeing her face, she sees a blur. She can see the people around – taller than anyone she ever knew, darker skin compared to the pale looks of the Targaryens, dark, almost black eyes and hair. They seem to pray; hope for someone – for the one that burnt at the pyre, at the funeral. She steps forward and no one seems to care or notice her, like she's not there. She watches a girl remain untouched when the fire stops. Three babe dragons sit over her naked shoulders as she turns her face and looks at Daella – purple Targaryen eyes stare back at her.

Maester Orwyle wrote in his notes that the princess had a high fever during the late hours of the difficult labour. It was only then – when Daella's mind was too foggy to function correctly, when she started mumbling about fire and the birth of dragons, did Orwyle tell Adrian that he has to step in.

He instructed that Isabella should be on the bed next to Daella and holding her hand and that Adrian should start his prayers. While the maester gathered his things and spoke to the midwives, Adrian fell on his knees by the bedside, holding his wife's cold and sweaty palm in his.

She pressed her cheek against the pillow and looked at him with half closed eyes, her lips chapped and dry. Her words were almost a mumble, "let no harm come to our boys."

"You will be there to help with that," Adrian responded, his hand pressed against her left cheek, nudging himself closer to her, "do not close your eyes. Stay here – stay with me, do not leave."

One of the ladies pressed milk of poppy against her lips and Daella – despite herself – took few sips of it. The lady didn't leave her side just yet; she pressed her thumb against the princess' forehead and drew a little seven-pointed star on the skin there, "it is not your time yet, princess."

Because twenty-four years was far too little time on this earth for a princess as loved as Daella was. Only then did it dawn of her how serious the situation was and despite the milk of poppy now running through her veins, she let out a small choked sob.

There had been a moment when she wanted to let go; she thought of leaving and reuniting with her mother, of meeting the brother she lost so many years ago alongside their mother. But Adrian kept murmuring that it's not her time yet – that there are things left unresolved, her children had yet not grown up.

Daella wasn't sure when her belly was cut open – she foggily remembers Orwyle moving on top of the bed with a long knife like a dagger that was used to cut out the wild rabbits that the people caught. The milk emptied any feelings she had inside her when the first slice was made against her skin; then another; and another until it reached the number seven. She sees the baby in some distant view like she was already floating above them. She reaches her hand toward her but all she sees is blood over the once pearly white sheets. She's suddenly aware that she's bleeding out.

Maybe it had been her time.

But time wasn't right – Orwyle works wonders sometimes. He presses white cloths against the open wound, letting them soak any blood that left the princess' system while the babe is pressed into Isabella's arms. Her eyes widen at the sight of the crying baby in her arms – bloody and dragon like. Her thumb presses against the girl's cheek, her skin across the dragon like grey scales there. She quickly scurries off the bed and to one of the midwifes to finish their work on the babe; all three women there have to keep back the shock that would leave their lips.

"Not your time," Adrian murmurs again as Orwyle stitches the belly up, his fingers working quickly and steady, "not yet."

Daella Targaryen lives.