Then the was light followed by screams then fire

"Push, my lady, push! The babe is almost here. Just a little longer," urged the wet nurse, her voice calm but firm. Across the room, the maester's expression was frozen in shock, and he muttered, "There's… a problem. I can't quite tell what I'm looking at." Though his words were quiet, the laboring mother heard them, panic instantly gripping her heart. Her concentration broke, but the wet nurse quickly encouraged her to keep pushing.

The maester, horrified by what he saw, stammered, "I… I don't think this child is norma—" but he stopped himself. After a painful thirty minutes, a malformed bundle was delivered, and a deep silence fell over the room as everyone stared in mute shock. The mother had lost consciousness.

Moments later, a man with long silver hair in black pants and a loose white shirt burst into the room, his face set in determination. "Is the child well?" he demanded, his voice commanding. The maester, still shaken, carefully unwrapped the misshapen form to reveal what was unmistakably wings—not soft and feathered, but scaly. As he peeled back more of the swaddling, he realized the creature was not a lump of flesh, but a living, breathing infant. The baby, though weak, had dragon-like wings twice its size and scaly protrusions on its head that hinted at horns.

The man, Daemon, took the child in his hands, but recoiled slightly as he took in the rest of its features—a tiny mane of silver hair, cataract-covered eyes, and a tail covered in purple scales. Shocked, he thought to himself, A dragon… my child is a dragon.

With growing resolve, he turned to the others in the room. "No one leaves this room," he declared, his voice brooking no argument.

Somewhere in a hazy consciousness, the woman felt her husband's presence. She sensed something was wrong. Her heart sank, but her motherly instincts took over as she struggled to sit up.

"Daemon... where is our child?" she rasped, her voice frail and panicked.

Daemon's expression faltered, but he attempted to comfort her. "Leana, you must rest," he said, but the tone of his voice only deepened her fear. She demanded again, louder this time, "Give me my child!"

Her tears blurred her vision as Daemon approached, holding their son wrapped tightly in swaddling. As her vision cleared momentarily, she saw something small and scaly sticking out—a tail. Her heart beat painfully slow as he placed the infant in her arms, and she finally saw him. Though the child's form was both dragon and human, her gaze softened. All she saw was her weak, suffering child.

Ignoring everyone else in the room, she freed her breast and urged the baby to nurse, her hands trembling. The nurses and maester moved to stop her, but the look she shot them kept them at bay. Her son latched on weakly, but within minutes, his tiny breaths faltered. She was the first to feel him still, her already shattered heart breaking completely as her vision dulled, the light dimming in her eyes.

"He… he didn't even have a name," she whispered, looking into Daemon's eyes. For a brief moment, she saw the father she loved, until his expression grew distant.

"He will have a name," Daemon replied firmly, voice filled with the familiar arrogance of the Targaryens. "He is our son and a prince of House Targaryen." He looked around the room at the maester and attendants. "Leave and wait for my orders."

When the room cleared, Daemon looked back at Leana. "Our son's name will be Aegon. I will make sure he is remembered."

Her expression empty, Leana looked down at her son's lifeless form. "Leave me with him," she murmured in a voice stripped of strength. Daemon hesitated but finally complied, exiting the room and instructing everyone to keep their distance.

Hours passed in the dimly lit room before Leana rose, cradling her deceased son in her arms. She walked through the castle halls toward the beach, where her dragon, Vhagar, lay resting.

Approaching her ancient companion, Leana spoke in High Valyrian, her voice broken. "I need you, partner." Vhagar's immense, intelligent eyes opened, and the great dragon rose, sensing her grief.

"I'm so tired, my friend," she whispered, glancing down at her child's peaceful face. Her voice choked with pain as she looked into Vhagar's eyes. "Free me… free me so I can join my brother and son. I can't leave him alone."

For a long moment, Vhagar seemed unwilling, the dragon's sorrow reflecting Leana's pain. Finally, tears streaming down her face, she issued her last command. "Dracarys," she roared, her voice filled with both agony and release.

With a shuddering roar that echoed through the night, Vhagar's mouth opened wide, a fiery orange glow building before a torrent of flames poured forth, engulfing his beloved rider. Each second stretched into an eternity, the flames shrinking only when her form was gone, the roar finally fading.

In the distance, Daemon witnessed the scene unfold, racing toward the beach in disbelief. He cried out, "No!" as he neared her, his dragon Caraxes following behind, alert and anxious. But as he reached the spot where Vhagar's flames had finally died, the quiet of the night was broken by a piercing, newborn cry.

From the smoldering ashes, a child lay, alive and screaming to the world.

Daemon, stunned, ran to the child, lifting him gently. The boy's skin was feverishly hot, his horns barely visible as tiny nubs, and his scales were a deep, iridescent purple. As the boy opened his eyes, Daemon saw the familiar Targaryen stare—serpentine eyes, set in inky black sclera.

In that moment, a chill passed through Daemon. This was not just his son—this was a true dragon.