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Born and raised amidst love and protection from everyone around him, Daervon Targaryen looks smaller than his age suggests. His dark hair frames a face with a fairly light complexion, accented by shining dark lilac eyes that seem to hold secrets beyond his years. His oval face, long lashes, thin nose, and strong bone structure are reminiscent of his Targaryen heritage, but it's his spirit that truly sets him apart.

From the moment Lady Leana lays eyes on the babe in her husband's arms, she makes a silent vow to raise him as her own. She pours endless love and affection onto him, shielding him from the absence of his late mother and ensuring he never feels the void in his life.

Daemon, the Rogue Prince, loves his son fiercely, seeing in him the heir to his legacy. Yet, as Daervon grows, his mischievous acts become harder to overlook. The boy shows signs of the scandalous behavior of his father's youth, his sharp wit matched only by his lack of interest in the martial pursuits that his father values most.

At the age of five, Daervon fluently speaks High Valyrian, a testament to his intellect and early aptitude for learning. But it's his unyielding belief in peace and harmony, coupled with his disinterest in battle, that often disappoints his father.

Despite being legitimized before the king as a true-born Targaryen, whispers of Daervon being a bastard haunt him, serving as a constant reminder of his lineage and the stigma attached to it.

It has been ten years since Rhaenyra's and Laenor's wedding, and ten years since Laena and Daemon reside in Pentos, accompanied by their ten-year-old son, Daervon, and their seven-year-old twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena.

In the opulent surroundings of the dining hall, Lady Leana sits, her heavily pregnant form a picture of serene elegance. Her gaze drifts out over the valley below, a peaceful expression gracing her features until interrupted by the entrance of her son.

"Mother," Daervon's voice is soft as he takes his seat at the table, his movements betraying a weariness beyond his years.

"It's good you're up early. Your father wants you in full dress for the training yard," Lady Leana greets him warmly, her eyes filled with concern.

Daervon's shoulders slump at the mention of training, a longing for solitude evident in his dedemeanour. "Wonderful."

Sensing her son's unease, Lady Leana pours him a glass of water, her touch gentle as she offers it to him. "Something bothering you?"

"Baela hates me. She thinks I stole you from her, which is a true accusation," Daervon admits, his voice tinged with sadness.

"Come here, my sweet boy," Lady Leana beckons, setting aside her cutlery to envelop him in a comforting embrace. "She is young, and tempers flare easily. You both are. And we all say things we do not mean when we're angry. They're just angry words with no meaning."

"But her words are true. I am a bastard and I have no mother."

"You're a Targaryen, and I am your mother. Am I not?"

"You are," Deavon states and looks up with his adorable dark lilac eyes. "Would you love me less when the babe comes out?

"Never," Lady Leana pokes on his nose with an amused smile. "You are my sweet boy, now and always."

Daervon's eyes well with tears as he nestles into his mother's embrace, the weight of his insecurities momentarily lifted by her words of reassurance. "Promise you'll always love me, no matter what?"

"I promise," Lady Leana replies, a smile playing at her lips as she links her pinkie finger with his.

As Daervon returns her smile, a glimmer of hope flickers in his eyes, a silent acknowledgement of the love and acceptance he so desperately craves.

"My sweet, you look weary. More dreams haunting your sleep?" Lady Leana's concern weighs heavily in her voice, her brows furrowing as she studies her son.

Deavon's nights have become tangled with recurring visions—a vast emptiness pierced only by a haunting voice, its words obscured by a cacophony of whispers. The toll on him is evident, etched in the lines of fatigue on his face and the weariness in his eyes.

He hesitates, grappling with the urge to confide in his mother yet reluctant to burden her further. "No," he responds, his voice strained with the effort to appear unaffected.

"I'll speak to Daemon," Lady Leana declares, her tone resolute yet tinged with worry. "You need rest. I'll excuse you from today's training." Her concern is palpable as she gazes at her son, silently urging him to prioritize his well-being.

Deavon nods gratefully, a mixture of relief and guilt flooding his heart. "Thank you," he murmurs, a faint flicker of gratitude in his tired eyes. "I'll... I'll finish my meal now." With a heavy sigh, he pushes aside his plate, his appetite waning beneath the weight of his troubled mind.

Later, in the sanctuary of his bedchambers, Daervon finds solace in the pages of a book, nestled comfortably among the plush pillows and soft blankets. The flickering flames of the hearth cast dancing shadows across the room, creating an ambience of quiet solitude. But his peace is short-lived, shattered by the sound of footsteps approaching down the long stone corridor. Recognizing the heavy, purposeful stride, he quickly shuts the book and sets it aside on the nightstand.

"Deavon," Daemon's voice is a low rumble as he enters the bedchambers, his regal presence filling the space.

"Father," Daervon greets him, a mix of apprehension and defiance in his gaze as he meets his father's stern expression.

"What were you reading?" Daemon's curiosity is genuine, his eyes lingering on the book with a hint of approval.

"Maester Rumil gave me a book about Maegor Targaryen-" Daervon begins, but his father's interruption halts his words.

"Ah, Maegor Targaryen," Daemon's voice holds a note of admiration at the mention of the notorious Targaryen. "A powerful warrior and a true Targaryen. You could learn a lot from him."

"I am not you, Father. Nor am I Maegor Targaryen," Daervon asserts, a fire igniting in his eyes as he meets his father's gaze head-on.

"You can be once you stop slacking off in training. You are destined for greatness, Daervon. Do not squander it," Daemon urges, his tone bordering on impatience.

"I am not interested in your version of greatness," Daervon replies, a fire igniting in his eyes as he meets his father's gaze head-on.

"You are no son of mine!" Daemon's voice rises, a mixture of frustration and anger as his hands clench into fists at his sides.

"I am your son. I have always been your son. But you failed to be the father I've always wanted," Deavon states, his eyes glaring at his father. In the corner of his eyes, he sees his mother's concerned figure standing by the double doors of his bedchambers, her presence a silent support.

"You wanted a father, and I wanted a warrior," Daemon retorts, his voice cold and cutting.

"Then I guess we were both disappointed," Deavon replies sharply, the tension between them palpable.

"You will hold your tongue before me!" Daemon's hand harshly slams against the desk, the sound echoing through the room as anger pulses through his veins, startling the ten-year-old boy who runs and hides behind his mother. "Your compassion is your weakness. You must purge that weakness out of you."

"Daemon, he is still a child," Laena interjects, stepping protectively in front of Deavon, her voice calm but edged with warning.

"You cannot shield him forever, Laena. This world is cruel. My son must learn to survive," Daemon retorts, his tone softer but still stern as he looks past her to their son.

"He is our son, Daemon. I did not birth him, yes. But he is ours," Laena says firmly, her eyes meeting Daemon's with a mixture of resolve and pleading, her love for the boy evident.

"My sweet child," she says, turning to Daervon, her voice softening. "Take Gaelithox on a ride. Clear your mind."

Daervon hesitates but sees the subtle nod from his mother. He slowly nods in return, feeling the tension ease slightly. He walks out of the room, casting one last glance at his parents, his heart heavy with conflicting emotions.

"He is never safe in this world," Daemon says quietly, his eyes still on the door through which his son exited, a hint of regret in his voice.

Laena turns to him, her voice calm but firm. "He may never be, but we will protect him, Daemon. Together."

Daemon's expression softens as he looks at his wife. He places his lips on her forehead with a gentle kiss. "Together."

High above the spires of Pentos, Daervon Targaryen feels the world melting away beneath the powerful wingbeats of his dragon, Gaelithox, the magnificent creature with scales that shimmer like polished obsidian, roars in delight, flames flickering from his nostrils.

With his raven hair flowing freely in the wind, he grips the saddle's reins with practised ease. His dark lilac eyes, sharp and clear, scan the horizon as they soar above the clouds, seeking solace in the boundless skies above Pentos. For a fleeting moment, all is forgotten-the whispers of legitimacy, the expectations of greatness-as they revel in the freedom of flight.

Daervon leans forward, whispering ancient Valyrian words of endearment into the dragon's ear.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the bay of Pentos. Far below, the waves crash against the shores of the port city, but up here, in the vast expanse of the sky, there is only the rhythmic beating of Gaelithox's wings and the soothing rush of the wind.

Daervon guides Gaelithox into a gentle glide, the dragon's massive wings spreading wide to catch the thermals. They drift lazily, the boy's thoughts as free as the air around them. Here, away from all the expectations that come with his name, he finds peace, relishing the freedom that few others would ever know.

Gaelithox lets out a contented rumble, echoing Daervon's own feelings. They twist and turn through the sky, performing intricate maneuvers that leave them both exhilarated. The bond between rider and dragon is palpable, a connection of souls that transcends the physical.

As the sky deepens to twilight, Daervon reluctantly turns Gaelithox back towards Pentos. They descend in a graceful spiral, the royal castle's looming silhouette growing larger with each passing second.

Daervon feels a pang of disappointment as they near the ground, the realities of his life about to reclaim him. But even as Gaelithox lands with a thunderous thud, folding his wings with a regal air, Daervon knows that this moment of serenity will stay with him. He dismounts, patting the purring beast's long neck affectionately and whispers. "Tomorrow, my friend. We'll fly again."

With a heavy heart, Daervon turns to notice Vidor Silvercrown, his sworn protector, awaiting him, his stoic demeanour a stark contrast to the turmoil within.

"Welcome back, young master," Vidor greets him, his voice a mix of formality and concern. "I trust your ride was pleasant."

"Try not to look too relieved, uncle," Daervon replies with a wry smile, his attempt to lighten the mood falling short.

"I am relieved. Every time that black beast brings you back unspoiled, it saves my head from the wrath of your father's darksister," Vidor retorts, his expression grave, revealing the weight of his responsibilities and the constant fear of failure.

"He doesn't give a horse shit about me. All he cares about is a warrior for a son. I do hope his new heir will make him proud," Daervon mutters, his tone tinged with bitterness born from years of unmet expectations and the hurt of parental neglect simmering beneath his defiance.

"He is your father, and you must at least have an ounce of respect for him," Vidor insists, his voice holding a hint of sadness for the fractured family dynamics.

"Then he must earn that ounce of respect," Daervon counters, his jaw clenching with the frustration of feeling unwanted and unappreciated.

"Such the brat you are," Vidor sighs, shaking his head, a mixture of exasperation and fondness in his gaze.

"Don't be so quick to judge me. 'Tis not a part of your duty," Daervon snaps, his words a defense mechanism against the vulnerability he refuses to show.

"You're right. But I tend to have opinions, and here's one. Anger clouds judgment," Vidor says calmly, his wisdom tempered by years of experience and a deep understanding of human nature.

"Whatever," Daervon dismisses, rolling his eyes, masking the hurt of rejection with a facade of indifference.

"How did it go with Baela?" Daervon asks, changing the subject, his attempt to steer the conversation towards lighter topics a testament to his desire to ease the tension between them.

"Bad. The flowers were stomped beneath Lady Baela's feet. It is safe to assume that she is still enraged. Must you always pick up fights with her?" Vidor asks, with a sigh.

"She started it," Daervon defends, crossing his arms, a hint of amusement in his eyes at the absurdity of their petty squabbles.

"I really can't win against you when it comes to words," Vidor admits, with a resigned chuckle, his admission a rare display of vulnerability.

"You can't win against me with anything, uncle," Daervon retorts, a hint of defiance in his voice, a silent challenge to the authority figure who has always stood in his shadow.

"I agree to disagree," Vidor says with a wry smile, his acceptance of their differences a testament to his unconditional loyalty to the boy he has sworn to protect. "No warrior is exceptional enough to beat me in battle, and you're not even qualified enough to be a warrior, do you not?"

"Are you gloating right now?" Daervon asks, raising an eyebrow, his teasing tone a gentle reminder of the bond they share, forged through countless trials and tribulations.

"Am I?" Vidor replies, a mischievous glint in his eyes, a fleeting moment of camaraderie amidst their constant bickering.

Daervon heartily giggles, shaking his head with amusement when Gaelithox grumbles, gaining the young Targaryen's attention. His heart grows light at the very sight of the black beast.

After giving a last glance at the dragon, Daervon strides towards the castle with his sworn protector following him behind in no time.

"Gaelithox is growing quickly. He is twice the size when you claimed him," Vidor remarks, changing the topic, his attempt to shift the conversation towards more pleasant subjects, a silent acknowledgement of Daervon's love for his dragon companion.

"There is more than enough room to saddle two. Gaelithox doesn't mind. He loves Rhaena. He'll love you too," Daervon offers, with a small smile, a rare display of vulnerability as he reaches out to bridge the gap between them.

"I believe I'm quite content as a spectator, thank you," Vidor declines politely.

"Your loss," Daervon shrugs, his disappointment masked by a facade of nonchalance. "Have you been eating lately?"

Vidor stays silent, proving his point, his refusal to acknowledge his own vulnerability a silent admission of the sacrifices he has made in the name of duty, a silent plea for understanding from the boy he has sworn to protect.

"You're too skinny and physically weak. Even a fly can kill you. How are you going to protect me if you starve yourself to death?" Daervon scolds, his worry evident.

"I will be fine-"

"From today on, you will have all your meals with me."

"I cannot share your meal, young master."

"Have you seen how much food they serve me lately? I can't even eat all of it by myself. Whenever I am feasting with my family, you still can have your meals at your chambers. It will be boring without my glorious presence, but you must try to manage your own," Daervon insists with a smirk, his attempt to lighten the mood.

"Thank you, young master," Vidor concedes, with a small smile, his gratitude.

Their conversation drifts from one topic to another, each exchange tinged with underlying tension and unspoken truths. Yet, amidst the discord, a thread of camaraderie remains of the bond that binds them together.

As Daervon retires to his chambers for the night, he can't shake the feeling of loneliness that clings to him like a shadow. But as he settles into bed, the memory of his mother's embrace and the warmth of Gaelithox's presence offer him a glimmer of hope-a reminder that, no matter the challenges he may face, he is never truly alone.