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The door creaks open and Vidor steps into the dimly lit room, more of a confined space than a proper chamber. His eyes immediately fall on the bed, where Daervon lies sprawled in the center, snoring loudly, flanked by a man and a woman in deep slumber.

Vidor sighs, a heavy breath that carries the weight of his resignation, and strides to the window. He pulls open the curtain with a swift motion, flooding the room with the pale light of dawn. The woman, sleeping closest to the window, stirs first. Vidor approaches her with unforced chivalry, gently coaxing her from the bed without waking Daervon, who remains oblivious, facing away from the light.

"My lady, it's time to leave," Vidor says softly, gathering her scattered clothes from the floor. She wakes groggily, blinking against the light. "That's good, my lady. Jump up. The day has begun."

"Why?" the woman asks, her voice thick with sleep.

"The day has begun. Look. Out there. It's well underway. You might miss it," Vidor replies, a touch of humor in his tone. Disoriented, the woman lifts herself from the bed, her movements sluggish.

"That's the spirit. Lift your arms," Vidor instructs, holding her gown ready. She complies, and he pulls the garment down over her head with a practiced ease. Once the woman is dressed, he turns to the man, shaking him gently awake. "I'm sorry to interrupt your slumber. You must leave now."

With a few more quiet words, Vidor ushers the two out of the room and closes the door behind them. He then places a goblet of wine beside the bedside table and sits, watching his young charge with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

"What are you doing?" Daervon mumbles, his voice muffled and groggy, face smudged into the pillow.

"We must leave," Vidor replies, his tone firm but not unkind. "Quite the long journey we have ahead."

Later that morning, Daervon and Vidor stand before Shadow Tyrant, the dragon's dark scales glistening in the early light. The beast rumbles in pleasure at the sight of its rider.

Vidor scoffs, a sound of incredulity. "You're not serious."

Daervon shrugs nonchalantly. "We're already late, aren't we? Gaelithox can take us to Silverlands faster."

Horror flashes across Vidor's face. "Young master, no! There's no way you're getting me on that large beast."

"You should've been a jester," Daervon says, clearly amused by his protector's reaction.

"I should've been many things, young master," Vidor grumbles.

"Stop whining like a child, uncle," Daervon retorts. "Gaelithox doesn't bite. Unless I ask him to."

"I don't know how to ride a dragon," Vidor admits, his voice betraying a rare vulnerability.

"Nobody does, until they ride a dragon," Daervon replies with a smirk.

The journey to Silverlands is swift but exhausting. Flying on a dragon is a far cry from the steady, if tedious, pace of a ship. Vidor clings tightly at first, his face a mask of determination and thinly veiled terror. But as the hours pass, he gradually relaxes, a reluctant sense of exhilaration creeping in.

When they finally land, Vidor is the first to dismount, quickly putting distance between himself and the dragon. "Not again," he mutters, wiping sweat from his brow.

The Silvers watch from a respectful distance, their fascination with the enormous beast clear. They've seen dragons before, especially Caraxes when Daemon used to court the late Lady Aurélie, but Gaelithox is a different creature altogether.

"Take care not to startle Gaelithox, my lords. He's rather protective of me," Daervon warns the crowd.

A small boy, eyes wide with curiosity, asks, "What does he eat anyway, young master?"

Daervon grins. "Whatever he wants." He then turns to his dragon, petting it affectionately. "Sagon nykeā sȳz valonqar se gaomagon daor ipradagon anyone kesīr. It won't take longer, if I pass the trials and come back in one piece." (Be a good boy and do not eat anyone here)

He watches as the Dragonkeepers lead Gaelithox to the Dragonpit, a massive structure built by Jamie Silvercrown to house dragons, particularly for Daervon's visits.

Vidor leads Daervon down a corridor adorned with various portraits. The young Targaryen looks at each in awe, until one portrait makes him stop in his tracks. It is his mother, Lady Aurélie.

The portrait shows her with long dark hair styled in intricate braids, complementing her fierce and determined demeanor. Her piercing green eyes convey both kindness and intensity. Instead of a gown, she wears military clothing-a fitted black leather coat with grey and dark brown detailing and honey badger rampant motifs, symbolizing her House Silvercrown lineage. Her outfit exudes both elegance and battle-readiness, a testament to her status as a formidable leader and warrior.

Noticing Daervon's absence at his side, Vidor turns to see the young Targaryen staring at his mother's portrait, a tumult of emotions playing across his face.

"The portrait doesn't do her justice," Vidor says quietly, standing beside him.

"I wish she were here with me," Daervon whispers, his voice tinged with longing and sorrow.

"Aurélie might not be alive, but she will always live in your heart," Vidor responds, placing a reassuring hand on Daervon's shoulder. "I see her in you, every day."

Later, Daervon stands alone in his mother's old bedchambers, now his. The room is beautifully designed, with a bed that has a carved headboard displaying the Sigil of House Silvercrown-a fierce honey badger rampant, with grey claws and fangs, on a field of dark brown. He rarely visits Silverlands, and when he does, he never stays long. He wonders how different things might be if his mother were still alive.

That night, Daervon lies restless in his bed, his mind troubled by the recent events and the looming trials. As he drifts into sleep, he is plunged into a dark, oppressive dream.

In the dream, Daervon finds himself standing in an endless void of pitch black. The silence is deafening, and the darkness seems to press in on him from all sides. Suddenly, a voice pierces the silence, echoing around him. It's not just one voice, but a chorus of whispers that meld into one, repeating a chilling phrase: "Burn them all."

The words ripple through the air, surrounding Daervon and growing louder, each whisper twisting and folding into the next. He feels a tightening around him, as if the very air is squeezing him, threatening to suffocate him. Panic sets in as he struggles to breathe, fighting to stay on his feet against an invisible force.

Then, the scene shifts abruptly. He is no longer in the void but standing before a tall, ancient mirror. The reflection staring back at him is both familiar and foreign. It is him, yet not him. The figure has Daervon's striking lilac eyes but instead of his dark hair, the reflection possesses platinum-white hair cascading down to the back of his neck.

Daervon reaches out, his fingers trembling as they touch the cold glass. Just as he makes contact, a hand from the other side grabs him with an iron grip, yanking him through the mirror. He finds himself face to face with his doppelgänger, the silver-haired twin who gazes at him with a malevolent glint in his eyes.

Before Daervon can react, the twin smirks maliciously and mutters once more, "Burn them all," his voice dripping with madness. The twin's hands move with lightning speed, locking Daervon in a chokehold. Daervon struggles desperately, gasping for air, his eyes wide with fear and confusion.

In an unsettling twist, the silver-haired twin leans in and kisses Daervon on the lips. As their lips touch, the twin disintegrates into a cloud of dust, swirling around Daervon and then merging into him. Daervon feels a searing pain as the twin becomes a part of him, the darkness and madness seeping into his very being.

Vidor enters the bedchambers, the moonlight casting eerie patterns through rain-streaked glass. He watches Daervon, whose eyelids flutter in the grip of the dream.

"Daervon. Wake up," Vidor calls softly just when the dream ends abruptly as Daervon wakes with a jolt, his heart pounding and breath ragged. "Relax, it is just a dream."

For a moment, Daervon lies there, disoriented and drenched in sweat, the vivid images of the dream still haunting him. "Uncle. What's wrong?"

"Get dressed. It is time," Vidor says, his voice tight with controlled emotion as he lays out a uniform. He turns and exits, leaving Daervon to his thoughts.

Shaken, Daervon staggers to the mirror, his heart pounding in his chest. His reflection gazes back at him, mirroring his unease. He hesitates, his hand trembling as he lifts it towards the glass, the events of the nightmare still vivid in his mind. His fingers make contact with the cold, unyielding surface, and he lets out a shaky chuckle, the sound hollow and forced. He rubs his face with his hand, trying to wipe away the remnants of his fear. In his dazed state, he fails to notice the faint red handprint on his neck, a sinister mark barely visible in the dim, ghostly light of the room.