AN:
Do you enjoy reading HOTD fanfics? I have a Rhaenyra Targaryen fic published in my profile. If you're interested in a Haelena Targaryen fic, let me know. I might even consider publishing a Daemon Targaryen fic later.
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Happy reading!!

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In the stillness of the night, Daervon pulls on the stiff military clothing of Silvercrown nobility. The fabric feels unfamiliar against his skin, a mix of grey and dark brown trim that hints at the military style. The silver Silvercrown honey badger rampant emblazoned on his jacket glistens faintly in the dim light.

As he strides down the long corridor, Daervon's heart pounds in his chest, the echo of his footsteps almost deafening in the silence. Two figures emerge from the shadows, their silhouettes backlit by the faint glow at the corridor's end. His sworn shield and a maester stand waiting, their expressions unreadable.

Maester Kelvyn offers Daervon a warm smile, a brief flicker of warmth in the cold corridor. "Young master. Your uncle asked me to check your vitals." His voice is gentle, yet the underlying concern is palpable.

The maester takes Daervon's pulse, his fingers cool and steady. He listens meditatively, his brow furrowing slightly. "His heart is strong as ever, my lord." With a slight bow, Maester Kelvyn retreats down the corridor, his departure leaving an unsettling silence in his wake.

"This could be a new beginning." Vidor smooths his nephew's uniform, his touch both reassuring and firm.

"Or my quick end," Daervon replies, his voice tinged with a mixture of defiance and dread.

Vidor's eyes meet Daervon's, filled with a mentor's pride and a guardian's worry. "Do you remember what I taught you?"

"Yes," Daervon nods, determination lacing his words. "You're a great mentor."

"And you're an excellent student." Vidor's tone is firm, reassuring. With that, he opens the door and leads his nephew into the library, the scent of aged parchment and leather filling the air. The wooden shelves, heavy with ancient books, cast long shadows. Lights hover in the gloom, flickering like restless spirits.

A woman waits for them, dressed in a long, red gown matching her deep red hair that flows over her shoulders like a river of fire. Her pale, almost ethereal skin adds to her mysterious aura, but what truly captivates Daervon is the large, ruby-red necklace she wears. She sits in a heavy wooden chair, her eyes glittering as she studies him.

"Calista," Vidor greets the woman, a mixture of respect and wariness in his tone. Daervon watches her warily, his body tense, ready to spring.

She takes his measure, her gaze piercing. "Defiance in the eyes. Like his father." Her voice is soft but carries an edge of steel.

"Leave us," Calista commands Vidor, her tone brooking no argument.

Vidor hesitates, then turns to go, pausing by his nephew to give him an assuring look before he hurries out, the weight of his concern lingering in the air.

"They said that you were terrifying. With cat's teeth and three eyes. You're not terrifying," Daervon says, his voice wavering between skepticism and curiosity.

"You don't know what I am," the priestess replies, her eyes narrowing.

"The Seven Kingdoms see you as a priestess. But I know you're a witch hiding underneath the skin of youth," Daervon counters, his words daring.

"I am well aware of your silver tongue, young master. But you can't bluff your way out of this one," Calista replies, her voice calm, almost amused.

"Not dreaming of it," Daervon responds, trying to mask his anxiety with bravado.

"Come here," Calista commands. Daervon hesitates, his instincts screaming to resist. "I command. You obey."

Reluctantly, Daervon crosses the room to her, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. He goes to his knees before the woman, feeling a mix of humiliation and defiance.

She lifts a green metal cube, six inches tall, from the folds of her robes. She sets it on the arm of her chair. One side opens into a black interior which no light can illuminate. "Put your right hand in the box."

Daervon's breath catches. He looks at the box, then at her, but the command in her eyes is undeniable. Reluctantly, he slides his hand into the box, his fingers trembling.

The priestess leans forward, placing her hand beside his neck. A glint of metal-a long, gleaming needle-rock-steady in Calista's hand. Almost touching him. He starts to turn his head but Calista stops him.

Daervon freezes, breathing hard. "I hold at your neck a poison needle. Instant death. This test is simple. Remove your hand from the box, and you die," Calista states, her voice unwavering.

"What's in the box?" Daervon asks, his voice tense.

"Pain," Calista replies.

Daervon stares at her both incredulously and apprehensively. His life hangs in the balance. Suddenly, he feels it-a tingling sensation in his fingers that makes his breath catch. He hisses in pain.

"An animal caught in a trap will gnaw off its own leg to escape. What will you do?" Calista asks.

Sweat beads on Daervon's forehead as the pain grows into agony. He moans through clenched teeth, his left hand balled into a white-knuckled fist, his arm trembling in pain. The needle glints against his neck. The priestess's eyes burn into him. He is panting.

For the first time in his life, he feels it-his hand inside the box like a hand in a bonfire. The skin blackening, splitting. He cries out involuntarily.

"Silence!" Calista hisses.

Daervon shudders in excruciating pain, locking eyes with the priestess. At the very edge of his endurance, his hand feels like crisp flesh falling from charred bones. He shuts his eyes, his mouth opens in a silent scream.

"Enough!" Calista commands.

The pain cuts off at once. Daervon's eyes snap open with a gasp, his body trembling with relief.

Calista stares at the young man as he gasps in relief: sweaty, breathing hard. "No man, woman or child ever withstood so much. I must've wanted you to fail. Take your hand from the box, young master, and look at it."

Reluctantly, Daervon complies, sure he will see a ruined stump. But his hand is unmarked. He wiggles his fingers, amazed.

"Pain by nerve induction," Calista explains.

Daervon stares at her, his curiosity overriding his anger.

Calista smiles, concealing the box in her robes. "Like sifting sand through a screen. We sift people. If you were unable to control your impulses, like an animal we could not let you live. You inherit too much power."

"Because I'm born with Silvercrown blood?" Daervon asks.

"Because you are Valyrian blood. You have more than one birthright, young master. You've proven you can rule yourself. Now you must learn to rule others. You have a miraculous gift," Calista says. "When dragons dance, the Unburnt Prince rises from ashes. One ignites madness, the other falls to bring peace."

"I'm afraid I'm not a prince," Daervon says.

"Not yet," the red priestess responds. "Prophecies are dangerous things."

"And you believe this prophecy refers to me?" Daervon asks, skeptical.

"As does another," Calista answers.

"Who?" Daervon presses.

"You'll know," Calista replies enigmatically.

What does she mean? Daervon stares at her, disconcerted, as she calls upon his sworn protector. Vidor enters, fear on his face. At the sight of Daervon, his face floods with relief.

"Your mother was tested thus when she was only half your age," Calista reveals.

Daervon feels his uncle's presence behind him, a steadying force.

"Tell me about these dreams," Calista says, her tone demanding yet curious.

Daervon hesitates. This woman knows all his secrets. "I had one tonight," he admits.

"What did you see?" Calista inquires, leaning forward slightly.

Daervon explains the dream, the priestess listening carefully.

"Have you dreamt of him before?" Calista asks.

"Many times," Daervon replies. "Not exactly. It was just a vortex rippled through the air, folding in and around themselves, a hundred whispers but only one voice. He said the same three words over and over again. Burn them all."

The priestess stands, looking up at the young Targaryen with glinting eyes. "Farewell, young master. I hope you live," she says before leaving, leaving the two males to themselves.

"What happened?" Vidor asks, concern evident in his voice.

"She spoke of a prophecy that doesn't make sense," Daervon replies. "When dragons dance, the Unburnt Prince rises from ashes. One ignites madness, the other falls to bring peace."

"She's spluttering nonsense," Vidor dismisses.

"She called me the Unburnt Prince. She isn't the first to call me that," Daervon says, his mind racing with implications.

The next day, Daervon stands on a windy beach, looking out across the sea at the sun sinking below the horizon. Huge waves crash on the shore, the wind plucking at his clothing. He takes a knee to curl his fingers into the water when he notices his grandfather at the ancient graveyard overlooking the sea. Jamie is carefully wiping stray dirt from a gravestone, on which is carved a bas-relief of a lady with a sword in her hands. He sees Daervon walking to join him, pleased at the sight of his grandson.

"I miss her," Jamie says, a last look at his late daughter's gravestone, and the serenity of the Silvercrown cemetery. He turns to his grandson who is looking everywhere but at him.

"Will you even look at me?" Jamie asks. Daervon looks at his grandfather directly in the eyes in an instant. "What? What is that?"

"I'm looking at you. Like you asked," Daervon responds, not wavering his gaze.

Jamie sighs. "You're the future of House Silvercrown, Daervon."

Daervon sighs. He has heard that before. "What if I'm not?"

"Not what?" Jamie asks.

"The future of House Silvercrown," Daervon clarifies.

Jamie takes a deep breath. He needs to change the tone of this conversation. He raises his hand, his signet ring glinting. "I told my father I didn't want this either."

Daervon is surprised by this revelation. "I wanted to be a traveler," Jamie continues, his voice carrying a wistful note.

"Vidor never told me that," Daervon says, astonished.

"My father said, 'A good man doesn't seek to lead. He's called to it, and he answers. If your answer is no, you'll still be the only thing I've ever needed you to be-my grandson.'" Jamie looks into Daervon's eyes, meaning every word from his heart. "I found my own way to it. You might find yours."

Daervon absorbs that, moved by his grandfather's honesty. Jamie gestures at his daughter's gravestone. "In her memory, give it a try."

Daervon's heart is heavy, but his grandfather's words move him. "I will consider it," he says softly.

Jamie leaves his grandson behind, and Daervon moves closer until he stands right in front of his mother's grave. He feels a deep ache in his chest as he kneels down, resting his forehead against the cool stone.

"Mother," he begins, his voice trembling. "I passed the Silvercrown trials. I did it." Tears well up in his eyes, blurring his vision. "I wish you were here to see it. To tell me if you're proud of me."

His voice cracks, and he hugs the gravestone, his body wracked with sobs. "I miss you so much. I don't know if I can do this without you." The tears flow freely now, running down his cheeks. "Just once, I want to feel your warmth. Just once."

Daervon stays there for a long time, grieving, pouring out his heart to the only one who would truly understand. He yearns for her guidance, her comfort, but all he has is the cold stone beneath his hands and the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him.

When Daervon finally arrives back at the castle, Vidor approaches him with a piece of paper in his hand. "I received a raven from Princess Rhaenyra," Vidor says, his voice serious. "Vaemond Velaryon means to call into question Prince Lucerys's legitimacy and his claim on Driftmark."

"That cunt. I never liked him," Daervon snaps, anger flaring. "Has he made common cause with Otto Hightower yet?"

"Hm, this is what I fear," Vidor replies. "Princess Rhaenys has flown to court as well."

"Surely, grandmother cannot be planning to back him," Daervon says, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"To King's Landing, then?" Vidor asks.

"To King's Landing," Daervon confirms, determination in his eyes.

"He will be there, you know? What are you going to do with him?" Vidor asks, his tone cautious.

"Who?" Daervon responds, feigning ignorance though he knows exactly who his uncle speaks about.

"The one-eyed Prince," Vidor clarifies. "Your apparent great love? Love at first sight. They were your words, not mine."

"I was ten. It was some childish love," Daervon replies, trying to brush off the significance of his past feelings.

But as they prepare for the journey to King's Landing, Daervon cannot shake the looming sense of destiny, the weight of the prophecies, and the unresolved emotions that now seem to intertwine with the fate of his house and the realm.