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As Daervon arrives at the Red Keep, his mind races with anticipation. The first place he heads to is the training yard, where the air is alive with the clamor of steel on steel, the guttural shouts of men in training, and the rhythmic thud of wooden practice swords against targets. The familiar sounds stir a sense of purpose within him.

Leaning over the parapet, his eyes lazily scan the crowd below. The yard is a sea of bodies, each one moving with the practiced grace of seasoned warriors. His gaze darts around the scene, until it locks onto a striking figure in the midst of it all.

Among the knights and squires stands Prince Aemond Targaryen, his lean form taut with the eager tension of youth. His striking lilac eye gleams with determination, a beacon of fierce willpower amidst the chaos. Across from him, Ser Criston Cole, the seasoned knight and his mentor, readies himself. His expression is a mask of calm confidence, every movement precise and measured.

They bow to each other, a formal start to what promises to be an intense sparring match. Aemond grips his training sword, his knuckles white with anticipation. The prince's every muscle is coiled, ready to spring into action. Criston, a veteran of countless battles, circles him with a predator's grace, his eyes never leaving his opponent.

"He's become a fine man with a fine waist. You agree with me, do you not?" Daervon asks his sworn protector, his voice tinged with a hint of pride and admiration as he keeps his gaze fixed on Aemond.

"Someone just said it was some childish love," Vidor replies dryly, his tone carrying a subtle edge of skepticism.

"Did I? You must have heard wrong," Daervon retorts, a sly smile playing on his lips.

Vidor huffs, his annoyance barely concealed. "I can't afford to curse him out yet."

"If so, you should be quiet," Daervon says, his eyes never leaving the silver-haired prince.

As soon as Aemond passes his opponent, his blind eye is toward them. To fix that, he spins around, keeping his sword arm between him and his opponent, and putting his good eye back on them so he can keep fighting. This technique will leave him more open to attacks from the back and his left side, but it keeps his eye on his opponent.

"He's good. Very good," Daervon murmurs, his voice tinged with genuine admiration at Aemond's prowess. He recognizes the young prince's potential and feels a surge of respect. Daervon makes his way down the stairs to join the crowd just as Aemond successfully manages to hold his sword to his mentor's neck.

The training yard erupts in applause, the spectators impressed by the young prince's tenacity and skill.

"Well done, my Prince. You'll be winning tourneys in no time," Ser Criston drops his morningstar and joins the crowd in applause.

"I don't give a shit about tourneys," Aemond says, his voice sharp. He notices Jace and Luke within the crowd, his eye narrowing slightly. "Nephews... have you come to train?"

"I'd like a challenge, if you'll have me, my prince," Daervon intervenes, stepping forward with a confident stride.

Aemond's eye widens at Daervon's appearance for a moment before he smirks. "I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in King's Landing talk about you, you're the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good. Maybe not. But I will not fight you."

"What? Afraid you'll lose against a bastard?" Daervon taunts, his voice dripping with challenge.

"Move aside, Ser Criston," Aemond commands, his tone brooking no argument.

"I won't cut you. Don't worry," Daervon says, drawing his Soul Reaper out of its scabbard with a practiced flick.

"I'll try not to," Aemond replies, his voice steady.

"Take the lead, my prince," Daervon says with a sly smile. "And just to let you know, I like it rough."

The crowd chuckles and Vidor stares with thinned lips, his face marked with disappointment at his nephew's open vulgarity.

A hush falls over the spectators as the two Targaryens step into the sparring ring. Both combatants face each other, a study in contrasts: Daervon, lithe and agile, with the confidence of a knight forged by countless battles; Aemond, powerful and deliberate, a seasoned swordsman despite his youth.

Daervon offers a slight, respectful bow. Aemond returns the gesture, his expression serious but intrigued. The onlookers, including Vidor Silvercrown and Criston Cole, watch with keen interest, knowing this is no ordinary bout.

Aemond makes the first move, swinging his sword in a broad arc. Daervon ducks under the blow, his movements swift and economical. He sidesteps and counters with the Soul Reaper, his blade darting like a snake. Aemond blocks effortlessly, his sword a solid wall against Daervon's quick strikes.

Their contrasting styles become immediately apparent. Aemond's attacks are powerful and deliberate, each swing calculated to overpower his opponent. Daervon, however, is a whirlwind of speed and agility, his feet dancing across the cobblestones as he evades and counters. The clash of metal on metal echoes across the courtyard, drawing more spectators.

Daervon's eyes are sharp, every movement precise. He anticipates Aemond's heavy strikes, weaving in and out of range with uncanny grace. He slides under a high swing and thrusts the Silent Brother forward, but Aemond pivots, using his greater reach to deflect the attack. Daervon smiles, enjoying the challenge.

Aemond presses forward, his strikes becoming more aggressive. He swings his sword with a force that would stagger most opponents, but Daervon remains unflinching. He ducks, rolls, and springs back to his feet, his movements almost otherworldly. His training for the Silvercrown trials has made him a formidable fighter, and it shows in every fluid motion.

With a sudden burst of speed, Daervon closes the distance, launching a flurry of attacks. Soul Reaper flashes in the sunlight, aimed at Aemond's unguarded spots. Aemond parries and blocks, but Daervon's relentless assault forces him to take a step back. The crowd murmurs in awe at the display of skill.

Aemond responds with a powerful downward strike, intending to break Daervon's rhythm. Daervon meets the attack head-on, their swords clashing with a resounding clang. The force of the blow sends vibrations up Daervon's arm, but he holds firm, his resolve unwavering.

They break apart, circling each other, both breathing heavily but showing no signs of stopping. Daervon's eyes sparkle with excitement, and Aemond's lips curl into a rare smile. They are both warriors, and in this moment, they understand and respect each other's prowess.

In a daring move, Daervon flips the Soul Reaper to his other hand, catching Aemond off guard. He spins and delivers a series of rapid strikes, his dexterity astonishing. Aemond blocks most of the attacks, but Daervon's speed and unpredictability force him on the defensive.

The fight reaches its climax as Aemond executes a breathtaking maneuver, dropping low and sweeping Daervon's legs out from under him. Daervon crashes to the ground, and Aemond is on him, his blade poised at Daervon's throat.

"I have you," Aemond declares, his voice low and triumphant.

"Aye. But look down, my prince," Daervon responds, a smirk playing on his lips.

Aemond glances down without lowering his sword. Daervon has a dagger in his left hand, the blade an inch from Aemond's groin.

"You'd have joined me in death," Daervon remarks coolly.

A heartbeat passes before Criston announces, "Twas a tie."

The courtyard erupts in applause once more, the spectators amazed by the display of skill and sportsmanship.

Aemond shakes his head with a smirk before he lowers his weapon, extending a hand to help Daervon to his feet. "Congratulations on your victories, my lord. It seems your knack for scheming is quite impressive."

Since their last encounter five years ago, Daervon has enticed Aemond in his days and allured him in his nights. His name echoes in the most silent parts of Aemond's mind, brought to life by the memory of his simplest touch. Daervon has bewitched him in myriad unknown ways. He has become Aemond's obsession, one from which he will never tire.

The bastard takes the offered hand with a cocky grin and leans to whisper into the Prince's ear, "My prince, you're jesting. I tend to avoid conflict, but if provoked, I ensure consequences."

"Which book did you learn all these skills from?" Aemond inquires, tinged with amusement.

"Not from books. Through personal experience. I am not just a Targaryen. Silvercrown blood runs thick inside me. I hope you won't experience my schemes," Daervon says, sheathing his Soul Reaper back into its scabbard.

"Are you threatening me?" Aemond asks, his tone sharp.

"I dare not. It's merely a friendly reminder. Our friendship runs a long way back, does it not?" Daervon pats the silver-haired prince's shoulder when a guard shouts.

"Open the gate!"

The clamor of the training yard halts as everyone's attention shifts to the creaking sound of the large gates being pushed open. The mystery of the arrivals is short-lived as the banners of House Velaryon come into view, aloft on their poles carried by squires. Household guards lead the party, with Vaemond following closely behind, his presence commanding attention.

Daervon's lips curve into a knowing smile as he observes the newly arrived party, his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes flicker with a mixture of amusement and anticipation.

Vaemond's gaze is unwavering as he boldly stares Lucerys down. Lucerys gulps, trying to mask his nervousness.

Daervon strides over to Lucerys, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Do not fear, Luke. One way or another, Driftmark will be yours," he says, his voice steady and comforting.

Lucerys looks up, his eyes filled with a newfound hope, and nods.

Daervon offers him a confident smile before glancing back at the silver-haired prince, then turns and walks away, his sworn shield following closely behind.

As he makes his way back into the castle, Daervon is intercepted by his father, who is engaged in conversation with the lords. Daemon doesn't hesitate, pulling his son into a warm, enveloping hug, his pride shining through his eyes.

"You are my greatest accomplishment so far," Daemon declares, his voice thick with emotion.

"Thank you, Father," Daervon replies, hugging back with a radiant smile.

"If there's anything you want, name it. I will bring it to you," Daemon offers, his gaze earnest and unwavering.

"I will keep that in mind," Daervon responds, his smile broadening.

Many lords approach Daervon as well, offering congratulations on both his battle and his Silvercrown trial victories. He navigates the crowd with ease, laughter and small talk flowing freely, until his eyes catch sight of Rhaenys Targaryen standing at the end of the hallway, a stern glare on her face.

Daervon quickly excuses himself from the lords and approaches his grandmother with a boyish grin. "Grandmother."

"Will it cost you to send a raven stating that you made it through the trials in one piece? There was no news of you, and I assumed the worst. I was sick with worry, and yet here you are, giggling and gloating over your victories with the fat, drunken lords. Do you have no care for me and my health at all?" Rhaenys scolds him, her voice sharp but her eyes filled with relief.

"I apologize for my behavior. Will you forgive me, your favorite grandchild?" Daervon asks, his tone contrite and sincere.

"More likely the second favorite. But it will do," Rhaenys responds, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

"How dare you betray me like this?" Daervon teases, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Rhaenys' smile widens. "I brought lemon cakes."

"You did?" Daervon's eyes light up with childlike excitement.

"I will send them to your chambers. But do not eat them all at once like an underfed pig," Rhaenys warns, her tone playful.

"You are the best," Daervon declares, his admiration evident.

"Indeed, I am," Rhaenys agrees. "Was it as bad as they say?"

Knowing she is speaking about the Silvercrown trials, Daervon sighs. "Worse."

Rhaenys frowns, concern etching deep lines into her face. "Are you hurt, my child?"

"Not at all. Truly," Daervon assures her, his tone firm yet gentle.

"You look thin. Did they not feed you enough?" Rhaenys inquires, her worry palpable.

"They did," Daervon replies.

"Did you not like the food then? I advised Vidor to supervise your meals. How can you fight wars if you're lacking nutrition?" Rhaenys presses, her protective nature evident.

"It was you?" Daervon realizes, his surprise mingled with gratitude.

"Indeed, it was me. Who else would it be?" Rhaenys retorts, her tone softening.

Daervon wraps his arms around his grandmother in a heartfelt hug. "Thank you for always looking after me," he murmurs, his voice filled with affection.

"I am so proud of you," Rhaenys says, hugging him back tightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Keep spoiling him, and he will rot in no time," Baela joins them, her expression disapproving.

Daervon pulls away from his grandmother's embrace to look at his sister. "Sister. Pleasure to see you again."

"Not much pleasure on my side," Baela snaps before turning on her heel and walking away.

The smile on Daervon's face falters as they watch Baela disappear down the hallway. "What did I do to deserve that?" he asks, his voice tinged with hurt.

"She was waiting for your raven as well. She was praying for you, for your health and victory. She might not show it, but she loves you as much as Rhaena does. More if possible," Rhaenys explains as they walk towards the Red Keep's godswood.

"I know," Daervon sighs, his expression softening with understanding.

As they approach the godswood, they are met by Rhaenyra, who has brought her ward, Rhaenys's younger granddaughter, Rhaena, to the capital.

"Brother!" Rhaena exclaims, quickly closing the distance between them. She wraps her arms around his neck, and he lifts her off the ground, the younger sister giggling into his shoulder all the while.

After setting her back down, his hands find their place on her waist while she slides her own from his neck to rest on his upper arms. As she catches her breath, she can't stop herself from grinning like a fool at seeing her brother. She turns to Rhaenys with the same energy of happiness, greeting her as well.

"Rhaena," Rhaenys says, delighted to see her younger granddaughter but much less so Rhaenyra.

At Rhaenyra's request, so the older women can talk privately, Rhaena and Daervon leave, arms intertwined, simply enjoying each other's presence.