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The massive double doors groan and shudder as they open, revealing the vast, shadowed expanse of the Red Keep's throne room. Daervon steps inside, the sound of his footsteps reverberating ominously off the cold stone walls. A figure sits on the Iron Throne, its silhouette barely discernible in the gloom. Though the face is shrouded in darkness, Daervon can make out the silver hair cascading down and the unmistakable crown of Aegon the Conqueror resting atop the figure's head. Daervon reaches for his sword, only to find his hands empty.

A deep, unsettling silence envelops the room before the man begins to speak in High Valyrian. His voice, distorted and echoing, seems to drift through the air like a chilling breeze. Daervon steps forward, straining to make sense of the words. "What?" he calls out, desperation creeping into his tone. "I can’t understand. Speak plainly."

The figure rises, moving with a fluid grace into a patch of dim light. As he emerges, the darkness reveals his face—Daervon's own, but with silver hair and eyes gleaming with malevolent intent. The man’s voice becomes unnervingly clear, repeating the same phrase over and over. The words ripple through the air, blending into a haunting chorus: "Zirȳdaor ry zālaza!" (burn them all!)

"Stop." Daervon clutches his ears, trying to block out the oppressive barrage of voices. His breath comes in ragged gasps as an invisible force tightens around his throat, making it difficult to breathe. Panic floods his senses. "Stop it."

The voice abruptly ceases, leaving Daervon gasping for air. He shakily removes his hands from his ears and opens his eyes, finding himself face-to-face with his twin. Their faces are inches apart, and the smirk on his twin’s face is twisted with cruelty. Daervon recoils, his heart pounding as he stumbles back, his breath coming in frantic bursts. "Who are you?"

The twin’s smirk widens into a cruel grin as he reaches for Daervon’s neck. Instead of choking him, his fingers graze Daervon's skin, tracing a path down his chest with a disturbing tenderness. "I am you. I am me. I am every ambition you harbor, every obsession that consumes you."

"You struggled to find your place among the Targaryens, yet you have always belonged. The blood of the dragon flows fiercely in your veins. Your destiny is written in fire and blood, Daervon." The twin moves around Daervon, finally leaning close to whisper in his ear as they both face the Iron Throne. "You were born to wear the crown."

"I am destined for many things, but being king is not one of them," Daervon responds, forcing calm into his voice despite the terror gripping him.

"When the realm is consumed by the flames of the Iron Throne, only you shall remain unburnt." The twin’s hot breath scorches Daervon’s neck as his fingers entwine with Daervon's dark locks before suddenly seizing a handful. Daervon grunts as the pain jolts through him. "You will burn them all when the time comes. You will seize what is rightfully yours with fire and blood."

"This is not real! Get out of my head!!" Daervon screams, grabbing the crown from the twin’s head and smashing it against his face. The impact sends the doppelganger staggering before collapsing to the ground. Daervon lunges, plunging the sharp edges of the crown into his twin’s chest repeatedly, each strike fueled by his rage and fear.

When Daervon finally stops, he looks down at the pool of blood spreading around the lifeless body of his twin, the crown lying discarded beside him. Tears stream down his face as he crawls away, his hands smeared with blood. The haunting phrase echoes once more in his mind: "Burn them all."

"Please," Daervon begs, his voice breaking. He closes his eyes, sobbing as he pleads with the gods to end the torment.

A soft, clear voice cuts through the darkness. "What are you dreaming about?"

"Aemond." Daervon gasps, his eyes snapping open to find himself back in Aemond's bedchambers. He inhales deeply, trying to steady his racing heart. His gaze falls on Aemond, who is peacefully sleeping in a chair beside the settee where Daervon had lain.

Daervon rubs his face, his fingers trembling. He quietly slips on his boots and drapes a blanket over Aemond. He moves with deliberate care, trying not to disturb the sleeping prince, and slips out of the room.

Daervon steps out of Aemond's bedchambers, greeted by Vidor Silvercrown’s concerned face. Vidor’s eyes scan Daervon intently, searching for any signs of distress.

"You look pale, uncle. Are you all right?" Daervon asks, his voice betraying his lingering unease.

"I should be the one asking that," Vidor replies, his tone sharp.

"Is that so?" Daervon responds, his brow furrowed.

Vidor's hand moves with precision, wiping a fleck of dried blood from Daervon's forehead. "Forget poetry. Why was he holding your fucking blade against your face?"

"We were just playing," Daervon says, though the dismissive tone does not mask his discomfort.

Vidor’s eyes narrow, his expression hardening. "Remind me of your age again?"

Daervon sighs deeply. "He still holds a grudge against Luke. I offered him my eye in exchange for his."

"You what?" Vidor stops abruptly, his anger palpable. "What madness led you to such a foolish decision?"

"The madness of compassion. I thought offering my eye might ease his suffering."

Vidor shakes his head in frustration as they resume their walk. "It’s always that compassion of yours that drives you to death’s doorstep."

"Maybe his resentment is just. He was alone that night and lost an eye. He was just a child. There’s no hatred without reason, nor is there evil without cause."

"How many times must I remind you that we do not make decisions with only our hearts? Use your brain for once, Daervon! His resentment might be fair, but what is lost is lost. You cannot restore his eye by giving up yours."

"But it might stop him from pursuing Luke with vengeful intent."

"Will it?" Vidor retorts as they arrive at Daervon’s bedchambers.

Ignoring Vidor’s admonitions, Daervon enters his chambers. The handmaidens are preparing fresh clothes and a steaming bath. The warm, inviting scent of lavender fills the air.

"Leave me," Daervon instructs, his voice weary.

Once alone, he undresses and steps into the bath, feeling the warmth seep into his muscles, soothing his tense body. He sighs deeply, washing away the lingering fear of his nightmare. Afterward, he dries himself and dons fresh clothes, buckling on his weapons. As he turns, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. His image stares back at him, eyes wide with lingering terror. He touches the glass with a trembling hand. "It wasn’t real," he mutters, clutching Soul Reaper for reassurance.

"Or was it?"

A voice behind him startles Daervon. He turns sharply to see his silver-haired twin lounging on his bed, a wicked smile on his face.

"No," Daervon breathes, drawing his sword.

The doppelganger laughs maniacally, stepping into the blade as it pierces his abdomen. The wound is shallow, and he remains unfazed. He grins malevolently, pulls the sword from his chest, and drops it, the clang of Valyrian steel ringing through the room. He seizes Daervon by the neck, his grip tight and unyielding. "I am a part of you. These weapons cannot kill me."

Daervon's back slams against the mirror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes shut tightly as he tries to escape the torment. "This isn’t real." Desperate, he clings to the memory of his last farewell to Aemond—a kiss that was but a peck but felt like a lifeline. The memory pulls him back to reality, his vision clearing.

He collapses to his knees, struggling to regain control, his body wracked with trauma.

"Young master," Vidor’s voice is soft, concerned as he kneels beside Daervon. "Are you okay?"

Daervon shakes his head. "I saw him. He’s here. He’s everywhere."

"Who? Where?" Vidor looks around the chamber, confusion etched on his face.

"The unburnt Prince," Daervon murmurs, pushing himself to his feet. He pours a drink and downs it in one gulp. "I’m going insane."

"Perhaps you should do something to take your mind off him," Vidor suggests, noting the blooming glint of mischief in Daervon’s eyes. "Not the brothel."

Daervon grins innocently, sheathing Soul Reaper.

Vidor eyes him warily. "What do you intend to do?"

"That is none of your concern," Daervon shrugs, heading toward the door.

"I swear on my conscience, I truly have no care for you," Vidor grumbles, following closely.

"Do you even possess a conscience?" Daervon throws back with a mischievous smile.

"I did. But it was consumed by a ravenous dragon," Vidor responds, a hint of rueful humor in his voice.

As they walk through the grand halls of the Red Keep, the atmosphere shifts from the tension of Daervon’s personal struggle to the more mundane and social engagements of court life. The torches flicker, casting long shadows that dance across the stone walls.

Daervon’s mind is a turbulent sea of thoughts, but he tries to focus on the immediate. "Haelena danced with Jace at supper last night. She seemed quite pleased, even excited," Daervon notes, his tone a mix of curiosity and light-heartedness.

Vidor’s posture stiffens momentarily at the mention of Haelena, though he tries to mask it. "Nothing," he replies tersely, his voice betraying a touch of discomfort despite his attempt at indifference.

Daervon hums in amusement, casting a knowing glance at Vidor. They approach Haelena's bedchambers, and Daervon knocks on the door with an air of casual confidence.

The door opens, revealing Haelena’s handmaiden, who ushers them in with a welcoming smile. Inside, Haelena is playing with her daughter, Jaehaera. The room is filled with the soft glow of morning light filtering through delicate curtains, and the air is fragrant with the scent of fresh flowers.

"This is my daughter, Jaehaera," Haelena introduces warmly, her eyes glowing with maternal pride. "My sweet, this is Uncle Daervon and Uncle Vidor."

Jaehaera, a charming child with bright eyes and a joyful demeanor, immediately takes a liking to Vidor. She toddles over and clings to his leg, her innocent laughter filling the room. Vidor, caught off guard, looks down at the child with a rare softness. His usual stern expression melts into a genuine smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Haelena, noticing the change in Vidor’s demeanor, encourages him, "Vidor, why don’t you pick her up? She adores you."

Vidor hesitates for a moment, his rigid demeanor softening. With careful gentleness, he lifts Jaehaera into his arms. The child’s delighted giggles fill the room as Vidor, usually so stoic, allows a smile to spread across his face. He holds her securely, the rigidity of his posture giving way to a tender affection that is rare for him.

Haelena takes Daervon on a tour of her meticulously curated insect collection. The display is a testament to her fascination with the natural world, each specimen carefully preserved and arranged. She points out various insects with enthusiasm, her eyes sparkling with a passion for her collection.

"And this is what remains of my collection," Haelena says, gesturing to a series of delicate glass cases. Her voice carries a note of pride, and her fingers trace lovingly over the glass.

Daervon observes her, feeling a sense of warmth and normalcy amidst the chaos of his thoughts. "Whenever I return home to Dragonstone from the battlefield, I look after my brothers so Rhaenyra can rest," he shares, his voice carrying a mix of pride and fatigue.

"What a good brother you are," Haelena teases gently, her tone light yet filled with affection.

Daervon smiles, though the expression quickly fades. "Is it that hard?"

"What?" Haelena inquires, her brow furrowing slightly.

"With Aegon? Is he hurting you?" Daervon asks, his voice betraying concern.

"Not often. He mostly ignores me. I like it that way," Haelena replies, her voice calm but her eyes revealing a deeper, more complex emotion. "How did things go with my other brother?"

"It went well," Daervon responds, though his gaze is distant, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

"Aemond speaks of you so fondly. He admires you," Haelena says softly, her tone sincere. "I mention this to let you know that he bears burdens of pain that few can comprehend. Often, the person you see is not the real him. One can never truly know another’s heart without delving deep."

Daervon listens intently, absorbing Haelena’s words. Her insight cuts through his confusion and turmoil, offering a fleeting sense of clarity. As he watches Vidor play with Jaehaera, a rare smile on his face, the tension in Daervon’s chest begins to ease. He feels the warmth of familial bonds and the comfort of Haelena’s wisdom.

Haelena’s smile remains as she joins Vidor and Jaehaera, her presence radiating a gentle, reassuring energy. Daervon stands apart for a moment, allowing the soothing atmosphere to wash over him.

As Daervon prepares to leave, the sense of solace he has found in this brief interlude begins to settle. The laughter and warmth from the chamber contrast sharply with the darkness of his earlier nightmare, providing a moment of respite and reflection.

"Thank you for this," Daervon says, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. "It’s a reprieve I didn’t realize I needed."

Haelena nods, her expression one of understanding. "Sometimes, a glimpse of normalcy is all we need to remember what truly matters."

With a final, lingering glance at the scene of warmth and connection, Daervon and Vidor exit the chambers. The echoes of Jaehaera’s laughter and Haelena’s tender words fade behind them, replaced by the more somber realities of the day. Daervon feels a renewed resolve, bolstered by the fleeting comfort of family and the clarity brought by Haelena’s insight.