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In the soft light of dawn, the ship nears the Silverlands’ coast, with dark waves crashing against the vessel, and Daervon stands on deck, his gaze distant. He detests traveling by sea—the swell and pitch of the ship are confining, and the journey seems never-ending compared to the freedom and speed of dragonback. Here, there is no dragon’s roar, no sweeping skies, only the unceasing tumult of water. His fingers instinctively trace the ring on his hand, Aemond’s ring, a tangible anchor to what he has left behind.

The Silverlands emerges from the morning mist, a land of steely cliffs and endless waves, guarded by Silverhold, the seat of the Silvercrown family. The fortress looms, austere and cold, and Daervon feels the weight of duty settle over him as the ship docks and he’s escorted toward the castle gates. Without question, the guards grant him entry, though they regard him with a mixture of fear, cold interest, and thinly veiled disdain. He catches their wary glances; they see the Targaryen blood in him before anything else, a reminder of a house and power that defies their own.

As Daervon strides through Silverhold’s halls, the stone walls echo the tap of his boots and his attendants’ hurried footsteps. A group of elders, dressed in solemn gray robes, pass him on their way to the great hall. Elder Jehan’s gaze holds open contempt, his lip curling slightly. Elder Eudes regards him cautiously, his shrewd eyes flickering as if searching for something hidden within Daervon.

In silence, Daervon moves past them, but a maid approaches, bowing low. “My lord,” she murmurs, “Your grandsire expects you.”

A scoff escapes his lips, barely audible. “He shouldn’t,” he replies, before continuing toward his grandsire’s chambers.

As he steps into the room, the scent of aged parchment and candle wax surrounds him. Lord Jamie Silvercrown is not the fierce patriarch Daervon once remembered. Age has stripped him of his strength, and illness has reduced him further—he lies on his bed, sunken against pillows, the paleness of his skin ghostly under the faint candlelight. His eyes, once sharp and commanding, are now dulled by fever but still hold a glimmer of the old resolve.

“My grandson…” Jamie’s voice is a weak rasp, yet a shadow of command remains in it. He motions feebly, urging Daervon closer. “Come to me.”

Daervon crosses the room, his steps slow, deliberate. He bows, though his expression betrays little warmth. The sight of his grandsire so diminished, however, kindles a flicker of something softer—distant, quiet respect, a relic of family ties. He’s wary of pity; Jamie Silvercrown would never tolerate it. Daervon takes a step nearer, remaining within the old lord’s line of sight, and Jamie watches him with a lingering gaze, full of unspoken expectations.

Jamie studies him with a mix of sternness and something softer, something almost akin to longing. “The time has come for me to consider the issue of my succession,” he announces, the words bearing the weight of a final decision.

Daervon’s answer is swift and unyielding. “I don’t want it.”

The old lord’s eyes narrow, his tone hardening. “Being a ruler is not a punishment, but a privilege.”

A hint of defiance crosses Daervon’s face. “Then perhaps you should give it to someone who cares about ruling the Silverlands,” he challenges, “Like your son.”

A shadow of something bitter crosses Jamie’s face, but he nods, as if indulging a child. “Perhaps I should.” His voice drops, heavy with knowing. “I heard of your marriage to the Prince.”

Daervon’s eyebrow arches, defiant. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Jamie’s lips twitch into the barest of smiles. “Absolutely nothing.” The old lord’s gaze softens unexpectedly, his eyes betraying a glimpse of an old wound. “I lost my daughter because I forced her to choose between her love and me,” he pauses, and his expression shifts, his gaze tracing Daervon’s face as if seeing her likeness. “I won’t make that mistake again. Not with you.”

Daervon scoffs, the flicker of sarcasm an instinct. “Touching,” he replies dryly.

But Jamie’s faint chuckle breaks the tension, his gaze still softened with the bittersweet ghost of his daughter. “You look and act so much like her,” he observes, almost to himself. Then, his face darkens, his voice a low murmur, his warning etched with an old foreboding. “A war is coming, Daervon. Sooner or later, blood will be spilled. You must be ready.”

“Nonsense,” Daervon mutters dismissively, though his grandfather’s words strike a hidden chord within him. He turns away, his gaze hard as steel. Without another word, he leaves his grandsire’s chambers, a cold look in his eyes.

In the following afternoon, he ventures to the family graveyard, where his mother’s stone rests beneath the shade of an ancient tree. There’s a silence here, broken only by the distant crash of waves against the cliffs, the cry of seagulls sweeping the skies above. He kneels, brushing away the dried leaves and clearing the gravestone. With a soft exhale, he lowers himself to the ground, hugging his knees up to his chest and lost in thought. The weight of duty, of expectation, feels far away here—replaced by a rare, quiet peace, the kind he seldom feels in the halls of Silverhold.

He gazes at the gravestone, and his voice is soft, tinged with an unspoken longing. “Mummy… it is your son,” he murmurs, fingers lightly tracing the carved a bas-relief of a lady with a sword in her hands. “Is it lonely out there?”

The wind picks up, and he can almost imagine her answer in the rustle of leaves and the scent of salt. The sea stretches endlessly behind him, reflecting a cold silver light. He remembers the stories he’s heard, the tales of her strength and her stubbornness, how she was both loved and feared. But he also recalls the ache he feels, a selfish part of him wishing he could have known her, to feel her love directly instead of through the affectionate echoes of all the motherly figures who guided and shielded him so far.

A deep sigh escapes him. “I married, Mother,” he says, his voice softer still. He fidgets with Aemond’s ring on his finger, a precious weight. “The man I love.” The metal is cool beneath his touch, and he presses it close, feeling the connection to Aemond even now. His heart aches, a raw emptiness with the longing that’s haunted him since they separated. It has been too long—more than a week on the journey, and now more days spent under his grandfather’s constant reminders that he is to succeed him. He closes his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he can almost hear Aemond’s voice, his steady presence, the one true constant in his life. “I wish he was here.”

Footsteps approach, and Daervon doesn’t need to look to know who it is. He can sense his uncle’s familiar presence, a steady force always at his side.

Vidor’s voice is steady, though there’s an edge of vulnerability when he speaks of his sister. “Your mother was the rightful heir to Silverhold,” he begins, his words laced with a barely concealed sorrow. “You, Daervon, are her son. Her only son. That makes you the next Lord Paramount of the Silverlands.” He hesitates, his eyes softening as they pass over his nephew’s bowed figure, memories of his sister lingering. Vidor’s eyes then narrow, a shadow of irritation crossing his face. “I hear the elders have been muttering about replacing you with some distant uncle.”

Daervon’s response is flat, dismissive. “I don’t care about Silverhold. Or the seat.” His voice is stubborn, firm.

Vidor’s brows knit in frustration. “Do you truly expect me to accept that?” His tone is edged with disbelief, his loyalty to Daervon tinged with exasperation. “That you're willing to let some wrinkled man take your birthright without a fight?”

“I am a Targaryen,” Daervon snaps, the words sharp. “Not a Silvercrown.”

Vidor’s eyes flash, his voice softening as he tries to reach his nephew’s heart. “You are both, Daervon. Targaryen by blood, yes, but Silvercrown by lineage. That is your mother’s legacy.” His voice catches slightly, the mention of his sister’s name still a wound. “And it is your duty, as her son.”

Daervon’s expression is defiant, a hint of weariness in his voice. “If you’re here to do my grandfather’s bidding, you’re wasting your time.”

“You heard him yourself,” Vidor insists, his tone now resolute. “A war is coming, Daervon. And when it does, the Silverhold seat will hold the power, one that can shift the scales and decide the fate of the seven kingdoms.” He studies Daervon, his tone steady, pressing. “That power is yours. It is a duty to wield it. Just as you inherited the title ‘Prince Consort’ when you married into the direct line of the Iron Throne. You know what that means, don’t you?”

A tense silence stretches between them before Daervon’s lips quirk slightly, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re annoying, Uncle.”

Vidor chuckles, the smirk back in his eyes, the warmth of a playful exchange breaking through the gravity. “I’m simply stating the obvious, my prince.”

Daervon rolls his eyes, a genuine smile breaking through. “Shut up.”

Vidor chuckles, the sound warm as they stand together, united, bound by their shared grief and their shared past. Both are resigned to the future, knowing what looms but finding solace, if only briefly, in each other’s company.