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The skies above crackle with cold winds as Meleys, the Red Queen, cuts through the air like a blazing comet. Rhaenys clutches the reins tightly, her frame a portrait of poise despite the turmoil in her heart. Her grandson, Daervon, slumps against her back, his breaths shallow and uneven. The wind carries the metallic tang of his blood, fresh from the sleeve he uses to wipe the crimson trails leaking from his nose. His pallor grows worse with each passing mile, and every instinct in Rhaenys screams to stop, to help him-but she knows they cannot.

"We can make a stop-" her voice, firm and steady, betrays her mounting fear as she turns her head to look at him.

"We can't stop," Daervon croaks, his head heavy as it rests against her shoulder. "It's not safe. If Vhagar follows us, we're doomed."

The name alone seems to summon an aura of dread. Rhaenys's grip on the reins tightens. "Can you hold until we reach Dragonstone?"

"I will try." His words are faint, his strength sapped. His eyelids flutter, threatening to close.

"Speak to me, my dear child," she commands, her voice firm yet trembling with emotion. "Do not close your eyes. Stay with me."

Daervon tries to obey, his lips parting to form words. "He is alive," he murmurs.

Rhaenys stiffens. "Who?"

"I cannot tell you where," Daervon mutters, his voice drowsy, his consciousness slipping. "All I can say is that he is alive and happy with his lover. No one can know, not even Grandsire. He never wanted this life. He was Rheneyra's friend, and she let him go."

Rhaenys's breath hitches. She knows whom he speaks of, but disbelief wars with hope. "Do not give me hope if it is not true."

"If I die-"

"You will not die today," she cuts him off sharply. "Not on my watch."

But Daervon, fragile and wilting, continues as though he hasn't heard. "I finally get to see my mother. To know her embrace. To know what she smells like, how she feels... I will be happy."

Tears sting Rhaenys's eyes, her composure slipping further. "Oh, my sweet child."

"Promise me one thing," he murmurs, his voice growing weaker. "Save Aemond."

She recoils as if struck. "He poisoned you, and yet you defend him?"

"He's just misled by venomous snakes. He thinks the Iron Throne is what he wants, but he has suffered too much..." His voice trails off, a shadow of despair lingering in his words.

"I fear not even the old and new gods of Valyria will be strong enough to stop your father's wrath once he holds your ashes in hands." Rhaenys exhales shakily, the castle of Dragonstone finally coming into view. "If you wish to save him, do it yourself. Stay alive, my sweet boy."

Meleys descends into the Dragonmont's cave with a powerful roar, her talons striking the ground as she lands. The moment they touch down, Gaelithox's anguished bellows rise, filling the lairs with a deafening cacophony. The black dragon's resonate with Daervon's pain, a reflection of the bond they share, and it only deepens Rhaenys's sorrow.

Rhaenys dismounts first, rushing to help her grandson. She supports him as he struggles to stand, his legs trembling. "Come, child," she whispers urgently, her hands steadying him.

Daervon stumbles, gasping as a shudder wracks his body. His vision blurs, the poison clawing at his mind. "Grandmother..." he whispers, his voice distant.

"Princess Rhaenys!" Rhaenyra's voice rings out, warm and welcoming-until her eyes fall upon Daervon. Her smile fades, replaced by horror.

"He's been poisoned," Rhaenys announces grimly, tightening her grip on her grandson as he falters.

Daemon crosses the distance in a heartbeat, his hands shaking as he scoops Daervon into his arms, cradling him as if the boy might shatter. "What happened to my son?" His voice is low, dangerous, but there's a crack in it-a rare glimpse of vulnerability.

Rhaenys follows, her steps hurried as they make their way to Daervon's chambers. Gaelithox's roars grow louder, a haunting symphony of rage and despair.

The bedchamber is a flurry of chaos. Maesters bustle in with supplies while Daemon lays his son gently on the bed.

Daemon's expression darkens, his hands trembling as he notices angry red marks on Daervon's wrists. He turns to Rhaenys, his voice a growl. "What did they do to my son?"

Rhaenys shakes her head, her worry etched in every line of her face.

The chamber reeks of copper and sweat. The maesters huddle close around Daervon's frail body, their robes swishing as they work. Blood drips steadily from his nose, staining the white rags they press against his face. His once vibrant complexion is pallid, his lips crimson from the poison coursing through his veins. His muttering is incoherent, his words tangling together as he clutches the bedsheets with trembling hands.

"The unburnt prince..." Daervon whispers, voice cracking. His eyes dart around the room, unfocused, filled with terror. "He... he's here."

Maesters swarm around Daervon, cutting away his tunic to free his labored chest. His breaths come in shallow gasps, his skin slick with sweat.

The heavy oaken double doors burst open, and Baela surges into the bedchamber, her wild curls catching the flicker of firelight. Her breath is ragged, her eyes burning with desperation as they settle on Daervon's frail, convulsing form. Behind her, Jace follows with hurried strides, his hand steady on her shoulder, his presence a quiet pillar of strength. Rhaenyra not far behind. Rhaena stumbles in next.

Daervon lies pale and trembling on the grand bed, his plethora of raven hair matted with sweat, his lips unnaturally red, as if painted by death itself. The maesters hover around him like carrion birds, one of them pressing two fingers against his pulse.

Rhaena gasps at the sight before her, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a sob. "Brother..." Her voice is barely audible as tears streak down her cheeks. She steps closer, but Rhaenyra stops her, gently pulling her back.

Rhaenyra steps forward with a strained calmness masking her panic. She wraps an arm around Rhaena, guiding her trembling form towards the door. "Come, my dearest. Let the maesters do their work," she murmurs, though her own voice trembles with suppressed fear. She casts a glance back at Daervon, her eyes misted with grief. He is as much her son as her cousin, and the sight of him now, caught in the clutches of death, is unbearable.

"Rapid pulse, rapid breathing, pupils dilated," the grand maester mutters grimly, examining the boy with a precise but worried gaze. He lists the symptoms aloud: "Spontaneous nosebleeding, redness of the lips, confusion, hallucinations, drowsiness..."

"Nightshade Veil," Baela breathes suddenly, her voice tight with horror. She sits beside Daervon, clutching his hand. "These are the symptoms of Nightshade Veil," she says firmly, her voice carrying the authority of someone who knows.

"You are correct, my lady." The grand maester nods, his expression grim. "The poison must be purged immediately. Prepare the antidote!" He snaps the order at the younger maesters, who scatter from the room like leaves in a storm.

Baela remains by her brother's side, her hand stroking the damp tangle of his hair. "You'll be fine," she whispers, though the tremor in her voice betrays her doubt. "You'll be fine, brother. Stay with me."

Daervon stirs weakly, his lips parting. "Why... why did it come to this?" he murmurs, his voice barely audible. His glazed eyes dart across the room, searching for something-or someone. His hand twitches as if to reach for a ghost. "Aemond..." he whispers, a weak, bitter laugh escaping him before he coughs violently, his chest heaving with the effort. "Aemond..."

Daemon, who has been standing rigid near the bedpost, stiffens at the name. His fists clench tightly, veins bulging along his forearms. "That one-eyed cunt," he growls under his breath, his fury barely contained. Yet his eyes, for the first time in years, glisten with unshed tears. The sight of his son, so helpless and fragile, stirs something raw and painful within him-something he hasn't felt since Aurélie's death.

Outside, a deep, resonant roar shakes the stone walls of the castle. Gaelithox, Daervon's great black dragon, bellows into the night, his pain mirroring his rider's torment. The creature's distress is palpable, his cries echoing like thunderclaps across the skies. The dragon's pain tears at Rhaenys's heart, a reminder of the bond between dragon and rider-a bond she fears may soon be broken.

When the maesters return with a small bowl of dark liquid, Daervon panics. Even in his disoriented state, his body thrashes violently, refusing the antidote. His arms flail, his legs kick against the sheets. "Aemond!" he cries out, his voice hoarse and frantic. His movements are erratic, his words slurred, yet his desperation is clear. "The Unburnt Prince... He will come back..."

The grand maester hesitates, looking to Daemon for approval. "Shall I call the guards to hold him down, my prince?"

Before Daemon can respond, Baela moves quickly, cupping Daervon's damp, flushed cheek. "It's me," she whispers, her voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. "It's me, Aemond. I'm here." Her words, soft and deliberate, seem to cut through his hysteria. Daervon's wild eyes lock onto hers, and for a fleeting moment, he calms.

Pretending to be Aemond, she takes the bowl from the maester and raises it to Daervon's trembling lips. But he shakes his head weakly, muttering incoherently about the Unburnt Prince. His hand clasps hers tightly, his grip feeble yet filled with longing. "Aemond..." he whispers again, his voice fading. His hand falls limp. His chest stills.

"No!" Baela's scream pierces the air, raw and broken. She moves without thought, her instincts taking over. Tipping the bowl to her own lips, she takes the medicine into her mouth before pressing her lips to Daervon's, forcing the antidote down his throat.

Jace stands beside her, his hands steadying her trembling frame as she pulls back. "Come on, Daervon. Breathe," she sobs, pounding on his chest. "Breathe, you fool!"

Daemon's knees give way, and he sinks onto the edge of the bed. Tears streak silently down his face, his usual composure shattered. Rhaenys clutches his shoulder, her own eyes brimming as she watches her grandson slip further away.

The maester checks Daervon's pulse, his face solemn. He shakes his head.

"No!" Baela screams again, her fists pounding against Daervon's chest. "Wake up! Wake up, brother!" Her cries grow hoarse, her strength waning, but she refuses to stop.

Gaelithox's roar pierces the air once more, a thunderous sound that seems to split the heavens.

And then, a miracle. A shuddering breath escapes Daervon's lips, followed by a weak cough. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded and dazed. "Let a man die in peace, will you?" he rasps, his voice dry and cracked.

Baela freezes, her sobs catching in her throat. "You're alive, you stubborn fool!" she cries, laughing through her tears.

The grand maester moves quickly, pressing his fingers to Daervon's wrist. "His pulse is steady. The poison has been mostly neutralized," he declares, though his tone remains cautious. "Prepare for the aftermath."

"What aftermath?" Daervon mutters groggily, only to jolt upright as nausea overwhelms him. A bucket is thrust under his chin just in time, and he retches violently, the poison spilling from his body in heaves.

Rhaenys sits beside him, one hand stroking his back, the other holding a goblet of water. "Drink, my sweet boy," she murmurs, her voice soothing as she raises the goblet to his lips.

Daervon follows the instruction, though his lips curl in distaste as he swallows. "Disgusting," he mutters, wiping his mouth.

Daemon takes the goblet next, refilling it and guiding it to Daervon's mouth. "Slowly, son," he warns, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. "Sip, don't gulp."

"If you dare bully me like this again, I won't talk to you anymore." Baela's voice shakes, her frustration poorly masking the fear that clings to her like a second skin as Daervon finally collapses back onto the pillows, utterly spent. She strikes her brother lightly on the shoulder, the gesture more an outpouring of her panic than any true reprimand. Tears blur her vision as she glares at him, her trembling hands fisting by her sides. Then, unable to hold back any longer, she throws her arms around him, clutching him tightly as if her embrace alone might keep him tethered to the world. "Don't you dare do that again!" she sobs into his neck. "You scared me." Her words are raw, a reflection of the terror she felt seeing him so close to the edge of death.

Daervon manages a faint smile, his lips barely curling as he fights to remain conscious. His lilac eyes, dulled by exhaustion, meet hers with a glimmer of reassurance. "Forgive me," he whispers, his voice rasping and thin, as if pulled from the depths of his soul. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

The maesters work tirelessly around him, their movements brisk but precise. They murmur to one another, wiping the sweat from Daervon's pale, clammy skin with water-soaked cloths. The air is heavy with the scent of medicinal herbs and damp linen. A maester presses a cool cloth to his brow, eliciting the faintest flinch from the young Targaryen, though his strength is too sapped to react further.

The grand maester approaches, his expression grave but measured. "He needs rest," he intones, his voice calm yet firm, "and the medication we've prepared must be administered precisely. He cannot afford to worsen his condition with any exertion." He glances toward Daemon, his gaze pointed. "Bed rest is essential."

Daemon nods curtly, his jaw set in a tight line as he steps closer to his son. His usual bravado is tempered by something softer, almost vulnerable, as he leans down to adjust the blankets around Daervon's weakened frame. "He'll rest," he says, his tone brooking no argument. "I'll make certain of it."

The grand maester dips his head before turning his attention back to Daervon. He inspects the young man's wrists, the angry red marks. With practiced hands, the maester applies a soothing salve, his touch careful and deliberate. Daervon's eyelids flutter as he drifts in and out of consciousness, his body too weak to fight the pull of sleep.

Rhaenys watches silently, her hand still resting on her grandson's head. Her heart aches with a fierce, protective love that borders on desperation. "Rest now, my sweet boy," she whispers, her voice breaking ever so slightly.

Gaelithox's roars soften, the mournful cries giving way to a low, resonant hum. It's a sound filled with relief and a deep, unyielding bond, as if the great beast knows his rider is still alive. The echoes of his pain linger in the air, a reminder of the unbreakable connection between dragon and rider.

But even as the chamber settles into a fragile calm, the weight of what is to come looms heavy over them all. Rhaenys's gaze hardens, her thoughts already turning to the greater storm on the horizon. The Greens have moved against Rhaenyra, their treachery a dagger poised at the heart of the realm. The crown they have usurped will not be yielded without bloodshed.

For now, Daervon sleeps, his breaths steady and his body at rest. But it is just the beginning of the ending of Targaryen dynasty, and the tides of fate wait for no one.