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The sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains in Daervon's chambers seems almost mocking. Despite the beauty of the morning, the taste of bitterness lingers in the air, matched only by the disgusting porridge set before him. Its consistency is thick, congealed, with a pale color that does little to stir his appetite. He glares at the bowl as if it has personally wronged him.

"What is this?" Daervon groans, pushing the bowl away with disdain. "I cannot eat this. It looks like something a dragon might spit out after a bad meal."

"This is what the maester recommended," Rhaena replies, her voice brimming with faux seriousness, though her lips twitch with amusement. She sits perched beside him, her hands resting in her lap. "If you don't eat it, brother, I might just tell Father. You know how he loves hearing about your stubbornness."

It's a jest, but the glint in her eyes says otherwise. Daervon stiffens, the playful veneer melting into grudging compliance. He knows better than to test Rhaena when it comes to idle threats. She may be his younger sister, but she has always wielded their father's temper as her weapon of choice.

"Damn you, Aemond," he mutters under his breath before reluctantly lifting the spoon to his lips. Each bite is an ordeal, his face twisting into an expression of pure torment. When the ordeal is finally over, he wipes his mouth with a flourish, shoving the empty bowl aside as though it has offended him. "That was horrible."

"You're such a child sometimes." Rhaena breaks into giggles, her laughter as light as the breeze that drifts through the chamber windows. "How do you feel now, mighty warrior?"

"Better," Daervon replies with a faint smile, though it vanishes quickly as the castle reverberates with a piercing cry of agony. The sound carries through the halls, chilling and unrelenting, the unmistakable howl of a woman in labor. Daervon flinches, his fingers curling into the sheets.

The cries belong to Rhaenyra. She has not left her chambers since the devastating news of the Greens’ treachery reached Dragonstone. Alicent’s betrayal, along with that of her own kin—Aemond—has sent her into an early labor, and the wails of her suffering are a grim harbinger of the storm yet to come.

Rhaena’s face pales as the sound of rushing footsteps fills the hallway. “The labor is early. Too early,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible over the commotion.

Daervon clenches his jaw, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression is dark, unreadable, but his fingers tap nervously against his forearm.

“You’re a warrior. You understand this situation better than I do,” Rhaena says, her voice trembling but steadying with resolve as she looks at him. “So what do you think is happening?”

Daervon doesn’t answer immediately. He stares at the doors of his chambers, his stomach twisting at each new cry that reaches his ears. Finally, he swallows hard and answers, his voice low and grave. “I think we’re at war.”

The words hang between them, heavy and final. Rhaena’s lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, she looks like she might say something, but the weight of the truth silences her. She shifts her gaze away from him, her arms wrapping around herself as though warding off an unseen chill.

Daervon’s gaze softens at the sight of his sister’s unease. “Rhaena,” he says quietly, his tone gentler now. “We’ll figure this out. We always do.”

But Rhaena shakes her head, unwilling to let herself hope. Seeking to anchor herself amidst the rising tide of her emotions, she changes the subject. “I sent a raven to Vidor,” she says, the words tumbling out quickly, almost too quickly. “About your condition. He replied this morning.”

Daervon straightens at that, his brows knitting together. “What does it say?” he asks, though a flicker of unease shadows his lilac eyes.

Rhaena hesitates, her delicate features clouding with sadness. “Your grandsire, Lord Jamie,” she begins, her voice heavy with sorrow, “he has passed. The elders are preparing to replace you.”

Silence falls between them, as stark and cold as the wind that howls outside the keep. Daervon’s face is unreadable, his emotions locked behind a wall of practiced restraint. But then, slowly, anger blooms. It starts as a faint spark in his eyes, growing hotter and brighter until it consumes his entire demeanor. His lips curl into a sneer, and the tension in his frame explodes outward.

“What a bunch of cunts,” he spits, his voice laced with venom. Without warning, he throws the covers aside, his movements sharp and furious, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Brother, wait—where are you going?” Rhaena asks sharply, standing as he does.

“I’m angry,” he snaps, his tone clipped. He doesn’t look at her, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “And I need to vent my anger on something.”

Without another word, he storms out of the room, leaving Rhaena behind with a sigh of exasperation.

The beach stretches wide and empty, the grey sand meeting the turbulent waves of the Narrow Sea that echo Daervon's tumultuous thoughts. In the distance, the castle looms like a silent guardian, its spires piercing the heavy sky.

The sound of steel clashing against steel echoes across Dragonstone's windswept beach, mingling with the relentless crash of waves. Daervon strides toward the commotion, his boots crunch against the sand.

His sharp gaze lands on Jacaerys, whose strikes are haphazard and impatient and Lucerys, smaller and less confident, struggles to keep up, his sword slipping more than once. Ser Steffon Darklyn, standing nearby, watches in silent disapproval, his mouth tightening each time Jace growls at Luke for another misstep.

Daervon approaches them, his hands clasped behind his back, his movements deliberate. "Do you believe that beating your brother senseless would suddenly make him a master swordsman?" he asks, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Jacaerys stiffens at the sound of Daervon's voice but quickly recovers. Lucerys looks grateful for the interruption, lowering his blade with a nervous glance at his elder cousin.

"We all learn from mistakes," Jace replies defensively, though his tone wavers slightly.

"Do we?" Daervon steps closer, his gaze fixed on Jace with a piercing intensity. He bends down, picks up a fallen sword. He tests its weight, the blade catching the sunlight. "Fight me, then. If you're going to train, you might as well do it properly."

Jace hesitates, his confidence wavering under Daervon's icy stare. But pride wins out, and he nods, tightening his grip on his sword.

"The first to draw blood wins," Daervon says, his tone casual, though there's a sharp edge to his words. "Show me what you're worth, Prince of Dragonstone."

Jace falters, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He glances at Ser Steffon, who shifts uncomfortably but says nothing. Luke's wide eyes dart between the two of them, his grip tightening on his own blade.

"Luke," Daervon says with a faint smirk, "watch and learn." He motions for Jace to make the first move.

Jacaerys hesitates but finally raises his sword, his jaw tightening as he steps forward. His first strike is fast but predictable, aimed high. Daervon shifts effortlessly, deflecting the blow with a single step and a flick of his wrist. Jace's sword flies from his grip, landing several feet away in the sand.

"Turn your opponent's strength against them," Daervon instructs, his tone calm, almost bored. "It's not about overpowering them but outthinking them. Now pick up your sword."

Jace retrieves the weapon, his cheeks flushed with humiliation. They circle each other again, the sea breeze tugging at their hair.

This time, Jacaerys tries to feint, his movements quicker, more determined. But Daervon doesn't even break a sweat. He parries every strike with infuriating ease, his posture as relaxed as if he were taking a leisurely walk. With a swift motion, he hooks Jace's ankle, sending him sprawling into the sand.

"You might go easier on the prince, my lord," Ser Steffon interjects, his voice laced with unease. "So he can learn what you're trying to teach."

"I think I'm getting the hang of it-" Jace starts, only to yelp as Daervon steps forward, pressing him down with the flat of his blade.

"Get your fat arse up, Jacaerys. I do not have all day," Daervon snaps, his voice colder now, the simmering anger beneath his composed exterior beginning to surface. "There are moments when brute force is necessary, but more often than not, you must fight with your mind as well as your blade. A warrior must also be a diplomat."

Jacaerys rises, his resolve hardening despite the fear flickering in his eyes. They spar again, but Daervon remains untouchable. With a sharp, deliberate strike, he slashes Jace's arm. The wound isn't deep, but blood wells up, staining the prince's sleeve.

"Cousin!" Jacaerys exclaims, his voice trembling as he clutches his arm.

"A little blood won't kill you," Daervon says coolly, raising his sword again. "Be a man about it. Now, again."

Jace hesitates, his grip faltering. Daervon's jaw tightens as his patience snaps. He steps forward, seizing the prince by his tunic.

"Your father fought for you until his last breath, bastard," he growls, his voice low and fierce. "That is how you should fight for your mother's claim. That is how you should protect your family. The Greens are coming for you, and they won't show mercy. If you won't fight back, you'll die. Do you hear me? Do you?!"

Jacaerys stares at him, his eyes wide with fear. He nods, unable to speak.

"Daervon, that is enough!" Rhaenys's voice cuts through the tense air like a whip. Daervon turns, his chest heaving, to see his grandmother standing a few paces away. Her expression is stern, but there is a flicker of worry in her eyes.

The anger drains from him as he releases Jace's tunic. He looks down at the boy, then at Luke, who stands frozen, his face pale. Without a word, Daervon drops the sword into the sand and walks away.

The storm clouds gather over Dragonstone, their dark edges curling with the promise of rain. Inside the castle, the air feels heavier than the skies outside, oppressive and charged. Rhaenyra's cries echo through the stone halls, sharp and primal, a reminder of both life's fragility and its power. Servants scurry about, their faces drawn with worry as midwives carry clean linens to the birthing chamber. Guards stationed along the corridors bow their heads as Daervon strides past, his jaw set, his stormy expression enough to keep anyone from speaking to him.

Rhaenys follows a step behind, her gaze fixed on her grandson, her own face a picture of composed concern. She finally speaks, her voice low but firm, like the rumble of distant thunder. "Daervon, you should rest. Whatever plagues you, it is no excuse to take your anger out on others."

Daervon halts, his hands curling into fists at his sides before he exhales sharply, unclenching them. "I'm not angry," he says, though his tone betrays him, sharp and jagged like shattered glass.

Rhaenys raises a single brow, her silence cutting through his denial more effectively than any words could.

He sighs heavily, running a hand through his dark hair in a display of frustration. When he speaks again, his voice is calmer, more measured. "I'm not angry," he repeats, though this time it feels like he's trying to convince himself as much as her.

They continue down the hall, their footsteps muffled by the rugs that line the cold stone floors. The flicker of torchlight dances against the walls, casting fleeting shadows across their faces. The distant cry of a raven echoes through the open windows, carried on the wind.

"I hear from Rhaena," Rhaenys begins delicately, "that the elders of Silverlands mean to replace you as heir to Silverhold."

Daervon doesn't break his stride, though a flicker of something unreadable crosses his face. "Let them try," he says with a faint scoff. "They should know who to blame when the sky falls down upon them."

Rhaenys doesn't react outwardly to his words, though her gaze lingers on him a moment longer. "What were you doing up on the dais that day?"

"I may have done something reckless," Daervon admits, his lips curving into a wry smile.

Her response is almost immediate, yet tinged with an unsettling calm. "What is it this time?" Rhaenys asks, almost amused. She knows him too well, the blood of Daemon Targaryen running hot in his veins.

They round a corner, passing a pair of guards who bow deeply. Daervon pauses, his hand brushing the smooth stone of the wall as though steadying himself. He looks at her, his lilac eyes searching hers for a brief moment. "I married Aemond Targaryen. A moon ago."

Rhaenys stops mid-step, her expression unreadable as the words hang in the air. Before she can respond, Daervon adds, his voice softer now, "He announced me as his King Consort before the masses."

There is a pause-tense, uncertain.

"Why were you poisoned, then?" Rhaenys asks, her tone lighter than expected, though her eyes gleam with worry.

"I refused to bend the knee to the Greens," Daervon says simply.

Rhaenys chuckles, the sound dry but not without warmth. "As expected."

Daervon turns to her, genuinely surprised by her reaction. "You're not angry at me?"

"I am not angry at anyone," she says quietly, her voice laced with something deeper-regret, perhaps, or understanding. "I couldn't understand my own son. Look how it turned out for me."

Daervon looks away, the weight of her words settling over him. He lets out a breath, his hand falling from the wall. "What I told you on dragonback was real," he says, his voice low, careful. "Even though it wasn't my secret to tell."

"I'm glad you told me," Rhaenys replies, and for a moment, the corners of her mouth soften into the faintest trace of a smile. "Though your father will be furious when he learns about your marriage."

Daervon's smirk returns, but it feels brittle. "What will he do? Feed me to Caraxes? I'd like to see him try."

"One day he might," Rhaenys counters lightly, though her tone holds a shadow of genuine concern. "If you keep pushing his limits."

"Care not, Grandmother," Daervon says with a soft laugh. "Daemon is all bark, no bite."

"I agree to disagree," she replies, her sharp gaze softening as they approach the door to his chambers.

Rhaenyra's cries swell in the distance, louder now, more desperate. For a moment, Daervon pauses, his fingers brushing the iron handle of the door. He turns to his grandmother, his expression weary but grateful.

"You should rest, my dear," Rhaenys says gently, placing a hand on his arm.

He nods, his usual defiance replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable. "I will."

As the door closes behind him, Rhaenys lingers in the hall for a moment, her gaze lingering on the flickering torchlight. Though her expression remains composed, her thoughts are anything but. Whatever storms brew within her grandson's heart, she knows they are far from over.