AN:
I wanted to give a little more to Daemon's 'happy enough' marriage with Leana. Sad chapter ahead, get ready to cry.
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Happy reading!!

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Young Daervon stands in the training yard, a sword in his hand. Dressed for practice, breathing deeply, sweat on his brow, he faces a battered old target dummy. He lunges in a precision attack, his arm strong and sure. Recovers and attacks again. Daervon feels a presence but doesn't turn. Someone else is in the room.

"Don't stand with your back to the door. How many times do we need to tell you?" Vidor's voice cuts through the air.

"I could tell it was you by your footsteps, Uncle," Daervon replies, not breaking his focus.

"Someone might imitate my stride," Vidor retorts.

"I know the difference," Daervon says and finally turns. Vidor stands behind him, his arms full of swords and knives in scabbards. Daervon's tone shifts to a teasing one. "Are you the new Weapons Master?"

Vidor grins. "I must make do as best I may." He lays the weapons out on a table in matched pairs. "Choose your blade."

"I've had quite a day, Uncle. Give us a song instead," Daervon quips.

Without warning, Vidor picks up a rapier and throws it in Daervon's direction. The blade thunks deep in the wooden table beside the boy and stands quivering.

"That's rude," Daervon says, dropping his practice weapon and grabbing the rapier. "Old man."

Daervon lunges forward. Their blades clash rapidly into each other. Daervon lunges more slowly when Vidor grabs Daervon's blade in his gloved hand and slaps the boy's face with the flat of his blade.

Daervon jerks back, shocked, rubbing his cheek.

"Never let a man inside your guard! Even in sport! Not even me!" Vidor glowers.

"I guess I'm not in the mood today," Daervon mutters.

"Mood?! What has mood to do with it? You fight when the necessity arises, no matter your mood! Now fight!" Vidor's expression turns genuinely angry. He attacks fiercely, his sword striking into Daervon's. The boy falls back, hard-pressed, backed up against the table.

Daervon rolls across the tabletop and comes up on the far side with a dagger in his free hand. Two weapons now.

"Come on!" Vidor taunts.

Daervon leaps over the table and takes a deep breath, but he's in trouble.

They clash again, Vidor's strikes unrelenting. Daervon parries desperately, but Vidor's experience and strength overwhelm him. Daervon attempts a feint, but Vidor counters easily, knocking the dagger from Daervon's hand. With a swift motion, Vidor disarms him completely, the rapier clattering to the ground. Daervon finds himself on the defensive, backpedaling, but Vidor's final strike sends him sprawling to the ground.

"I see you found the mood," Vidor grins, sheathing his blades, his menacing aspect melting away.

Daervon sighs and puts away his own weapons. "Will it be that bad?"

"Bad is a child's word. You don't get it, do you? You don't really understand the grave nature of what's happening to us," Vidor says, his tone serious. "For more than a century, Silverlands belonged to House Silvercrown! Your eyes. I need to see it in your eyes. The stakes of this game of power are much higher. This is a dangerous game played by nobles, each vying for the seat. It is brutal enough. If you wish to be the Lord Paramount of the Silverlands, you have to be ready."

"I can never be Lord of Silverhold. I can never be Lord of anything. Not like you, you... you're the fiercest fighter I've ever met. I am no more than the son of the Rogue Prince. A free spirit," Daervon says, a hint of defiance in his voice.

"Life is a war. You have to make hard decisions. You have to be even better than any fighter. You have to fight with what you have. What matters is the will and desire. That's what it means to fight a war. It is never too late for you. Think it through," Vidor says, turning and walking away, leaving Daervon to contemplate his words.

In the same afternoon, the castle erupts into chaos as Lady Leana's agonizing screams pierce through the halls, reverberating with the unbearable pain of labor sending waves of terror through everyone who hears them.

Daervon, driven by fear and love, rushes to his parents' bedchambers, his heart pounding. He bursts into the room to find his mother writhing in pain, clutching the bedpost, her face contorted with suffering. "Mother!" he cries out, his voice trembling with panic.

The maids try to escort him out, but he resists, his small frame shaking with determination. "I won't leave her!" he shouts, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Leana, despite her torment, manages to smile at him through her tears. She reaches out a trembling hand, caressing his face before planting a tender kiss on his temple. "My sweet child," she whispers, her voice frail yet filled with love, "You are the bravest Targaryen I have ever met. I am so grateful to have a son like you. You know that, don't you? You are strong, kind, and generous. Remember that. Always remember who you are."

"Why are you saying all this? Are you dying?" Daervon's voice cracks as he chokes on his words.

Leana attempts a chuckle, but it is cut short by a wave of searing pain. "My sweet child, when I go, it will be far more dramatic than this," she says, her smile strained. "Now, go to your bedchambers and rest. You will be the first to hold your brother in the morning."

"I want to stay," Daervon insists, shaking his head, his small hands clutching at his mother's gown. He turns to his father, eyes wide and pleading. "Please, Father, let me stay."

Daemon looks at his son, seeing the determination in his eyes. He knows the boy won't leave unless he is dragged out against his will. With a heavy heart, he nods, allowing Daervon to stay.

Every time Leana screams in pain, Daervon winces, burying his face into his father's side, his hands gripping Daemon's clothes tightly. Daemon gently rubs his son's back, trying to offer what little comfort he can.

The maester informs Daemon that a caesarean section might save the baby, but the memory of Aemma Arryn's tragic fate looms over them. Daervon feels a growing sense of dread, his fear for his mother and unborn sibling gnawing at his insides.

In the midst of the turmoil, no one notices Leana slipping through the doors, her resolve solidifying. Determined to die a dragonrider's death, she makes her way to Vhagar, commanding the dragon to incinerate her.

Vhagar hesitates, sensing the agony and desperation in his rider's voice. Leana, bloodied and in tears, repeats the command, her voice breaking. Feeling her pain through their bond, Vhagar finally complies, releasing a torrent of fire that engulfs Leana. She faces death as she has faced life, without fear and on her own terms.

Daervon's wail of anguish pierces the night as he watches his mother consumed by flames. Desperately, he tries to run into the fire to save her, but Daemon catches him, holding him tight. The boy's anguished cries echo through the night until he faints from shock and grief, collapsing into his father's arms.

Daemon holds his son close, his own heart breaking, as the night swallows them in a grief too immense to bear. The castle, once filled with the sounds of life, now stands silent, mourning the loss of Lady Leana.

When morning finally peaks, Daervon sits numbly between his mourning sisters on the couch, feeling the hollow emptiness of being motherless once again. Their father, drowning in his own sorrow, has secluded himself in the bedchambers he once shared with his beloved lady wife.

The maesters carefully tend to Lady Leana's ashes, preparing for the impending funeral.

Once his sisters retreat to their own rooms, Daervon returns to his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, the weight of grief pressing heavily on his small frame.

Vidor enters with a tray of food, setting it gently on the bedside table. He pulls the sheet up to cover Daervon better and then sits beside him, his presence a quiet comfort.

"She said I need to remember who I am. But I know who I am. This is who I have always been and always will be. A weakling," Daervon says, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't be so pessimistic," Vidor responds softly. "Eradicate anything that threatens you, I believe you will forge your own path in this treacherous world. I know it's hard. I lost my sister when I was just your age. You must understand that some people are going to leave, but that's not the end of your story. That's just the end of their part in your story."

"Tell me about my mother," Daervon requests, his voice tinged with a desperate need. He had never asked about his biological mother before. Leana had always filled that void, but now, with her loss, the ache of never knowing his real mother stabs sharply.

"Aurélie was the most beautiful lady in the Seven Kingdoms," Vidor recalls, his eyes distant with memories. "She was a glorious warrior in battle, with a heart as big and kind as yours. She always looked out for the poor and won hearts effortlessly."

"You loved her," Daervon says quietly.

"It was impossible not to," Vidor admits, the platonic love he shared with his sister still vividly alive within him. "She said you were extraordinary. And you are."

"I'm scared, uncle," Daervon confesses, his voice trembling with the rawness of his emotions.

"Just saying that makes you braver than you know," Vidor reassures him. "I think you'll do better than you imagine."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Daervon murmurs, a faint glimmer of warmth breaking through his sorrow.

"Ah, it's all part of my hustle," Vidor jests, earning the slightest smile from the boy, a small but precious victory in their shared grief.