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The sea wails as if it shares the grief of the Targaryens, its waves crashing against the shores of Dragonstone. The pyre before them burns brightly under the clouded sky, the flames licking the air as the stillborn daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon is reduced to ashes. The fire crackles and pops, sending embers spiraling into the wind, yet there is no warmth to be felt by those standing in its shadow. Daemon stands stoically, his eyes never leaving the pyre, the loss of their child a wound too fresh, too deep. Beside him, Rhaenyra is quiet, her grief consuming her with the force of a storm. The loss is not only of a child but of the dreams she had for her future, for the legacy she and Daemon could have built together.

The flames flicker in their eyes as Ser Erryk Cargyll arrives, his presence a stark contrast to the somber scene. The two guards near Rhaenyra draw their swords, but he offers no threat. Instead, he removes his helm and kneels before her, his head lowered in reverence. He holds out the crown—the simple golden circlet, still warm from the turmoil of the Green coup, adorned with the sigils of the Great Houses. He speaks with conviction, his voice steady despite the weight of his words.

"I swear to ward the Queen… with all my strength… and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife… hold no lands… father no children. I shall guard her secrets… obey her commands… ride at her side, and defend her name and honor."

Daemon steps forward, taking the crown from Ser Erryk's hands, his movements deliberate. As he places it upon Rhaenyra's head, the moment is heavy with meaning. His eyes meet hers briefly, filled with a mixture of pride and sorrow. "My Queen," he says, kneeling before her.

The others in attendance, Daervon, Rhaenyra’s sons, her stepdaughters, the Queensguard, and the congregation, follow suit. The reverence is palpable, yet there is an undercurrent of tension that no one can escape. Princess Rhaenys watches from the edge, pride flickering in her eyes for the Queen but sorrow at what this crown signifies—the battle to come.

As the mourners slowly dissipate, Rhaenyra’s council begins to gather. The Painted Table is alive with activity, men and women moving around it, placing map markers and lighting candles. The room is filled with the low murmur of voices, a stark contrast to the silent grief of moments ago. Daervon enters, his gaze briefly scanning the room before it settles on the faces of those around him. There is much work to be done, and the reality of war presses down on them all.

"My prince, you left Soul Reaper behind," Ser Erryk says, drawing Daervon’s attention. His voice low and respectful as he unsheathes the Valyrian steel sword and produces the honey badger-hilted dagger from his side, their gleaming surfaces reflecting the flickering light of the room.

Daervon’s heart leaps at the sight of them, his hands instinctively reaching for the weapons. His fingers curl around Soul Reaper’s hilt, feeling the familiar grooves. A faint sense of relief flickers through him as if part of himself has been returned. "Oh, yes," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "I missed it too much." He glances up, his eyes briefly locking with Erryk’s. "Thank you for returning it to me, Ser Erryk."

The exchange doesn’t go unnoticed by Daemon. His sharp eyes flick from the weapons to Daervon, then back to Ser Erryk, the confusion clear in the furrow of his brow. Daemon doesn’t speak immediately, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture, the tension of the room thickening as he watches his son. His gaze lingers longer than necessary, but for now, he lets it go. His thoughts circling in silence as the conversation drifts.

As Rhaenyra enters the room, the murmurs die down, and Daemon, ever the dramatist, announces her with a voice that reverberates through the chamber.

"Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Everyone bows before her, but it is clear—each person’s loyalty is still being tested. Daervon remains silent, his mind elsewhere.

Rhaenyra is handed a goblet of wine by her stepdaughter, Rhaena, who offers it with quiet reverence. Rhaenyra accepts, nodding her thanks, before inviting her to join the Black Council at the Painted Table.

She stands before the map, her fingers trailing over the markers as she contemplates the road ahead. Her voice is calm, but there is a cold edge to it as she asks, "What is our standing?"

Daemon does not hesitate. "We have 30 knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and 300 men-at-arms. Dragonstone is defensible, but in terms of conquest, our army is wanting. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch, but I cannot say how many will respond."

Maester Gerardys adds, "We have already received declarations from Celtigar, Massey, Darklyn, and Bar Emmon."

Daervon listens but feels a gnawing sense of unease. The war is inevitable, and the stakes are rising higher with every passing moment. He knows that his loyalty lies with Rhaenyra, but there is another battle waging within him—one of blood and love. Aemond. His heart aches at the thought of the silver-haired prince. How can he protect his husband and his queen at the same time? His thoughts drift, but his attention snaps back to the table as Lord Bartimos Celtigar speaks.

"Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons."

Rhaenyra does not flinch. "The Greens have dragons as well."

"They have three adults, by my count," Daemon replies. "We have Syrax, Caraxes, Gaelithox, and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer."

Rhaenyra shakes her head, her expression darkening. "None of our dragons have been to war."

Daemon is quick to counter. "There are still unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless. And there are three wild dragons nesting here."

"Who is to ride them?" Rhaenyra asks, her eyes narrowing.

Daemon's eyes gleam with a fire that mirrors her own. "Dragonstone has thirteen to their four. With them, we could surround King’s Landing, cut off the west, and have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns."

But Daervon can’t ignore the deeper, more dangerous truth Daemon has overlooked. So, he seizes the opportunity to redirect. "Father," he says firmly, "you’ve missed the most critical point here." He steps forward, the weight of his words drawing the room’s attention. "The Greens have Vhagar—the largest and oldest dragon in existence. That beast could level an entire city with a single command. Then there’s Maelor’s dragon, Shrykos. Second largest and ruthless in battle. We might be safe leaving Dreamfyre aside—Helaena has no interest in war—but Tessarion belongs to Daeron, a dragon hatched alongside Vermax, she may yet surprise us."

The room grows still. Even Daemon’s fiery temperament simmers as Daervon continues. "Rhaella has no dragon yet, but she is more than capable of claiming one. If left unchecked, she could become a future liability to us." His tone is measured, calm, but the words carry a warning none can ignore.

Ser Harrold nods, his weathered face solemn. "Prince Daervon speaks the truth," he says, his voice resonating with authority. "Underestimating the strength of their dragons could be a grave mistake—one we cannot afford to make."

Daemon’s gaze darkens, a shadow flickering across his sharp features. There it is again—Daervon, and the title Prince spoken in the same breath. His lips press into a thin line, suspicion coiling in the depths of his lilac eyes. He studies his son intently, his stare cutting like a blade, yet his tongue remains still. For now. The questions churn in his mind, unspoken but heavy, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Rhaenyra, stands poised at the head of the table, leans forward. "What do you suggest, Daervon?" she asks, her tone steady but curious. "How do we proceed in the face of such odds?"

Daervon hesitates, his loyalty to Rhaenyra and his love for Aemond warring within him. He steels himself, his voice clear. "If it is possible," he begins, "we must find a way to maintain peace. Declaring war outright will bring only death and destruction. Perhaps a diplomatic approach could delay their plans long enough for us to strengthen our position."

Rhaenyra considers his words, her expression softening. "You speak wisely," she says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "We must not rush headlong into war if there is another path."

Daemon’s jaw tightens, his hands clenching into fists. His voice cuts through the room like a blade. "And what would you have done while that usurper cunt claimed your queen’s throne?" His words are laced with anger and disbelief, his fiery temper rising.

Daervon meets his father’s glare without flinching. "Obviously," he says dryly, "I was poisoned."

The tension in the room crackles, the air almost suffocating. Daemon takes a step forward, his eyes narrowing further. "Why do they keep calling you Prince?" he demands, gesturing toward Erryk and Harrold.

Daervon swallows hard, the motion betraying his unease as his pulse quickens beneath his skin. He hadn’t noticed it before—that others had dared to address him with the title of Prince—until now. His voice, though steady, carries a trace of urgency as he meets his father’s piercing gaze. “You must be mistaken, Father,” he says swiftly, the words leaving his lips like a shield raised in defense. “I am no prince.”

The air in the room turns heavy as Daemon glares at his son, his fury barely contained. His voice, cold and sharp, cuts through the silence. “Confess your crime.”

Daervon chuckles, though the sound rings hollow, his bravado masking the unease creeping up his spine. “I’ve committed so many crimes, Father,” he replies, his tone laced with defiance. “You’ll need to specify which one you’re referring to.”

Daemon takes a menacing step closer, his anger simmering beneath the surface. “What did you do?”

Daervon shifts uncomfortably under his father’s piercing gaze, his confidence faltering. His eyes flicker toward Rhaenys, who watches him with a mix of worry and unspoken support. Her steady presence gives him the courage to speak. Finally, he draws a breath and admits, “Aemond and I wed each other in the tradition of our house. A moon ago.”

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the sharp intake of Daemon’s breath. His face contorts with rage, his voice rising like a thunderclap. “I warned you to cut ties with that one-eyed Hightower cunt!”

“And I told you,” Daervon snaps back, his own anger flaring as he steps toward his father, “I want no one but him!”

Daemon’s eyes blaze with fury, his voice trembling with the weight of betrayal. “Everything I have given you—you’ve thrown it back in my face. You are no son of mine!”

The words land like a blow, but Daervon doesn’t flinch. His voice is low, cold, each word cutting deep. “Then I need no longer obey you.”

Daemon’s fist flies before either of them can process it. His knuckles connect with Daervon’s nose in a sickening crack, and before Daervon can recover, Daemon’s boot drives into his stomach, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Gasps echo through the room. Rhaenys is the first to move, rushing to her grandson. “Daemon, stop this madness!” she cries, her voice trembling with both fury and fear. She kneels beside Daervon, placing a protective arm around him as he spits blood onto the stone floor.

“Is that all you have?” Daervon taunts, his voice hoarse but defiant, blood staining his teeth.

Daemon steps forward, his fists clenched, rage consuming him. “You dare—”

“What is done is done, Daemon,” Rhaenyra interrupts sharply, her tone carrying the weight of authority. She steps forward, her gaze stern, yet a flicker of concern betrays her.

Daemon whirls to face his son, his fury unchecked. “What did he offer you?” he demands, his voice rough, trembling with the weight of his accusation.

Daervon, still clutching his ribs, meets his father’s glare with a smirk that barely conceals the bitterness behind it. “What do you think he offered me?”

“He’s a spy!” Daemon roars, jabbing a finger toward his son as if accusing him in a trial. “Sent by that one-eyed Hightower cunt to poison us from within!” The words are a hammer blow, wielded in blind fury rather than belief, his anger clouding his reason.

A hollow chuckle escapes Daervon, the sound dry and laced with disbelief. He shakes his head, his shoulders sagging under the weight of emotions he can no longer suppress. “Is that what you think of me, Father?” His voice trembles, not with fear but with a simmering rage borne of years of resentment. “All my childhood, you pushed me to be a second Maegor Targaryen and here I am, being cut and shaped into the perfect warrior you wanted me to be.” His voice rises, raw and sharp. “Yet still, you're not satisfied!”

Daemon falters, his chest heaving as his anger begins to waver. But before he can speak, Daervon’s words cut through again, sharper than Valyrian steel.

“I wish I had died with my late lady mother,” Daervon spits, his voice breaking, raw with pain. “Then I no longer have to endure your sadistic judgement!”

The anger in Daemon’s eyes dulls, replaced by something almost imperceptible—hurt, regret, perhaps even guilt. “Daervon—” he begins, his tone softer, his fury giving way to something deeper.

“No!” Daervon’s voice rises, thick with grief and fury. “I see it clearly now. You have your trueborn sons to carry your legacy. What value could a bastard hold, other than as a weapon you wield and discard?” His lips curl into a bitter smile, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I am nothing but a shame to you.”

Daemon opens his mouth, but the words refuse to come. The room is stifling, the silence oppressive.

Without waiting for a response, Daervon turns and storms from the room, the sound of the heavy door slamming behind him reverberating like a final blow.

Daervon grips the cool stone railing of the balcony, his knuckles white as he steadies himself against the raging sea of his own emotions. The waves crash below, sending sprays of salt into the air, and the sun bathes the castle in a golden glow, yet it does little to warm the turmoil within him. He closes his eyes, tilting his face towards the breeze, seeking solace in the whispering wind. The sea is his refuge, its vastness mirroring the storm in his heart.

The soft shuffle of footsteps reaches his ears, distinct and deliberate. He doesn’t need to look to know who approaches. Only one person would tread so lightly yet with purpose toward him.

“Maybe Father is right,” Daervon says without turning, his voice low and weary, his eyes remaining shut. The admission hangs heavy in the air between them. “Maybe I am here to snatch information, to deceive you. To betray you.”

Rhaenyra halts a few paces away, her expression unreadable, though her eyes soften as they trace the rigid set of his shoulders. She takes a step closer. “You cannot fool me with empty words,” she says, her tone firm but warm, a mother’s reprimand mingled with affection. “I know my children like the back of my hand, and I consider you as one of my own.” She pauses, her voice faltering for just a moment. “I know I was never enough to fill the space Lady Laena left behind, but I tried to be there for you. I always will be. No matter what.”

Daervon’s grip on the railing loosens. The sincerity in her voice tugs at the walls he has built around himself. Rhaenyra steps to his side, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence but not so close as to crowd him.

“I understand if you stand by your husband,” she continues softly. “But I know your loyalty remains with me, Daervon. Because you have always stood by what is right.”

He finally opens his eyes, letting the sun’s light pierce through his troubled thoughts. A faint smile touches his lips as he gazes up at the endless sky, the clouds drifting lazily as if the world were not on the brink of war.

“Why Aemond, of all people?” Rhaenyra asks after a beat, her curiosity laced with disbelief.

“Why anyone else when he exists?” Daervon murmurs, his voice almost reverent, his gaze still fixed on the heavens.

Rhaenyra studies him, the answer settling heavily in her heart. “You are in love,” she says quietly, the realization softening her features.

“He invited me to rule the Seven Kingdoms by his side,” Daervon confesses, the words a mixture of longing and sorrow.

“And yet you declined,” Rhaenyra states, though it is more a question than a declaration.

“I made a promise,” Daervon says, his voice steady but distant, as if he speaks to the waves themselves. “To your father. He knew dark times were coming, and he made me swear to stand by you when it did.” He finally turns to her, his emerald eyes meeting hers with quiet conviction. “He knew this would happen.”

Pain flickers across Rhaenyra’s face, a raw, unguarded expression. “Yet he changed his mind in his last moments, I hear,” she says, her voice laced with hurt.

Daervon’s jaw tightens as he takes a step closer, his gaze unwavering. “You are the rightful heir, cousin. No usurper can take your birthright.” The words are spoken with an unshakable certainty, as if they are etched into his very soul. He hesitates, then adds with a measured breath, “If I change his mind—if I make him bend the knee to you—will you spare him?”

Rhaenyra exhales, her gaze falling to the waves below. “My half-brothers, my sweet sisters—Helaena and Rhaella—they have been led astray by the counsel of evil men.” Her voice hardens, though sorrow lingers beneath her resolve. “Let them come to Dragonstone, bend the knee, and ask my forgiveness. I shall spare their lives and take them back into my heart.”

Daervon regards her in silence for a moment, his admiration for her strength shining through his troubled expression. “You must remember,” he says, his voice low, “when you play the game of thrones, you win or die. There is no middle ground.”

Rhaenyra turns her gaze to him, her eyes fierce yet tempered with determination. “I can at least try to prevent the brewing war,” she replies. Her voice softens as she continues, “Viserys spoke often of the Valyrian histories. When dragons flew to war, everything burned. I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone.”

Daervon watches her, the fire in her words stirring something deep within him. “He was right,” he says at last, his voice steady with newfound conviction. “When he chose you as his successor. The Seven Kingdoms need the leadership of a strong queen like you.”

Rhaenyra smiles at him, a rare, genuine smile that momentarily banishes the tension in the air. “Then help me, cousin. Stand by my side as Master of War on my Small Council. Help me prevent this war.”

Daervon inclines his head, his smile faint but sincere. “It is a great honor to serve my Queen,” he says, the words heavy with promise. He steps closer, placing a hand over his heart. “My loyalty will always be with you, even to my last breath.”

Rhaenyra studies him, her gaze softening further. For all the pain and division their family has endured, she knows she can rely on Daervon. In this moment, with the sea as their witness and the wind carrying their words, the bond between them feels unbreakable.