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The halls of Dragonstone are filled with the soft crackle of distant hearthfires and the muffled laughter of children. In one of the chambers, Daervon Targaryen sits cross-legged on the floor, his youngest brothers, Aegon and Viserys, sit on either side of him.

Aegon, the elder of the two, holds a wooden dragon painted a dull crimson. His silvery hair tousled and wild, his bright laughter echoing through the chamber. His wooden dragon lunges forward, striking Daervon’s with an exaggerated roar.

Daervon grins, letting out a mock gasp of alarm as his own dragon topples backward. “Careful, little prince,” he warns, voice teasing. “Your beast grows fiercer by the second.”

“It’s because mine is bigger!” Aegon declares, his face alight with the mischievous glee of a boy not yet burdened by the weight of family or politics.

“Size isn’t everything in battle,” Daervon counters, his tone mock-serious. “It’s about cunning. Watch this.” He twists his dragon sharply, sending Aegon’s spinning. Aegon squeals in delight, toppling backward.

Viserys, the youngest of the three, doesn’t partake in the fiery battle. Instead, he nestles into Daervon’s side, his small fingers toying with the familiar Valyrian steel ring wrapped around Daervon’s finger. The boy’s soft breaths are warm against his arm, a gentle reminder of the innocence Daervon is desperate to preserve.

For a moment, the ache in his heart—his yearning for Aemond, his fear of the path ahead—is dulled by the simplicity of being here with them.

The boy gazes up at his elder brother with wide, adoring eyes. “Does this make you stronger?” Viserys asks, tugging gently at the ring.

Daervon chuckles, brushing a stray curl from the boy’s face. “Perhaps,” he says softly. “But not as strong as having my brothers by my side.” His voice is rich with affection, each word carrying the unspoken truth that he would do anything to shield his brothers from the world outside these walls.

Viserys hums contentedly for a moment before he clings closer tighter to Daervon. “Do you have to leave, big brother?” Viserys whispers, his voice trembling.

Daervon smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll return, little one,” he promises, pressing a kiss to Viserys’s silver curls. Then, turning to Aegon, he ruffles the boy’s hair and pulls him close. “You’ll both look after each other until then.”

Aegon pouts but nods, his fiery spirit subdued for the first time that day. Daervon kisses his forehead too, savoring the moment. There is a possibility that this might be the last time he sees them. He commits their faces to memory—their bright eyes, their untroubled smiles—and holds back the sting of tears.

When Daervon enters his bedchamber to prepare for his journey, he finds Daemon Targaryen seated by the fire, his gaze distant. Daervon halts, surprised by his father’s presence.

Daemon’s gaze flickers to his son as he enters. “You remind me of your mother,” he says abruptly.

Daervon pauses mid-step. “You never spoke of her.”

“Because it hurts,” Daemon admits, rising from the chair and moving to the window. The firelight casts long shadows across his face, softening the hard edges of the man who had long been known as the Rogue Prince.

“Tell me about her,” Daervon says as he steps further into the room, his voice tentative.

“Your mother, Aurélie, was the most captivating lady in the Seven Kingdoms,” Daemon begins, his voice softer than Daervon has ever heard it. “She smelled of wildflowers, and her touch... it was fire. A dangerous, consuming fire.”

A faint smile curves Daemon’s lips as he speaks, his gaze distant. “She played her games, and I burned willingly. I would have burned forever if it meant staying near her.” He inhales sharply, the rawness of his grief bleeding through. “But then she was taken. Gone forever. And nothing—nothing—has ever filled the void she left in my heart.”

Daemon turns to his son, his expression earnest. “Your mother loved you, my son. More than anyone. More than life itself.”

The words hit Daervon like a blow. The truth dawns on him: Aurélie had died giving him life. A swell of guilt rises in his chest, but he says nothing, letting his father continue.

For a moment, the silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken grief. Then Daemon steps forward, placing a hand on Daervon’s shoulder. “I love all my children. But no son or daughter—legitimate or otherwise—can replace you. You are my firstborn. Aurélie’s son. My true legacy.”

The weight of the words nearly overwhelms Daervon, but then Daemon continues, his tone harder now. “If Aemond is what you want, then have him. But he’s the face of the opposition, Daervon. And he has already chosen power over you.”

Daervon’s jaw tightens. “He doesn’t know what he wants.”

Daemon sighs, his voice tinged with pity. “Heartbreak is harder than you think, my son. The pain never truly fades.”

“There won’t be heartbreak,” Daervon insists, though doubt lingers in his heart. “I can change his mind.”

Daemon’s shoulders sag, and he regards his son with a mix of exasperation and fondness. “I hope it’s as simple as you believe it to be.” Then, in an uncharacteristic display of tenderness, he pulls Daervon into an embrace, patting his back.

Daervon stands stiff for a moment, stunned by the rare gesture. But then, slowly, he allows himself to sink into the warmth of his father’s arms. “Be safe,” Daemon murmurs.

“You as well, Father,” Daervon replies, his voice barely above a whisper.

Later, at Dragonmont, the air is thick with anticipation as Daervon approaches Gaelithox. The massive black dragon waits, his green eyes glowing like emeralds in the dim light. At the sight of his rider, the beast lets out a low, rumbling purr that vibrates through the ground.

Daervon places a hand on Gaelithox’s neck, resting his forehead against the dragon’s warm scales. “Easy, my friend,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”

The dragon huffs, his tail sweeping the ground. Gaelithox, ever watchful, has grown more protective since Daervon’s recent near-death experience, the bond between them is unspoken but unbreakable—a connection forged in fire and blood.

Footsteps crunch behind him, and Daervon turns to see Rhaena approaching, her wild white curls braided neatly. A satchel hangs at her side, and she’s dressed in riding leathers.

“I thought you might need a traveling companion,” she says with a sly smile. “I can’t let you travel alone,” she continues, smirking. “Some wicked elf king might steal your virtue.”

Daervon snorts, shaking his head. “Hate to break it to you, dearest sister, but that ship has sailed, wrecked, and sunk to the bottom of the Narrow Sea.”

Rhaena pouts dramatically. “How unfortunate.”

The playful exchange fades as Daervon’s expression turns serious. “This won’t be a joyful ride, Rhaena. Things could turn dangerous in an instant.”

"Don’t give me that nonsense, brother," Rhaena declares, her voice sharp and unwavering. "You can argue with father all you like, but not with me. I am going with you, and that is the fucking end of the discussion."

Daervon halts mid-step, his brows lifting in genuine astonishment. "So vulgar," he mutters, his tone teasing but tinged with mock disapproval. His eyes narrow, but the faintest curl of a smile betrays his amusement. "Where did you learn to speak like that?"

"Where else do you think?" Rhaena replies, her lips quirking into a knowing smirk. Her tone is mocking, a mirror of his own, her wild curls catching the light as she tilts her head in playful defiance.

Realization dawns on him, and his expression shifts to a mock scowl. "Don’t tell father that," he warns, his voice low and conspiratorial.

She laughs—a sound bright and free in the open air—and places her hand in his, her delicate fingers firm with purpose. Daervon lifts her effortlessly onto Gaelithox's broad back, the dragon's scales gleaming like liquid night under the sun. A shiver of anticipation ripples through the beast as Daervon swings up behind her, settling into place with practiced ease.

Gaelithox rumbles low in his throat, a sound both comforting and commanding, as his wings stretch wide, casting a shadow over the mountaintop. With a powerful leap, the great dragon takes to the skies, the world falling away beneath them.

The wind lashes against their faces, sharp and bracing, yet exhilarating. Daervon tilts his head back, savoring the rush of cool air on his skin, the sharp scent of the sea carried in the breeze. The view is endless, the Narrow Sea sparkling below like a bed of crushed diamonds, the horizon stretching into eternity. Even Rhaena allows a genuine smile to break across her face.

The skies belong to them.

“I hope your plan isn’t to march down the path and set people on fire to demand your seat,” Rhaena quips, her voice loud over the roaring wind. She glances over her shoulder at him, her sharp eyes scrutinizing his reaction. "Tell me that is not your plan."

Daervon grins, the expression infuriatingly smug. "That is not your plan," he says smoothly, echoing her words with deliberate nonchalance.

"Brother!" Rhaena exclaims, twisting in the saddle to glare at him. Without hesitation, she slams her fist against his chest, her indignation flaring.

He lets out a sharp grunt at the unexpected assault, though his tone remains light as he grabs her wrist mid-air. "Seven hells, stop hitting me!" he protests, his voice colored with exaggerated exasperation. "Do you want us to fall to our deaths?"

Rhaena relents, but her glare remains fierce, a silent promise that the discussion is far from over. Beneath them, Gaelithox roars, the sound reverberating through the air like rolling thunder, as if to chastise them for their antics.

The dragon surges forward, his wings cutting through the heavens with a grace that belies his massive size. Daervon’s grip tightens around Rhaena’s waist, steadying her against the wind. Despite the tension of their exchange, a warm sense of comfort settles between them.

By the time they land in the Silverlands, night has fallen. Gaelithox descends, his colossal form cutting through the stillness. His wings, vast and obsidian, cast fleeting shadows over the land as he circles the Dragonpit before landing with a thunderous rumble.

Standing at the edge of the pit, Vidor Silvercrown awaits them. His figure is rigid as he keeps a measured distance from the beast. Even from afar, his unease is palpable, his gaze flickering to Gaelithox with a mixture of awe and barely concealed terror.

The great dragon settles, his emerald eyes glinting like molten jewels as he watches Vidor, a low growl vibrating in his throat as if to warn the man of his proximity.

Rhaena dismounts first, her hand brushing Gaelithox’s scales in a silent farewell. Daervon follows, his movements smooth despite the exhaustion clinging to him after the long flight.

Vidor steps forward, offering a courteous nod to Rhaena. "Lady Rhaena," he greets, his tone cordial but clipped. His eyes then shift to his nephew, narrowing as they take in the dark bruise marring Daervon’s sharp features.

"What happened to your face?" Vidor’s voice carries a note of irritation beneath his usual measured tone.

Daervon smirks, wiping a speck of dirt from his riding leathers as if the question amuses him. "A little feud with my father," he replies, his voice dripping with irreverence. "You know how much I love testing my old man’s patience."

Vidor’s scowl deepens. "You’ve never given a damn about the Silverhold seat. What’s changed your mind now?"

"I have a war to fight," Daervon says, his voice turning colder, sharper. His gaze flickers momentarily to Rhaena, then back to his uncle. "If I return alive from this."

Vidor scoffs, his lips curling in disdain. "Not enough to have a Dragon of a nephew. Now I must suffer a shit jester too."

“Careful, old geezer.” Daervon warns playfully. “I might change my mind.”

Vidor rolls his eyes. “As if anyone’s capable of that.” He folds his arms, studying Daervon for a moment before speaking again, his voice lowering into something more serious. “You think you can speak your way out of this? Bend those power-hungry cunts to your will? Say the word, I'll free their wretched heads from their miserable shoulders.”

Daervon steps closer, his expression sobering. His hand moves to his belt, unfastening the sheath that holds Soul Reaper. The blade gleams under the moonlight, dark and imposing, its presence a reminder of blood spilled and battles fought. Alongside it, he pulls free his dagger, smaller but no less deadly.

He extends both weapons to Vidor, holding them out with a deliberate air. "If it is Her Grace's will that no blood be spilled, then so it shall be," Daervon says, his voice low but firm.

Vidor hesitates, his gaze flickering between the weapons and his nephew’s face. Finally, he takes them, his fingers curling tightly around the hilts. “Perhaps it’s wise,” he mutters, though the reluctance in his voice is unmistakable. “For now.”

Daervon turns to Rhaena, his gaze softening as he addresses her. "Stay with Vidor," he instructs, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You will leave the Silverlands if anything goes wrong."

"Why would anything go wrong?" Rhaena’s voice rises in panic, her face twisting with sudden fear.

"Gaelithox will take you back to Dragonstone safely," he assures her, though his voice carries an edge of urgency.

"Brother," Rhaena whispers, her hands gripping the strap of her satchel tightly, her eyes searching his face for any hint of reassurance.

Daervon steps closer, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders. "Do as I say," he commands, his gaze steady, his tone unyielding. "Please."

Rhaena hesitates, her lips pressing into a thin line as her fear flickers plainly across her features. But eventually, she nods, though the trembling in her hands betrays her reluctance.

Daervon slips the Valyrian ring from his finger, the cool metal catching the moonlight as though reluctant to part from him. The gesture is deliberate, heavy with unspoken finality, as he turns to Vidor. He extends his hand, palm open, the ring resting like a token of fate.

"If I do not return," he says, his voice quiet but laced with steel, "take this to Aemond. Tell him..." His throat tightens, and for a moment, his Targaryen composure falters. He swallows hard, his jaw clenching. "Tell him I did what was necessary, and that my love for him is fiercer than dragonfire."

Vidor’s expression hardens, his eyes narrowing as they flicker between the ring and his nephew’s face. "You speak as though you’re marching to your grave," he mutters, his voice a mix of irritation and unease.

"I speak as one who knows the weight of the game we play," Daervon retorts, his tone sharp yet tinged with resignation. He presses the ring into Vidor’s palm, his fingers curling over his uncle’s as though sealing an oath. "Promise me, uncle. Whatever happens, this must reach him."

Vidor remains silent for a heartbeat, his jaw set tight, his lips a thin line. Then, with a grudging sigh, he closes his hand around the ring. "I swear it," he says, though his tone is rough, reluctant. "But you’d best return, Daervon. Let the gods curse me a liar."

A faint, wry smile touches Daervon’s lips, but the grief behind his eyes is unmistakable. "Pray that they do," he murmurs, before turning his gaze toward the looming silhouette of Silverhold, a fortress as cold and unyielding as the path ahead.