AN:
Last chapter of Part 2!
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The night is dark, but the sky is clear, a cold, unyielding stillness hanging in the air. Even the sea is silent, no waves crashing against the rocky shores, no wind to stir the trees. The earth beneath the Silverhold seems to mourn, as if it weeps for the loss of its lord. The very stars above seem to flicker with a distant sorrow, casting their muted light on the ancient graveyard nearby where the funeral is held. The mournful cry of the night—unheard but deeply felt—is the cry of an era passing, the shift in power of Silverlands.

The funeral of Lord Jamie Silvercrown is held in a modest, but solemn structure. It is built of willows, dried wood, and a thatched roof, shaped by hands that have known the ways of the earth. The floor is mud, hardened by years of use, covered with hay in an effort to soften the ground for those who stand in reverence. This place—the final resting place of Lord Jamie Silvercrown—is near the ancient graveyard of Silverhold, where ancestors are buried in the soil that has borne the weight of their legacy.

According to Silvercrown tradition, the deceased is given a final honor by those who remain before the funeral pyre is lit. It is the next rightful Lord of Silverhold who must set the flames alight, burning away the last remnants of the old. The flames will cleanse, and in their wake, a new era will begin.

Lamps placed around the interior cast flickering light, their golden glow fighting against the oppressive gloom. In the center of the structure lies the body of Lord Jamie Silvercrown, wrapped in the proud colors of his house: gray and dark brown.

The air is thick with smoke from the incense burning in iron braziers, a scent of resin and earth that clings to the skin. Elders of the Silverhold council—Jehan, Eudes, Aymeri, Garnier, Onfroi, and Roul—stand in a circle around the body, their heads bowed in solemn respect. They murmur prayers to their gods, their voices low and weighty, each word a farewell to the man who had held Silverlands together with his indomitable will.

The stillness is broken as Daervon Targaryen steps inside. His entrance is deliberate, and though his steps are soft on the hay-strewn floor, his presence dominates the room. He is clad in dark leather and dragon-black scales, the unmistakable presence of House Targaryen mingling with the stoic traditions of House Silvercrown.

The elders lift their heads at once, their expressions shifting from piety to suspicion. They bow their heads slightly in deference, but the gesture is perfunctory, devoid of warmth.

Daervon’s lilac eyes sweep over the room, catching the flicker of the lamplight. His gaze lands on his grandfather’s shrouded body. There is no grief in his face—only a cold respect. Jamie Silvercrown had been a man of unyielding bravery, a titan among mortals, and though Daervon had not shared a close bond with him, he cannot deny the weight of his legacy.

“King Consort Daervon,” Elder Jehan says, his voice oily and sly. He steps forward, a mockery of a smile curling his thin lips. “How kind of you to join us in such trying times.”

“Prince Consort,” Daervon corrects, his tone sharp as dragonsteel. He does not look at Jehan, his gaze fixed on the body before him. “Aemond is no king.”

Jehan chuckles softly, an insolent sound in the sacred space. “Titles matter little when the terms are already decided. Let your husband know the terms he sent are accepted. The Silverlands will declare loyalty to King Aemond.”

Daervon finally turns to face him, his brow arching in faint incredulity. “And who, may I ask, made such a decision?”

Elder Roul steps forward, his voice gravelly and firm. “In the absence of the Lord of Silverhold, it is the council’s duty to act on behalf of the ruler.”

Daervon’s lips curl into a faint smirk, though his eyes remain cold. “I see. And yet, here I stand, having claimed my birthright. Or do you mean to say that is not enough?”

Jehan steps closer, the slyness in his tone sharpening. “Birthright alone does not make a ruler. Your grandfather understood that. The old ways, the true ways, are what bind us. You may bear the right, boy, but you do not embody the spirit of a Silvercrown.”

Daervon’s gaze hardens as he steps forward, his boots crunching softly against the hay. “The old ways are broken, relics of a world that no longer exists. My grandfather’s time has passed, and with it, the ways that chained Silverlands to mediocrity. Reformation begins now.”

The words hang in the air, thick with tension. The elders are visibly offended, their faces tightening with distaste. Elder Eudes, the oldest and perhaps most resistant, sneers at the Targaryen.

"How dare you speak to us this way?" he spits, his voice a low growl.

Daervon’s voice drops, low and dangerous. “I will speak however I please. You forget yourself, Elder Eudes. I am your sovereign.”

Elder Jehan’s mocking smile widens, though it’s edged with something darker now. "You have no voice here, unless you are the Lord of Silverhold. Which you are not, until we decide you are."

Daervon steps forward, his eyes cold and filled with an icy resolve. "I’m not here to gain your blessing," he says, his words a quiet, cutting declaration. The elders laugh, a cruel, mocking sound that echoes in the small space.

"We have already decided that you’re not fit to rule," Elder Garnier says, his eyes narrowing as they fix on Daervon. "Until the next Lord Paramount of the Silverlands is named, we—the elders—will rule on behalf."

Daervon’s lips curl into a thin, sharp smile, one that carries no warmth. “You are small men, clinging to power you do not deserve. None of you are fit to lead Silverlands. But I am. So I will.”

The air shifts. There is something darker in Daervon now. His eyes—usually the color of lilacs—begin to shift, darkening, glowing with a silver intensity that makes the room grow colder. The fire within him is not just a metaphor. It is alive. It is power, untamed and relentless. He watches each of them, his gaze fierce and burning. "I will offer you a choice," he says, his voice low, each word laced with power. "Honor the pledge your ancestors made to mine. Submit to me, and I will spare your lives. Or I will take what is mine with fire and blood."

The silence in the room is palpable. The elders stare at him, their faces a mix of fear and disbelief. They know, deep down, what he is capable of. What he is. A Targaryen. A Silvercrown. Daervon Targaryen—one born with both fire and blood running through his veins.

"I sense your terror. And you are right to be afraid," Daervon says, his voice a low purr, almost a challenge.

"An abomination is what you are," Elder Aymeri says, his voice trembling, but his eyes never leave Daervon. The other elders murmur in agreement, but it only seems to fuel the Targaryen further.

Daervon tilts his head, a wicked smile spreading across his face. "Since you are in such a dilemma, I’ll make the choice for you."

"Did you really think we would serve you?" Elder Onfroi sneers, though there’s an unease in his voice.

Daervon’s answer is a deliberate act. He places his hand on the rim of one of the burning lamps, the flames licking at his skin without leaving a mark. The elders recoil, their faces masks of horror.

“You will not serve,” Daervon says, his voice calm, almost serene. “You will burn.”

With a flick of his wrist, Daervon knocks down the first lamp. The elders scatter, their faces filled with terror and their movements desperate and eyes wide with panic as the fire grows, devouring everything in their path. But it’s too late. There is nowhere to run. The door has been barred.

His grin widens with delight, and he knocks down firepit after firepit with a violent sweep of his hand. The cries of the old men echo in the small structure as the flames spread like hungry wolves, devouring the dry wood with a speed that is unnatural.

Daervon’s gaze is unwavering, his expression unreadable. He’s not merely watching them burn—he is enjoying it. The flames reflect in his eyes, and the madness in his gaze is unmistakable. This is the Unburnt Prince.

"You are insane!" Elder Garnier exclaims, his voice trembling as he backs away from the Targaryen young man.

Daervon turns his gaze to him, a smirk curling on his lips, the firelight dancing in his eyes. His voice is calm, almost lazy, yet laced with an unsettling promise.

"Insane?" He raises a brow, his tone dripping with dark amusement. "All the best Targaryens are. We don't just slay our enemies, Elder Garnier. No, we burn them, All of them."

The funeral structure burns ferociously, the roaring flames twisting skyward, consuming the grand structure with relentless hunger. Smoke churns in heavy plumes, blotting out the stars above. The acrid stench of burning wood and ash saturates the night air, yet Rhaena barely notices. Her eyes are locked on the inferno, wide and brimming with fear. Somewhere in that raging sea of fire is her brother, and her heart beats with the unbearable weight of that knowledge.

“No!” she gasps, panic breaking her composure. Without a second thought, she steps forward, her voice rising in desperation. “He’s still in there! Daervon’s still in there!” Her voice cracks as she moves closer to the pyre, heat licking at her skin.

“Lady Rhaena, stop!” Vidor’s voice rings out, sharp and commanding. He catches her arm before she can take another step. His grip is firm, unyielding, yet not cruel. “You cannot go in there.”

Tears streak down her soot-smudged cheeks as she struggles against him. “Let me go! We have to save him! The fire—he’ll—he’ll die!” Her voice breaks, a sob escaping her lips.

Vidor shakes his head, his expression a mask of iron resolve, though his brown eyes flicker with something softer—hope, fragile and unwavering. “Wait,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less firm. “He will come. He is of fire and blood, Lady Rhaena. Have faith.”

“But—”

“Wait,” he repeats, his gaze fixed on the pyre.

Rhaena’s knees threaten to give out beneath her, but she clings to Vidor’s arm, trembling. She forces her gaze back to the flames, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. Her hands tighten into fists, her nails digging into her palms. The silence of the onlookers is deafening, broken only by the relentless crackle of fire.

The Silvers gather in a growing crowd, their pale faces ghostly in the light of the blaze. Murmurs ripple through them, doubt and awe blending into a single, restless hum. They are here for the spectacle, for closure, but none could have anticipated what happens next.

The flames begin to shift. At first, it seems like a trick of the light, the fire bending and writhing in unnatural patterns. Then, the impossible becomes undeniable. A figure emerges from the heart of the inferno.

The crowd gasps as one, the sound a collective exhalation of disbelief. Rhaena’s breath catches in her throat, her tears halting as she stares, frozen in place.

Daervon steps forward, unburnt and unbroken, the fire parting around him like a living thing paying homage to its master. His body glistens with sweat, his pale skin unscathed by the flames that should have consumed him. But it is his eyes that hold everyone captive.

They blaze with an otherworldly silver, brighter and fiercer than any star, madness swirling in their depths like a storm. His expression is no longer entirely his own; there is something fierce, primal, and unrelenting in the sharp set of his jaw and the tightness of his lips. He radiates power, raw and untamed, and it pours off him in waves that seem to make the air around him vibrate.

The Silvers fall silent. The whispers stop, and for a moment, the world itself seems to hold its breath.

Then one voice, trembling and unsure, breaks the stillness: “A god…”

Another follows, then another, the murmurs swelling into a single chorus of reverence. “A god among men…”

The Silvers drop to their knees, bowing low before the unburnt prince who has emerged from death’s embrace. Awe and terror intertwine in their expressions as they behold the impossible.

Rhaena stares, her chest tightening with an overwhelming mixture of emotions. Relief wars with fear as she takes in her brother’s transformed state. This is Daervon… but also not Daervon. Her legs move before her mind catches up, and she steps forward hesitantly, her lips parting as she whispers, “Brother…”

Daervon turns his gaze to her, the silver fire in his eyes burning brighter for a moment. He tilts his head slightly, the expression unfamiliar, as if he is seeing her for the first time. The madness lingers in his gaze, flickering like an ember threatening to catch.

“Daervon!” she calls again, louder, her voice trembling with desperation. “Please…”

Her words seem to cut through the haze. Slowly, the silver in his eyes begins to fade, draining away like water receding from a shore. His shoulders relax, his sharp expression softening. By the time his eyes return to their familiar lilac, his face is no longer that of the unburnt prince but of her brother—her Daervon.

Rhaena exhales shakily, rushing forward. She hesitates only for a heartbeat before wrapping her arms around him, ignoring the heat still radiating from his skin. “You’re here,” she whispers, her voice breaking.

Daervon stiffens for a moment, then his arms rise to return the embrace, tentative but warm. “I’m here,” he murmurs, though his voice carries a weight he cannot yet name.

Vidor approaches slowly, his steps deliberate. He stops a few paces away, bowing deeply, his head lowering in a gesture of absolute respect. “My lord,” he says, his tone solemn, his eyes filled with a rare reverence.

Daervon looks over Vidor’s bowed form, then turns his gaze to the Silvers, still kneeling in the dirt, their faces lifted in worship. The fire behind him smolders, casting his shadow long and imposing.

He swallows hard, the enormity of the moment settling over him like a crown of iron. A faint smile tugs at his lips as his gaze finds Rhaena’s, her unwavering presence grounding him.

The Silvers bow lower, their faith in the Seven shattered, their devotion now placed in the unburnt prince who has risen from the flames. They do not see a man—they see a god.

And as Daervon stands there, the weight of their belief settling heavily on his shoulders. He doesn’t know where this path will take him, the weight of his future pressing against his chest like a thousand swords. The world around him is a swirling storm of uncertainty, and with every step, the ground beneath his feet feels less certain. He’s not sure if he possesses the strength to navigate it all, to survive the game of thrones that promises only ruin and betrayal. But one truth rings clear through the chaos, echoing in the deepest part of his soul.

He is Daervon Targaryen. A name steeped in fire and blood, a legacy both heavy and cursed. And as the flames of his birthright flicker before him, he knows this is only the beginning—of a battle, of a war. His heart beats with the strength of his ancestors, as he braces himself for whatever comes next.