AN:
Vote for frequent updates!
Don't be ghost readers👻! Be nice and leave comments to appreciate your favourite writer. Your comments means me a lot😃
Enjoy the chapter❤️

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━

The stone corridors of Silverhold Castle echo with the steady rhythm of boots against cold marble. Daervon Targaryen, newly titled Lord of Silverhold, strides through the halls with a purposeful air, his sworn protector shadowing him in silence. The weight of his new responsibilities sits heavy on his shoulders—selecting a small council, reforming the laws of Silverhold, and preparing the stronghold for the inevitable storm of war. Yet for all the burden, there is an eerie calm about him, a quiet gravity that draws the eyes of every guard and servant who crosses his path.

They bow low as he passes, heads inclined in deference, though their gazes linger with a mix of awe and fear. He is a god to them now, a being touched by something beyond mortal comprehension. The memory of him emerging from the pyre, unscathed and radiant in the glow of consuming flames, has already become legend.

Vidor Silvercrown walks at his nephew’s side, his features carefully composed, though his voice carries an undertone of tension as he breaks the silence. "I thought you weren’t going to kill anyone unless it was necessary."

Daervon’s pace does not falter, but his lips press into a thin line. "It wasn’t me," he confesses after a beat, his voice low and edged with unease.

Vidor’s brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

Daervon slows, his steps growing heavier as he struggles to put words to the memory. "I was there, but it wasn’t me. It was… him." His eyes flicker briefly, a shadow crossing his face as he looks ahead. "The anger was overwhelming, like fire in my veins. I could feel it burning through me, and then—" He stops, exhaling shakily. "I wasn’t in control anymore. It was like being trapped, watching my own hands move, my voice speaking… but it wasn’t mine."

Vidor stops beside him, his usually unreadable expression giving way to alarm. His eyes widen with dawning recognition. "The Unburnt Prince," he whispers.

Daervon nods faintly, his jaw tightening. A dark truth flickers in his eyes as he admits, "And the worst part… is that it felt good. I enjoyed it—watching them burn, hearing their screams." His voice drops, tinged with guilt and something darker that lingers beneath. "I didn’t want to stop. Even knowing they deserved it, that excitement…" He trails off, his gaze distant. "It frightens me, uncle."

Vidor places a firm hand on Daervon’s shoulder, his grip both steadying and protective. "You’re still you, Daervon. Whatever force overtook you, it doesn’t define who you are." His voice carries a rare softness, a testament to the bond he shares with his nephew. Despite his own unease, he will not let Daervon bear this burden alone.

The moment lingers between them before Vidor shifts the topic, his tone regaining its usual steadiness. "What do you want done with Aegon?"

Daervon blinks, his attention snapping back to the present. His brow furrows. "Aegon is still here?"

"Yes," Vidor replies. "He was brought to Silverlands after being rescued at the Grand Sept."

Daervon’s expression darkens with a mix of disbelief and irritation. He rubs a hand across his face, exhaling sharply. "Aemond is already crowned. Aegon is of no value to anyone anymore." He pauses, considering for a moment before giving a dismissive wave of his hand. "Give him enough gold and ship him off to anywhere of his choice."

Vidor hesitates, his gaze fixed on Daervon. "He requested your audience."

Daervon stares at him, his disbelief quickly giving way to reluctant acceptance. "Very well," he mutters, his tone resigned. It is hard to fathom what the former prince could want, but duty calls, even for a man who has risen from fire and ash.

Daervon makes his way to Aegon’s chambers. The corridor stretches long before him, the air heavy with unspoken tension. The heavy oaken door creaks as he pushes it open, revealing Aegon sprawled across a chaise. The room reeks of wine and faintly of despair, though Aegon himself looks more composed than the wretched creature Daervon remembers being dragged from the Grand Sept. His hair, washed and combed, catches the silver glow of moonlight through the window. He looks almost princely—almost. Yet his eyes, bloodshot and shadowed, betray the depth of his ruin.

“So, the god of Silverlands finally graces me with his presence,” Aegon drawls, lifting a half-empty goblet to his lips. His voice is slurred, yet his bitterness cuts cleanly through the haze of drink.

Daervon strides further into the room, his boots echoing on the stone floor. “You requested an audience. Here I am,” he replies, his tone edged with impatience. His gaze sweeps over Aegon, sharp and assessing. “What is it you wanted so badly? Start, perhaps, by thanking me for saving your life.”

Aegon’s gaze flickers to Daervon’s hand, landing on the ring that glints in the dim light. Recognition dawns, followed swiftly by something darker—envy, disappointment. He sets the goblet down and rises unsteadily to his feet.

“You married my brother,” Aegon states, his voice low but heavy with accusation. “Do you love him?”

Daervon narrows his eyes, his lip curling in a faint smirk. “What, are you jealous?”

“Of course I’m jealous,” Aegon snaps, his voice rising as he closes the distance between them. He stops mere inches away, his presence heavy and uncomfortably earnest. “Listen to me carefully, Daervon. I have deep feelings for you.”

Daervon blinks, taken aback, before a scoff escapes his lips. “Are you even sober enough to speak of feelings?”

“I am sober enough.” Aegon’s words are firm, his gaze unwavering.

For a moment, Daervon watches him, waiting for the jest to reveal itself. But Aegon’s expression is devoid of humor, and the truth settles uncomfortably in the room. Daervon’s disbelief twists into a smirk of disdain, though his eyes betray his unease.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters, turning slightly as though to distance himself.

“Is that it?” Aegon demands, his voice tinged with desperation. “I hear you call yourself a free spirit. I say you should be with one of your own.”

Daervon’s laugh is hollow. “And you’re one of my own? You’ve never uttered a kind word to me, Aegon.”

“You would, if you were mine,” Aegon retorts, stepping closer. “I’d tell you that you’re pretty. Fierce. Wild. I’d be good to you.”

“You treated Helaena the worst,” Daervon counters, his tone sharp as steel. “She was your sister. Your wife.”

Aegon flinches but holds his ground. “I couldn’t love Helaena because I was in love with you. From the moment you stood defiant at Lady Laena’s funeral, I’ve thought of no one else.” His hand reaches out tentatively, brushing Daervon’s arm.

Daervon recoils as though burned, his expression twisting with disgust. “Don’t touch me.”

“I would fight for you,” Aegon insists, his voice cracking. “I would bend the knee to Rhaenyra for you. I would even take up arms against my kin in this war if you asked it. Just say the words, Daervon. Say them, and I would die for you.”

Daervon’s eyes narrow, his voice cold. “I have always had only one person in my heart.”

“Aemond,” Aegon spits, his envy boiling over. “It’s always Aemond, isn’t it? The perfect son. The better swordsman. The rider of the largest dragon. The charming prince who steals the love of my life. What does he have that I lack?” His voice rises, trembling with anger and self-loathing. “Don’t I deserve some good in my life?”

“You had Helaena,” Daervon snaps. “The diamond you so blindly cast aside.”

Aegon laughs bitterly, the sound hollow and raw. “You speak as though I’m the villain in her story when she loved your sworn protector all along.” His voice cracks, his anger spilling over. “Every decision of my life has been made for me—decisions I never asked for. And now you stand here, blaming me because it’s easier.”

The room falls silent, save for the labored breaths of both men. Aegon sighs heavily, his rage ebbing into weariness. “Forgive me for lashing out.”

Daervon’s expression softens, though wariness lingers in his gaze. “I’m sorry too—for judging you so easily.”

Aegon shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “He loves you,” he says quietly.

The corners of Daervon’s mouth lift slightly, a rare warmth flickering across his features. “He told you?”

“All he ever talked about was killing you,” Aegon says, a hint of dry humor in his tone. “That’s how I know.”

“That’s good to know,” Daervon replies, his smile faint but genuine.

Aegon’s expression darkens once more. “Now that he is crowned as King, he will be forced to take a noble whore to bear his heirs. Will it be sooner or later, the day will come and you will be the last thing in his mind at the time. You know how greedy my brother can be. All his life he dreamed of becoming the king. Do you believe he will throw out his crown for you? For a man who won't even stand by his side?”

Daervon’s jaw tightens, his tone sharp. “You know nothing of him. Or of me.”

“Perhaps,” Aegon concedes, his voice soft but pointed. “Or perhaps you deny my words because you know they’re true.”

Daervon scoffs, turning on his heel and striding from the room.

When he reaches his chambers, the weight of the conversation settles on him, words still clinging to him like brambles. Aegon’s voice, slurred yet filled with conviction, had struck a nerve, one he refuses to name.

He reaches for the nearest decanter of wine, his hands trembling, and pours himself a generous goblet. The rich, dark liquid swirls in the cup, catching the flicker of candlelight, but he hardly notices. He drinks deeply, the burn in his throat offering a fleeting distraction from the weight in his chest. The ring on his finger glints faintly, a small, constant reminder of the man waiting for him beyond this endless night.

Aemond. His husband, his anchor. Aemond's love is as unyielding as the flame of a dragon, fierce and consuming. Daervon knows this in his very bones. Aemond’s love is a truth he cannot question. The way Aemond looks at him, touches him, speaks to him—it feels too real, too raw to ever be false. And yet, Aegon’s taunting words dig deep.

He will be forced to take a noble whore to bear his heirs.

The thought churns in Daervon’s mind like a dark tide. Could there be truth in it? No, he decides firmly, slamming the goblet down on the table. Aemond may be ambitious, even greedy for power, but his love for Daervon is unshakable. He trusts his husband. He must trust him.

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts, and Vidor strides in, carrying a crate of fresh bottles with ease. “Drinking will only add to your sorrows,” Vidor remarks, his tone dry yet tinged with concern.

Daervon lets out a sharp laugh, reaching for another goblet. “If I hadn’t been distracted by the wine, I’m afraid this long night would have been unbearable.” He pours another drink and downs it, as if the wine might wash away Aegon’s confession.

Vidor sets the crate down and takes a seat across from him, his sharp gaze fixed on his nephew. “I don’t know what happened, but I’ll be with you through it.”

Daervon pauses, his fingers tightening around the goblet, before sliding it toward his uncle. “Just ship Aegon off somewhere far away, with as much gold as he wants. I’ve had enough of him.”

Vidor arches an eyebrow, accepting the drink. “As you command, my lord.” His voice is calm, but the corners of his mouth twitch into a faint smirk.

Daervon takes another sip of his wine, his gaze distant. “It won’t do. He won’t survive alone out there. Send a raven to Uncle Laenor. Perhaps he’ll be happy to take a bratty prince under his care.”

Vidor raises his goblet, swirling the wine as he studies his nephew carefully. “Why are you so eager to send Aegon off?” His tone turns sardonic. “Did he finally confess his long-lasting love for you?”

The air between them stiffens. Vidor’s teasing lingers in the air, but the silence that follows it is telling. His sharp eyes narrow as he leans forward. “He didn’t,” he says flatly.

Daervon exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He did. He even tried to excuse how he treated Helaena, saying it was because he loved me.”

The words ignite a fire in Vidor, his expression darkening. “That son of a cunt,” he spits, slamming his goblet on the table. Though his face remains calm, his voice betrays something deeper—grief, anger, a flicker of an old wound. Vidor’s feelings for Helaena are buried beneath layers of control, but in this moment, they surface like cracks in a shield.

Daervon winces, the compassion on his face unmistakable. “Stop blaming everything on Aegon—”

“Oh, spare me that look.” Vidor’s glare is sharp as a dagger. “Last time you wore that face, you nearly lost a fucking eye. Get it together, Daervon, and keep that compassion to yourself for once, will you?”

Daervon’s breath catches, the admonishment stinging more than he’d like to admit. He doesn’t respond, instead pouring another drink. As he lifts the goblet to his lips, his eyes fall on the Valyrian steel ring adorning his finger. The ache in his chest softens into a bittersweet longing. He misses Aemond—misses the way his husband’s voice steadies him, the way his touch feels like home.

“I trust him,” Daervon murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. His voice is quiet, resolute, as though saying it aloud will banish the doubts Aegon’s words planted.

Vidor watches him, his expression softening just slightly. “Good,” he says after a long moment. “Hold on to that trust, Daervon. It’s rare to find someone worth believing in.” His tone is gruff but sincere, a rare glimpse of the respect he holds for his nephew.

Daervon nods, though his gaze remains fixed on the ring. Somewhere out there, Aemond is waiting for him, and that thought alone is enough to carry him through the night.