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The weight of duty bears down on Daervon like an unyielding chain, dragging him deeper into a role he despises. His name might carry the legacy of Targaryens, but here, in Silverlands, he is forced to wear a mantle that feels strange. The council meetings stretch endlessly, a parade of voices clamoring for attention, each one demanding decisions he feels ill-suited to make.

Today's task had been particularly grueling: the appointment of one representative from each of the great vessels of Silverlands to his small council. A compromise, he told himself, though it felt more like another shackle locking him to a life he did not choose. As the last council member left the throne room, Daervon could barely contain his exhaustion. The burden of rulership presses heavily on his shoulders. He hates it-every cursed part of it. Yet, he has no choice.

By the time he reaches his bedchamber, all he craves is the solace of a hot bath and the embrace of his bed. Instead, he finds his maids waiting with a new set of clothes. Their sharp, formal lines of gray and dark brown-a stark contrast to the crimson and black of Targaryen colors-make his stomach churn. As they fit the garments to his frame, he stares at his reflection in the mirror.

"Are you comfortable, my lord?" the maid asks as she adjusts the collar.

Daervon studies himself. The answer forms quickly in his mind: No. He feels displaced, stripped of his identity. Targaryen colors had always been his armor, and without them, he feels exposed. But instead of voicing this, he offers a strained nod.

Before he can say more, the door bursts open, and Vidor strides in, holding a parchment in one hand. His expression is taut, and his movements purposeful.

"Rushing into my chambers like the castle is ablaze," Daervon teases, waving the maid away with a flick of his hand. "What's the hurry, Uncle?"

Vidor doesn't bother with a retort, thrusting the parchment forward. "I received a raven from King's Landing. News from our spy."

Daervon's lips quirk into a faint smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Happy news, I hope. Is Aemond finally giving up his crown?" He speaks lightly, though his gaze returns to the mirror as he adjusts his sleeve.

"Quite the opposite, actually." Vidor's voice falters ever so slightly, a rare hesitation that instantly draws Daervon's attention.

Turning, Daervon arches a brow, his earlier amusement fading. "What does it say?"

Vidor pauses, uncharacteristically uncertain. His sharp tongue always finds words quickly, but now he weighs them carefully. "Prince Aemond..." He exhales deeply before continuing, "He's annulling your marriage. He intends to take Floris Baratheon as his lady wife-and presumably his queen."

For a moment, Daervon doesn't react. The words hang in the air, each one carving into him like a blade. His worst fear-no, his nightmare-has come to life. His expression crumbles, the hurt and disbelief etched plainly on his face. His voice, when it comes, is a fragile whisper. "After everything we've been through... just like that?" His throat tightens, and his hands tremble as they fall to his sides. "Floris Baratheon? Tell me about her."

Vidor's heart aches for his nephew, though he hides it well. "She is the second eldest," he says softly. "The comely one, by most accounts."

Daervon lets out a bitter laugh, his voice heavy with grief. "Good for him," he mutters, the words hollow. He turns away, the sting of betrayal coiling tightly in his chest. He had trusted Aemond so deeply, so blindly. Despite every warning, every caution, he had clung to that trust as if it were a lifeline. Now, it lies shattered at his feet, along with the love he thought was unbreakable.

"It could be a rumor," Vidor offers, his tone measured but strained. "Spies are not infallible."

Daervon chuckles bitterly, the sound devoid of any mirth. "Father warned me. Grandmother warned me. Even Aegon warned me, Uncle. And yet, I chose to deny it all. Because I believed in him. In us." His pain begins to twist, to fester into something darker. His grief ignites into anger, and his eyes burn with fury. "Send a raven to King's Landing. Address it to the usurper. Tell him that Silverlands will stand with the rightful queen."

He moves toward the door, but Vidor steps in his path, his broad frame a deliberate barrier. "You are not going to ride Gaelithox while seething in rage," Vidor says firmly. His tone is calm but unyielding, like iron beneath velvet. "Your dragon is tied to you, Daervon. He mirrors your emotions. If you ride him now, you'll bring nothing but ruin. Do you really want to cost innocent lives because you're having a bad day?"

Daervon glares at him, his fury barely contained. But Vidor holds his ground, his eyes softening just slightly. "Go. Take a bath. Let the water calm your nerves. After that, we'll go to the training yard. I'll even let you vent your anger on me, if it'll help."

For a long moment, Daervon stands there, the tension thick between them. Finally, he sighs, relenting. "Fine," he mutters, brushing past Vidor.

The steaming water swirls around Daervon as he slips into the tub, his hands gripping the edges with a force that makes his knuckles pale. Dismissing the maids with a wave, he leans back, letting the warmth seep into his aching muscles. The heat soothes his body, but his heart remains a twisted knot of anguish. Aemond's betrayal hangs heavy over him, an iron weight that refuses to let him breathe freely.

He closes his eyes, desperate for peace, but instead, the pain surges stronger. Salty tears streak his face, blending with the droplets clinging to his skin. Images of Aemond flood his mind-his sharp features softened by candlelight, his promises whispered in the quiet of the night. Those words now feel hollow, cruel echoes of a love Daervon once believed unbreakable. His chest tightens as if his heart is being crushed under the weight of his grief.

The air shifts, the faint ripple of water disturbed by something unseen. A voice slithers into his ear, low and taunting, like a serpent coiling around his mind. "What rage you must feel as you choke on your sorrows."

Daervon's eyes snap open, and his breath catches. He knows that voice. It claws at him from the darkest corners of his nightmares, a voice both familiar and horrifying. Slowly, hesitantly, he turns his head.

He gasps, his blood turning cold as he comes face-to-face with his mirror image. No, not a reflection-something far more sinister. The figure looms over him, silver hair catching the dim glow of the room, cascading down in a way that mirrors his own. But the eyes-those glowing, mad eyes-burn with malice, and the smirk twisting the doppelganger's lips radiates cruelty.

"Please," Daervon whispers, his voice trembling. His hands grip the edges of the tub so tightly they might crack. Fear flashes in his lilac eyes, blending with the sorrow that already consumes him. "Leave me alone."

The Unburnt Prince tilts his head, the smirk deepening into something sharper, more venomous. "Leave you alone? Why would I? You've made it far too easy." His voice drips with mockery, each word a dagger aimed at Daervon's fragile heart.

"Your precious Aemond," the Unburnt Prince sneers, leaning in until their faces are mere inches apart. "Did you think he'd stay loyal? A dragon cannot love one jewel when there's an entire treasure hoard to claim. Did you believe his whispered lies? That you alone were enough for him? Foolish boy."

Daervon squeezes his eyes shut, his lips trembling as he tries to block out the words, but they burrow into him like barbs.

"Look at you," the Unburnt Prince hisses, circling the tub like a predator. "Crying for a man who has already replaced you in his bed and his heart. Floris Baratheon," he spits the name like poison. "What is she to him? A queen. A mother of heirs. And you? Nothing. Just a ghost clinging to his shadow."

"Stop," Daervon chokes, a sob escaping his lips. He feels as though he's unraveling, his grief spilling out in waves.

"Stop?" The Unburnt Prince chuckles, a low, dark sound. "Why should I? You brought this upon yourself, Daervon. All your trust, your blind devotion-it has left you here, broken and alone." He leans closer, his fingers grazing Daervon's bare skin, tracing a cruel path down his chest. "You regret it. You regret everything. You're so consumed by it, you'd rather end it all, wouldn't you?" His voice softens, mockingly tender.

The words hit like a dagger, twisting in Daervon's chest. A strangled sound escapes his lips as he stares at the doppelganger, his reflection twisted into a monstrous parody of himself. The torment in his heart is suffocating, the betrayal fresh and searing. Aemond's disloyalty flashes in his mind-Floris Baratheon's name a brand burned into his soul. He had given Aemond everything: his love, his loyalty, his very life. And yet, this is what remains.

The Unburnt Prince leans closer still, his presence suffocating. His silver hair glimmers like moonlight, framing his wicked smirk. "Do it," he murmurs, his voice like poisoned honey. "You're nothing now. Just a shattered prince, abandoned by the one you loved. End it, Daervon."

Tears streak down Daervon's face, his body trembling under the weight of grief and the haunting pull of the twin's words. His gaze flickers to the water, its surface rippling as if it calls to him. He doesn't resist when his knees buckle, his body sinking into the tub. The warmth turns cold as it swallows him whole, the water pressing in on all sides.

His chest burns as air leaves his lungs, the silence of the water a cruel contrast to the chaos in his heart. The grief, the anger, the betrayal-they all meld into a singular ache, a void that pulls him deeper. He feels his consciousness fading, the edges of his world darkening. For a moment, he welcomes it.

But then, strong arms seize him, breaking through the suffocating darkness. Daervon gasps as he is yanked from the water, his lungs dragging in sharp, painful breaths. He is hauled out of the tub, water cascading from his body as he is lowered to the cold floor. The chill bites at his skin, grounding him as he collapses onto all fours, coughing violently.

"Brother!" Rhaena's voice is frantic, thick with unshed tears. She kneels beside him, draping a robe over his trembling frame with shaking hands. Her touch is gentle yet desperate, her lilac eyes searching his face for any sign of life.

"You're safe," she whispers, her voice cracking. She brushes damp strands of hair from his face, her own tears falling freely. "You're safe now."

Vidor stands nearby, his expression a mask of worry and restrained fury. He kneels beside Daervon, his large hands steadying him as he sits back on his heels. "What were you thinking?" Vidor's voice is low but firm, carrying both reprimand and concern. His usual stoicism is cracked, his brown eyes betraying the depth of his fear.

Daervon's lips part, but no words come. His chest heaves as he struggles to speak, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"You scared us," Rhaena continues, her voice trembling. "You scared me."

Vidor's grip tightens slightly on Daervon's shoulder, grounding him. "We're here," Vidor says, his tone softening though his voice remains resolute. "We won't let you fall."

Vidor's hand lingers on Daervon's back, a silent promise of support. Daervon feels the weight of their love, their unwavering loyalty, pressing against the hollow ache in his chest. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, he finds a faint glimmer of solace amid the storm. It is fragile, but it is enough to keep him tethered to the light.