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The warmth of the newly lit fire begins to spread throughout the chambers, its glow dancing against the carved stone walls. Vidor kneels before the hearth, arranging the firewood with careful precision, his brow furrowed in concentration. The faint crackle of flames fills the silence, but his thoughts are on Daervon. The maester had insisted the chambers remain warm to aid his recovery, yet Vidor's movements are heavy with worry. He glances back at the bed, where his nephew sits, the weight of heartbreak etched into his slumped shoulders and vacant lilac eyes.

The maester presses two fingers to Daervon's wrist, his touch professional yet gentle. "The pulse is steady," he murmurs, his voice calm but carrying a note of pity. "He is physically well, but his lordship must overcome the pain of his heart himself. No medicine can mend what grief has broken."

Vidor rises from his position by the hearth, his brown eyes narrowing at the maester's words. His hands clench briefly before he exhales, forcing himself to remain steady for Daervon's sake. "And what of his restlessness?"

"I will prepare a tonic to calm his spirit," the maester replies, gathering his tools. "But he must be kept warm." His gaze flickering between Vidor and Rhaena.

Rhaena nods, her voice soft but resolute. "Thank you, maester."

He dips his head respectfully at the Lord Silvercrown, who barely acknowledges him, his gaze fixed on the floor. Vidor moves to escort the maester out, pausing at the door to glance back at his nephew. His expression is tight with unspoken concern. "I will return shortly," he says, his tone firm, as if willing Daervon to hold on.

Once the doors close, the room falls into a heavy silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Rhaena steps forward, her bare feet brushing against the rug as she picks up a folded linteum. She perches on the edge of the bed beside Daervon and begins drying his damp raven hair with practiced care.

"You can cry, you know," she whispers, her voice tender yet aching with sorrow. "I would never judge you." Her hands move gently, but her eyes watch him intently, searching for any sign of the brother she knows.

Daervon leans into her touch, his body trembling slightly. "Why did you do that?" she presses, her voice quivering.

Daervon's lips part, but the words seem to catch in his throat. When he finally speaks, his voice is cracked, raw with emotion. "It hurts... my heart."

Rhaena's breath hitches, her own tears threatening to spill. She casts the linteum aside and shifts closer, stroking his damp hair with a trembling hand. "I understand your pain," she whispers, her tone soothing.

"No, you don't," Daervon snaps, his voice breaking as the tears begin to fall. His grief pours out in heaving sobs, each one tearing through him like a storm.

Rhaena wraps her arms around him, holding him as if she can shield him from the agony. "Cry it out," she murmurs, her voice a balm to his shattered soul. "It will lessen the pain."

Daervon clings to her like a child, his tears soaking her gown as he weeps openly. Her presence is his anchor, her touch a reminder that he is not alone, even as the betrayal of Aemond's disloyalty cuts deeper than any blade.

When his sobs finally subside into shallow breaths, Rhaena speaks, her arms still encircling him. "You know," she begins softly, "I always thought I'd marry you."

Daervon blinks at her, his tear-streaked face lifting slightly. "Why me?" he asks, his voice hoarse but curious.

"Because I knew you would always be gentle with me," Rhaena replies, a faint smile curving her lips. "I knew you would love me no matter what." She brushes away his tears with her thumb, her touch delicate. "When I was betrothed to Luke, I was upset at first. But I grew to love him. He is sweet, and he respects me."

Daervon nods faintly, leaning into her again. "I'm glad he treats you well," he murmurs, her words a fleeting distraction from his torment.

Rhaena sighs, resting her chin atop his raven head. "Life can be difficult. But love should never be this hard." Her words are barely a whisper, but he hears them clearly.

"Perhaps," he mutters, though his heart remains heavy.

Rhaena shifts to face him, her hands framing his face. "Swear to me you will never do that to yourself again."

He hesitates, then nods, his voice steady despite the lingering pain. "I swear."

"Good." Rhaena smiles softly, her expression tinged with relief. "You must rest now. I'll leave you to it." She begins to rise, but his hand shoots out, grasping hers.

"Stay with me," Daervon pleads, his voice fragile. "Please."

She relents, settling beside him on the bed. "Go to sleep," she murmurs, tucking the blanket around him.

"Only if you sing to me like mother Leana used to," Daervon whispers, his eyes fluttering closed.

Rhaena chuckles, her laugh soft but bittersweet. "Mother spoiled you too much."

"I never denied that," he replies, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

She hums a lullaby, her voice gentle as she strokes his hair. Throughout the night, she stays with him, comforting him as waves of heartbreak crash over him again and again. When he finally falls into a fitful sleep, she presses a kiss to his forehead and slips out of the room.

Vidor is waiting in the corridor, his expression taut with concern. "How is he?" he asks, his voice low.

"He cried himself to sleep," Rhaena answers, her exhaustion evident. "Let him rest."

Vidor nods, his gaze hardening as he signals the guards to escort Rhaena back to her chambers. He remains by Daervon's door, standing watch through the night like an unyielding sentinel.

The morning light breaks through the heavy mist clinging to Silverhold, casting a silvery glow over the castle's soaring towers. High above, the mighty shadow of Gaelithox streaks across the sky, his immense black form blotting out the sun. The Shadow Tyrant roars, his sound reverberating across the land like a thunderclap, stirring the smallfolk from their daily tasks.

Daervon rides atop the great dragon, his silver hair whipped into disarray by the biting wind. The grief in his chest remains a dull, ever-present ache, yet as Gaelithox surges through the air, Daervon feels an unexpected lightness. The dragon dips suddenly, twisting in a playful flip that pulls a startled gasp from Daervon. For a moment, he clings to the saddle, his heart racing, but then a rare, fleeting laugh escapes his lips.

"Show-off," Daervon mutters under his breath, though his tone carries no bite.

Gaelithox seems to sense his rider's subdued joy, answering with another dive before rolling into an elegant spiral. Below, the smallfolk of Silverhold gather in the castle courtyards, their faces upturned in awe. Children point and shout in delight, while the older Silvers watch with a mixture of reverence and wonder. The bond between rider and dragon is a sight few can comprehend, and it leaves them mesmerized.

When they finally descend, Gaelithox lands with a thunderous crash in the Dragonpit courtyard, his enormous wings folding against his body. Dust rises from the stone floor, and Daervon dismounts gracefully, patting the dragon's neck with fond affection.

"Rest well, my friend," Daervon murmurs, his voice soft as he presses his forehead against Gaelithox's scaled body. The dragon whines, a guttural sound of disappointment, his large green eyes watching Daervon with a plaintive intensity.

"I'll return soon," Daervon promises, his fingers stroking the ridges of Gaelithox's neck. He leans against the dragon, his face resting tenderly against the warm, unyielding scales, and places a gentle kiss on the beast. Gaelithox rumbles in response, a sound closer to a purr than a growl, his entire frame vibrating with the affection of his rider.

From a distance, Vidor watches, his stance firm yet cautious. His dark eyes flicker with unease as they linger on the enormous creature, but his respect for Daervon outweighs his apprehension. He waits until his nephew turns from the dragon before stepping forward, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"I'm glad you're back to your senses," Vidor says, his tone laced with both relief and dry humor.

Daervon approaches him, his gait steady but his expression guarded. "I have a war to fight," he replies, his voice edged with steel.

Vidor's smirk fades, replaced by a look of quiet concern. "Stop saying that. This was never your fight."

Daervon halts, his jaw tightening as his fists curl at his sides. "I vowed to Queen Rhaenyra that I would secure her throne," he says, his voice rising, trembling with emotion. "I will not break my vows, unlike others who so easily forget theirs!" His words spit like venom, and though he does not name Aemond, the bitterness in his tone makes it clear.

Vidor places a hand on Daervon's shoulder, steadying him. "Your anger is resurfacing," he cautions, his voice calm but firm.

Daervon exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. His face softens, guilt flickering in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Vidor says, his tone unwavering as they begin walking together toward the castle. "If this is the path you've chosen, then so be it. I would fight a thousand armies with my bare hands for you, Daervon. Never doubt that."

Daervon glances at his uncle, a flicker of gratitude breaking through his sorrow. Yet as they walk in silence, the shadow of Aemond's betrayal lingers in his thoughts. He can still see Aemond's face-that piercing lilac eye that once held love but now feel like cold steel in his memory. The hurt is a constant thrum beneath his skin, made sharper by the depth of his love for the man who has wounded him.

But he cannot afford to falter now. The war calls to him. Grief may linger, but duty burns brighter.