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As the majestic dragons soar through the skies of Driftmark, their wings beating rhythmically against the wind, Daervon Targaryen and his family approach the island of High Tide, their hearts heavy with grief for the loss of Lady Leana Velaryon. The once joyous journey now tainted by sorrow.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen stands at the edge of the cliff, her silver hair billowing in the breeze, her lilac eyes reflecting the sadness that weighs upon her soul. Beside her stands her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon, his usually stoic demeanor softened by the somber occasion. They watch in silence as the dragons descend, their scales gleaming in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the darkness that looms over the castle.

As Daervon and his family land, Rhaenys rushes forward to greet them, her arms open wide in a gesture of welcome and comfort. But her eyes betray her own anguish as she embraces her grandchildren, feeling the weight of their grief pressing down upon her.

Inside the castle walls, the halls are adorned with black banners, a somber reminder of the loss that both the House Targaryen and House Velaryon has suffered. Servants bustle about, preparing for Lady Leana's funeral, their movements hushed and reverent.

Rhaenys leads Daervon, Baela, and Rhaena to their new chambers, her voice soft and soothing as she offers words of solace. But even her gentle words cannot ease the pain that grips their hearts, the ache of losing a beloved mother too great to bear.

Meanwhile, Daemon Targaryen, once the fearless warrior, now stands alone in his chambers, his expression haunted by grief and guilt. He watches from a distance as his children mourn, feeling utterly powerless to ease their suffering. With a heavy heart, he retreats further into the darkness of his bedchambers, his mind consumed by memories of happier times, aching for the wife he has lost and the children he fears he may fail to protect.

In the same night, a handmaid named Mae draws a bath in Daervon’s chambers, filling the clean tub with steamy, hot water.

Daervon sits in front of the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the flames as they dance and sway. The hypnotic flicker casts a warm, golden glow on his face, reflecting the turmoil and yearning in his eyes. Lost in the fiery spectacle, he appears consumed by thoughts and memories that tug at his young heart, each flicker igniting a new wave of emotion.

She babbles on, her voice bright with enthusiasm as she moves to prepare fresh clothes for the young boy, her back facing him. "Dragons are so intelligent, my lord. Some maesters say they're more intelligent than men. They have such affection for their friends and such fury for their enemies." She neatly folds Daervon's clothes and places them on his bed, her hands never still. "Do you know the story of the origin of dragons?" she asks, her eyes wide with excitement. "There used to be two moons in the sky, but the second one wandered too close to the sun and cracked open, spilling a thousand dragons into the world."

As she speaks, Daervon silently begins to strip off his clothes, leaving only his pants on. His movements are methodical, almost mechanical, as if he is in a trance. The flickering firelight casts shadows on his bare skin, highlighting the tension in his young muscles.

Mae's chatter falters, turning into a gasp of horror when she sees him stepping into the scalding bath. "It's too hot, my lord!" she cries, dropping the neatly folded garments in her hands and rushing to the ten-year-old. But Daervon is unfazed.

Mae tries to pull the boy out of the tub, but her hand comes into brief contact with the boiling water, scalding her skin. She screams in pain, the sound piercing the silence of the room.

Daervon snaps out of his trance at her scream, his eyes focusing on her burnt, pink skin. "You're hurt," he says, his voice small and filled with guilt.

Vidor bursts into the room, taking in the scene in an instant. "How is it possible?" Mae gasps, holding her burnt hand to her chest, still in shock.

Daervon steps out of the bath, his gaze turning back to the flames in the fireplace. Vidor moves to stop him, sensing the boy's intent. "Young master, you must think again before—"

But Daervon cuts him off, thrusting his hand into the fire. The flames lick his skin, yet he remains unburnt. "Seven hells," Vidor breathes, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Fire cannot kill a Dragon," Mae whispers, awe-struck. "The unburnt Prince."

"In the shadows of the Targaryen dynasty lie many secrets," Vidor says gravely. "But the darkest of them all may remain unveiled. Let this be one of them. Do not let word of this leave these chambers." He looks pointedly at Mae, who nods in solemn agreement.

Daervon grabs a robe and puts it on, his mind already racing. He feels an urgent need to test his limits. As if sensing his rider's thoughts, his dragon Gaelithox roars, sending a rumble through the High Tide.

Vidor and Mae follow the young Targaryen as he strides to the coast where his dragon resides. When they arrive, they keep a fair distance from the massive beast.

"Young master, dragonfire is not the same as some boiled water or fireplace flames," Vidor warns. "The temperature is high enough to melt flesh."

"Then I will have to choose wisely which hand I'd like to keep," Daervon replies, determination etched in his features.

"This is a foolish idea," Vidor protests.

"Then let me be the fool," Daervon retorts.

"Are you sure about this?" Vidor asks one last time.

"Not in the slightest," Daervon admits. "Dracarys."

At his command, Gaelithox breathes fire, and Daervon holds his hand into the inferno. His skin remains unscathed, impervious to the dragonfire.

Rhaenys, who had come to the coast to find solace from her grief, witnesses the scene. Her eyes widen in horror. "Daervon! Oh dear!" she screams, running to him as he pulls his hand back from the flames.

"Grandmother," Daervon says softly, patting the dragon before walking to her.

Rhaenys grabs his hand, relief flooding her as she sees it intact. "Tell me, my child, is this youthful arrogance or just naked stupidity?" she scolds, her voice shaking with a mix of fear and relief.

Turning to Vidor and Mae, Rhaenys's eyes blaze with fury. "How could you let him do such a reckless thing?" she demands. "You are supposed to protect him, not allow him to risk his life on a whim!"

Mae bows her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I’m so sorry, my lady," she whispers, her voice trembling.

Vidor inclines his head in a deep nod. "It won't happen again, Princess Rhaenys," he vows.

Rhaenys wraps an arm around her grandson, leading him back to his chambers. "Mae, fetch some lemon cakes," she orders, her voice softening slightly.

Once the lemon cakes are served, Daervon shovels the food into his mouth with enthusiasm. "They're so good," he mumbles between bites.

Rhaenys watches with an amused smile. "I made them myself," she says.

"You did?" Daervon looks up, surprised. "You should make me lemon cakes more often, grandmother."

"That I will do," Rhaenys promises, wiping crumbs off his face. "Leana loved my handmade lemon cakes as well."

The reminder of his mother makes Daervon’s face fall. "I miss her," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I know," Rhaenys replies, her voice choked with emotion. She kisses his forehead, tears glistening in her eyes. "I promise you, Daervon, I will fill the void Leana left behind. I will always be here for you, as a mother should be."

Daervon leans into her embrace, finding comfort in her warmth. Rhaenys holds him tight, a fierce protectiveness burning within her. "You are not alone, my dear boy," she whispers. "You will never be alone."