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The council room of Silverhold Castle is bathed in the soft, golden glow of the late morning sun. The gathered lords—staunch figures representing the most powerful houses of the Silverlands—sit in an uneasy semicircle around the great oak table. Their sigils glint on tunics and cloaks, banners reflecting the weight of their influence.

At the head of the table, Daervon Targaryen, the unyielding Shadow Tyrant himself presides over the assembly. Vidor Silvercrown, stoic and imposing as ever seated to his right.

Daervon seems indifferent to the tension in the air. His fingers absently trace the rim of his wine goblet, the deep red liquid untouched. Dark circles haunt his lilac eyes, and his pale complexion betrays his weariness. The whispers of duty, betrayal, and looming war swirl around him like the winds of an impending storm.

Lord Nightfall, a man with a sharp jaw and sharper tongue, leans forward, his tone both respectful and probing. "The matter of war is unavoidable, Your Lordship. Yet it is not the only concern that plagues us. The question of succession remains unanswered. Should...should the worst befall you, who will lead us then?"

The remark is a dagger veiled in silk, and Daervon’s fingers halt their idle motion. His eyes, cold and calculating, lift to meet Lord Nightfall’s. "Why trouble yourselves with such questions when I am still very much alive, Lord Nightfall?" His voice is low but laced with venom. "Unless, of course, someone among you wishes me otherwise."

The room falls into a tense silence, save for the faint crackle of the hearth. Lord Nightfall stiffens, his face coloring as he stammers. "Your Lordship, I meant no offense. I merely—"

"You merely speculate about my death as if it were an inevitability," Daervon cuts in, a shadow of a smile curling at his lips. "How considerate."

Lord Stormcrest, a stocky man with a grizzled beard and a voice like rolling thunder, intervenes, his tone conciliatory. "What Lord Nightfall intended to say, Your Lordship, is that you must consider...practicalities. A strong heir secures a strong rulership. It would be wise for you to...to wed someone who can provide an heir. The Silverlands needs stability now more than ever."

"Aye," Lord Moonshadow interjects, her sharp features unreadable. "And with the whispers of Prince Aemond replacing you with a queen, it would be prudent to remarry. The loyalty of our people must remain with you, not be swayed by his ambitions."

"Indeed," Lord Ironclad rumbles, his booming voice echoing in the chamber. "An annulment of your current union could be arranged at your command, Your Lordship. You could then take a lady wife of your choosing, one whose lineage would strengthen our alliances."

A murmur of agreement ripples through the council. All eyes turn to Daervon, awaiting his decree.

Daervon exhales deeply, the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. He sets the goblet down with a soft clink and looks to Lord Ironclad. "Very well," he says at last, his tone devoid of emotion. "Make a list of eligible ladies. Send it to me." He pauses, his gaze sweeping across the room, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. "I will...consider the annulment."

The lords exchange satisfied glances, their collective tension easing. Daervon, however, feels hollow. He watches them rise, their expressions triumphant, as though they have won some unspoken battle.

"You are dismissed," Daervon says, his voice cool. "All save for Lord Stormcrest."

The lord in question lingers as the others file out, confusion etched on his rugged face. "Your Lordship?" he asks cautiously.

Daervon leans back in his chair, studying him. "How fares Lady Shireen?"

Stormcrest relaxes slightly, a fond smile softening his stern features. "Rebellious as ever, my lord. She has a spirit that cannot be tamed, but she is well."

A rare chuckle escapes Daervon’s lips, a flicker of warmth breaking through his exhaustion. "She is a strong woman. Bold, unyielding. I admire that in her."

Stormcrest’s smile deepens, pride evident. "She is her mother's daughter in that regard."

Daervon nods, the ghost of a smile still lingering. "Bring her to my nameday celebration. I could use a friend amidst all this chaos."

Stormcrest inclines his head. "It would be her honor, Your Lordship."

Their conversation is interrupted by a distant roar—deep and resonant, shaking the very stones of Silverhold. Stormcrest stiffens, his hand instinctively resting on the pommel of his sword. "A dragon?"

Daervon rises, a flicker of life returning to his dulled eyes. "Baela," he murmurs, recognizing the sound of Moondancer’s call. "She has arrived." He waves a hand toward the door. "You are dismissed, my lord."

Stormcrest hesitates but bows and retreats as Daervon steps out into the corridor. His sworn protector is already there, a silent shadow waiting for him. Without a word, they fall into step, the sound of their boots echoing through the hall as they make their way to the Dragonpit.

The air grows colder as they approach, the acrid tang of dragonfire mingling with the damp stone scent of the keep. Daervon’s heart clenches at the sight of Moondancer's slender, pale form outside the pit. Baela stands by her mount, still clad in her riding leathers, her wild silver hair gleaming in the pale morning light. Her stance is commanding, her expression unreadable as she strokes Moondancer’s flank.

When she catches sight of her brother, her sharp features soften, but only slightly. "Brother," she says, her voice rich with affection as she strides toward him.

Daervon’s attempt at a smile is immediate, but it falters under her keen gaze. Baela closes the distance and wraps her arms around him in a fierce embrace, her warmth a comfort he didn’t realize he needed. When they pull apart, her eyes search his face with growing concern.

"You’re born with a smiling face," she begins, her tone measured but tinged with sadness. "Always smiling. Never minded too much about sorrowful things. No matter how dire the situation, you could always find a way to be happy. And when you smiled, your eyes... they would spark with joy." She pauses, her hand brushing his cheek as she studies him. "But now, when I look into your eyes, all I see are two hollow shells. They mirror nothing but pain and misery."

Daervon sighs, the sound heavy and resigned. "My marriage is in shambles, Baela. I have no more tears left to shed."

"I know," she says simply, her voice softening as they begin walking back toward the castle. Her presence beside him is steady, an anchor against the weight of his burdens.

He hesitates for a moment, then speaks, his tone distant. "Do you think I'll be happy enough if I marry some lady? Aemond wanted it. It wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

Baela stops abruptly, her boots scuffing against the stone path. She turns to face him, her expression both stern and heartbroken. "You should ask that question of yourself, brother," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "Do you believe it will bring you happiness? Or is it another duty you’ll endure until it breaks you?"

Before Daervon can respond, the castle doors come into view, and there stands Rhaena, her silver curls styled, her gown of Silvercrown colors catching the light. She beams as she spots them, rushing forward.

Baela’s face softens instantly at the sight of her younger sister. "You’re adapting so fast," she teases, pulling Rhaena into a warm embrace.

"I like it here," Rhaena replies, her smile wide and genuine. "It feels like home."

For a moment, the three siblings are caught in a rare moment of peace, but it doesn’t last. Baela’s sharp eyes catch a flicker of movement above, and her gaze darts to a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Her expression darkens when she spots the unmistakable figure standing there—tall and silver-haired, the faint glint of an eyepatch catching the light.

"Is that...?" Baela blinks, as if her eyes deceive her. Then realization dawns, her features twisting into a glare so fierce it could set the castle aflame. "You did not," she hisses, turning on her brother with fury.

Rhaena, suppressing a laugh, steps back and quips with mock solemnity, "Oh, he did."

Daervon looks down at his feet, his posture suddenly boyish and uncertain, a flush creeping to his pale cheeks. He knows better than to argue, for Baela’s wrath is not so easily quelled.

"Daervon," Baela growls, her voice low but dangerous.

"I didn’t mean—" he starts, but Baela silences him with a single raised hand.

The tension is momentarily interrupted by Moondancer’s sharp cry, the dragon’s impatience matching Baela’s. Rhaena chuckles, her amusement unshaken, and Baela pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath before turning back to the castle.

The three of them head inside together, but the air between them remains charged. Despite her frustration, Baela’s love for her brother is evident in the way she glances at him, worry flickering in her eyes even as she seethes. Rhaena links her arm with Daervon’s, her smile softening the edges of his anxiety, and together they walk as a trio, bound by blood and by the unspoken promise to protect each other.