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The night air is thick with the stench of dragonfire as they descend upon King’s Landing. The stars above are hidden behind the swirling smoke of the torches below, their light stolen by the city’s unrest. Gaelithox’s massive black wings ripple like shadows against the moon as he lands gracefully beside Vhagar, whose monstrous form looms like a tempest. Daervon slides from Gaelithox’s saddle, his boots hitting the cobblestone with a muted thud, his body tense and radiating fury. Beside him, Vidor dismounts silently, his face grim, while Aemond dismounts from Vhagar, his gaze already darting to Daervon with barely concealed worry.

The castle is eerily quiet when they enter, save for the distant hum of whispers from the servants. The weight of what they are about to do settles heavily over them, though Daervon’s anger burns too fiercely to be contained. They waste no time navigating the dim corridors, their steps purposeful and heavy until they reach the younger prince’s chambers. Daervon doesn’t hesitate, shoving the door open without knocking.

Inside, Maelor is sprawled lazily on his bed, his silver hair disheveled from sleep. His expression is groggy as he blinks at the sudden intrusion, but his surprise quickly fades into smug amusement when he recognizes his visitors. Daervon is on him in an instant, his fingers knotting into Maelor’s collar as he drags him upright. Maelor’s feet barely touch the ground as Daervon slams him against the wall.

“What did you do?!” Daervon hisses, his voice trembling with unrestrained fury. His grip tightens, and Maelor chokes out a gasp, though the spark of arrogance in his lilac eyes remains.

“Good evening to you too, cousin,” Maelor says, his tone mockingly pleasant despite his precarious position. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying married life by now? Or is your dear husband already making you miserable?”

Aemond steps forward, his face a storm of rage and humiliation. He grabs Maelor by the shoulder and forces Daervon to release him. Maelor straightens his tunic, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves as if the encounter were merely a mild inconvenience. His smirk deepens.

“You think this is a joke?” Aemond growls, his voice low and venomous.

“No joke, dear brother,” Maelor replies smoothly, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. “But I imagine you’re here to talk about poor Lucerys. Such a tragedy, truly.”

Daervon’s fist collides with the wall beside Maelor’s head, the sound echoing through the chamber. His breathing is ragged, his face twisted with grief and rage. Aemond’s hand grips his shoulder, a silent command to hold back.

“Why did you do it?” Aemond demands, his voice shaking with barely suppressed anger. “Why, Maelor? What possible reason could you have for starting this madness?”

Maelor shrugs, his expression maddeningly casual. “An eye for an eye, isn’t that what you used to say? I thought I’d avenge my dear brother’s honor.” He leans closer, his smile cruel. “But dragons, you know. They’re unpredictable creatures. Shrykos got a bit... overzealous. One moment I was teaching the boy a lesson, and the next...” He gestures vaguely, as if the death of Lucerys Velaryon were a minor inconvenience. “Well, accidents happen.”

“You bastard,” Daervon spits, his voice trembling with disgust.

“An accident?!” Aemond roars, stepping forward, his hands shaking with fury. “You call this an accident? You killed a prince—spilled Rhaenyra's blood! Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve started a war!”

For the first time, Maelor’s mask of amusement falters. He glances between them, his arrogance cracking, though his tone remains defiant. “War? If war comes, it will be because of Rhaenyra, not me. I did what you lacked the courage to do, Aemond. Perhaps you should be thanking me.”

Aemond lunges for his brother, but Daervon pulls him back, his voice cutting through the tension. “He’s not worth it.”

Before more words can be exchanged, the castle is pierced by a sudden, bloodcurdling scream. Daervon, Aemond, Maelor and Vidor rush toward the source, their footsteps pounding against the marble floors. The sound leads them to Rhaella’s chambers, where the door is ajar, revealing a scene drenched in horror.

Inside, Rhaella cradles the lifeless body of her son, Jaehaerys, her wails clawing at the souls of all who enter. The boy’s head is severed from his body, placed cruelly at his mother’s feet, a grotesque mockery of innocence. Blood pools across the floor, stark against the rich crimson of the Targaryen tapestries adorning the walls.

Rhaella rocks back and forth, clutching Jaehaerys's body tightly, her grief primal and consuming. Her auburn hair, matted with sweat and streaks of blood, clings to her face as she cries, her voice raw and broken. "My son! My baby boy!" she screams, her hands trembling as she caresses his pale, lifeless face.

Maelor freezes at the threshold, his sharp features contorted with shock and disbelief. His cruelty often masked such moments, but now, the sight of his son’s brutal murder strips him bare. His lips part, but no words come. Slowly, he steps forward, his trembling hand reaching out as if to touch the boy, his grief finally seeping through his cold veneer. "No..." he whispers hoarsely. "Jaehaerys… my son."

Behind him, others begin to arrive. Alicent Hightower is the first, gasping as she takes in the horror before her. She clutches at her chest, her eyes darting to Rhaella before quickly averting. Ser Criston Cole follows, his expression ashen, his hand tightening instinctively around the pommel of his sword. Helaena enters next, holding her daughter, Jaehaera, protectively against her chest. Vidor Silvercrown moves to their side, his sharp gaze immediately assessing the room as he shields Helaena and her child with his body, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

Daervon steps inside, his face hardening as he surveys the scene. The child’s death—a brutal act of vengeance—seems to weigh heavily on him, despite the enmity between their families. His voice, when it comes, is soft yet cutting, filled with a grief-laced reproach. "How could you possibly atone for all your sins, Aemond?"

Aemond stiffens, the accusation striking like a blade, but he doesn’t respond. His eye, sharp and unrelenting, sweeps across the room before locking onto Criston Cole.

"Who had the watch?" Aemond’s voice is cold and commanding, slicing through the tension. "Where were you while this happened? What were you doing when assassins entered these halls and slaughtered a child under our protection?"

Before Criston can respond, Vidor speaks, his tone dark and biting. "Abed with the Dowager Queen, I assume," he says, his sharp gaze lingering on Criston and Alicent. The implication is heavy, and Alicent stiffens, her lips parting in a soundless denial while Criston’s expression hardens, but he remains silent, his hand twitching near his sword.

Daervon lets out a dry chuckle, the sound devoid of humor. He steps closer, his gaze flicking between Criston and Alicent. "The white cloak is the symbol of purity," he says, his voice dripping with mockery. He turns sharply to Alicent, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "Where was the duty, honor, and sacrifice, I wonder? Hypocrites, the lot of you."

Alicent’s face burns with embarrassment, her composure slipping. "Are you questioning my honor, Daervon?" she demands, her voice trembling with indignation.

Daervon’s chuckle deepens, his eyes narrowing. "I’m not questioning your honor, Dowager Queen," he replies, his tone cold and cutting. "I’m denying its very existence."

Maelor’s grief twists into fury, his hand trembling as he points accusingly at Daervon. "It was you!" he shouts. "You killed a child no more than five, who had no understanding of politics or power!"

Daervon meets his cousin's glare with icy disdain. "My blades only slay those who deserve death," he says evenly. "If you truly believe I would harm an innocent child, then arrest me or strike me down where I stand."

Maelor steps forward, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword, but Aemond is quicker. He moves between them, his hand gripping the hilt of his own blade as his body shields Daervon. His voice is low and dangerous as he speaks, his eye blazing with fury. "Anyone who dares touch my husband will be fed to Vhagar."

The tension in the chamber is suffocating, every breath thick with grief and simmering rage. Yet Daervon’s voice cuts through it, calm and resolute. "Vidor," he says, his tone steady though his eyes glisten with unshed tears, "take Helaena and Jaehaera. Get them out of here."

Vidor’s gaze flicks to Daervon, his face unreadable save for the subtle twitch of his jaw. He steps forward without hesitation, his movements precise and deliberate. With a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the steel in his free hand, he takes Jaehaera from Helaena’s trembling arms. The little girl clings to his chest, burying her face in his shoulder, as he cradles her securely in one arm.

Helaena moves to his side, her pale hand brushing against his briefly, a fleeting yet deliberate touch. It’s a silent conversation—a promise, a plea, an acknowledgment of something deeper than words. Vidor’s fingers flex on the hilt of his sword, the sharp edge of his protective instinct shining in his eyes as he steps closer to her, shielding her with his body.

As they move to leave, Alicent steps forward, desperation coloring her tone. "Helaena, what is the meaning of this?" she demands, her voice trembling.

Helaena stops but does not turn. Her voice is soft but firm as she replies, "I’m going home with my daughter."

"This is your home," Alicent says, her voice breaking, but Helaena shakes her head.

"The Red Keep has never been a home for me or Jaehaera," she says, her voice heavy with quiet sorrow. "We were never meant to be a part of this game of power."

Alicent’s eyes glisten with unshed tears as she looks between her daughter and Aemond, her perfect son, now standing beside Daervon. Her voice trembles with anger and despair as she turns on Daervon. "You took my son away from me, monster! And now you want to take my daughter as well?"

"Mother." Aemond’s voice, softer now but still firm, cuts through the tension. "I thought I wanted it," he says, his gaze dropping. "The burden is a heavy one... too heavy. We will surrender to Rhaenyra. It was a mistake."

Maelor lets out a bitter laugh, his grief curdling into hatred. "No one will surrender to the whore of Dragonstone," he spits. "If you don’t want the crown, I will take it."

Aemond’s only response is to take Daervon’s hand, his grip tight and unrelenting, as if letting go would mean losing him forever. "Do whatever you want," he says quietly.

The tension in the room is a coiled serpent, ready to strike. Maelor's voice drips with venom as he glares at Aemond, his fury unchecked. "If you leave, you will be considered no more than a traitor," he warns, his words sharp and deliberate.

Aemond doesn’t flinch at the threat. "So be it," he says, his voice cold and unyielding, the defiance in his tone a challenge to his younger brother’s authority.

Daervon shifts his gaze to Rhaella, who remains on the floor, clutching her son’s lifeless body. Her sobs are quieter now, almost a whisper, as if her grief is suffocating her voice. Daervon steps closer, his expression softening as he kneels beside her. "Come with us, Rhaella," he says gently, his voice a rare balm in the chaos. "This isn’t your battle to fight."

Rhaella doesn’t respond. Her hands shake as she strokes her son’s hair, her tears falling freely. She is lost in her despair, too consumed by her grief to heed his words. Daervon sighs, his heart heavy, and steps back, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer.

Maelor’s sharp bark cuts through the sorrow like a whip. "Arrest the traitors," he orders, his voice ringing out. Criston hesitates, glancing at Alicent for direction, but before he can move, a low, guttural growl reverberates through the castle walls.

Gaelithox.

The dragon’s warning echoes like thunder, a sound so menacing it sends shivers through the spines of everyone in the room. The vibrations ripple through the stone floor, and the distant roar is unmistakable—a threat of fire and death from above.

Daervon straightens, his expression turning smug as he looks at Maelor. "If you try to touch any of us," he says, his voice calm but laced with danger, "Gaelithox won’t be responsible for his actions."

Alicent’s face pales, but her lips curl into a grim smile. "If we die, you die with us," she counters, her voice trembling with barely concealed fear.

Daervon tilts his head, his smirk deepening. "Wonderful," he replies dryly, the venom in his tone cutting through her words.

Maelor snarls, his composure cracking. "Fucking mad cunt," he spits at the dark haired Targaryen, his face twisting with hatred. He turns to Aemond, his voice dropping to a deadly murmur. "I will kill you and take your husband as my war spoil. Then I will have my way with him every day while you rot in the depths of your cold grave."

Aemond lunges forward, fury igniting like wildfire in his chest, but Daervon grabs his arm, holding him back. "No," Daervon says firmly, his voice steady despite the chaos around them. His gaze flickers to Maelor, a glint of disdain in his eyes. "Sorry to disappoint, cousin, but you’re not really my type."

Aemond’s breathing is ragged, his body trembling with rage. His eye darts to Daervon, searching his face for reassurance, for a reason to hold back. Daervon meets his gaze, and for a brief moment, the room fades away. "Come on, husband," Daervon murmurs, his voice softening, though his grip on Aemond’s arm remains firm. "We have a long way to go."

Aemond nods reluctantly, his love for Daervon overriding the tempest of anger within him. The obsession burns bright in his gaze as he allows Daervon to lead him away.

Maelor watches them leave, his hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. His rage festers, a living thing inside him. He will not forget this. Revenge will be his. One way or another.