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The sky over High Tide remains overcast, casting a somber shadow over the gathered mourners. The air is thick with the scent of salt and the weight of grief as the sea churns below. House Velaryon stands united in sorrow, their black attire a stark contrast against the stone and sea.

Laena Velaryon's sarcophagus, intricately carved with the symbols of her house, is poised to be lowered into the depths. Her uncle, Vaemond Velaryon, steps forward, his face a mask of solemnity. He begins the eulogy, his voice strong but laden with sorrow as he recounts Laena's virtues and the void her passing leaves.

Baela and Rhaena stand close to their brother, Daervon Targaryen, their eyes red and puffy from tears. Baela sniffles softly, her small frame trembling. Rhaena clings to Daervon's arm, seeking solace in his presence. Daervon himself stands rigid, his face a mask of stoic bravery, though inside he feels the crushing weight of loss.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen keeps a comforting arm around Baela, her touch gentle and reassuring. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears as she tries to be the pillar of strength for her grandchildren. Lord Corlys stands beside her, his jaw set in a grim line as he watches his daughter's sarcophagus being prepared for its final descent.

Nearby, Laenor Velaryon grieves openly, his body wracked with sobs. His wife, Princess Rhaenyra, stands beside him, her expression a mixture of grief and defiance. Their two children are clustered around them, their young faces mirroring the sorrow of the adults.

As Vaemond continues his eulogy, his words take a sharp turn. He speaks of honor and legacy, and then, pointedly, he turns his gaze to Rhaenyra and her children. He insinuates the scandal surrounding Harwin Strong, using this moment of mourning to cast shadows upon their legitimacy.

A tense silence grips the assembly. Then, unexpectedly, a harsh, bitter laugh cuts through the air. All eyes turn to Daemon Targaryen. His laugh is mirthless, a cruel edge to it that echoes off the stone walls. His gaze fixed on the Velaryon lord, gleaming with a dangerous amusement. The tension is palpable, the mourners shifting uncomfortably.

Rhaenyra's face flushes with anger and embarrassment, but she stands tall, her hand tightening around her children. Vaemond falters, the rebuke hanging in the air, as the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks below fills the silence.

Among the gathered nobles are King Viserys and Queen Alicent, standing with their children. The King's face is drawn with sorrow, lines of age and worry etched deeper by the day's grief. Alicent, her expression composed but sorrowful, stands beside him, their children somber and respectful in the presence of such profound loss. Aegon looks bored, his eyes wandering aimlessly as if searching for a distraction. Aemond and Helaena remain still, their young faces reflecting the weight of the occasion.

The nobles and relatives of House Velaryon, along with many other noble houses, have gathered in silent support, their presence a testament to the respect and sorrow felt for Laena's passing. Lords and ladies from across the realm stand in solidarity, their faces a mosaic of shared grief.

The sarcophagus is finally lowered into the sea, the water accepting its burden with a solemn splash. As it disappears beneath the waves, the mourners bow their heads, each lost in their own thoughts and memories of Laena.

Rhaenys pulls Baela closer, whispering soothing words into her ear. Rhaena leans into Daervon, her small hand clutching his tightly. Daervon remains still, a silent tear escaping down his cheek, betraying the brave facade he tries so hard to maintain.

The ceremony concludes, but the weight of grief lingers. The sea, the ever-present witness to their sorrow, continues its eternal rhythm, a reminder of the relentless march of time and the enduring legacy of those they have lost. The mourners begin to disperse, the silence only broken by the gentle crash of waves and the whispered condolences shared among the gathered nobles.

Daervon stands next to his sworn protector, Vidor, at the edge of the somber reception. His gaze locks onto young Aemond Targaryen, and he is struck by the boy's ethereal beauty.

"Who is that? He is pretty," Daervon whispers, unable to hide his fascination.

"Is that so? He's your cousin, Aemond Targaryen," Vidor replies, a touch of amusement in his voice.

"I'm going to love him. It was love at first sight," Daervon declares with an innocent certainty.

"What?!" Vidor exclaims, taken aback. "No. He's your cousin."

"I've already decided that he will be my lover," Daervon insists, his young face set with determination.

"You can't decide that by yourself," Vidor counters, shaking his head.

As they speak, an imposing figure approaches. The man is Lord Jamie Silvercrown, the Lord of Silverhold. Despite his advanced age, he carries himself with the aura of a fierce warrior, his scowl as permanent as the lines etched into his face.

"Meet your grandfather, Jamie Silvercrown," Vidor says, his tone respectful but cautious.

"Grandfather," Daervon greets with a hopeful smile that falters under Jamie's unrelenting scowl.

"What is a more effective approach to resolving conflicts?" Jamie demands, his voice a low growl.

"I believe that reason and compassion can win any argument better than violence," Daervon responds, his voice steady but unsure.

Jamie's scowl deepens, his face a mask of disappointment. "Soft hearts have no place in this world."

"He is still ten. He has time in his hands-" Vidor begins to intercede.

"You passed the Silverhold trials at his age. He is yet too far. No potential. Slacking off training. This world will kill him. Just like it did his mother," Jamie scoffs, his words laced with disdain as he fixes his stern gaze on Daervon. "If you wish to be the next Lord Paramount of the Silverlands-"

Daervon's jaw tightens, his eyes flashing with defiance as he interrupts. "I don't want to be your heir, grandfather. I will be what I will be." With that, he storms off, frustration fueling his every step. In his haste, he bumps into Aemond.

"Hello! I am-" Daervon starts.

"I know who you are," Aemond cuts in. "My deepest condolences on your loss."

"I appreciate that, cousin," Daervon replies, his voice softening.

Aegon, smirking, approaches them. "Look who it is. Our uncle's Silvercrown bastard," he taunts, watching as Daervon's face falls. "What's wrong? Don't like being called a bastard? Insulted?"

"At least I am not a drunkard cunt of a Prince," Daervon retorts sharply, brushing past Aegon with a purposeful shoulder bump.

King Viserys and Daemon confer quietly, assessing Daervon's character from opposite ends of the reception hall.

"He takes after your peasant compassionate self. Always yapping about peace and harmony," Daemon remarks.

"The boy has to look up to someone. Better me than your quarrelsome self," Viserys replies, smiling as he spots Daervon approaching nervously. "There he is."

Daervon bows his head. "I'm Daervon. Very pleased to finally meet you, your grace."

"So am I, my boy," Viserys says warmly. "Tell me, young man. What is your greatest strength?"

"Knowledge," Daervon answers confidently.

"Good," Viserys nods approvingly. "I hear you're a believer in peace and harmony."

"That I am, your grace," Daervon confirms.

"Some might call that a weakness," Viserys observes, while Daemon rolls his eyes. "Do you know your heart?"

"I believe I do, your grace," Daervon replies.

"And what is it telling you now?" Viserys asks.

"In truth, it is beating too loudly for me to hear much of anything, your grace," Daervon admits, earning a chuckle from Viserys.

"Arise, my boy," Viserys says, clearly pleased. Daervon looks up, finally taking a proper look at the king, who appears frail but kind. "Why the formalities? We're family and I am your uncle. So you address me as such. And if I may say so, your father has understated your charisma."

"I've never known my father to understate much of anything, uncle," Daervon responds with a hint of wit.

Viserys chuckles. "I see he arrives with some wit."

"Should you want it or not, uncle," Daervon says, bowing before leaving.

As Daervon walks away, Viserys turns to Daemon, studying his brother's face. "You say he is like me. No, brother. He is just like you. But he has his mother's heart. Do you still love her?"

Always. For a moment, a flicker of pain dances in Daemon's eyes, a rare glimpse into the guarded heart of the Rogue Prince. His first love, Aurélie, still holds a soft spot in his heart-a place untouched by time or circumstance. But to the world, Daemon shows nothing of this vulnerability.

"The dead don't need lovers, only the living," Daemon replies, his voice turning cold and distant as he mentions Daervon's birth mother. The words hang heavy in the air, laden with the weight of his suppressed grief and enduring affection.

Viserys watches his brother closely, a knowing sadness in his gaze, but he says nothing more. The first love of every Targaryen becomes their curse, binding them with an intensity that knows no bounds. Their love burns fiercely, a burden they carry until their dying breath, forever entwined in its grasp. Such is the eternal curse of the Targaryens.

Daervon, meanwhile, finds Helaena in a corner, studying a spider. He sits beside her, attempting to befriend her.

"Are they your friends?" Daervon asks.

"They are," Helaena replies, her voice dreamy.

"Tell me more about your friend," Daervon says, genuinely interested.

Helaena lists facts about the spider, her excitement growing as Daervon listens intently. He even asks questions about the creature.

"Did you know that this species of spider can spin silk that's stronger than steel?" Helaena says, her eyes bright with enthusiasm.

"Stronger than steel? That's incredible," Daervon replies, genuinely fascinated. "How do they do that?"

Helaena smiles, pleased with his interest. "Their silk is made of proteins that are arranged in a way that gives them incredible tensile strength. It's a natural marvel."

Daervon leans closer to get a better look at the spider. "And do they use it just for webs?"

Helaena nods eagerly. "Mostly for webs, yes, but also for making egg sacs and wrapping up their prey. Some species even use it to create shelters for themselves."

"That's amazing," Daervon says, his admiration clear. "How many different species of spiders are there?"

"There are over forty thousand known species," Helaena answers, her voice rising with excitement. "Each with its own unique abilities and adaptations. This one here, for instance, has excellent camouflage. It can blend in with its surroundings to avoid predators."

Daervon looks at the spider with renewed respect. "You must know so much about them. How did you get interested in spiders?"

Helaena's eyes soften as she remembers. "I've always been fascinated by them. They're such misunderstood creatures. People often fear them, but they're so important to the ecosystem. They control insect populations and their webs are works of art."

Daervon smiles warmly. "You make them sound like little heroes."

"They are, in their own way," Helaena agrees. "Would you like to hold it?"

Daervon hesitates for a moment, then nods. "Sure. I'd like that."

Helaena carefully transfers the spider to Daervon's hand. "See how gentle it is? They're not as scary as they seem."

Daervon watches the spider crawl across his hand, feeling a mix of awe and tenderness. "You're right. It's actually quite fascinating."

Helaena beams at him. "I'm glad you think so. You're the first person who's really listened to me talk about them."

Daervon meets her gaze, his expression sincere. "Well, I'm honored to be the first."

Helaena's smile widens, her joy unmistakable as he gently hands the spider back to her. "You must see the collection I have back in Red Keep."

"I will try my best to visit," Daervon smiles as the princess holds the spider close, a look of pure contentment on her face.

Helaena's voice is barely more than a whisper, dripping with intrigue and mystery as she utters, "A hidden blade shall whisper secrets in the dark. Blood seeks blood."

Daervon's brow furrows in confusion as he tries to make sense of her cryptic words. "Huh?"

But before he can inquire further, Vidor stumbles in, a half-eaten pastry in hand. He pauses, bowing respectfully as he notices the princess. "Princess."

Helaena's gaze fixates on him, her expression distant yet enchanted. "I foresaw your arrival," she murmurs, captivated by Vidor's striking appearance. "You, the man I've dreamt of."

Vidor's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his pastry forgotten. "Me?"

With a nod, Helaena continues, her eyes locked on his. "Your eyes... they're like no other. A deep, soulful brown, speaking volumes with just a glance. They hold secrets and emotions beyond words."

Vidor meets Helaena's intense gaze, his own heart racing in response. For a moment, he's at a loss for words, feeling a flutter of emotions stirring within him. But he quickly composes himself, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. "Well, that was rather direct."

"It was," Daervon agrees, finding amusement in the situation as he watches his uncle's discomfort.

Clearing his throat, Vidor turns to his nephew, eager to change the subject. "I believe it is time to retire to bed, young master."

As Vidor makes a hasty retreat, Helaena's smile fades, replaced by a puzzled frown.

"Don't worry," Daervon reassures her, noticing her expression. "Vidor's just a bit shy around new company. He'll warm up to you soon enough."

Following his uncle's hurried steps, Daervon finds Vidor pacing with a troubled expression, concern evident in his eyes.

Glancing around to ensure their privacy, Vidor leans in close to Daervon, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is unsettling. I must be wrong in the head to find an attraction to a ten-year-old child."

Daervon's whisper is barely audible as he asks, "Do you like her?"

Vidor's response is immediate and firm. "No. I do not. That would be wrong. Very wrong."

A mischievous glint dances in Daervon's eyes as he teases, "But those remarkable brown eyes of yours... I've known you for ten years, and never once did I notice such detail."

Vidor's tone turns defensive. "Stop taunting me. My heart was about to burst out of its cage. The way she looked at me... it still gives me chills."

Sensing his uncle's tension, Daervon suggests, "You need a drink."

Vidor agrees with a hint of desperation. "Desperately. But I won't drink on duty."

"Then take a break. You need it," Daervon urges.

Vidor hesitates, torn between duty and personal need. "I'd rather not leave you here alone and unprotected."

"Father is here. Nothing will happen," Daervon reassures him.

"It's not just about your safety, young master. You attract trouble like a magnet," Vidor insists.

Daervon promises, "I'll stay under my father's watch and head straight to bed when everyone retires."

Vidor remains skeptical. "I don't believe you."

Daervon lets out a sigh. "You're incredibly boring. I'll behave, I promise. You have my word."