AN:
I am saying what I'm saying. Gaelithox is such a whore for Daervon's attention.
To avoid confusions, I will be soon publishing a chapter on "RAVEN SQUAD" with a full length explanation about Silverhold seat and House Silvercrown.
Vote and comment for frequent updates!
Happy reading!!

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Gaelithox, the formidable dragon first ridden by Daenerys Targaryen, eldest daughter of the Good Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, has a storied past. The dragon egg placed in Daenerys's cradle hatches within a fortnight of her birth. Named after the God of fire, Gaelithox is a willful beast, not to be trifled with. The dragon bonds quickly with Daenerys, becoming her pride and passion.

When Princess Daenerys succumbs to illness at seven years old, Gaelithox makes its lair in the Dragonmont on Dragonstone, remaining riderless and fiercely independent until another seven-year-old, Daervon Targaryen, dares to claim him. The dragon, black as coal and known as the Shadow Tyrant, grows to embody the nocturnal essence and menacing intensity of its gaze, its green eyes adding a mesmerizing quality to its dark persona.

Gaelithox's muscular and robust body, expansive wings, and formidable teeth make it a creature of awe and terror. The bond between Daervon and Gaelithox runs deep, their connection evident in every shared moment.

Daervon returns to the High Tide coast after a ride on Gaelithox, the dragon purring contentedly beside him. It is two days after Lady Laena Velaryon's funeral and the assassin's attack, but the evening sky is a breathtaking canvas of pink and orange hues, casting a golden glow over the tranquil waters of High Tide. Seagulls cry overhead, their wings cutting through the salty air as the gentle waves lap against the shore. The beauty of the coastal area is serene and enchanting, a stark contrast to the chaos of the world.

Vidor, standing a fair distance away, notices the boy's sad expression. "What happens to you?"

"Aemond is avoiding me," Daervon says, his voice tinged with frustration.

"Giving up soon?" Vidor asks, raising an eyebrow.

"He's not apathetic, just a bit dense. I will not give up," Daervon replies defiantly, turning to his sworn shield as he pauses in petting Gaelithox.

"I do hope he is worth your affection," Vidor comments, his tone skeptical.

"Did you find anything about the assassin and his main voice? The motive?" Daervon inquires, concern furrowing his brow.

Gaelithox nudges Daervon with his nose, nearly knocking the boy over with his strength. Daervon giggles and resumes petting the dragon, his bond with the beast evident in the playful interaction.

"Yes. It is handled by your grandfather. It is Windsor Ironclad. He shares blood with you. Distant though," Vidor explains. "Like everyone else, he has eyes for the seat, and you are the rightful heir to Silverhold. It won't stop here. Your life is in constant danger. You must be stronger if you wish to stay alive and take the seat."

Vidor, his gaze steady and probing, breaks the heavy silence. "Tell me, young master," he says, his voice low and deliberate. "What are the Silvers known for?"

Daervon straightens, a flicker of pride igniting in his eyes. "For their war tactics," he replies confidently. "Silvers never lose a battle they fight."

A knowing smile tugs at the corner of Vidor's mouth. "And Targaryens," he continues, his tone almost reverent, "are dragonriders. They're closer to gods than men." He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. "You embody both, young master. They fear the power you might wield. Invincible."

Daervon absorbs the gravity of Vidor's words, the enormity of his heritage pressing down on him. The air around them is thick with unspoken possibilities, the night alive with the distant growls of dragons and the crashing waves against the Driftmark coast. The future feels as vast and uncertain as the dark waters before them, but in this moment, Daervon feels a flicker of hope and resolve amid the apprehension.

"What if I do not wish to be Lord of Silverhold?" Daervon asks, his voice softening.

Gaelithox, resting right next to his rider, lets out a deep, rumbling sigh, his massive form shifting slightly as he settles into sleep.

"Then it will be handed over to me. But I'm not a Silvercrown by blood. And I'm certainly not a fucking leader," Vidor replies firmly, glancing at the sleeping dragon, whose presence underscores the weight of their conversation.

"History remembers names, not blood. If it is meant to be, let it be," Daervon says, a hint of resignation in his tone, his eyes lingering on Gaelithox's peaceful form.

"You're just bringing up excuses to pass the Silverhold seat to me so you can continue your free spirit play," Vidor accuses, but there's a faint smile on his lips as he looks back at Daervon.

"Perhaps," Daervon admits, a fleeting smile crossing his face before it turns sour, the sound of Gaelithox's rhythmic breathing providing a backdrop to their shared uncertainty.

"What is it this time?" Vidor asks, noticing the change in Daervon's demeanor.

"It doesn't matter if I am legitimized or not. I will always be a bastard in their eyes," Daervon mutters, bitterness creeping into his voice.

"You are a bastard, though," Vidor says bluntly. "Did I offend you? Sorry. You're Daemon Targaryen's bastard, aren't you?"

"Prince Daemon Targaryen is my father..." Daervon starts, but Vidor interrupts.

"And Lady Leana was not your mother, making you... a bastard," Vidor finishes. "Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."

"Tis not enough. There is no worth of bastards," Daervon argues.

"Your worth is not given. It must be made. You must start training for your trials. It is a chance for you to prove your worth to any who might yet doubt you. You must be ten times better than everyone else. Then they have nothing on you. That is how you win," Vidor advises. "Play by the rules. Show them the destruction a bastard can cause. Make them fear you."

"What is this?" Daervon asks about the Silvercrown trials.

"As you already know, it is a must that every Silvercrown go through, 'the trials', it is called. It is to test both your inner and outer strength. The best possible way to prove your worthiness," Vidor explains.

"Uncle, according to the Silvercrown family's rules, you probably shouldn't tell me, right?" Daervon points out.

"You've broken more than enough rules already. Besides, I don't think I told you anything," Vidor replies with a smirk.

"About the trials, it sounds mysterious," Daervon muses.

"Don't ask about it. When you're strong enough to face the trials and decide to face them, you'll naturally find out," Vidor says.

"But uncle, I don't want to be the Lord of Silverhold. You can do it. So, I don't have to do the trials in Silverlands, do I?" Daervon asks, a hint of desperation in his voice.

"Our family doesn't run from things, young master," Vidor says firmly.

"Yeah, I know," Daervon replies, resigned.

"You must go. If you don't want to be mistreated even more in the future, you must go," Vidor insists.

"I'll do whatever you say," Daervon agrees, determination creeping into his voice.

Suddenly, a thunderous growl reverberates through the air, and Daervon and Vidor instinctively look up. The darkening sky is split by the massive silhouette of Vhagar, her immense wings casting a formidable shadow over Driftmark. The ancient dragon's roars echo across the waters, sending ripples of unease through the evening tranquility.

Daervon's eyes widen, a mixture of awe and apprehension flickering across his face. His heart pounds in his chest, the gravity of the moment sinking in.

Vidor, noticing the change in Daervon's demeanor, asks, "What is it?"

Daervon, still transfixed by the sight above, replies, his voice tinged with both wonder and fear, "Someone claimed Vhagar." The weight of those words hangs heavily in the air, signaling a shift in the balance of power and stirring a deep, instinctual dread within him.