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It has been a decade since the incident at Driftmark that cost Aemond his eye and Laenor Velaryon murdered by Ser Qarl Correy. Years later, Daervon learns the truth: it was a carefully orchestrated plot by Rhaenyra, Daemon, Laenor, and Qarl, allowing Rhaenyra and Daemon to marry while Laenor lived the life of adventure he craved with Qarl in Essos. This truth becomes undeniable when Daervon meets Laenor and his lover in Essos.

Over the centuries, House Targaryen has produced both legends and tyrants. Daervon Targaryen embodies both extremes. In his time, no man is as deeply revered or as fiercely despised across Westeros. He is a blend of brilliance and darkness, a hero to some and the vilest of villains to others. His name evokes admiration and fear in equal measure, a testament to the complex and tumultuous legacy he forges.

Youth has gifted him with sharp bone structure and a light complexion, much like his father, with a plethora of enviable rich charcoal locks in waves and curls, worn long. His dark lilac eyes mirror a soul tainted by the hardships and experiences that have shaped him over the past ten years. Though still lean, he has grown into a handsome and charismatic figure, wearing 'bastard' as armor. Following his father's footsteps, he has become a hotheaded, deadly, unpredictable, and forceful man with a quick wit and a barbed tongue. No man dares tread on him.

Daervon carries the famous 'Soul Reaper,' sword of Valyrian steel forged by Daemon Targaryen's orders and gifted to him when he mastered swordsmanship.

Twenty-year-old Daervon Targaryen finds himself in the midst of a battle against the Triarchy. He soars above the battlefield on Gaelithox, the dragon's fire reducing enemies to ashes. Caraxes, Daemon's dragon, fights alongside them, creating a scene of chaos and destruction from the skies.

Daervon dismounts and joins the fray, ruthlessly slaying his enemies with his sword. His movements are a deadly ballet of speed, agility, and precision, reflecting his quick and lethal nature in battle. Amid the clashing steel and cries of the dying, Daervon notices Vidor struggling against multiple opponents. He moves to assist his sworn protector.

"Well, that was impulsive," Vidor remarks, parrying an enemy's blow. "When you're impulsive, things go badly."

"Don't jinx it," Daervon replies, slicing through an enemy with a swift, precise strike.

Their conversation continues amid the chaos, each word punctuated by the sounds of battle. "If there's one thing you didn't like about me, a tiny aspect, and there may not be, probably there isn't, but if there is one thing I could change about my relatively flawless self, what would it be?" Daervon asks, dodging a sword thrust.

"Seriously? Right in the middle of a battle?" Vidor responds, grunting as he blocks another attack.

"Precisely," Daervon says, cutting down another foe. "So?"

"I dislike everything about you as a whole," Vidor says, his voice strained with effort.

"This is why you never get the girl," Daervon quips, a wry smile on his lips.

They exchange a quick glance, an unspoken understanding passing between them before they blend back into the battle, their blades dancing through the enemy ranks. The bond between them is as unbreakable as Valyrian steel, forged in the crucible of countless battles.

After their victory, Daervon finds himself in a dimly lit brothel, the air thick with the scent of incense and the murmur of laughter and whispered conversations. The room is filled with plush cushions and tapestries depicting lewd scenes. Candlelight flickers off the walls, casting a warm, almost intimate glow over the gathering. The sound of lute music mingles with the soft rustle of silk as dancers move gracefully among the patrons. Daemon Targaryen, Daervon's father, is hosting a celebration, the ranking warriors joining them in revelry. Vidor, Daervon's sworn protector, devours pastries at a nearby table, abstaining from the wine and more carnal pleasures.

Daemon raises his goblet high, pride evident in his eyes as he looks at his son. "To my son, Daervon, whose war strategies led us to a swift and decisive victory. Less blood was spilled on our side because of him. To Daervon!"

The warriors cheer loudly, raising their goblets in unison. Daervon gulps down his wine, his eyes burning with a mix of satisfaction and determination. "I'm ready to face the trials. Send a raven to grandfather stating that his least favorite grandchild is visiting him."

Vidor, munching on a pastry, looks up. "You're his only grandson, and he loves you very much. That's why he's tough on you. You know that, right?"

"I agree to disagree," Daervon retorts, his tone defiant.

Vidor rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Spoiled imbecile."

Daervon smirks, gesturing towards the dancing prostitutes. "You must loosen yourself, uncle. Pick your choice." Two young, beautiful prostitutes approach them, one female and one male, their eyes fixed on Daervon.

The female prostitute sits on Daervon's lap, kissing his neck. The male prostitute leans in to kiss Daervon on the lips, which Daervon returns roughly, pulling the man closer by his neck.

Vidor eyes the dancers with disinterest. "Not my type."

"Not blonde enough?" Daervon taunts.

"You are the worst," Vidor grumbles.

"Leave the poor man alone, Daervon," Daemon says, amused by the exchange.

"You're both incredibly boring," Daervon scoffs, and leaves with the female and male prostitutes to a more private space.

Vidor stands to follow Daervon to guard the room outside, but Daemon stops him. "It is lonely to drink all alone here," Daemon says, pouring more wine into his goblet.

"I am on duty. I do not drink on duty," Vidor responds.

"As far as I've known, Daervon doesn't need any protection at the moment," Daemon says. "Unless you're keen on listening to my son enjoying himself with that woman and the man all night, you can drink with me."

Vidor hesitates at first but then joins Daemon, pours a drink for the Silvercrown warrior. "Tell me, Ser. Can I trust you with my son's protection in the future as I did in the past?"

"My loyalty wholly lies with young master Daervon. It will never weaken, not even at the brink of death. If what he desires is to be king, I will be a kingslayer and make him the king," Vidor declares.

"And does he desire the Iron Throne?" Daemon inquires.

"He has no interest in ruling. He calls himself a free spirit," Vidor replies.

"He said that?" Daemon asks, curiosity piqued.

"On many occasions," Vidor confirms.

Daemon, hums with the answers he received, says, "I suddenly find myself somewhat envious of my son, having a loyal protector like you by his side."

"You've got it wrong, my prince, Serving him is my blessing," Vidor responds earnestly.