Cheering and applause swell in Daervon’s ears before his eyes even part. When they do, the world is not the one he knows.

He is seated in the royal box, the scent of trampled grass and horse sweat heavy in the air. Below, a tourney unfolds—armour glinting beneath the sun, banners snapping in the wind. His gaze sweeps the faces around him, searching, recognising.

There—King Viserys, more like Prince Viserys though far younger than Daervon has ever seen him, scarcely into his twenties, seated beside his lady wife Aemma Arryn. She is radiant, her belly round with child, her features so like Rhaenyra’s that Daervon’s breath catches.

A flash of black catches his eye—his late grandfather, Ser Jaime Silvercrown, rigid in posture, stern as carved stone.

And at the highest seat, beneath the royal canopy, sits an elder sovereign Daervon knows only from history and paintings—King Jaehaerys the Conciliator. At his side, the Prince of Dragonstone—Baelon Targaryen, his other grandfather.

Baelon watches the tourney with an expression that Daervon knows in his bones—pride, vast and unhidden. It is the same look Daemon once gave him upon his return from the Silvercrown trials. That thought makes his chest ache, and he swallows hard, yearning to feel that warmth again. Gods, he would give anything just to glimpse his father’s face once more.

Following Baelon’s gaze, Daervon feels it. A strange pull, as though he already knows what sight will meet him.

In the lists below, two figures remain, the final duelists of the day. One is unmistakable, even amidst the chaos of the fight: a Targaryen with hair like molten silver, blade in hand, locked in a furious dance of steel with a knight of the Silvercrown.

The clash is beautiful and brutal all at once. Each blow resounds like thunder, each parry sparking in the sunlight. The crowd roars with every shift of advantage, yet neither knight yields an inch. They move as though the ground itself were theirs to command—circling, striking, retreating, pressing again.

Daervon’s legs carry him forward of their own accord, to the railings. His fingers curl around the wood, knuckles whitening. His heart stutters as his eyes drink in the Targaryen knight’s face.

Daemon Targaryen.

Younger. Alive. Fierce and laughing in the heat of battle.

Daervon’s breath shudders, vision blurring with tears. His father—his glorious, reckless father—so full of life it hurts to look at him.

The Silvercrown knight presses the attack, sword flashing in an arc that forces Daemon back. Blow after blow drives him towards the rail. The Targaryen parries, counters, pivots—yet at last, with a deft twist, the Silvercrown knight sends Daemon’s blade spinning to the dirt. The victor’s sword rests at his throat.

The stands erupt.

Daemon only grins from the ground, his chest heaving. There is no shame in his eyes, only something softer. Admiration. Amusement. Love.

The victor lifts away their helm, and a cascade of waist—long black curls falls free, catching the sun like silk.

Daervon’s breath catches in his throat.

Aurélie Silvercrown. His mother.

She stands tall in her armour, smirking at Daemon in triumph. He bows with a roguish flourish, his smirk answering hers—two souls caught in a game only they know the rules to. The air between them is thick with the ease and thrill of new love. They have no inkling of the cruel threads fate will weave, the hands that will wrench them apart.

The roar of the crowd fades into nothing. Daervon stares, transfixed, longing carving its way into his ribs. What would his life have been, had they stayed together? Had he known the touch of his mother’s hand, the sound of her laughter?

A voice slithers into the quiet.

"A pity, is it not… that you never knew your mother?"

Daervon turns sharply.

The Unburnt Prince stands beside him, silver hair gleaming like cold moonlight, the same face as Daervon’s staring back at him—but twisted. His posture is lazy, his smirk cruel, his eyes too knowing. There is a seductive ease to the way he leans against the rail, but beneath it coils something venomous.

Daervon’s gut tightens. He has faced blades, beasts, and war, but this… this man unmans him with a glance.

Before he can speak, the world shifts—

Daervon now stands in a chamber thick with the iron tang of blood. The walls seem to close in around the bed that dominates the space.

Aurélie Silvercrown lies upon it, her skin pale as moonlight, dark curls plastered to her sweat—damp brow. The sheets beneath her are sodden, crimson blooming across the linen like an omen. Her breaths are shallow, each one a fragile, fleeting thing.

Beside her, a boy of no more than ten years—Vidor Silvercrown clutches a swaddled babe in his arms. His voice trembles as he speaks to his elder sister, the words meant to soothe though they shake. He leans down, pressing a kiss to her brow, a farewell wrapped in reverence. When he straightens, his lashes glisten with unshed tears, but already his young face hardens into that stern mask his house is known for. He leaves without another word, the newborn held close to his chest as if guarding the most precious treasure in the realm.

"Safe…" Aurélie breathes the word like a prayer, her gaze drifting to the ceiling as if clinging to it. Then, slowly, her eyes find him.

"Daervon?"

The sound of his name from her lips undoes him. His head lifts, confusion and grief mingling in his tear-brimmed eyes. His voice is no louder than a breath. "Mama."

Her smile blooms, weary but warm enough to melt steel. "My son."

She opens her arms, and the world could shatter around him and he would not care. He falls into her embrace, his body curling into hers like he has belonged there all his life. Her hands—delicate yet strong—stroke his back, memorising him. Her breath stirs his hair as she speaks, her tone soft and aching. "You have grown into a young man… haven’t you? I am glad. Tell me… has life treated you well?"

His throat tightens, words catching like thorns. "I’m tired, mama. I’m so tired."

She holds him closer, as though her embrace alone could shield him from the cruelties of the world.

"I want to stay with you," he whispers, clutching at her as if he could anchor himself in this moment forever. "Let me stay."

Her arms tighten around him, and for an instant, the room is only warmth and safety, an impossible dream made real.

Then the world shifts again—smoke replaces the scent of blood, the air thick with ash and the screaming of men.

Daervon stands upon the battlements of Rook’s Rest, bow in hand, the string biting into his fingers. Around him, the Blacks’ archers loose volley after volley at the advancing Green forces below. The clash of steel and the bellow of dying men roll across the field like thunder.

Yet his eyes are not on the soldiers—they are on the sky.

Above, the Queen Who Never Was rides Meleys, the Red Queen’s scales glinting like molten rubies in the sun. She circles in a deadly dance with Daeron astride Tessarion, the Blue Queen’s cobalt hide shimmering as she dives. The two dragons clash in the air with a roar that rattles the stones beneath Daervon’s boots—talons rake scale, flame scorches wing.

Meleys gains ground, her jaws closing on Tessarion, crushing down with terrifying strength. The blue dragon screams, wings faltering victory is within their grasp.

Then the sky changes.

A shadow falls over the battlefield, vast and terrible. From the clouds above, Shrykos descends, Maelor astride him, his silver hair streaming in the wind. The pale beast lunges without hesitation, its jaws sink deep into Meleys’ neck. The Red Queen thrashes, her roar turning into a choking cry before it cuts off entirely.

"No!" Daervon’s voice tears from his throat, raw and desperate. "Grandmother!"

The light in the sky dies as Meleys plummets. Her body slams into the ground with Rhaenys still strapped to her saddle. The impact is a detonation—earth shatters, flame erupts, the air itself seems to scream. The shockwave hurls Daervon from the wall, slamming him to the ground amidst splintered wood and broken bodies.

Above, Maelor surveys the ruin with satisfaction, his pale dragon circling like a vulture. His gaze finds Daervon, those lilac eyes gleam with cruel delight. The prince’s smirk is slow, deliberate, and venomous.

Daervon staggers to his feet, the world ringing in his ears. His bow is gone, his breath ragged, but his legs move without thought. He abandons the wall, charging across the wreckage, heedless of the flames licking at his boots. He will reach her, he must reach her—

But before he can, a hand like iron seizes his arm and wrenches him back.

The world tears itself apart again. The smoke and fire fade, replaced by the salt-tinged breeze of Driftmark’s coast. The waves crash against jagged black rock, their endless rhythm a balm after the screams of war.

A hand still grips Daervon’s arm, but it is no longer rough. When he turns, it is Laena Velaryon standing beside him, her silver curly hair stirring in the sea wind, her soft eyes with the warmth only a mother can give.

“Mother Laena…” His voice is thin, frayed by grief. The image of Meleys falling still burns behind his eyes, each heartbeat pressing the memory deeper into his chest. “Grandmother…” The word trembles, as if speaking it makes the loss real.

Laena’s smile is gentle, steadying. She reaches up to cradle his cheek in her palm, her thumb brushing away the salt of his tears as though they were a child’s. “This is not real, my sweet child,” she says, her tone as sure as the tide. “You must wake.” Her touch is cool against his overheated skin, but her gaze holds a quiet strength. “Your husband is waiting for you.”

“Aemond?” The name escapes as a whisper, half in disbelief, half in longing.

Laena’s lips curve, and she nods once. “Wake up, Daervon.” She presses a kiss to his brow soft, lingering, and final.

The sea air vanishes.

Daervon gasps, his eyes flying open. The world is dark, the stone walls of Red Cave Castle’s bedchamber closing in. He is no longer at Driftmark, nor amidst war, but in the iron embrace of Aemond Targaryen. His husband holds him firmly, one arm curved around his back, the other cradling the back of his head as if anchoring him to the present.

His nightclothes cling to him, damp with sweat. His breath comes in shuddering bursts, each one catching on a sob. Tears spill freely down his cheeks, glinting in the candlelight that flickers on the table across the room. Outside, the night is silent, but within him the echoes of the battle still roar.

Outside, Gaelithox’s thunderous roar splits the night, echoing off the stone walls of the castle, the great dragon himself feeling the storm in Daervon’s heart.

Aemond’s face hovers above him, pale and sharp in the candlelight, the single sapphire in his eye socket glinting like ice. His relief at seeing Daervon’s eyes open is fleeting, eclipsed by the intensity of his concern. “You’re awake,” he breathes, his voice low but urgent, scanning Daervon’s face as if committing every tear, every tremor, to memory.

Daervon swallows, still shaking. “What… what happened?” His voice is broken, the words almost too fragile to reach Aemond’s ears.

“We went to bed,” Aemond says, the muscles in his jaw tight. “You were dreaming. A nightmare.” His hand slides up Daervon’s back, firm, grounding. “I tried to wake you, but you wouldn’t stir.” His tone is both confession and accusation, as though the dream had stolen Daervon from him against his will.

The words barely land before Daervon is pushing out of Aemond’s arms. He stumbles from the bed, barefoot on cold stone, his mind a storm. He goes straight to his desk, yanking parchment and ink toward him with clumsy hands. His breathing is uneven, the memory of the dream—no, the nightmare clawing at him.

He dips the quill, but his fingers shake violently. Ink splatters, blurring the first word before it’s even formed. Cursing under his breath, he crumples the ruined parchment, grabs another, and tries again. His breaths come sharper, faster.

In a single stride, Aemond is there. He snatches the quill from Daervon’s hand, ink dripping onto his pale fingers, and crouches so they are face to face. Both his hands cup Daervon’s cheeks, forcing his husband’s wild gaze to meet his own.

“Look at me,” Aemond commands, his voice edged with steel but low, meant only for him. “Breathe.” His thumbs stroke slowly along Daervon’s jaw, not with gentleness but with a controlled, possessive care.

“But grandmother—” Daervon’s voice breaks, his panic bleeding through.

“Whatever you saw,” Aemond cuts in, gaze locking him in place, “it wasn’t real.” His tone leaves no space for doubt, though his own eye burns with the fear of losing Daervon to something unseen.

Daervon chokes on a sob, the sound muffled as he leans forward, his forehead pressing against Aemond’s. He inhales in time with Aemond, clinging to the slow, steady rhythm. The tension in his chest loosens, if only barely.

When his breathing evens enough to move again, Daervon straightens, reaching once more for parchment. His hand still trembles.

Aemond watches him for a moment, then quietly pulls a chair to Daervon’s side. “Let me help you,” he murmurs, settling in close—so close their knees brush. His hand covers Daervon’s, long fingers curling between his, the touch both grounding and claiming. He lifts Daervon’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the knuckles before taking the parchment and quill.

“Tell me,” Aemond says, gaze never leaving his husband’s face, “and I will write it.”

Daervon leans against him, their shoulders touching, drawing strength from the closeness. In the curve of Aemond’s body and the press of his hand, there is safety, there is possession—and there is love, fierce enough to burn.