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The night air is thick with the scent of damp stone and the distant tang of saltwater as Daervon and Aemond slip through the secret tunnels of the Red Keep. The pathways, forged by Maegor the Cruel, echo with their soft footfalls, a testament to the hidden dangers that lie beneath the heart of the Seven Kingdoms. Disguised in plain cloaks, they are just two men, brothers in all but name, seeking solace in the anonymity that King’s Landing’s shadowed alleys afford.

The Street of Silk comes alive after dusk. Smallfolk crowd the narrow lanes, their faces lit by the flickering glow of lanterns, a far cry from the cold, distant flames of the Red Keep’s torches. Here, the pulse of the city is raw and uninhibited, each corner a glimpse into lives far removed from the polished halls of power. The air hums with laughter, bawdy songs, and the faint strains of a lute strummed by an unseen minstrel.

They find a place among the gathered smallfolk, an unassuming audience for a play that’s as crude as it is popular. The stage, hastily constructed from old planks and rickety beams, is framed by tattered banners that flap in the night breeze. The actors—local performers whose faces are smeared with exaggerated paint—mock Rhaenyra Targaryen with a cruel parody that draws jeers from the crowd.

Daervon’s jaw tightens as the play unfolds. Every time Rhaenyra is depicted as weak or incompetent, purely because of her sex, he huffs in disbelief, shaking his head. His dark lilac eyes flicker with an intensity that Aemond watches with a sidelong glance, amusement dancing in the single lilac orb that remains.

When the play ends, the crowd disperses, their laughter and gossip trailing into the night. Daervon and Aemond weave through the throng, slipping back into the relative quiet of the city’s winding streets.

“I think Rhaenyra will be a good queen one day,” Daervon finally says, his voice breaking the silence between them.

Aemond quirks an eyebrow, his tone measured. “You think?”

Daervon doesn’t hesitate. “I know it.”

Aemond pauses, considering his cousin’s words. “You know it?”

“A cock doesn’t make one a perfect ruler, Aemond,” Daervon says firmly, his voice carrying a weight that belies his youth. “A ruler should possess wisdom, empathy, and integrity. If not, the Seven Kingdoms will be in chaos. Rhaenyra has all of it.”

Aemond studies Daervon for a moment, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across his sharp features. “I will say this once and never again. Despite being born a bastard, you actually deserve the Iron Throne more than any of us.”

Daervon smirks, though his eyes remain serious. “You flatter me, my prince. The only thing I’d like to be burdened with is knowledge, not power. Power comes with a high cost. Power is infectious. Power is greedy.”

Aemond’s voice hardens slightly. “Power is the ability to get what you want. Power is the ability to be the one making decisions. There’s only power. Trust me.” He pauses, his gaze narrowing as he adds, “Knowledge is strength. And in the wrong hands, it can be a deadly weapon. Just like your war tactics. I hear you’ve never failed to win a battle. It wasn’t just because you’re the best swordsman. Your war tactics brought you victory.”

“Perks of being half Silvercrown,” Daervon replies with a nonchalant shrug, though a glint of pride flashes in his eyes.

Aemond’s voice drops to a low, almost conspiratorial tone. “You should take what belongs to you, Daervon. Everyone speaks of your bravery.”

“I’m sure they understate it. They don’t really know who I am or what would make me happy,” Daervon counters, his tone light, but there’s an undercurrent of truth to his words.

Aemond stops walking, turning to face Daervon fully. “Well, I do. I know you. And I know you want a life of consequence. And I know you’d be brilliant.”

Daervon meets his gaze steadily, though a hint of a smile tugs at his lips. “You think you know me. The time I spent with you ten years ago was less than a week, during which you ignored me most of the time like I was some plague.”

Aemond’s lips twitch, but before he can respond, Daervon’s attention is caught by the sight of a nearby brothel, its entrance lit by the warm glow of candles and the sound of laughter and music spilling into the street. A smirk crosses his face.

“Enough of the weighty matters, my dearest friend,” Daervon declares, throwing an arm around Aemond’s neck in a gesture of camaraderie. He steers the prince toward the brothel with an infectious enthusiasm. “What we need is a good release.”

Before Aemond can protest, they are inside, the heavy wooden door closing behind them with a dull thud. The brothel is a riot of color and sound, filled with the scent of perfume and the heady aroma of spiced wine. Daervon wastes no time in pouring wine into two goblets, pressing one into Aemond’s hand as their cloaks are taken away.

“Loosen yourself, cousin,” Daervon urges, his voice light, almost teasing.

Aemond hesitates, then downs the wine in one gulp. As the burn of the alcohol fades, two women approach, one slipping onto Daervon’s lap with a practiced grace, the other refilling Aemond’s goblet with a coy smile.

Daervon doesn’t think twice. He pulls the woman on his lap close, capturing her lips in a heated kiss. His hands roam freely, savoring the soft curves beneath the fabric of her dress. Aemond watches, the unease from earlier returning tenfold. The sight of his cousin lost in passion stirs something uncomfortable within him, a knot of tension that only tightens the longer he stays.

Unable to bear it, Aemond stands abruptly, pushing the goblet away as he walks toward the back of the brothel, seeking escape in the shadows.

Daervon breaks away from the kiss, confusion creasing his brow as he watches Aemond’s retreating figure. He gently pushes the woman off his lap, muttering an apology before rising to follow. The laughter and music fade as he moves deeper into the brothel, the air growing thicker, more suffocating.

He finds Aemond in a small, dimly lit room, its sole furnishing a simple bed covered in a thick fur throw. Aemond sits on the edge of the bed, his shoulders tense, his expression unreadable.

“There you are,” Daervon says softly, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he approaches. He sits beside Aemond, placing a hand on his thigh, the gesture both comforting and questioning. “Did I do something that upset you?”

Aemond stares ahead, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Aegon brought me to the Street of Silk on my thirteenth name day. It was his duty as my brother, he said, to ensure I was as educated as he was. At least, that’s what I understood him to mean.”

Daervon frowns slightly, confusion coloring his features. “I don’t follow.”

Aemond’s lips curl into a bitter smile. “He said, ‘Time to get it wet.’” He pauses, the weight of the memory heavy in the room. “I did not enjoy it. In fact, I hated every second of it.”

Daervon looks taken aback, his eyes softening with sympathy. “Aemond, I—”

Aemond cuts him off, his voice soft but insistent. “You want to know a secret?”

“Always,” Daervon replies, leaning in slightly, his attention fully on the man beside him.

“I’ve lived with a thousand different imagined versions of you over the years,” Aemond begins, his tone laced with an emotion that Daervon can’t quite place. “Some to rail against. Some to cherish.”

“Likewise,” Daervon admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, I knew very little of you ten years ago,” Aemond continues, his eye fixed on a distant point in the room, lost in thought. “But within the last decade, I listened to every rumor that mentioned you. Read every raven that spoke of your deeds. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. Or if you knew how much I cared.”

Daervon’s heart skips a beat, his pulse quickening as he processes Aemond’s words. “I think I always knew.”

“There’s no one quite like you,” Aemond says, his voice almost reverent. He hesitates, as if grappling with the weight of his next words. “I suppose what I’m getting at is, um... I want—” He stops abruptly, frustration flaring in his eyes as he drags his fingers through his hair. “Never mind what I want.”

Daervon’s voice is quieter now, laced with a tenderness that he hadn’t known he was capable of. “What do you want?”

Aemond’s single eye burns with intensity as he rakes over the sight before him. The closeness of Daervon, the scent of him, the heat radiating from his body—it’s all overwhelming, all-consuming. Just a few weeks ago, Aemond wouldn’t have imagined that the boy he had spent over a decade dreaming about would ever be this close to him. But here he is, so much more real, more vivid than any of Aemond’s wildest imaginings. The realization that Daervon is here, within his grasp, only serves to fuel the flames of his desire.

“I want you,” Aemond says, his voice low and rough with need. “More than anything I’ve ever wanted before. I want all of you.”

The confession hangs between them, thickening the air with tension. Daervon remains silent, his eyes studying Aemond with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, something that stirs restlessly in his chest. It’s only now, in this heated moment, that Daervon notices the proximity between them. They’ve both subconsciously moved closer, drawn together like two celestial bodies locked in each other’s orbit.

“A man who despised you to the deep depths of the seven hells, who never failed to show his hatred towards you, tells you that he loves you,” Aemond murmurs, his voice trembling with the weight of his admission. “What do you do?”

Daervon’s response is measured, his voice steady despite the tumult of emotions swirling within him. “First, try and start breathing again.”

“And then?” Aemond’s voice is almost a whisper, his vulnerability laid bare.

Aemond opens his mouth to speak again, but the words catch in his throat as Daervon shifts even closer. The tension between them is palpable, a living thing that pulses with every heartbeat. Daervon’s hand comes up to cradle Aemond’s cheek, his touch gentle, yet firm. He leans in slowly, their faces just inches apart. Aemond can feel Daervon’s breath against his lips, warm and inviting. But Daervon hesitates, stopping just short, his eyes searching Aemond’s for something, for permission, perhaps. He wants Aemond to make the final move, and Aemond knows it.

Daervon’s eyes trail down Aemond’s face, lingering on his lips. His thumb strokes Aemond’s cheek in a tender, almost reverent gesture. The moment stretches out, a fragile thread of tension between them. Then, Aemond closes his eye and leans forward, his lips finally meeting Daervon’s in a kiss that is as soft as it is electrifying.

The kiss deepens almost immediately, a raw expression of the emotions they’ve both kept buried for so long. Daervon’s lips are insistent, hungry, as he claims Aemond’s mouth with a fervor that leaves Aemond breathless. Aemond’s hands find purchase on Daervon’s broad shoulders, pulling him closer, desperate to erase the distance between them.

Daervon takes control, his movements deliberate as he guides Aemond onto his back. The bed creaks beneath them, the soft glow of candlelight casting flickering shadows on the walls as Daervon’s hands roam over Aemond’s body, tracing the hard lines of muscle beneath his tunic. There’s a reverence in Daervon’s touch, as if he’s committing every inch of Aemond’s body to memory.

Aemond’s breath hitches as Daervon’s fingers find the laces of his tunic, deftly untying them and peeling the fabric away. The cool air of the room kisses Aemond’s bare skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of Daervon’s body pressing down on him. Daervon’s lips trail a path down Aemond’s neck, sucking and biting gently at the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

Aemond’s head falls back, a soft moan escaping his lips as Daervon’s mouth finds the hollow of his throat. He’s never felt anything like this—this overwhelming need, this desperation to be as close to Daervon as possible. Every touch, every kiss ignites something deep within him, something he’s long denied.

Daervon pulls back slightly, his eyes dark with desire as he looks down at Aemond. For a moment, they simply stare at each other, the weight of what’s about to happen sinking in. Then, with a determined look, Daervon leans in again, capturing Aemond’s lips in a searing kiss as his hands work to rid Aemond of the last of his clothing.

Once Aemond is fully bare beneath him, Daervon takes a moment to appreciate the sight before him. Aemond’s pale skin is flushed with arousal, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggles to catch his breath. Daervon’s gaze is intense, almost worshipful, as he takes in every detail of Aemond’s body.

“You’re beautiful,” Daervon murmurs, the words barely audible over the sound of their ragged breathing.

Aemond doesn’t have time to respond before Daervon is kissing him again, more forcefully this time. The kiss is a clash of tongues and teeth, a desperate tangle of limbs as Daervon presses his body against Aemond’s, their skin slick with sweat. The heat between them is almost unbearable, but neither of them would have it any other way.

Daervon’s hand slips between their bodies, wrapping around Aemond’s cock and stroking him with a firm, steady rhythm. Aemond gasps at the sensation, his hips bucking up into Daervon’s hand as he chases the pleasure building inside him. Daervon’s other hand grips Aemond’s thigh, spreading his legs wider as he settles between them, his own arousal pressing insistently against Aemond’s entrance.

There’s a brief moment of hesitation as Daervon looks down at Aemond, silently asking for permission. Aemond meets his gaze, his eye filled with a mixture of trust and desire. He nods, giving Daervon the go-ahead, and Daervon doesn’t waste any time.

He enters Aemond slowly, carefully, giving him time to adjust to the intrusion. Aemond’s breath catches in his throat, a mix of discomfort and pleasure washing over him as Daervon fills him completely. It’s overwhelming, the sensation of being stretched, of being so intimately connected with someone he’s desired for so long.

Daervon stills once he’s fully inside, giving Aemond a moment to catch his breath. The room is filled with the sound of their heavy breathing, the tension between them palpable. Aemond’s hands grip Daervon’s shoulders, his nails digging into the flesh as he adjusts to the fullness.

“Are you alright?” Daervon asks, his voice low and strained as he struggles to hold himself back.

Aemond nods, his eye fluttering shut as he focuses on the sensation of Daervon inside him. “Yes,” he breathes out. “Move, please.”

Daervon doesn’t need to be told twice. He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, allowing Aemond to adjust to the rhythm. Each movement is a careful push and pull, a dance of pleasure that has Aemond arching up into Daervon, meeting him thrust for thrust.

The pace gradually increases, the slow, steady rhythm giving way to something more urgent, more desperate. Daervon’s thrusts become harder, faster, each one hitting deeper inside Aemond, sending jolts of pleasure through his body. Aemond’s breath comes in short, sharp gasps, his body writhing beneath Daervon as he chases the release that’s building inside him.

Daervon’s hands grip Aemond’s hips, holding him in place as he drives into him with increasing fervor. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a symphony of their shared pleasure. Aemond’s eye is squeezed shut, his mouth hanging open as he moans loudly, unable to hold back the sounds of his pleasure.

As the pleasure builds to an almost unbearable level, Daervon leans down, capturing Aemond’s lips in a bruising kiss. The kiss is messy, desperate, their tongues tangling together as they both chase their release. Aemond’s hands grip Daervon’s back, his nails leaving red marks in their wake as he holds on for dear life.

The tension in Aemond’s body reaches its peak, the pleasure coiling tightly in his abdomen before snapping, sending him over the edge. He cries out as he comes, his release spilling between their bodies, the sensation overwhelming him completely. His body trembles with the force of his orgasm, his mind blanking out everything but the pleasure coursing through him.

Daervon isn’t far behind. With a few more hard, fast thrusts, he stills, his own release crashing over him as he spills inside Aemond. The sensation of Daervon’s warmth filling him sends another shiver down Aemond’s spine, prolonging the pleasure that still pulses through his veins.

They stay locked together for a moment, both of them breathing heavily, their bodies trembling from the intensity of what they’ve just shared. Finally, Daervon withdraws carefully, rolling onto his side but keeping a possessive arm draped over Aemond’s waist.

The afterglow is thick between them, a sense of completion, of something inevitable finally realized. They lie there in silence, the only sounds in the room being their slowing breaths and the faint creak of the bed as they settle. Aemond’s head is spinning, his body still humming with the remnants of pleasure. He’s never felt anything like this—so raw, so intense, and yet so profoundly right.

Daervon turns on his side to face Aemond, his fingers brushing gently across the planes of Aemond’s face, tracing the curve of his jaw, the line of his lips, as if trying to memorize every inch of him. There’s a softness in Daervon’s gaze, an emotion that Aemond has never seen in him before, not even in the heated moments they just shared.

Aemond closes his eye, leaning into Daervon’s touch, a shiver running through him as he feels the warmth of the other man’s skin against his own. It’s strange, how quickly things have changed between them, how easily they’ve fallen into this new dynamic. But at the same time, it feels like something that was always meant to happen, something that was written in the stars long before they ever met.

As they lie there, Daervon’s hand continues to wander, exploring Aemond’s body with a mixture of curiosity and reverence. Aemond allows himself to relax under the touch, the tension slowly melting away from his muscles as he basks in the afterglow of their shared intimacy.

Two tainted souls, loathing and falling in love with one another at the same time, hiding all their sins from the daylight. But where do tainted souls go when they die?

The thought lingers in Aemond's mind as Daervon's hand slides up to cup his cheek, his thumb brushing gently over Aemond's bottom lip. There's a darkness in both of them, a shadow that has shaped their lives, their choices. But in this moment lying in the arms of the man who has seen that darkness and accepted it, Aemond feels a strange sense of peace.

"You're mine," Aemond whispers, his voice soft but firm, his eye holding a quiet determination that leaves no room for doubt.

"And you're mine," Daervon replies, the words a quiet affirmation of the bond they've just forged, a bond that feels as unbreakable as Valyrian steel.

For now, the future can wait. The world outside the brothel, the throne, the politics-all of it fades away, leaving only this moment, this connection that they've both longed for, both feared. They are no longer just two royals of the realm, but two souls who have found solace in one another, even in the midst of their own darkness.

And in this moment, that is enough.