AN:
10 comments and 25+ votes for next update!
There is another Aemond Targaryen fic in my profile. Go check it out as well!

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━

The past few days in the Red Keep have been mercifully peaceful for Daervon. His nightmares, once vivid and suffocating, have started to fade whenever he is near Aemond. The simple act of holding him feels like a tether to reality, a balm for his restless mind. He cannot help but feel relief when Aemond wraps his arms around him, chasing away the lingering shadows from his dreams.

Now, seated in his study, Daervon’s fingers trace the edges of a portrait of Aegon the Conqueror’s crown. It’s the same one he saw his evil doppelganger wearing in his nightmares—dark, twisted visions that haunt him even in the daylight. His brow furrows in contemplation. So many questions churn in his mind, questions he desperately needs answers to. But even more pressing than his nightmares are the choices his father will demand of him, choices that weigh heavily on his heart.

He hears footsteps approaching and glances up with a smile when the imposing figure of his father, Daemon Targaryen, appears in the doorway. "Father," Daervon greets him, his voice soft yet warm.

Daemon offers a rare smile in return, though his eyes seem distant, burdened by something unsaid. "I have something important to discuss with you. Do you have time?"

Daervon’s smile falters slightly, sensing the seriousness in his father’s tone. "Of course."

Daemon steps further into the room, pouring himself a goblet of wine. He takes a long sip before speaking again. "You are of age, my son. It is time you consider settling down and fathering children. Lady Shireen Stormcrest would make a fair match."

Daervon suppresses a sigh, his fingers tightening around the edge of the portrait he was tracing. "I’ll think about who I’ll marry when I deem it fit," he replies, his tone guarded but respectful.

Daemon moves to stand before the fireplace, his back to Daervon as he stares into the flames, the wine swirling lazily in his cup. "That one-eyed Hightower cunt."

At the mention of Aemond, Daervon’s heart skips a beat. He swallows hard, choosing his next words carefully. His father’s back is still turned, making it impossible to gauge his exact emotions, but Daervon knows where this conversation is headed. Still, he feigns ignorance. "What of him?"

Slowly, Daemon turns, his expression darkening. "What is he to you?"

Daervon’s pulse quickens. He keeps his face neutral, still playing dumb. "A cousin, a friend, an ally. Should I list more?"

Daemon’s eyes narrow, and his voice drops, dangerously low. "Do go on. I need to hear how the list ends with 'your whore.' Won’t you even deny it?"

Daervon feels a rush of heat to his face, his composure slipping. But he’s not about to give his father the satisfaction of seeing him falter. "I need to understand the accusation before I can discredit it," he says evenly.

Daemon takes a step forward, his presence menacing. "Still, you say nothing."

Daervon shrugs, his tone laced with defiance. "Oh, what does it matter, father? We are Targaryens. There are no bounds that hold us back."

In a sudden fit of rage, Daemon hurls his goblet across the room, the sharp clatter of metal on stone echoing through the chamber. "It wouldn’t be a matter if your choice wasn’t one of those Hightower whores!" he snarls. "I will not let you proceed with this."

Daervon rises from his chair, his anger simmering just below the surface. "Who gives a fuck what anyone thinks? He is my business."

Daemon’s laughter is bitter, hollow. "You love him? You’re smitten with his pretty hair? His pretty words? You think he loves you? Is that it?"

"You know nothing of love, father." Daervon’s voice shakes, not from fear but from barely contained fury.

Daemon steps closer, his face twisted in disgust. "You won’t love him so much when you find out what he truly is. What lies beneath that pretty facade."

Daervon’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t back down. "What do you want me to do? Unlove him? It doesn’t work that way, father. When I passed the Silvercrown trials, you promised I could have anything I want. I want Aemond."

Daemon’s face hardens, the firelight casting shadows across his sharp features. "You can have anyone in the world except him. Let it be a whore, a lord, a lady, or a commoner. But not him."

Daervon’s jaw clenches, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want no one but him."

For a moment, Daemon’s expression softens, hurt flickering in his eyes before anger takes hold again. "Then you are no son of mine!" he bellows. "You are a plague… sent to destroy me!"

The words sting, but Daervon only feels a hollow ache in his chest. "As if that could hurt me anymore," he mutters, his voice strained.

"You will marry the Stormcrest girl." Daemon’s command is absolute, leaving no room for argument. Without another word, he storms out, leaving Daervon standing in the suffocating silence of his study.

As soon as his father is gone, Daervon collapses back into his chair, his entire body trembling with a mix of rage, disappointment, and pain. His eyes flicker to the flames in the hearth, mirroring the burning turmoil within him. He knows there’s only one person who can calm him now. He needs Aemond.

The garden is drenched in moonlight as Daervon steps into its embrace. His eyes lock on the silver-haired prince standing amidst the shadows, illuminated by the soft glow of the night like molten starlight. The tension from the day fades, leaving only the cool evening air and the presence of Aemond to ground him.

“You’re late,” Aemond remarks with a raised brow, a familiar tilt to his head. There’s no true irritation in his voice—just that teasing edge that always seems to spark between them. “But no matter. I have a special surprise for you.”

Daervon steps closer, the smirk forming easily on his lips as he joins Aemond’s side. “A surprise? What have I done to earn such favor?”

Aemond, with a sly smile, reveals his hand from behind his back. In his palm rests a single rose, its crimson petals delicate yet vibrant under the moonlight. “I picked this flower just for you.”

Daervon’s fingers brush the bloom as he takes it, holding it carefully. The fragrance is rich and sweet, and a smile curls at the edges of his mouth. “I used to pick flowers for my sisters and mother Leana,” he muses. “But I’ve never received one myself. It’s… rather lovely, I must admit.”

Aemond’s lips curve into a rare, soft smile. “I’m glad to be the first—and the last—to give you that honor.”

Daervon looks up from the flower, his gaze meeting Aemond’s. “Why the last?”

“Because,” Aemond says, his tone darkening with possessive affection, “you’re mine. No one else will give you flowers—or if they do, I’ll cut their hands off.”

Daervon chuckles, the sound low and full of amusement. “That’s… brutally touching, my prince.”

Aemond’s eye gleams with mischief. “I prefer to call it romantic.”

“Whatever you say,” Daervon replies with a playful tilt of his head. But as he shifts the rose in his grip, a sharp sting pricks his finger, and he winces at the sight of a bead of blood welling up from the tiny cut.

Immediately, Aemond’s expression shifts, concern flashing across his face. He takes Daervon’s hand gently, his thumb grazing the spot of blood. “Did you hurt yourself?” Without waiting for an answer, Aemond brings Daervon’s finger to his lips, the warmth of his mouth soothing the sting as he sucks softly on the wound. His single eye, brilliant and intense, never leaves Daervon’s.

A shiver runs down Daervon’s spine, heat pooling in his gut as he struggles to keep his composure. The moonlit garden feels too exposed, too full of watchful eyes for what his body aches for. “Roses and their thorns,” Daervon murmurs, voice thick. “They remind us that even the most beautiful things can hurt us.”

Aemond’s lips release his finger, the blood no longer flowing. “I was afraid the battlefield would take you from me,” he says quietly, still holding Daervon’s hand. “But now I fear it’s taken your senses instead.”

“Only my nonsense,” Daervon teases, a glint of mischief returning to his eyes.

“I quite like your nonsense,” Aemond replies with a soft chuckle, his thumb brushing over Daervon’s knuckles before letting go.

They begin to walk deeper into the garden, their steps in sync, hands brushing against each other in a touch that’s barely there but says everything.

“The wicked elf prince,” Daervon begins with a grin. “That’s what my sister Rhaena calls you.”

Aemond raises a brow, his tone edged with distaste. “An elf? Why?”

“She says your appearance resembles one from her books,” Daervon says with a smirk, watching the way the moonlight gleams on Aemond’s pale skin.

Aemond stops in his tracks, his expression caught between amusement and annoyance. “And do you see me the same way?”

Daervon tilts his head, pretending to consider. “I think you look like a particularly handsome elf.”

Aemond exhales, half-offended, half-amused. “I don’t know whether to be moved or insulted.”

“Perhaps both,” Daervon quips, stepping closer, their bodies inches apart. His eyes drift to the eyepatch that conceals the sapphire hidden beneath. “May I?”

Aemond hesitates for a moment, avoiding Daervon’s gaze, but then he gives a small nod. Daervon’s fingers gently lift the patch, letting it fall to the ground. What lies beneath is a dazzling sapphire, catching the light in a way that takes Daervon’s breath away. The scarred socket, once angry and swollen, is now healed, though the wound remains a part of Aemond’s story.

“Does it disgust you?” Aemond’s voice is soft, edged with vulnerability. It’s a rare sound, one that only Daervon ever hears.

Daervon cups Aemond’s face, his fingers gentle against the prince’s skin. “Aemond,” he whispers, drawing the prince’s gaze back to him. “Do I look disgusted? I could summon the greatest painter in the seven kingdoms to capture this moment, and still, they wouldn’t come close to your beauty.”

Aemond studies him for a moment, searching for any hint of insincerity, but finds none. A small smile tugs at his lips, and he grabs Daervon’s hand, the tension between them fading.

“Come with me,” Aemond says, his voice firm but filled with affection.

They sneak through the corridors of the Red Keep, silent as shadows. Aemond doesn’t release Daervon’s hand until they reach his chambers. With a quiet push, the double doors open, and in a blur of movement, Daervon finds himself pressed against the cold stone wall, Aemond’s lips against his neck, hot and ravenous. The sensation sends a jolt through Daervon, his breath catching as their bodies collide with an urgency he’s never known. He can feel Aemond’s arousal pressing against him, the friction between their grinding hips making his pulse race. The heat between them is intoxicating, overwhelming every sense.

Daervon’s hands grip the back of Aemond’s tunic, pulling him closer, needing to feel every part of him. Aemond’s lips continue their assault on his neck, teeth grazing the skin, sending shivers down Daervon’s spine. His body trembles beneath Aemond’s touch, his mind clouded with desire. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the feel of Aemond’s mouth, his hands roaming Daervon’s body with a possessive hunger.

Aemond pulls back for a moment, his eye dark with desire as he looks into Daervon’s face. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice rough but laced with concern.

Daervon, breathless, meets his gaze. “Yeah,” he whispers softly, though the overwhelming need coursing through him is anything but calm.

“You haven’t said a word since we got here,” Aemond points out, his hands still caressing Daervon’s sides, fingers ghosting over bare skin. “Do you... do you still want this?”

Without hesitation, Daervon pulls Aemond into a deep, fiery kiss. Their lips crash together, and Aemond doesn’t think twice before kissing him back with equal fervor. The intensity between them grows, their bodies molding into one another as they lose themselves in the heat of the moment. When they finally pull apart, both are panting, their breaths ragged, their bodies humming with the remnants of desire.

Daervon rests his forehead against Aemond’s, his eyes closed as he tries to steady his breathing. “Does that answer your question?” he asks, his voice low and thick with longing.

Aemond smiles faintly, still breathless from the kiss. “Yes,” he admits, though a flicker of concern remains in his gaze. “But something is bothering you. What is it?”

Daervon sighs, the weight of reality creeping back into the heated haze. “My father knows about us,” he finally admits, his voice quieter now.

Aemond’s expression hardens slightly, but his hand never leaves Daervon’s side. “Does he want you to stop seeing me?” There’s a quiet edge to his voice, as if preparing for the worst but unwilling to let it change anything.

“He does,” Daervon replies. “But I don’t care. I don’t want to stop. I want to be with you.”

A satisfied smile tugs at Aemond’s lips. “Good.”

A soft chuckle escapes Daervon, but there’s something darker lingering in his thoughts. “If I were born a lady, or you... would you still father or mother a child with this tainted bastard?”

Aemond doesn’t hesitate. “I would gladly do so.”

Daervon searches his face, taken aback by the certainty in his voice. “You would?”

Aemond steps closer, his lips brushing against Daervon’s ear as he whispers, “Mmm. I look at you, and I just love you... and it terrifies me.” His voice drops lower, more vulnerable. “It terrifies me what I would do for you. I want you so badly it hurts.”

A deep shiver runs down Daervon’s spine at the confession, and he reaches up, his fingers slipping into Aemond’s hair. Slowly, he loosens the band binding Aemond’s silver locks until it falls free, his fingers tangling in the soft strands. His voice is barely more than a whisper as he speaks. “Then take me.”

Aemond’s eye darkens with renewed desire, and he wastes no time. His hands are everywhere at once—gripping Daervon’s waist, pulling him closer, as their lips collide again in a fierce, desperate kiss. His touch is firm, possessive, as he strips Daervon’s remaining clothes away, piece by piece, until they are both bare to the cold air of the room. But neither of them feels the chill; all they know is the heat burning between them.

Aemond guides Daervon to the bed, pushing him gently onto the soft sheets. He hovers over him, his gaze drinking in the sight of Daervon beneath him, his skin glowing faintly in the moonlight that filters through the window. There’s a moment of stillness as Aemond’s eye locks onto Daervon’s, a silent exchange of trust and love that words could never convey.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Aemond leans down, his lips brushing over Daervon’s chest, trailing kisses lower and lower, leaving a burning path of desire in their wake. Daervon’s breath hitches, his body arching into Aemond’s touch, craving more. Every kiss, every touch, sends sparks of pleasure through him, and he feels himself unraveling under the weight of Aemond’s control.

Aemond’s hands slide down Daervon’s sides, his fingers firm yet gentle, exploring every inch of his lover’s body as though memorizing it. His mouth follows, pressing hot kisses against Daervon’s skin, worshipping him with an intensity that leaves Daervon breathless.

With a growl low in his throat, he claims Daervon completely, their bodies moving together with a raw, primal need. Every touch, every breath is a declaration of the love and desire that has consumed them both for so long. Aemond is relentless, yet tender, every movement deliberate, as though he’s determined to show Daervon just how much he means to him.

Daervon’s fingers dig into Aemond’s back, his moans soft but filled with need as he gives himself over to the moment, letting Aemond take control. The world outside fades away, leaving only the two of them, tangled together in the heat of their passion.

When they finally collapse together, spent and breathless, Aemond pulls Daervon into his arms, their bodies still slick with sweat, their breathing still uneven. Aemond presses a soft kiss to Daervon’s temple, his fingers tracing lazy circles on his back. His lips hover near Daervon’s ear, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

"You know what's truly annoying about you?" Aemond murmurs, his voice low and teasing, though there’s a flicker of something deeper beneath.

Daervon shifts, resting his head in the crook of Aemond’s neck. His dark hair cascades over the one eyed prince, and the scent of him—familiar, intoxicating—fills Aemond’s senses. Daervon’s voice is soft, almost drowsy, when he replies. “I thought I was perfect.”

Aemond chuckles, his breath warm against Daervon’s skin. “You are… to me. But that's the complicated nature of love, isn't it? You should think about how grating and unfair your natural perfection is to everyone else.”

He threads his fingers through Daervon’s dark locks, the contrast between his own silver hair and Daervon’s raven black making his chest swell with a strange pride. How could someone like Daervon choose him, stand beside him, when the world would claim he deserved no one?

“Why are you saying that?” Daervon mumbles, his voice muffled as he presses himself closer.

Aemond’s hand stills in Daervon’s hair as he gazes up at the dim light filtering through the canopy of the bed. “Just me saying… But truly, how can anyone have your standards?”

Daervon gives a soft huff, a breath of laughter. “I’m not perfect.”

“Oh, I’d love to hear how you're not.” There’s a wry smile on Aemond’s lips, but his tone carries a challenge, a curiosity.

“You would,” Daervon replies, his lips brushing Aemond’s neck with the faintest hint of affection.

Aemond’s smile softens as he tightens his hold around Daervon. “It might help me, you know. There are days I’d love not to love you.”

Daervon shifts in his arms, raising a brow, his lips curling into a mischievous smirk. “Is it that much of a burden, then?”

Aemond rolls his eye and sighs dramatically, though there’s warmth in the gesture. “Stop twisting my words.”

Daervon props himself up on his elbow, his face mere inches from Aemond’s. His lilac eyes glimmer with the weight of something unspoken, the shadows of their shared history flickering there. He’s silent for a moment, and then, in a tone as sharp as Valyrian steel, he begins to speak. “You want flaws? I’m ruthless.”

“Love that about you.” Aemond’s response is immediate, his voice rich with amusement.

“I’m scandalous.” Daervon’s voice holds a hint of pride, daring Aemond to refute him.

“What’s life without a scandal or two?” Aemond counters, his thumb grazing the curve of Daervon’s spine.

“I’ve been scandalous my whole life, Aemond. Even my birth was a scandal. A filthy bastard, remember?” Daervon’s tone is colder now, a bitterness edging his words. The reminder of his parentage is something that weighs heavily, even in these private moments. A birth that marked him as unworthy in the eyes of many.

Aemond brushes the thought away like a trivial nuisance. “Matters me not.”

Daervon pauses, as if searching for something that might push Aemond away. “I’m stubborn as a mule.”

“So am I.” Aemond shrugs, tracing the line of Daervon’s jaw with his fingertips. His touch is soft, reverent, as though Daervon is something precious. “Tell me more. I want to hear all of it.”

Daervon exhales, his eyes closing as he lays his head back against Aemond’s chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat a steady reassurance. “There’s no book in these Seven Kingdoms I haven’t read.”

Aemond chuckles. “Some nerd you are.”

“I can be judgmental,” Daervon mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

Aemond hums, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You don’t think of it that way. You think you’re just perceptive, precise in attributing everyone’s deficiencies.”

Daervon lets out a soft, breathless laugh, and Aemond’s chest tightens at the sound. It’s a rare, fragile thing—one he’s come to cherish.

“You laugh because that’s what you tell yourself, isn’t it?” Aemond presses, his voice teasing, though there’s truth in his words.

“Sometimes I think you're the only one who truly knows me,” Daervon admits, his voice barely above a whisper, as though the confession might shatter in the air between them.

Aemond’s breath catches. His fingers still on Daervon’s back, holding him as if he could anchor him there forever. “I do,” he whispers, his voice trembling with a vulnerability he rarely allows himself to show. He tightens his hold on Daervon, pressing a kiss to his lover’s temple. “Stay with me tonight.”

Daervon lifts his head, his face softening, a warm smile lighting up his entire expression. “I’m not going anywhere, Aemond. Not tonight, not ever.”

Aemond nods, though his eye flickers with a quiet understanding of the dangers that surround them, of the chaos lurking just beyond the walls. For now, they can pretend it doesn’t exist.

They settle back into each other’s arms, bodies entwined beneath the sheets. The weight of those dreams lingers, creeping at the edges of Daervon's mind. He buries his face deeper into Aemond’s chest, allowing the steady rhythm of his lover’s heartbeat to drown out the memories of darkness that sometimes steal his sleep.

Aemond feels Daervon’s breathing slow, his weight sinking into him, but there’s a tension that remains just beneath the surface. Daervon always hides his nightmares well, but Aemond knows they plague him. He feels it in the way Daervon tenses in his sleep, the way his breath hitches when the dreams come. Aemond has asked before—so many times—but Daervon always brushes it off, claiming they are “just nightmares,” and that they mean nothing.

Aemond doesn’t believe him. But he’s learned not to press too hard, not to push Daervon further than he’s willing to go. He’s always been a silent guardian in the night, watching over him when sleep takes hold. Even without knowing the full weight of what haunts him, Aemond is always there, a steady presence amid the chaos.

“Sleep,” Aemond whispers, his voice soft, barely audible. “I’ll fight the bad dreams off if they come for you.”

Daervon hums in response, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips as he nestles deeper into Aemond’s embrace. As sleep begins to pull Daervon under, his thoughts linger on Aemond—the way his love is both fierce and tender, protective but never suffocating. In this moment, in this small cocoon they’ve built within the walls of Aemond’s bedchambers, Daervon feels safe.

But even in the warmth of Aemond’s embrace, Daervon knows the world outside is unforgiving. The love they share is fragile, dangerous in the eyes of others. His father’s disapproval, the whispers that already follow them, the looming threat of war—these things will not wait for them to enjoy their stolen moments forever.

Yet for now, Daervon lets it all fall away. The future can wait. The nightmares can wait. Because in this moment, with Aemond’s arms around him, the rest of the world fades into insignificance.

Aemond stays awake long after Daervon’s breathing evens out, his eye trained on the darkness beyond the window. The moon hangs high, casting a silver glow over their bodies, and though Aemond’s body is still, his mind races. He knows the challenges that lie ahead for them, the dangers that linger not just from Daervon’s father, but from all corners of their world.

He tightens his hold on Daervon, pressing his lips once more to his lover’s hair. Whatever comes, he will face it. He will protect Daervon, even from the things that dwell in the shadows of his mind.

“Sleep,” Aemond whispers again, more to himself than to Daervon. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

And with that, he closes his eye, finally allowing sleep to take him, trusting that for this night, at least, they are safe within each other’s arms.