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The bedchamber of Dragonstone is dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight seeping through the heavy curtains and casting pale shadows over the entwined figures on the bed. Aemond and Daervon lie nestled in each other’s arms, their breaths mingling as they exchange quiet words, the kind only lovers share in the intimacy of night. The warmth of the furs draped over them is nothing compared to the warmth they find in one another's embrace.

The honeymoon of the newly wedded Targaryens is nothing short of bliss, a stolen moment of joy and passion. Yet, they both know it cannot last. The shadows of their family's suspicions grow ever nearer, threatening to unravel the beautiful dream they are living. For now, though, they cling to it, unwilling to wake from the fleeting enchantment that binds them.

Aemond runs a hand lightly over Daervon’s chest, tracing invisible patterns against his skin. His voice is soft, barely above a murmur, yet brimming with a depth of emotion that has always come so naturally to him when they are alone. A simple Valyrian steel ring, unadorned and stark against his finger, catches the faint glow of candlelight as he speaks. "In the past, I always felt that being alone forever wouldn’t matter much to me," he admits, his tone contemplative. "That was until I met you. You made me realize that loving someone and being loved... it’s such a happy thing. Thank you for giving me so much love."

"Always," Daervon responds, his voice a gentle promise. He takes Aemond's hand into his own, pressing a tender kiss against his knuckles. The simple act speaks of devotion, of a love that runs deeper than words could ever convey.

Aemond’s gaze softens, though there is a hint of something else, an unspoken question lingering in the air between them. "No matter who I am or what I become," he breathes, "will you always love me?"

The query settles over Daervon like a weight, but he does not hesitate. "I'll do," he answers, and there is no need for embellishment; the sincerity in his tone says more than any oath or vow.

Their lips meet, a sweet and lingering kiss that speaks of gratitude and love and all the things they cannot always put into words. Daervon deepens it slowly, savoring the taste of his husband, feeling the way Aemond melts against him. What begins as tender and affectionate soon grows into something fiercer, as if both men are desperately clinging to this moment, knowing it will soon be stolen away by duty and the obligations of their respective families.

Daervon’s hands slide up Aemond's back as he shifts above him, pinning him gently against the bed. Their kisses grow more fervent, a heated exchange that leaves neither of them breathless by choice, but by sheer necessity. He feels Aemond’s fingers weave into his hair, clutching at the strands with a desire that is nearly primal.

Daervon tears his lips away, his breath coming hard and fast. He begins to trail kisses down Aemond's neck, taking care at first to avoid marking the fair skin, but the temptation is too great. The moment his lips brush against the soft spot beneath Aemond’s jaw, he feels his husband shudder beneath him. It’s an invitation Daervon cannot resist. He sinks his teeth lightly into the flesh and then soothes the faint sting with his tongue.

Aemond’s sharp intake of breath is a symphony to Daervon's ears, and when a low moan slips from Aemond’s lips, it spurs him on. "You like that, husband?" Daervon murmurs, his voice a husky rasp. He nips lightly at Aemond's earlobe, earning another moan in response.

But then, a knock interrupts them. It’s loud, insistent, shattering the bubble of intimacy that had surrounded them. Daervon lets out a sigh of frustration, and Aemond's fingers reluctantly release their grip in his hair.

Daervon rolls off his husband and strides to the door with a pair of pants on, his irritation barely concealed. When he opens it, he finds Vidor standing there, his expression somber.

"What is this, uncle?" Daervon asks, his voice laced with annoyance.

"Your grandfather, Lord Jamie Silvercrown, is ill," Vidor says, his tone formal as ever. "He requests your presence."

Daervon pauses, the announcement hitting him with a wave of indifference rather than concern. "For what?" he asks, a hint of skepticism creeping into his voice.

"Your presence has been requested," Vidor repeats with a sigh. His gaze does not waver, though there is a faint edge of urgency in his eyes.

"Then you might tell him your urgency was also wholly ignored," Daervon snaps, his irritation spilling over as he slams the door shut.

Turning back to the bed, he sees Aemond sitting up, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Daervon returns to his side and sinks onto the mattress, burying his head into the pillow, trying to shut out the world outside their chamber.

Aemond’s voice is steady, but there is an underlying note of concern. "Visit with your grandfather."

"Not you too," Daervon groans, his words muffled by the pillow.

“If your grandfather is indeed gravely ill, then you must visit him," Aemond insists gently. "Better to regret having done so than it would be to regret not doing it. No matter your feelings for him."

Daervon lifts his head, his gaze meeting Aemond's. He searches his husband’s face, his features sharp in the pale moonlight. There is a wisdom in Aemond’s eye, a clarity that makes Daervon pause. "Perhaps you should consider your own advice and visit your father, my prince."

A small, wry smile tugs at the corner of Aemond’s lips. "A deal it is then."

In the following dawn, the two men stand on the rocky coast of Dragonstone. The sea rages against the jagged cliffs, the wind carrying the salt-laden air that stings their faces. The sky is streaked with deep reds and purples, as if dawn itself mourns their impending parting. Aemond’s hand rests on Daervon’s shoulder, his grip firm, reluctant to let go. The cries of distant gulls mingle with the ceaseless roar of the waves below, filling the heavy silence between them.

Daervon's voice is low, barely rising above the sound of the sea. “I will come to you soon, to King's Landing,” he promises, his forehead resting against Aemond's. “This will not be a long separation.” His fingers curl into the back of Aemond’s neck, as if to keep them tethered to this moment for a little while longer.

Aemond’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “Then I shall hold you to your word,” he replies, a rare softness in his tone that tempers his usual iron. He cups Daervon’s face, his thumb grazing over his cheek as he leans in to kiss him. It starts as a tender press of lips, a meeting that speaks of longing and the fears left unspoken, but it soon deepens into something more fervent. The kiss grows fierce, as if through sheer intensity they might delay the inevitable, stave off the parting that looms so near.

When they finally break apart, their breaths come ragged, their foreheads still pressed together as though neither can bear to sever the connection. Aemond lifts his hand and, with a slow, deliberate movement, slides his simple Valyrian steel ring from his own finger and places it onto Daervon’s, his fingers warm and sure against his husband’s hand.

“Return this to me safely,” Aemond murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with a rare tenderness. “And know that I’ll be waiting.”

Daervon’s hand remains on Aemond’s shoulder, his touch lingering even as his husband steps back toward Vhagar. The dragon waits by the water’s edge, her great wings folded and her molten gold eyes glimmering in the first light of day.

Daervon watches as Aemond climbs onto Vhagar’s back, a hollow ache tightening in his chest with each step his husband takes away from him. The ancient dragon lets out a deep rumble, her voice vibrating through the air like distant thunder. As Vhagar ascends, her wings beat against the wind, stirring gusts that sweep across the rocky shore, rustling Daervon's hair. He follows the dark silhouette of dragon and rider as they rise higher and higher, disappearing into the brightening sky.

He stands there long after Aemond has faded from view, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sea meets the sky, now awash in golden light. The briny air fills his lungs, and the morning chill settles deep in his bones.

Footsteps crunch on the pebbled shore behind him, and Daervon glances over to find Vidor standing beside him. His uncle’s expression is not without sympathy, though his voice carries its usual pragmatic edge.

“Still watching him fly away?” Vidor asks, his tone light, though understanding colors his gaze.

“Just making sure he’s gone,” Daervon replies, unable to keep the longing from his voice.

Vidor nods, then gestures toward the sea. “We should take a ship to the Silverlands,” he suggests, his words laden with the weight of duty. “It will be a long journey, and there are matters that must be settled along the way.”

Daervon’s gaze drifts to the endless waves, his thoughts wandering toward the uncertainties awaiting him. The stern face of his grandfather, Lord Jamie Silvercrown, looms in his mind—a man with whom his relationship has always been strained. “You seem eager to see him,” Daervon remarks dryly, his reluctance barely masked.

“I respect your grandfather, even if you do not,” Vidor replies, his tone even. “He may be stern, but there is wisdom in his ways.”

Daervon sighs, his eyes tracing the ceaseless motion of the ocean. “He has always been more concerned with the future of his house than with me,” he mutters. “I suppose that is his idea of wisdom.”

“Your grandfather is a proud man,” Vidor acknowledges. “But he loves his family, even if he shows it poorly.”

Daervon says nothing, his gaze still fixed on the deep sea where it stretches endlessly toward the unknown. Yet, as he breathes in the briny air and feels the wind’s sting, he clings to a sliver of hope—that perhaps, in returning to the Silverlands, he might find some way to bridge the distance between him and Lord Jamie Silvercrown.

With a final glance at the sky where Vhagar had flown, Daervon steels himself, drawing in a deep breath. He will do this for Aemond, who always seems to see beyond his stubbornness. It is a small comfort to imagine his husband's arms around him once more, waiting at the end of this journey.

And so, with his uncle at his side, Daervon turns toward the castle, its stone walls rising above the cliffs like a silent sentinel. Together, they set their course for the uncertain path ahead, the wind at their backs and the sea calling them onward.