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The streets of King's Landing are thick with the tang of dust and desperation, and Daervon shifts uneasily in his seat on the chariot. The rumbling roads, even in their bumpy discomfort, pale in comparison to the agitation clawing at his insides. He regrets leaving Gaelithox behind. The beast’s absence feels like a lost shadow, a severed tie to his power and a constant reminder of his choice to board a ship in haste for his grandfather’s sake.

“Gods be damned,” Daervon mutters under his breath. “If only I’d brought him…”

Beside him, Vidor Silvercrown remains a stony figure, face unreadable as the nephew continues to whine. His patience has frayed, his lips set in a firm line as he tunes out Daervon’s incessant fretting.

But as the chariot finally creaks and jerks to a halt outside the Red Keep, Vidor sighs—a deep, weary release. Perhaps now he might find a moment’s peace. Daervon, with any luck, will be distracted by his husband, and Vidor can steal a breath. Yet his brief moment of relief evaporates as the massive double gates remain closed, barring their entrance.

“Turn around,” comes a guard’s command, his stance implacable. “The Keep is under strict orders—no entry or exit permitted.”

Daervon bristles at the tone, but Vidor cuts in before the young man’s irritation boils over. “For what reason?” he asks, voice tempered, eyes narrowing.

“None you need know,” the guard replies, his response clipped.

As the chariot wheels grind into motion, turning them away, Daervon’s gaze lingers on the gates with a flicker of suspicion. “Something is very wrong.”

Vidor’s eyes meet his nephew’s, a rare show of mutual understanding. “I know someone who may offer answers,” he says finally.

“Then take me to them,” Daervon replies, his tone brooking no argument.

Their path winds them deeper into Flea Bottom, where the clamor of people and the thick press of bodies huddle along grimy streets. Just ahead, two hooded figures emerge, half-hidden beneath the cloak of anonymity, but Daervon recognizes the stance and stride with a familiarity he would know in any crowd. It is Aemond, his husband, weaving hurriedly between the crowd alongside the scowling Criston Cole. They are searching—desperately so—for someone or something. But as Daervon’s focus sharpens, the throng of people swallows Aemond’s form from view. His heart clenches. What could they possibly be hunting with such urgency?

Vidor’s brisk pace pulls him from his thoughts. They arrive at a brothel, the building sagging with the weight of its secrets. Daervon takes in the shabby facade, and a glint of amusement sparks in his eyes. He turns to his uncle, a mocking smile dancing on his lips.

“Didn’t know you frequented such places, Uncle.”

Vidor’s glare is icy, unimpressed. Without a word, he steps inside, ignoring Daervon’s smirk. He approaches one of the women and presses a pouch of gold into her palm, his voice low as he requests an audience with the White Worm. Moments later, they are led into a dim room where shadows flicker and pool around the edges, and the warm glow of firelight reveals a figure by the hearth.

Lady Mysaria turns as they enter, her gaze sliding over Vidor and landing on Daervon. Recognition dawns in her expression, softening with a strange mixture of fondness and nostalgia. She regards the young Targaryen, a faint, knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“You have your mother’s face,” she observes, her tone laced with a warmth she rarely extends. “And your father’s grace.”

Daervon’s lips twitch. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She inclines her head, but the smile fades slightly, replaced by something colder. “Your mother was… dear to me,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “A friend like no other. As for your father… he was unworthy of her heart.”

Vidor clears his throat, shifting the focus back to the present. “We aren’t here to relive the past,” he mutters, pressing another pouch into Mysaria’s waiting hand. “We need information.”

She glances down at the offering, then back up, eyes sharp. “So… what do you seek?”

“The Red Keep,” Vidor begins, “has barred all entry. We were turned away by the guard. What’s happened?”

Mysaria’s smile fades, her expression now carrying a faint sorrow. “The King has perished,” she whispers. “And Otto Hightower moves quickly to secure the throne—for his grandson.”

Daervon’s chest tightens, a mix of anger and disbelief racing through him. He turns sharply to Vidor, then back to Mysaria. “What of Princess Rhaenyra?” he demands, voice almost a snarl. “Is her crown truly being stolen?”

“They search for something… or rather, someone,” Mysaria replies, a bitter twist to her words. “The head they plan to crown.”

Realization washes over Daervon, cold and unforgiving. “Aegon,” he murmurs.

They exit into the streets with a new purpose, heading toward the Grand Sept. As they walk, Daervon’s face is stormy, and he speaks through clenched teeth. “Grandsire was right. War is inevitable.”

“Then you’ll have to choose your side, sooner or later,” Vidor replies, his voice hard but certain.

“My loyalty lies with the true heir,” Daervon retorts.

Vidor’s gaze sharpens, studying Daervon. “What do you intend to do?”

Daervon’s jaw sets, his eyes cold. “There won’t be a coronation if they don’t have the head to crown.”

Vidor raises a brow. “So… we’re to kill the prince?”

Daervon’s lips twist with dark resolve. “No. We’ll abduct him.”

They continue through the winding streets until they spot Aemond and Criston again, wrestling with a disheveled Aegon who appears to be more intent on escape than compliance. As Aemond wrestles his brother to the ground, Aegon sobs, struggling against the grim reality closing in around him.

“Let me go, brother!” he chokes out. “I don’t want this. I have no taste for duty. I am not suited to rule!”

Aemond’s expression remains cold as he tightens his grip, holding his brother firmly. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

Daervon and Vidor step forward, their blades drawn as they make their presence known. Daervon’s voice rings out, icy with restrained disdain.

“I don’t appreciate bullying,” he calls. “Let the poor lad be.”

Aemond’s gaze snaps up, and a rare, fleeting warmth touches his eyes as he takes in the sight of his husband. “Daervon,” he breathes, his voice laced with something dangerously close to reverence.

Daervon inclines his head, his tone light but edged with steel. “We meet again, husband.”

Beside him, Criston stares in disbelief, his shock palpable. “What?” he demands, looking between them, utterly baffled. “What have you done?”

Aemond’s smirk sharpens, a wicked gleam in his eye. “The privileges of marriage no longer extend to me. I’m already married.”

Criston’s expression twists in disbelief, his tone verging on outrage. “This is absurd!”

Seizing his chance, Aegon, desperate for refuge, bites into Aemond’s hand, breaking free and stumbling toward his ‘saviors.’

Criston draws his sword, glaring at Daervon with a sneer. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll hand over Prince Aegon and leave now.”

Daervon’s smile is sharp as a blade. “If you knew what was good for you, you’d shut the fuck up.”

Criston’s sneer deepens. “Have it your way. I bested your father in swordsmanship once. I can do it again.”

“Good,” Daervon replies coolly, “because I am not my father.”

The clash is swift and brutal, blades flashing as Daervon and Criston battle in the dusty street. The young Targaryen’s prowess is undeniable, his movements lethal and precise as he overpowers the seasoned knight with a few decisive blows. Criston, winded and wounded, falls back, rage and humiliation etched across his face.

As the clash dies down, Daervon looks to Vidor, issuing his command with authority. “Take Aegon to safety. This is an order.”

Vidor hesitates, his loyalty and love for his nephew weighing heavily in his gaze. “Young master…”

“Go!” Daervon barks, his eyes locked onto Aemond’s. “I will find you. He won’t let me die.”

Vidor looks between them for another heartbeat before he grips Aegon’s arm, pulling him into the crowd and away from the confrontation.

Aemond's smirk is taunting, almost mocking. “You underestimate me, husband,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on Daervon with an intensity that borders on obsession. There’s a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes as he watches Aegon disappear into the crowded streets under Vidor’s protection, a figure Aemond has no interest in pursuing. All his attention belongs here, on the man before him.

“I never have,” Daervon retorts, the words laced with barely contained fury. His voice is low, controlled, but his eyes burn with defiance as he steps closer, hand gripping the hilt of the Soul Reaper, the Valyrian blade glinting ominously. “But I must admit, it’s bold of you to think I’ll let you steal Rhaenyra’s crown.”

Aemond lets out a derisive scoff, shaking his head in contempt as he remains motionless, the very image of arrogance and cold resolve. “So, still adamant about defending the whore of Dragonstone,” he sneers, yet his voice holds a note of something deeper, a raw edge that betrays his resentment and his need for Daervon to stand with him, not against him.

Daervon’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I do love you, Aemond,” he says, and there’s a pained softness to the words. But the look in his eyes sharpens like tempered steel. “But to me, you’re more than just the man I love—you’re the dream I’ve been chasing, the dream I’ve fought my whole life for. And if you’re going to turn into a nightmare, then I will end you.” He steps closer, the Soul Reaper raised ever so slightly, a threat in its very presence.

For a heartbeat, something shifts in Aemond's expression, something raw and startlingly vulnerable. It’s as if he’s seeing Daervon anew, the reason for his fierce attraction finally dawning on him. He leans forward, eyes dark and unyielding, a smirk barely gracing his lips. “Go on, then,” he whispers, voice low and dangerous, a challenge in every syllable. “End me.”

Daervon’s face contorts, a whirlwind of emotions flickering across it. Anger, hurt, and a deep, desperate love that he wishes he could banish but can’t. Slowly, he lowers his sword, his resolve cracking. “No,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m through doing what I’m told.”

He turns his back on Aemond, his body tense, as if every instinct is screaming at him to stay alert, to not let his guard down. But the lapse is only for a moment—and in that single, damning second, Aemond sees his chance. Swift as a viper, he strikes, the hilt of his dagger crashing down against Daervon’s head, and he watches as his husband collapses into unconsciousness.

Aemond’s breath catches as he kneels beside Daervon, the thrill of victory mingling with something far more dangerous—a fierce, possessive need that roars to life as he takes Daervon’s form into his arms. He pauses, drawing in the familiar, intoxicating scent he longed for, and a soft sigh escapes his lips. How he has missed this, missed him.

A voice breaks the moment. “Prince Aegon?” Ser Criston Cole is looking around, searching desperately for the firstborn son of the late King.

Aemond’s face hardens, any trace of tenderness vanishing, replaced by the same icy calculation he is known for. “Leave him to be,” he says, his voice emotionless, eyes never leaving Daervon’s unconscious form. “I have what I wanted right here.” He pauses, a calculating gleam in his eye. “Aegon is dead. I am next in line to the throne. Help me ascend the Iron Throne, Ser Criston.”

Cole hesitates, the weight of Aemond’s words sinking in, his loyalty tested. He has been bound to duty and honor all his life, to the very idea of servitude to the throne, but this moment is different. Aemond’s ambition is raw, unbridled—a cold fire that could either blaze a path to victory or consume them all in its reckless fury. Cole’s gaze shifts, lingering on Daervon’s prone form in Aemond’s arms, and for a moment, doubt flickers in his eyes. But he knows his place, his oath. Finally, he nods, a resigned acceptance settling over him. “I’ll get a ride.”

The chariot lurches forward through the chaotic streets of Flea Bottom, the rough jolts unnoticed by Aemond, who is lost in his own dark thoughts, his gaze fixed on his husband. Daervon’s head rests on his shoulder, his unconscious form nestled against him in a way that feels achingly familiar. Aemond’s arms tighten around Daervon protectively, possessively, as if he alone has the right to guard this man, to shield him from everything—even Daervon’s own loyalties.

As the chariot bounces over the uneven stones, Aemond intertwines their fingers, an affectionate gesture that borders on reverence. His eyes linger on the ring on Daervon’s finger, his ring, and a faint, triumphant smile curves his lips. Gently, he leans forward and presses a lingering kiss to Daervon’s brow, the act laced with a possessive tenderness.

“You will be the death of me,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper, filled with an almost painful adoration. “But what a lovely way to go.”

In that moment, Aemond feels something he has longed for, something he has fought for and claimed—a fierce, unyielding satisfaction. He holds his beloved close, Daervon and the Iron Throne both now within his grasp. He needs nothing else; he asks for nothing else.