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The early morning air is filled with the muffled sound of footsteps as Alicent and Otto rush through the dimly lit corridors. Shadows cling to every wall, casting uneasy shapes as they approach Aemond's chambers, their expressions a mix of concern and purpose. Alicent clutches the fabric of her skirts tightly, her breaths coming in uneven gasps, while Otto’s face remains a stony mask, betraying only a glint of calculation in his eyes. The urgent question weighs heavy on them: where is Aegon?

When they burst into the bedchamber, the sight that meets them is not the chaotic, drunken mess they had come to expect from Aegon. Instead, they find Aemond’s room eerily quiet, with only the dim light filtering through the curtains casting a serene glow over the occupants. In place of Aegon lies another figure on the bed—a form unmistakably not their missing prince. It is Daervon, Targaryen raven hair splayed across the pillow, his face pale, peaceful, and—bound by chains at his wrists.

Ser Criston Cole stands by the bedside, an unreadable expression on his face, though his gaze darts quickly to Otto and Alicent, who share a look of confusion and shock.

Alicent stares in horror. “Where is Prince Aegon?” she demands, her voice trembling with an edge of fear.

Cole hesitates for the briefest of moments before lowering his gaze. “Aegon…” he begins carefully, his voice laden with gravity. “He was set upon by a group of bandits in Flea Bottom. By the time we got there, there wasn’t a body left to retrieve.”

Alicent’s gasp fills the room, and her hand flies to her mouth as she stumbles back, grief swelling in her chest. Her son—her firstborn. Aegon, the one she had shielded and sacrificed for, the one for whom she had ignored countless wrongs, gone without even a body to mourn. She sinks into the nearest chair, her face ashen, her lips trembling as tears begin to flow. Otto, standing close behind her, places a steadying hand on her shoulder, his expression briefly softening as he watches his daughter’s anguish. But the sympathy lasts only a moment; beneath it, ambition gleams.

Otto straightens and fixes his gaze on Aemond, whose stance by the bed is tall and still, observing the scene with a quiet intensity. “Aemond,” Otto’s voice is steely, resolute. “This changes nothing. Aegon may be gone, but the throne remains. You must take his place, the next best choice. There is no time to waste.”

A silent exchange passes between Otto and Aemond—one of unspoken understanding and shared ambition. Otto nods, turning away to prepare for the coronation, his mind already plotting every move with ruthless efficiency. Ser Criston Cole follows after the Lord hand in no time.

Left in the room with Aemond, Alicent stares at him, her eyes still glistening with tears. “Daemon will rain dragonfire upon us if he learns his son is kept hostage here,” she says, voice taut with dread.

Aemond’s jaw clenches, his gaze flickering to Daervon’s unconscious form on the bed, bound and vulnerable. “Daervon is no hostage,” he replies firmly, though his voice softens in a way Alicent rarely hears. “Even if he does not agree with us.”

“Then why is he here?” Alicent asks, her voice rising, exasperation woven into her grief.

Aemond gives a bitter smile. “If you knew me at all, Mother,” he replies, “you’d already know the answer.” His eyes flash with a fierce, determined light. “I want to announce it to everyone, openly. Daervon Targaryen is my husband. We will rule the Seven Kingdoms as one.”

Alicent recoils, her face twisting in horror. “Husband? Aemond, this is against the Faith of the Seven. Such a bond—it’s unforgivable.”

“So is betrayal.” Aemond’s gaze is unyielding, challenging her with a simmering resentment. “Or did your Seven gods teach you otherwise?”

Alicent shakes her head, trying to compose herself. “Your father changed his mind,” she says, voice low and pleading.

“Oh,” Aemond laughs softly, bitterly. “He had twenty years to name Aegon his heir, and he never did. He stood by Rhaenyra’s claim until his last breath.”

“And yet,” Alicent insists, “with his final breath, he whispered to me that Aegon should take his place on the throne.”

Aemond’s expression darkens, his skepticism evident. “Do not toy with me, Mother.”

Her gaze sharpens, and she scoffs before turning to leave. “Believe what you will,” she retorts, unwilling to indulge further in this bitter exchange.

As the door clicks shut behind her, the quiet fills the room once more, but now it is charged with tension. Daervon stirs slowly, the softness of the bed beneath him, the warmth of the blankets, the comfort he hadn’t realized he longed for. His eyes flutter closed again as the haze of sleep holds him, but the weight of his situation soon crashes down upon him. The memories—the harsh reality—rushes back like a flood. He must alert Rhaenyra, must get word to her before it’s too late.

His head spins, and he tries to sit up, but a sudden jolt pulls him back, his wrists held down by cold, unyielding chains fastened to the bedposts. "Seven hells," he mutters, straining against the restraints. His wrists ache, already raw from his earlier struggles, but he yanks harder, desperate to break free.

"Careful," Aemond’s voice cuts through the silence, calm and laced with dark amusement. "Pulling at those chains will only hurt you, husband."

Daervon’s head whips around, his gaze landing on Aemond, who stands by the door, watching him. A flicker of satisfaction dances in Aemond’s one good eye, a glint that makes Daervon’s blood run cold.

"Unchain me, then," Daervon demands, keeping his voice steady, though every muscle in his body is taut, prepared for a fight.

Aemond steps closer, his gaze sliding over Daervon in a slow, possessive sweep. "I prefer to see you this way," he murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Chained to my bed. Quite a sight."

Daervon’s voice is dry with sarcasm, but there is a hint of bitterness. "I wasn’t aware that you fancied things like this."

Aemond’s gaze darkens, but the edge of amusement never leaves. “Then you didn’t know me well.”

"Perhaps not," Daervon replies, but the defiance in his eyes remains, unyielding. He shifts, the chains clinking with his movement, testing their limits.

Silence hangs in the room, thick and suffocating. Daervon’s chest rises and falls with each breath as he watches Aemond, searching his face for something—anything—that might explain this. “Why all this?” he asks, his voice strained, his eyes desperate. “Aegon is dead. What’s the point of all this?”

Aemond’s face hardens, and his jaw clenches. “Just because Aegon is gone doesn’t mean everything is over,” he says, his tone cold, his eyes filled with an obsession Daervon can’t quite place. “I will take what is mine.”

The realization hits Daervon like a blow to the chest. “You would make a play for the Iron Throne?” he asks, his voice rising in disbelief. “It was never yours to begin with.”

Aemond’s expression doesn’t change. “I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And I will.” His voice is firm, filled with unshakable conviction. “Stand by me.”

“I will not,” Daervon responds, his voice hard.

Aemond’s smile falters for just a second before returning, a cruel smirk. “So perilously direct,” he murmurs, his voice rich with something darker. “As King, I could command it.”

Daervon scoffs, trying to tug at the chains again. “If I were one of your subjects,” he spits.

Aemond shrugs, his face taking on a sinister smile. “I could torture you slowly into compliance.”

Daervon’s eyes flash with defiance. “You will do as you wish. I’m not for turning.”

Aemond leans in closer, his voice dropping to a soft, almost teasing whisper. “Oh, come now. I will name you my King Consort.”

Daervon’s laughter is bitter, raw. “King Consort, you say?” He scoffs. “What would your mother have to say about this reunion? Imagine the terror she’d feel. Praying to her Seven Gods, calling upon them to save her precious son from the depths of his unforgivable sins.”

Aemond’s face hardens, the smugness draining from it. “I don’t give a shit about what she thinks of us.”

“Then what will your subjects think of their queer king?” Daervon asks, his voice laced with sharp sarcasm.

Aemond shrugs again, his gaze unwavering. “I do not see an issue. I am the Dragon. My word is truth and law. If Rhaenyra can twist power to suit her will, why should I not do the same?”

Daervon’s face softens, desperation slipping into his tone. "Then come with me, Aemond. Leave all of this behind. In Pentos, we could be free—free to live as we are." His voice drops, pleading. "It’s me or the throne, husband. You cannot have both."

Aemond’s gaze darkens, a shadow crossing over his face. "I can have both if I am greedy enough."

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew,” Daervon warns, his voice laced with sorrow. “Greed is never a good trait for a king. Your greed is going to kill us all.”

Aemond steps closer, his gaze fierce. “We will rule together as one. Nothing else matters.”

The realization hits Daervon like a blade. “You only want me as a weapon. A shield to secure your so called 'claim' to the iron throne.” His voice hardens, his eyes flashing with rage. “Unchain me.”

Aemond shakes his head. “No.”

Daervon softens, though the plea in his eyes is defiant. “I’ll behave. You have my word.”

Aemond studies him for a long moment, and Daervon’s expression falters falls, seeing the resolution etched in his husband’s gaze. “Now you don’t trust me?” Daervon asks, hurt flickering in his eyes.

Aemond’s voice softens, genuine affection seeping through. "I trust you, husband. More than anyone in this godsforsaken world. More than myself."

Daervon’s gaze is dark with defiance as he pulls against the iron chains once more, gritting his teeth, his wrists raw and bruised. He breathes heavily, the edges of his resolve fraying under the weight of Aemond’s will. “Yet you cage me like an animal,” he seethes, his voice a low, biting whisper. “A bird cannot love freely when caged.”

Aemond’s jaw clenches as he steps closer, the candlelight casting harsh shadows across his sharp features. "I don’t trust your blind loyalty to my half-sister," he says, his tone as controlled as it is cold. "If you swear fealty to her, you stand against me.”

"If you wish to usurp Rhaenyra's crown, know this—I will never be at your side.” Daervon’s voice is thick with conviction. “You'll have to kill me. So do it, and be done with it.”

Aemond’s lips twist into a humorless smile, his eye gleaming with a possessive glint. "I want you alive," he murmurs, amused by the fire in Daervon’s eyes, a flame that both defies and binds him. There is a twisted satisfaction in the way Daervon fights him, a reminder of the fierce fire that first drew him in.

Frustrated and enraged, Daervon throws his weight against the chains, a violent and futile attempt. “Let me out, you one eyed cunt of a Hightower!” he spits, pulling until his wrists burn with fresh pain, his skin breaking and blood beading along the bruises.

Aemond’s face hardens, the insult digging deep. “Now, that is not how you speak to your husband, bastard.” His tone is venomous, wounded pride flashing through his usually controlled demeanor. He steps back, taking in Daervon’s defiance, savoring it, and yet resenting it.

After a moment, Daervon’s strength wanes, and he slumps back, the weight of the chains pressing down on him as he finally relents. His breathing is shallow, each breath laced with the sting of defeat. His voice drops, rough and weary. “How long do you plan to keep me like this?” he asks, almost a whisper, his tone resigned yet simmering with underlying resentment.

Aemond’s gaze softens, but only for a heartbeat, before his resolve returns. “Until you bend the knee,” he replies with quiet authority. “And until you accept your role as my King Consort.”

Daervon’s eyes flash with renewed fury. “And if that day never comes?”

Aemond’s expression is unwavering, a possessive gleam lighting up his eye. “As long as I have you, I worry for nothing,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing along Daervon’s jaw as he leans down. His voice drops to a fierce whisper, meant only for Daervon’s ears. “We have always been meant to burn together as our destiny is written in fire and blood.”

Daervon’s face hardens as Aemond steps away, his lilac eyes tracking his every move with a mix of anger and betrayal. The moment the door closes behind him, Daervon’s body tenses, his desperation boiling over. He glances around, looking for anything he could use to break free. Ignoring the pain radiating from his bruised wrists, he pulls against the chains again, harder this time, until blood begins to stain the iron. He cannot let Aemond bind him to this fate; he must escape. Rhaenyra must be warned before it’s too late.

Outside the bedchambers, Aemond finds Criston Cole waiting for him. The knight inclines his head in acknowledgment, his expression unreadable.

“How does he fare, my prince?” Criston asks, though Aemond’s tense demeanor is enough to answer his question.

Aemond shakes his head slightly, frustration flickering in his gaze. He knows his husband will never stand beside him willingly.

“Like father, like son,” Criston comments, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “Impulsive to its peak.”

Aemond’s eye sharpens, a deadly threat lurking beneath his calm exterior. “Daervon is my husband,” he growls. “You will speak of him with respect, Ser Criston, or I’ll cut out your tongue myself.”

Criston quickly bows his head. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he murmurs. “It’s just… no king before has ever taken a man as husband.”

Aemond’s expression remains stoic, yet there’s an unyielding determination in his gaze. “Then I will be the first,” he states, his voice like steel.

Criston regards him carefully, a trace of concern in his gaze. “There are so many women and men in this world. Why do you fixate on him?”

Aemond’s eye darkens, a touch of obsession burning within, his voice almost a whisper. “Yes,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Why does it have to be him?”

Criston’s brows knit together. “How will you take him to the coronation? He’ll try to flee at the first chance.”

Aemond's eyes narrow, his voice filled with quiet, dangerous resolve. “If he wants to fly away, I will break his wings.” he glances down the hall, his tone as cold and unyielding as iron. “Now, fetch the maester.”