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The silence in Aemond’s bedchamber is thick, broken only by the faint clinking of chains as he shifts, his wrists raw and bloodied from relentless attempts to break free. His breath comes in steady, slow inhales, eyes closed as he gathers himself, searching for some scrap of an escape plan in his mind. His thoughts are spinning, coiling around one another like snakes, but all of his schemes seem to collapse before they’re fully formed. He lets out a deep, frustrated sigh, tension settling back into his shoulders.

Then, the heavy double doors creak open. Daervon doesn't need to look; he knows the measured sound of those footsteps too well. His heart clenches even as his face remains expressionless, his eyes staying shut as he steels himself. "What is it this time?" His voice is weary, laced with irritation.

Aemond’s voice comes, low and thick with mocking amusement. "Oh, merely a husband checking on his beloved spouse,” he drawls, a trace of sarcasm shadowing his words.

Daervon’s face hardens, his stoicism a defiant mask as he finally opens his eyes, his expression unamused. "Do you think she will give up her crown to you willingly?" he asks, his voice edged with challenge, with a loyalty that refuses to waver even in chains.

Aemond’s expression tightens, but he doesn’t falter. “Then I’ll declare war,” he answers simply, his voice as sharp as a blade unsheathed.

Daervon’s eyes flash, his gaze burning with conviction. "Many want war. But I have seen it. I’ve seen the bodies piled high on battlefields, the orphans left starving in the cities. You don't want to lead people into that hell, into that darkness."

Aemond’s mouth curls into a faint smirk, though his gaze remains shadowed. “Sometimes,” he murmurs, “to find the light, we must first touch the darkness.”

Daervon’s gaze hardens, his voice dropping to a whisper as he stares at his husband, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “What do you know of darkness?” he mutters.

Before Aemond can reply, a knock resounds at the door, interrupting the charged silence between them. His gaze shifts sharply as the doors open, revealing Grand Maester Orwyle flanked by three guards. The maester carries a small liquid container in his hands, his expression shadowed with unease.

“It is ready,” Orwyle announces quietly, holding the container out before him as though it might bite.

Aemond’s expression softens, but there’s a sadness in his gaze that betrays a hint of regret as he steps forward. He reaches out, gently brushing his hand over Daervon’s head, his touch lingering with an affection that bleeds into his tone. “I love you,” he murmurs, the words thick with a quiet desperation. “Bear it, until the end of the coronation. I swear, this will all be over soon.”

Daervon’s heart sinks as the guards close in around him, their hands gripping his arms and forcing him back down the bed. Confusion quickly turns to suspicion, his body tensing as he struggles, a sense of dread coiling in his stomach. He sees Orwyle open the lid of the container, and then the scent hits him—strong, sweet, cloying, like honey left too long in the sun. The air becomes thick with it, and Daervon’s eyes widen as recognition dawns.

The memory is sudden, sharp, of a journey with Baela to Zhuyin, where she sought a flower that only blooms in the dead of winter. She’d been fascinated by poisons and their antidotes since they were young, always eager to learn every subtle art of the craft, collecting books and teachings from maesters. She was the one to tell him about the Zhuyin Blackbell flower, and he’d been drawn in by the scent, that same sweet, honey-like fragrance that now fills the room. It was beautiful—deceptive. But he remembers what Baela had said, the way her tone had turned dark as she told him about the deadly poison it produced: Nightshade Veil.

The name alone is chilling, for the flower’s poison is a slow death. It begins by draining the strength of its victim, leaving them weak, defenseless. And then the hallucinations begin, twisting reality into nightmares, until death finally claims them if the antidote does not come in time. Painful, excruciating. A death he wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

Realization strikes him like ice, his pulse roaring in his ears. His eyes fly to Aemond, panic consuming him as he thrashes against the guards. “Aemond, no! Please!” His voice cracks, desperation seeping into every word. “Please, don’t. I beg of you!”

But Aemond’s face is impassive, a mask slipping into place to hide the tumult beneath. He gestures to Orwyle, who steps forward with grim determination. Daervon’s struggles only intensify, his muscles straining against the unyielding grip of the guards as Orwyle tilts his head back, forcing the liquid down his throat. The taste is bitter, metallic, and he chokes as he’s made to swallow it, his strength ebbing almost immediately. He can feel it spreading through him, like fire and ice weaving through his veins.

Aemond watches, his eye glistening, a lone tear slipping down his cheek as Daervon’s resistance fades. His voice is quiet, almost inaudible, as though speaking to himself. “Forgive me,” he whispers, his gaze never leaving Daervon’s.

When it’s over, Daervon is left gasping, trembling as the poison takes hold. The guards release him, and he slumps back, too shocked, too weakened to move. His body feels heavy, distant, as if he is sinking into darkness. The guards and the maester withdraw, leaving the two of them alone, the silence pressing in like a weight.

Aemond moves closer, gently unlocking the chains that bind Daervon to the bed. His fingers are tender, careful as they release Daervon’s wrists, his touch lingering. But Daervon’s eyes burn with a bitterness that cuts deeper than any blade. “I hate you,” he rasps, each word laced with venom, his voice rough from the strain.

“Hate me, then,” Aemond breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze flickers with a twisted sense of resolve, his hand moving to brush a tear from Daervon’s cheek. “Break yourself into a thousand pieces, and deny me each and every one of them.” His hand falls away, his gaze distant and haunted. “Because I am never letting you go.”

Daervon lets out a dry, hollow chuckle, his face pale and drawn, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he stares into the twisted reality binding them both. The poison pulls at his strength, dragging him under, but his spirit clings to that last ember of defiance, a spark of loyalty that refuses to die.

Aemond stands, his face a mask of stoic resolve as he steps back. He forces himself to look away, to keep moving, guilt clawing at his heart with every step. It must be done, he tells himself, a bitter mantra that does little to soothe the weight pressing down on him. As he leaves, he orders the maids to prepare Daervon for the coronation, each word feeling like ash on his tongue.

In the hallway, Criston Cole falls into step beside him, his expression unreadable. “Is it wise to poison your beloved, my prince?” he asks quietly, his voice careful, but his loyalty evident in every word.

Aemond’s face remains impassive, though a flicker of pain crosses his eye. “Better this way,” he replies, his voice cold but resolute. “Rhaenyra already has her claws in him, dug deep.”

Criston nods, his gaze steady. “Please don’t forget how hard this journey has been,” he murmurs, his loyalty to Aemond unwavering even as they walk through the shadowed corridors. The words carry a reminder, a silent assurance, but Aemond only stares ahead, his mind a storm of ambition and regret, his steps carrying him farther from the man he loves—and the throne he is willing to sacrifice everything to claim.