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As the door creaks closed behind the last maid, Daervon takes a long breath, his head light, body aching, and the taste of bile still bitter in his throat. The room is unnervingly silent, and he scans the bedchamber, his gaze falling to where his dagger and Soul Reaper lie discarded on the settee, taunting him with the strength he no longer has. Gritting his teeth, he inches to the bed’s edge and pushes himself up, but his legs buckle, and he collapses hard onto the cold stone floor. Pain splinters through his side, but it does nothing to dampen the fire of his rage. Crawling, his nails scraping against the stone, he inches closer, determined not to be helpless. Just a little farther, he tells himself, reaching out to the familiar hilt of his blade.

The doors burst open, and Daervon freezes, watching as two guards stride in, followed by Ser Criston Cole. Daervon narrows his eyes at the sight of Cole’s expressionless face, and before he can utter a word, the guards close in.

“It is time to leave, my Prince,” Cole announces, a tone that borders on mocking in its formality. He gestures for the guards to take Daervon, and when their hands clamp down on his arms, his anger surges again.

“Take your fucking hands off me!” Daervon hisses, struggling against their grip, though his own strength betrays him. The guards hardly seem to notice his attempts, merely hoisting him up and dragging him out of the room. Every step through the Red Keep is another humiliation, the stone walls almost echoing his helplessness back at him.

At last, they shove him into a chariot, seating him roughly before retreating with the same indifference. As soon as he’s alone, Daervon reaches for the ring Aemond had once placed on his hand with such possessive pride and yanks it off, throwing it across the chariot. It lands weakly, rolling to a stop below the opposite seat. He glares at it, chest heaving, the betrayal still raw, sharp as a blade. He knows this poison was a plan meant to weaken him, to humiliate him, and he seethes.

The door opens, and Daervon’s gaze softens as Helaena steps into the chariot. Her worried expression is a balm to his rage, and he offers her a weak smile. “Helaena,” he whispers, his voice trembling more than he would like.

She moves to sit beside him, her hands warm as she cups his face gently. "What have they done to you?” Her eyes roam over his worn face, dark shadows marking the poison’s grip on him. She reaches into her cloak and retrieves a small vial, its liquid clear yet faintly fragrant with coriander.

“I couldn’t find the antidote,” she murmurs, opening the container, “but this will help ease the poison’s hold.”

“For what?” Daervon chuckles, the sound hollow. “To escape? I can barely keep my head up.” He tries to keep the bitterness from his voice, but it’s there, thin and cold.

She tilts the vial to his lips, and he drinks, grimacing at the bitter taste. Helaena’s face softens, a small smile tugging at her lips, but her eyes remain sad, pained at seeing him like this. He leans his head onto her shoulder, allowing himself a moment of solace, his mind dizzy, exhaustion settling heavily over him.

The door opens again, and Aemond steps in, his gaze immediately locking onto the sight before him: his sister, holding his husband close, her hand tenderly resting on Daervon’s back. A flicker of something dark passes over Aemond’s face, a jealousy so sharp it ignites a cold anger in his eye as he notices the ring, the symbol of his possession, lying abandoned on the floor.

“Leave us,” Aemond says, his tone low and dangerous. But Daervon’s hand clenches around Helaena’s arm, a silent plea for her to stay, his grip tightening with desperation. Aemond’s jaw tenses, and he steps forward, eyes fixed on Daervon’s trembling hand.

“Stop acting like a child,” Aemond snaps, his voice strained as he tries to peel Daervon’s hand from his sister’s arm. “You are my husband. You belong by my side.”

Helaena steps in front of her brother, shielding Daervon. “Brother, let him be,” she whispers, voice steady yet laden with an underlying scorn. “Can you not see the damage you have already done? He does not wish to be near you.”

Aemond’s face contorts, and for a moment, guilt flits across his features, quickly masked by defiance. He releases his hold, but his eyes remain trained on Daervon, and he stoops to pick up the ring, sliding it onto his own finger, a silent claim. Taking the seat across from them, he stares at Daervon, his gaze smoldering, resentful of the distance between them.

The chariot ride is tense, every second heavy with the unspoken rift. Daervon keeps his head on Helaena’s shoulder, feeling her hand rub soothing circles on his back, while Aemond’s gaze drills into them, his jealousy palpable. It twists at him, this anger, the knowledge that even now, Daervon would rather seek comfort in his sister’s embrace.

“Do you still dream?” Helaena asks softly, breaking the silence, her voice a balm.

“Sometimes,” Daervon answers, his voice low, hesitant.

Helaena’s hand tightens ever so slightly. “The unburnt Prince will take what is his with fire and blood,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

Daervon looks up at her, a flicker of fear shadowing his eyes. “How do you…?” he begins, confused. “Did Vidor tell you?”

She shakes her head, her expression distant, haunted. “No,” she says. “I saw it.”

Aemond narrows his eye, his brow furrowing. “What unburnt Prince?” he demands, the question taut with suspicion as he toys with the ring he now wears.

But Daervon pointedly ignores him, returning his head to Helaena’s shoulder, and Aemond huffs in frustration, his jaw clenched. “Fine,” he mutters, “keep your secrets.”

The Dragonpit looms ahead, its stone structure festooned with Targaryen banners that flutter in the wind. Inside, the gathered crowd murmurs and shifts, a wave of anticipation filling the air. The guards flank the royal family as they ascend the dais, and Daervon struggles to stand, relying heavily on the guard’s support.

Otto’s voice booms through the pit, his words dripping with solemnity. “People of King’s Landing, today is the saddest of days. Our beloved King Viserys the Peaceful is dead.” Gasps ripple through the crowd, and Daervon bites back a grimace at the rehearsed mourning Otto puts on display. “But it is also the most joyous of days, for as the late King’s spirit left us, he whispered his final wish… that his son should succeed him.”

Applause follows, hesitant at first, then growing. Aemond steps forward, his every movement exuding pride as he walks between the guards, who draw their swords in salute. As he reaches the dais, he glances at Daervon, who glares back, the scorn unmistakable.

The Septon begins the rites, his hands moving over Aemond in blessing. “May the Warrior give him courage. May the Smith lend strength…” The words blur in Daervon’s ears, anger simmering at the spectacle unfolding before him. The crown, a symbol of the Conqueror, is lowered onto Aemond’s head, and he rises, his eye gleaming with triumph.

Aemond turns to him, a twisted smile playing on his lips, and Daervon is yanked closer, Aemond’s arm wrapping possessively around his waist. “And I present to you the King Consort, Daervon Targaryen, husband of King Aemond,” Criston Cole announces, his voice carrying through the chamber like a proclamation etched in stone, each word weighted with authority. The smallfolk stare, eyes wide and eager, some whispering among themselves as they take in the sight of Daervon, his regal posture tempered by a simmering anger that burns just beneath the surface.

Daervon’s jaw clenches, and he cuts a sharp glance toward Aemond, his lips pulling into a tight line. “I’m not a fucking trophy, Aemond,” he bites out, the words low and fierce, each syllable a barely-contained defiance that dares his husband to push him further.

Aemond’s smile only widens, his hold tightening. “To me, you are the most prized trophy,” he murmurs. “Smile, husband.”

With a mocking grin, Daervon lifts his head, and Aemond’s grip is almost bruising, a warning not to step out of line. But the smallfolk’s murmurs turn to uneasy whispers, judgmental eyes on the queer kings. Daervon feels a bitter satisfaction, knowing they question this union.

“Since you asked, husband,” Daervon says, letting a mocking smile curve his lips. He glances over the gathered crowd, watching the murmurs and stifled sneers of the smallfolk with satisfaction. It’s rare, this kind of power—the kind that hangs on the edge of a smirk, on the reactions of those who believe themselves untouchable. But his triumph is short-lived.

“Long live the Kings!” Criston Cole shouts, his voice carrying over the pit, and the crowd’s murmur shifts into a rising wave of applause and cheers. The thunderous sound drowns Daervon’s smugness, and he feels it slip away, leaving a pang in his chest as his smile fades.

Aemond, noticing the shift, tightens his grip around Daervon’s waist possessively, almost possessively, pulling him closer. “Lost your taste for an audience so soon, husband?” Aemond’s voice is low, taunting, but his eye gleams with something dark and fierce, like a flame that refuses to die. His hand remains firm, an unyielding shackle disguised as an embrace, even as he draws Blackfyre with his other hand, lifting the ancestral sword in a triumphant arc to the smallfolk who cheer louder at the sight.

Aemond stands tall, drinking in the admiration with a ferocity that borders on obsession, but his gaze never strays far from Daervon, as though the mere sight of his husband is a drug he’s become addicted to, a force he cannot resist. Every breath, every flicker of emotion from Daervon feeds Aemond’s need to own him, to shield him from even the world’s gaze.

Then, from the pit below, a piercing rumble quakes through the floor, silencing the crowd. Gasps ripple out as Meleys, The Red Queen, bursts from the depths of the Dragonpit, her monstrous form emerging in a cloud of dust and shattered stone. Her scales catch the light, casting the room in blood-red shadows, and her roar splits the air, drowning out every sound except the terrified screams of the smallfolk as they scatter in panic. Meleys tramples over them without mercy, her claws tearing through flesh and stone alike as she claws her way towards the dais, a nightmare made flesh.

Atop her back sits Rhaenys, donned in armor, her expression hardened with an unyielding, almost ruthless, purpose. Her eyes sweep over the chaos, calculating, ruthless—but when they settle on Daervon, there is a brief flicker of relief, of fierce love tempered by fear. She takes in the pallor of his skin, the way he leans heavily against Aemond, his frame weaker than she remembers. Her heart clenches, and her gaze sharpens with a renewed urgency.

“Grandmother,” Daervon breathes, his voice trembling, a faint smile breaking through his fatigue as he gazes up at her. For a fleeting moment, he’s no longer the husband of a would-be king or a man tangled in the webs of power. He’s simply her grandson, seeking refuge.

Otto, pale and frantic, bellows commands to the Gold Cloaks. “Open the doors! Open the damn doors, now!” But his orders are swallowed by the pandemonium, his voice a mere whisper against the chaos of the fleeing crowd.

“Protect the king consort!” Aemond’s voice slices through the noise, his gaze briefly fixed on Criston Cole. But the moment he loosens his grip on Daervon, Daervon seizes the opportunity. With a quick, desperate movement, he launches himself at Cole, executing a swift, fierce takedown that throws the knight off-balance. But the effort costs Daervon; his weakened body falters, and he stumbles backward, tumbling off the dais with a gasp of pain. He lands hard beside Meleys’ massive claw, the impact sending a sharp, searing pain through his side. Poison, exhaustion, and the chaos of it all weigh on him, pressing him to the ground, his strength slipping through his fingers.

Aemond’s face contorts in a mix of fury and desperation as he watches Daervon fall. His eye flashes with a possessive rage, his grip tightening around Blackfyre. But he is powerless to reach Daervon in the swirling maelstrom.

Before Aemond can move, Rhaenys leans down from her saddle on Meleys, extending a gloved hand to Daervon. “Hold on, child.” Her voice is steady, calm, but her eyes reveal the turmoil beneath—a grandmother’s terror that her blood, her kin, is slipping away.

She pulls him onto the dragon’s back, swiftly securing him into the saddle, her hands trembling slightly as she binds him. “What have they done to you, my dear boy?” She whispers, her voice laced with worry and love.

“Please, Grandmother,” he whispers back, his eyes glassy with pain, “let us leave.”

Rhaenys hesitates, glancing back at the dais. Alicent stands in front of Aemond, her arms spread wide, shielding her son with a mother’s fierce love. Rhaenys’s gaze softens, her grip tightening on Daervon as she weighs her choices. To strike would be to break her heart, to sever kin by blood and faith alike. With one last, solemn look, she inclines her head in a silent promise of mercy, of restraint.

With a command, she turns Meleys away, guiding the dragon toward the shattered entrance. As the Red Queen rises into the sky, leaving a crowd of fearful, battered Green supporters in her wake, all know she flies for Dragonstone, carrying news of the king’s death and of Rhaenyra’s birthright stolen.