AN:
Zyre and Rhaenyra are my comfort couple (aka the green forest) but Daervon and Aemond (aka the dark red flag couple!) hits differently. I can't get enough of them! Ahh!!
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The candlelight flickers in Daervon’s chambers, casting wavering shadows across the walls. The room is filled with the soft rustle of parchments and the scratch of quills. Daervon sits hunched over his study table, his raven hair loose and slightly disheveled. The past few days have been relentless; he has buried himself in work, chasing distraction from the pain that claws at his heart.

It is midnight, but Daervon does not stop. A small pile of unaddressed parchments still looms before him, and though his body aches with exhaustion, his mind refuses to relent. Each moment occupied is a moment where he does not have to confront the crushing weight of Aemond’s betrayal.

"My lord, you’ve been at this all night." Vidor’s voice cuts through the quiet, firm yet laced with worry. He stands by the doorway, his arms crossed, his dark eyes narrowing as they take in his nephew’s worn expression. "You need to rest properly. Even the maester has said your anxiety is worsening. Overworking yourself will only make it worse."

Daervon does not look up. "I can’t afford to rest," he says, his voice tight. He sets down the quill and picks up another parchment. "If I cannot conquer this, what hope do I have on the battlefield? I must train harder, push myself further." He glances up at his uncle, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. "I still can’t beat you in swordsmanship, after all."

Vidor’s lips twitch with a reluctant smile at the remark, but before he can reply, a deep, guttural roar shatters the quiet. The walls seem to tremble, and the room is filled with the distant sound of soldiers shouting.

Vidor stiffens, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his blade. "A dragon," he says, his tone sharp. "Are we under attack?"

Daervon leans back in his chair, his expression unbothered despite the tension crackling in the air. "No need," he says, the calmness of his tone almost mocking. He rises slowly, his gaze turning to the window. "It’s Vhagar."

The name alone carries weight, and Vidor’s unease deepens. "He’s here," Daervon continues, his voice clipped with bitter amusement. "No doubt Aemond has come to bend Silverhold to the Greens. Desperation suits him poorly."

"You sound almost amused," Vidor remarks, though his voice is cautious.

Daervon chuckles dryly, though there is no joy in the sound. "Desperation is the only reason he would come here himself." His lilac eyes harden, a flash of emotion betraying the mask he wears. He exhales, folding the parchment in his hand with care and setting it atop the others.

"Do you want me to send him back?" Vidor asks, his tone low but resolute.

Daervon turns to face his uncle, his gaze steady. "No," he says after a moment, his voice soft but firm. "Let him come. Let us hear what he has to say and be done with it."

The tension in the air thickens as they make their way to the throne room. By the time Aemond arrives, the heavy double doors creak open to reveal him, his presence commanding as always. He strides in as though he owns the very air within the chamber. He moves with calculated grace, the green and black of his attire marking his allegiance as clearly as the dragon emblazoned upon his chest. His lone eye scans the room until it finds him—Daervon, seated on the Silverhold throne, a figure carved of shadow and defiance.

"Daervon," Aemond says, his voice low but unmistakable as it echoes through the room. His eye darkens with recognition, and he steps forward, his gaze never wavering from his husband. The guards stationed beside the throne draw their swords, barring his path, and Aemond halts. His body tenses, but his focus does not falter. "How are you doing?" he asks, his voice quieter now, tinged with something close to longing.

"Good," Daervon replies flatly, his tone devoid of warmth, his face a mask of cold detachment.

Aemond’s lips twitch into a bitter smile. "Really? Why, then, am I so annoyed to hear that you’re doing well without me?" He chuckles dryly, but the sound is brittle, like a blade on the verge of shattering. Every inch of him aches to close the distance, to pull Daervon into his arms, to drown himself in his husband’s scent. Yet he stands frozen, restrained by steel and pride.

"Why are you here?" Daervon asks, his voice sharp, though he already knows the answer.

Aemond’s jaw tightens, his composure slipping. "I’m here to discuss urgent political matters with Lord Silvercrown," he says, his gaze unwavering, as though daring Daervon to deny him. "Inform him that I demand his audience."

Daervon’s lilac eyes narrow, a flicker of disdain flashing across his face. Without turning from Aemond, he speaks, his tone as blank as before. "You are looking at him."

For a moment, Aemond seems caught off guard. Then a low chuckle rumbles from his chest, rich with amusement and something darker. "It was you, then. No wonder—"

"What can I do for you, Prince Aemond?" Daervon interrupts, his words clipped and precise. He does not flinch under Aemond’s gaze, though it feels like a storm crashing against the walls of his resolve. He steels himself, determined to fulfill his duty and endure his husband’s presence no longer than necessary.

Aemond’s smile vanishes, replaced by a cold sneer. "It is King Aemond now," he corrects, his voice heavy with authority.

The words ignite a fire in Daervon’s chest. He rises to his feet in a fluid motion, his movements sharp with barely contained rage. "You are no king!" he snaps, his voice thunderous. "You’re just another spoiled prince given the reins of a warhorse!"

Aemond’s expression hardens, but there is a flicker of something else—pride, perhaps, at the fire in Daervon’s eyes. "Leave us," he orders the guards, his voice commanding.

The guards do not move. They remain at their posts, their hands firm on their swords.

"I am in charge here," Daervon says, his glare cutting into Aemond like a blade. "They obey me, not you. You’re no more than a prince to them." He turns to the guards, his tone softer but no less resolute. "Clear the room."

The guards bow and leave without hesitation. Daervon’s lips curl into a faint, smug smile, a fleeting victory that cuts at Aemond’s pride.

Aemond tilts his head, his gaze alight with amazement. Something raw and primal stirs within him, ignited by the defiance radiating from his husband. "They think you some kind of god," he says, his voice soft but laced with intrigue. "The man who walked through flames without a single burn. Care to explain?"

"Which part?" Daervon asks, his tone feigning boredom, though his fingers twitch at his sides.

"You burned the Silverhold elders  because they refused to bend the knee to you." Aemond’s eye falls to Daervon’s hands, searching for the familiar glint of his Valyrian ring. When he finds it missing, disappointment flashes across his face. "Helaena was right. You are the unburnt prince. When did it happen?"

Daervon’s expression remains guarded, but his voice holds a quiet steel. "I do not exactly know when it started. But I realized its effect the night before I met you at Mother Laena’s funeral. Yes, I am immune to fire. Even dragonfire."

"You’ve been hiding it from me all this time?" Aemond’s voice rises, his scowl deepening with anger—and something else, perhaps hurt.

Daervon’s rage flares. "I’m not the only one who holds secrets and fucking around," he bites back, his voice trembling with the force of his emotions.

Aemond steps closer, his tone sharp. "I thought you despised being a leader of any kind. Yet here you are, sitting on the Silverhold seat in all your fucking glory."

"I wonder why," Daervon mocks, his words dripping with venom.

Aemond’s patience snaps. "Fuck Silverlands. You’re coming with me to King’s Landing," he demands, his voice rough and charged with dominance.

Daervon crosses his arms, shaking his head violently. "Like hell I am!"

"This isn’t a request," Aemond growls, stepping forward, his towering presence filling the space between them. "You’ll come with me, or I will burn Silverlands to the ground if I have to."

"You call yourself a king." Daervon scoffs, his voice laced with derision. "Go on, then, my prince. Burn Silverlands. But do not be surprised when you find King’s Landing in ashes and bones upon your return to your usurped throne."

"Hold your tongue," Aemond warns, his voice dangerously low. "Or I will make time to teach you some manners."

Daervon steps closer, his expression unyielding. "Then what are you waiting for?"

For a moment, the tension between them grows thick, laden with tension that brims on the edge of violence and something darker, more primal. Their eyes lock, the unspoken storm raging between them like the crackle of wildfire waiting to ignite. Aemond's eye flickers with a obsession that borders on devotion, while Daervon's gaze is colder, the weight of grief and betrayal anchoring him where he stands.

And then Aemond moves, a blur of intent and desperation. He closes the distance with swift ferocity, his lips crashing against Daervon's in a kiss that is neither tender nor restrained. It is a storm unleashed—fierce, desperate, and utterly consuming. His hands find Daervon’s face, gripping him like a lifeline, as though he can pour all the words he dares not say into the press of their lips. The kiss is a clash of fire and ice, laden with days of yearning and nights of solitude.

Daervon stiffens beneath him, his body betraying no warmth, no acceptance. His lips remain unyielding, his hands curled into fists at his sides. The searing heat of Aemond’s touch flows through him, a cruel reminder of what they once had, of what they’ve lost. Pain and pleasure war within him, tearing through the fragile walls he has built around his heart. But he does not respond. He cannot.

Aemond pulls back for the briefest of moments, his breath ragged, his eye searching Daervon’s face for even the faintest hint of reciprocation. When he finds none, his frustration swells, an uncontrollable tide. “Why do you deny me?” he breathes, his voice thick with anguish, before he captures Daervon’s lips again, this time fiercer, more demanding.

His hand slides up, tangling in Daervon’s dark hair, pulling him closer with a desperation that borders on feral. Aemond’s entire being aches for him—his touch, his love, his forgiveness. Daervon is his anchor and his undoing, a force he cannot escape. He kisses him as if the act alone could erase the distance between them, as if it could rewrite the betrayal, the lies, the choices that have driven them apart.

But Daervon’s grief is a blade, cutting through the haze of desire that threatens to pull him under. He raises trembling hands to Aemond’s shoulders, gripping tightly. With a force born of heartbreak rather than hatred, he shoves Aemond away. The impact leaves Aemond staggering, his chest rising and falling as he struggles to catch his breath. His eye blazes with a mixture of anger and longing, but Daervon doesn’t meet it.

Instead, Daervon drags his sleeve across his mouth, wiping away the taste of his husband’s desperation, as though it burns him. His eyes, however, betray the storm beneath his calm exterior—a tempest of love, hurt, and fury. “I hope it was all worth it,” he says, his voice low and edged with bitterness, though it trembles ever so slightly, betraying the ache in his heart.

Aemond takes a step forward, his hands twitching as though he might reach for Daervon again, but the look in his husband’s eyes stops him cold. “Daervon—”

“Don’t,” Daervon snaps, his voice breaking like a cracked blade. Without sparing him another glance, he turns on his heel, his steps echoing loudly in the hollow silence of the throne room. The weight of his love for Aemond, the pain of his betrayal, presses heavily on his shoulders as he strides away.

Aemond watches him go, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He feels as though a part of him is being ripped away, leaving only raw, bleeding wounds behind. His chest tightens, his throat burns, but he does not call after him. Instead, he stands there, rooted in the aftermath of his own obsession, the echoes of Daervon’s absence carving into him like a blade.