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The room is dimly lit by the dying embers in the hearth, shadows dancing along the ornate walls of Daervon's chambers. Exhaustion weighs heavily on him as he disrobes, his fingers clumsily undoing the fastenings of his tunic. The day's burdens cling to him like an unwelcome shadow, but for now, he seeks the solace of his bed. Stripped down to his breeches, he sinks onto the mattress, the cool silk sheets a fleeting comfort against his weary skin. With a long sigh, he buries his face into the pillow, yearning for the oblivion of sleep.

Just as his breathing begins to slow, the sound of the door creaking open cuts through the stillness. He doesn't look up. He knows that step, that deliberate cadence.

"Do you ever sleep, uncle?" Daervon groans into his pillow.

Vidor Silvercrown steps closer, his expression as sharp as the blade at his side but softened by the concern that always lingers in his eyes. "Not when a certain silver-haired prince insists on being a thorn in my side," he says, his tone clipped but laced with humor. "He insists on staying."

Daervon turns his head slightly, his words muffled by the pillow. "Tell him no."

"Already tried that." Vidor's voice carries a note of exasperation, the kind that only Targaryens seem to inspire. "He threatened to burn Silverhold to ashes, with us inside it." He folds his arms across his chest, his brow arching. "Apparently, he's quite confident that you'd walk out of the flames without a bloody scratch."

Daervon groans again, deeper this time, the weight of Aemond's presence pressing down on him even in his absence. "Let him stay, then," he mutters, lifting his head just enough to glare at his uncle. "Prepare the east wing. As far away from my chambers as possible."

Vidor leans against the bedpost, regarding his nephew with a mixture of amusement and concern. "Are you sure about this?"

Daervon sits up slightly, raking a hand through his hair. His voice is flat, heavy with resignation. "I cannot have him burning my castle down, can I?"

Vidor lets out a low scoff. "Targaryens and their obsession with setting things on fire."

Daervon smirks faintly, the expression fleeting but genuine. "Do I need to remind you that you are too very much in love with a Targaryen? Oh, wait-she's his sister too."

The jab lands, and Vidor raises his hands in mock surrender, though a smile tugs at his lips. "Fine. You win, as always."

"I'm taking the night off, uncle," Daervon says, his voice softening as he sinks back into the bed. "And I'd like to sleep without anyone bothering me." His words trail into a yawn, his eyelids growing heavier by the second.

Vidor inclines his head, his tone fond but formal. "As you wish, my lord." He steps away, his boots clicking lightly against the stone floor as he makes his exit.

But before the door has even fully shut behind him, another figure strides into view with an unmistakable air of command. Aemond.

The silver-haired prince moves with purpose, his lilac eye gleaming in the dim torchlight. His presence is as imposing as ever, his long strides carrying him directly toward the double doors of Daervon's chambers.

Vidor blocks his path, his expression hardening. "What are you doing, Prince Aemond?"

Aemond doesn't bother hiding his irritation. "What does it look like? I will not fucking sleeping in the guest quarters alone."

"With respect, my prince, I cannot allow that," Vidor says, standing firm.

"I don't require your permission to do what I want," Aemond snaps, his voice low but seething. "I am a king."

Vidor holds his ground, though his frustration simmers beneath his stoic demeanor. "This is not a good idea."

"Your opinion does not concern me," Aemond retorts sharply. With a sudden, fluid movement, he pushes past Vidor, his long fingers gripping the handle of the door. Before Vidor can protest further, Aemond slips inside and shuts the door behind him, the sound of the lock clicking into place reverberating in the hall.

The dim light of the embers casts a faint glow across Daervon's bedchamber, painting shadows that flicker and shift like restless ghosts. The room is silent but for the gentle crackle of the hearth and the rhythmic sound of Daervon's breathing. Aemond steps forward, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor, his every movement deliberate and careful. He doesn't wish to wake Daervon-not yet.

Daervon lies on his side, his back to the room, his figure draped in the softness of sleep. The sheet clings loosely to his waist, leaving his bare back exposed. Aemond pauses, his eye tracing every curve, every line of his husband's form. There's a stillness to Daervon now, a peace Aemond hasn't seen in days. It leaves him both awed and aching.

He circles the bed, his gaze never leaving Daervon. When he reaches the other side, he halts, his breath catching as he takes in the sight before him. Daervon's face rests against the pillow, his dark curls spilling in disarray, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. He looks almost otherworldly, his beauty something fragile yet untouchable. In this moment, Aemond sees not the man whose anger he has earned but the one he loves-his greatest solace, his maddest obsession.

To Aemond, Daervon Targaryen is perfection incarnate, a beacon of purity in a world that revels in its own corruption. He could stand there forever, watching, drinking in every detail, and it would still never be enough.

"What are you doing?" Daervon's voice, low and laden with exhaustion, cuts through the silence. His eyes remain closed, his tone devoid of warmth.

Aemond startles but quickly composes himself, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "Admiring the beauty of my beloved."

Daervon's lashes flutter open, his expression cold and detached as his gaze locks on Aemond. "Did you say that to your soon-to-be lady wife as well?"

The words land like a blade, slicing through the air and driving into Aemond's chest. His eye widens, realization dawning that Daervon knows. Panic flickers across his face. "I can explain-"

Daervon's laugh is brittle, hollow. He pushes himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Good on you, yeah?" His voice trembles, not with weakness but with the weight of betrayal. "If you wanted me crushed or devastated, you've succeeded. If you hoped to disappoint me, to enrage me, you've managed that too."

"Daervon-" Aemond begins, his voice thick with desperation, but Daervon's glare silences him.

"Did you sleep with Floris Baratheon?" The question is sharp, biting, his tone demanding nothing less than the truth.

Aemond hesitates, his lips parting as if to deny, but he knows better. Lies would only deepen the chasm between them. "We had a mutual understanding. It was nothing more than that, I can assure you."

Daervon's fists clench at his sides, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. "I didn't ask for explanations," he snaps. "Answer the fucking question. Did you sleep with Floris Baratheon?"

Aemond's voice drops to a whisper, almost inaudible. "Yes, I did."

The admission hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. Daervon's chest heaves as he takes a shaky breath, his grief twisting into fury. "I am done listening," he says, his voice low but laced with venom. He points to the door. "Get out."

"Daervon, please," Aemond pleads, stepping closer, his hand reaching out instinctively.

Daervon recoils as though burned, his voice rising. "Don't you dare touch me." His breaths come faster, anger and anguish intertwining in his words. "Don't presume to speak my name. You have my consent to annul our marriage. It was never real to begin with."

"It is real," Aemond counters, his voice breaking. "We married under Targaryen customs. It is as real as the blood in our veins."

Daervon shakes his head, his jaw tight as he fights back the wave of emotions threatening to consume him. "Go back to your to-be lady wife, Aemond. Live your life with her. You mean nothing to me anymore." His voice cracks, betraying the truth in his heart. "You have until dawn to collect your things and leave Silverlands, or I swear I'll have your head on a spike."

"I will not give up on us," Aemond says, his voice firm, though his eye glistens with unshed tears. His love for Daervon is a hunger, a need he cannot sate or abandon.

Daervon's anger flares anew. "Get out. Now." His words are a command, heavy and final.

Aemond flinches, his composure faltering under the weight of Daervon's rage. He tries once more, his voice trembling. "Daervon, I lo-"

"Don't you dare say it." Daervon's breath catches, his heart pounding in his chest. He forces himself to steady, to breathe, though every part of him feels like it's unraveling.

Aemond remains rooted to the spot, his desperation palpable, but Daervon's voice rises, cutting through the tension like a blade. "I said, get out, Aemond. Get the fuck out!"

The finality of the words leaves no room for argument. Aemond hesitates, his heart screaming at him to stay, to fight, but the storm in Daervon's eyes is unyielding. Defeated, he turns and walks toward the door, his movements slow, reluctant.

As the door closes behind him, Daervon is left alone in the silence of the room, his heart heavy with the ache of love and betrayal. He presses a trembling hand to his chest, as if trying to hold himself together, and lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. A single tear slips down his cheek, unnoticed and unbidden.