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The heavy slam of the door reverberates through the chamber, the sound a final blow to Daervon's fragile composure. He sits upright on the edge of the bed, his curls unruly as his hands rake through them, frustration and grief tangling in his fingers. His voice cracks the stillness like a whip. "For fuck's sake!"

Sleep has long abandoned him, leaving behind a raw edge he cannot soften.

Moments later, the door creaks open again. Vidor steps inside, his face unreadable but his posture taut, as though braced for the storm he knows awaits him. Daervon rises, his movements sharp, purposeful, as he crosses to the table where wine and goblets sit waiting. He pours himself a generous drink, the red liquid sloshing over the rim as he lifts it to his lips and drinks deeply.

"Is he gone?" Daervon asks without looking up, his tone flat but edged with something brittle.

Vidor hesitates, his keen eyes studying his nephew's rigid frame. "He is waiting right outside."

Daervon freezes mid-drink, then lowers the goblet with deliberate slowness. He turns his head slightly, casting a sidelong glance at his uncle. "Right outside what?"

"Your bedchambers," Vidor clarifies, his voice carefully measured.

Daervon exhales a bitter laugh, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge the weight pressing down on him. "He certainly has a death wish." He pivots to face his uncle fully, his expression darkening into something more dangerous. "Do not let him in again, or I'll grace your head on a spike."

Vidor arches a brow, his lips twitching as though suppressing a retort. "Very well. I do like to keep my head precisely where it is now."

Daervon mutters a low curse under his breath and throws back another gulp of wine. The burn does little to quell the ache hollowing his chest. "I want to forget him," he says, quieter this time, the confession slipping through the cracks of his anger.

"I will bring more wine," Vidor offers gently, his gaze softening with concern.

Daervon clicks his tongue impatiently. "Not wine."

The room seems to hold its breath as Vidor regards his nephew. His jaw tightens, his reluctance etched in the furrow of his brow. "Are you sure?"

"The pretty one, innit?" Daervon quips, his smile devoid of humor. He tilts his head toward his uncle, his eyes gleaming with a reckless edge. "I will do better. Find me one that looks prettier than Floris Baratheon."

Vidor's hesitation stretches a beat longer, his silence speaking louder than words. But he bows his head and departs, his respect for Daervon outweighing his reservations, though the worry lingers in his sharp gaze.

Alone again, Daervon drains the remainder of his wine and refills his goblet with a shaking hand. He drinks and drinks, the alcohol dulling his senses but not the pain gnawing at his heart. Betrayal cuts deep, and the image of Aemond with another eats away at him like poison. Yet love lingers-stubborn, relentless, a tether he cannot sever.

The door opens without warning, and a woman steps inside. Her beauty is undeniable, her long, dark hair cascading like silk down her back. Her presence fills the room with an air of quiet seduction, but Daervon's eyes remain cold, detached. She closes the doors behind her with care, the subtle click drowning out the chaos beyond them.

Through the muffled walls, Daervon hears the raised voices-his uncle, Vidor, and Aemond locked in a furious exchange. The sound sends a wicked satisfaction coursing through his veins. He imagines Aemond's face when he saw her enter, the betrayal flickering in his one good eye. It excites Daervon, this cruel game, the thought of wounding Aemond as deeply as he has been wounded.

A slow, bitter smile curls his lips as his gaze rakes over the woman. "What is your name?" His voice is low, roughened by drink and despair.

"Mila," she answers, her tone soft but confident.

"Come here, Mila," he beckons, gesturing toward the bed. She approaches with a calculated sway, her gaze locked on his. He pulls her close, and their lips meet in a heated kiss, the bitterness of wine still lingering on his tongue. Mila responds eagerly, her laughter soft and melodic as she straddles him. Their bodies press together, her hands sliding into his curls, and he pulls her closer, their kiss deepening. But it isn't enough.

Her touch is foreign, her scent unfamiliar. He kisses her harder, trying to drown the ache in his chest, trying to replace what cannot be replaced.

Her kisses trail down his neck, but Daervon's mind is elsewhere, haunted by images of silver hair and a sapphire eye. His hands move over her back, pulling her flush against him, his breaths growing heavier. Even as her skin warms under his touch, the emptiness within him grows colder.

"My prince," Mila murmurs against his ear, her voice laced with reverence.

The words hit him like a blow, shattering the fragile barrier he has tried to erect around his grief. His lips still against her skin, and he pulls back, his eyes dark and distant.

"My prince," she moans, leaning in to kiss him again, unaware of the storm brewing within him.

"Stop." His voice is sharp, cutting through the sultry haze like a blade. He covers her mouth with his hand, his touch not cruel but firm enough to startle her.

Mila's eyes widen, confusion flickering in their depths. She nods quickly, and he lowers his hand, his fingers trembling. But even as he kisses her again, there is no warmth, no connection. The kiss grows frantic, desperate, his hands gripping her as though force alone could bridge the chasm between him and the solace he craves. He pushes her hips against him, forcing her movements to create friction, his desperation building to a crescendo. Yet, it feels wrong-hollow. No matter how hard he tries, his desires are irrevocably tied to Aemond, to the man who shattered his heart.

Anger surges within him, hot and blinding. Anger at Mila, at Aemond, at himself. He breaks the kiss abruptly, his breath ragged, his jaw tight. "Leave," he says, his voice flat, devoid of the passion that had filled the room moments ago.

Mila stares at him, hurt flashing across her face, but she does not argue. She gathers her belongings quickly, her movements stiff with unease. Daervon does not watch her leave. He stares at the floor instead, his knuckles white as they grip the edge of the bed.

The door clicks shut behind Mila, her hurried steps fading into the distance. For a moment, silence blankets the room, heavy and suffocating, until the sharp, forceful slam of the doors yanks Daervon from his fragile reverie.

Aemond barges in like a storm unleashed, his eye ablaze with emotions too tangled to name. His gaze locks onto Daervon, who sits slumped on the edge of the bed, and he freezes. The sight of his husband's devastation-his pale face, his red-rimmed eyes, the way his body seems so small and broken-is like a blade to the chest.

"Daervon," Aemond says, his voice raw and desperate as he strides across the room. Before Daervon can react, Aemond's arms are around him, pulling him into a fierce embrace. He buries his face in Daervon's neck, inhaling his scent like it's the only thing anchoring him to the world.

"Let me go." Daervon's voice is hoarse, a fragile thread holding back an ocean of pain. He struggles weakly against Aemond's hold, his body stiff with resistance. "I'm tired. I want to sleep."

"Don't move." Aemond tightens his arms, his grip almost painful. "Let me hold you. Just for a moment. Then I'll leave." His voice trembles, the edges of his calm fraying. "Daervon, you still love me, don't you?"

Daervon freezes, his breath catching in his throat. Then, with a sharp twist, he breaks free, stumbling off the bed and putting as much space as he can between them. His hands tremble as he grips the edge of a nearby table for support, his back turned to his husband. "Don't push me anymore, Aemond." His voice is low, shaking with barely restrained emotion.

"I'm not pushing you," Aemond says, stepping closer, his voice cracking with desperation. "I just... I want things to go back to how they were before."

Daervon lets out a bitter laugh, turning to face him. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, and his voice rises, each word slicing through the air like a dagger. "Don't you dare make it sound like I'm some heartless scoundrel abandoning his lover. We've come this far because of you." His voice breaks, and his expression crumples under the weight of his grief. "Do you even know how much this hurts me?"

"I know," Aemond whispers, guilt etched into every line of his face. His hands twitch at his sides as though he wants to reach for Daervon but doesn't dare. "I know what I've done."

"No, you don't!" Daervon's voice cracks, raw and anguished. "You know nothing! You brought this upon me-all of it. It's you. It's all because of you." Tears spill freely down his cheeks now, his words trembling as they leave him. "You caged me. You poisoned me. You betrayed me. You were unfaithful. And you-you ruined me. Did you ever even love me?"

Vidor steps inside the bedchambers, his imposing figure framed by the doorway. He doesn't speak, but his presence is steady, grounding. His sharp eyes take in the scene-Daervon's trembling form, Aemond's desperation-and his expression softens, though his usual sternness lingers.

Aemond steps closer to his husband, his voice trembling with emotion. "From the moment I saw you, I have never stopped loving you. Not for a single breath, not for a single heartbeat."

His words hang heavy in the air, but Daervon shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. "You're an arrant liar, Aemond. You're full of lies."

A sharp pain spears through Daervon's chest, so sudden and intense that his breath catches. His body betrays him; his lungs seize, his heart races, and his vision blurs. Panic wells up as if the world itself is tipping off its axis. He stumbles, his legs weak and unsteady, before collapsing to his knees.

"My lord." Vidor's voice rings out, sharp with worry. He steps forward instinctively, his usual composure cracking as he watches his nephew falter.

"I can't breathe," Daervon gasps, his trembling hand reaching for the table's edge. His knuckles whiten as he grips it desperately, trying to anchor himself.

Aemond is on him in an instant, kneeling at his side. His hand hovers uncertainly, torn between fear and a compulsion to soothe. "Slowly," he murmurs, his tone gentle but frantic, "Breathe in, Daervon. Concentrate. Out. That's it." He turns sharply to Vidor. "Get a maester. Now!"

"There's no need," Daervon whispers, his voice thin and strained, as though dragged out of him by sheer will. He falls forward, catching himself on trembling hands. "I just need a moment. I'm fine." The words are a lie, spoken more to convince himself than anyone else.

"What are you waiting for?!" Aemond snaps, his voice rising in a panicked roar. "Get a fucking maester!"

"Stop barking commands at me!" Vidor fires back, his usually steady demeanor flaring with irritation at Aemond's tone.

"Get help before I command you with my fucking sword!" Aemond growls, his desperation twisting into fury. Vidor's lips tighten, but the storm in Aemond's lilac eye leaves no room for argument. With a curt nod, Vidor spins on his heel and strides out of the room, his heart heavy.

The tension thickens as Aemond turns back to Daervon, his hands trembling as they reach out. "Daervon, my love," he pleads, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "I need you to calm down. Look at me. Focus on me."

Daervon raises his head, his tear-streaked face a portrait of anguish. He tries to meet Aemond's gaze but fails; his eyes drift, unfocused, as though his body refuses to obey him.

Aemond's hands cup his husband's face, firm yet gentle, pulling him closer. "Breathe, Daervon," he whispers, his own breath uneven, his single eye brimming with unshed tears. "Slow down. Look at me."

But the words are drowned out by the sound of Daervon's shallow gasps. His breaths remain ragged, his hands trembling as they clutch at Aemond's shoulders, his fingers digging in with the last of his strength. His skin is damp with sweat, and his lips quiver with unspoken pain. Aemond holds him steady, his thumb brushing against Daervon's cheek in a soothing gesture.

And then, as if the weight of everything crashes down at once, Daervon's grip falters. His body goes limp, collapsing into Aemond's arms.

"No, no, no," Aemond breathes, his voice breaking. He cradles Daervon against his chest, his pale hair falling around them like a silver curtain. His heart pounds wildly, panic clawing at his throat. "Daervon!" His scream echoes through the chamber, raw and filled with terror. "Someone! Anyone! Help!"

The sound echoes through the corridors, filled with a terror that even the most hardened hearts would struggle to ignore.

"Please, don't leave me," he whispers, cradling Daervon close, his face burying into his hair as if he can shield him from whatever force is stealing him away. For the first time, the Prince of the Sapphire Eye trembles-not with rage, but with the helplessness of a man who stands to lose the only thing that ever truly mattered.