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The bedchamber is still cloaked in the heavy stillness of night, the oppressive silence broken only by the soft crackle of candle flames.

Maester Kelvyn leans over Daervon’s motionless form, his experienced hands moving with precision. He takes Daervon’s pulse, the pads of his fingers pressing lightly against the young Targaryen’s cold wrist. His brow furrows as he pries open one of Daervon’s lids, revealing lifeless lilac eyes beneath. Kelvyn sighs—a faint, measured sound—but the weight of it sends a ripple of dread through the room.

Rhaena stands near the window, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though bracing against an unseen storm. Her gaze is fixed on her brother, and despite her defiant composure, her lips quiver ever so slightly. At the foot of the bed, Vidor is as still as a statue, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He does not speak, but the tension in his frame betrays the depth of his concern.

And then there is Aemond. He stands apart, his presence like a storm barely contained. His single eye remains fixed on Daervon, his jaw taut with unspoken agony. His hands, usually so sure, tremble faintly at his sides. Refusing to leave, he clings to his place in the room like a penitent seeking absolution at a shrine. There is an uncharacteristic fragility in his posture, as though the man who rides the largest dragon in the world is on the verge of breaking apart.

Kelvyn straightens and turns to face them, his expression unreadable. "Lord Silvercrown possesses no physical injuries," he begins carefully, his tone measured. "But his spirit is another matter. He requires rest—a great deal of it—and fewer… burdens weighing upon his shoulders." His tone carries an unspoken reprimand, a thinly veiled warning against the chaos that seems to follow Daervon like a shadow. "It is imperative he be closely monitored in the days ahead. His condition remains delicate."

Aemond’s voice slices through the air like a blade. "What condition?"

The maester hesitates, his gaze shifting briefly to the sworn protector. Vidor steps forward, his voice low but commanding. "Thank you, Maester. That will be all for now."

Maester Kelvyn inclines his head, his movements precise as he gathers his tools. Without another word, he bows and exits the room, leaving the tension to fester like an open wound.

"What condition?" Aemond demands again, his voice rising. His eye darts between Vidor and Rhaena, desperation etched into every line of his face. "What happened to him?"

Rhaena’s head snaps toward him, her grief igniting into fury. Her eyes burn, her lips curling in contempt as she spits, "He tried to take his own life." The words are heavy, cutting, and final. "He tried to drown himself. He would have died if not for Vidor."

Aemond freezes. The color drains from his face. His knees give way, and he stumbles, catching himself against the bedside table. His eye widens, disbelief and horror etched into every line of his face. His lips move soundlessly, unable to form words.

"Lady Rhaena," Vidor warns, his tone sharp with disapproval. He steps forward, placing himself between her and Aemond. "Such matters were not yours to reveal. Daervon would not have wanted this shared."

But Rhaena does not back down. She glares at older man before turning her scorn back on Aemond. "He deserves to know," she snaps. "He deserves to feel the weight of the damage he has wrought upon my brother."

Her voice trembles, but her resolve does not waver. She takes a step closer to Aemond, her words laced with venom. "First, you stole my mother’s dragon. Now you steal my brother away from me. You are nothing but a scum, cousin, and I have no mercy left for you."

Aemond opens his mouth, but no sound emerges. His eye darts to Daervon, lying so still and fragile, and a wave of nausea rolls over him. He feels hollow, the very thought of a life without Daervon ripping through him like a dagger to the chest.

Rhaena exhales sharply, her next words quieter but no less cutting. "You have one chance," she says, her voice cold as steel. "Make things right with him, or leave him for good. Hurt him again, and I will plunge my blade into your good eye. You will be left with nothing but darkness—no sight, no legacy, no throne." She leans in closer, her voice a venomous whisper. "How tragic that would be."

With a final glance at her brother, her expression softening momentarily, she brushes past Vidor. The door clicks shut behind her, leaving a silence so heavy it seems to press against the walls.

Vidor steps forward quietly. He adjusts Daervon’s pillow with careful hands, smoothing out the fabric before pulling the blanket higher over his nephew’s chest. His lips press into a thin line, his expression unreadable but for the faint flicker of sorrow in his eyes. He takes a step back, pausing to look at his nephew one last time before leaving. The door closes behind him with a muted click, granting Aemond the privacy he has silently begged for.

Aemond’s breath catches as the room falls into stillness once more. Slowly, he moves toward the bed, his steps unsteady, his usually commanding presence reduced to a broken shadow of itself. He drags a chair close, the legs scraping softly against the stone floor, and collapses into it. For a long moment, he simply stares at Daervon, his eye tracing every line of his husband’s face, as if memorizing it anew.

Tentatively, he reaches out, his fingers trembling as they close around Daervon’s hand. His grip is firm but careful, as though afraid his touch might shatter the fragile connection between them. Tears spill over his lashes, carving silent trails down his face.

The silence breaks with a sob, raw and guttural, as Aemond bends over their joined hands. "After you left me," he chokes out, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief, "day by day, I was dying inside. Every day without you was an agony I could not bear."

He presses Daervon’s hand to his lips, the kiss lingering, desperate. "I know I’m a monster," he continues, his words trembling as he speaks into the stillness. "I’ve done terrible things." His voice falters, his head bowing lower, his shoulders shaking with unrestrained sobs. "But, gods, Daervon... you are the only thing in this wretched world that makes me feel whole. You are my light, my salvation, and without you, I am nothing."

Aemond lifts his head slightly, his eye red-rimmed, glistening with tears. His thumb brushes absently over Daervon’s knuckles, a trembling motion, as though seeking reassurance from the lifeless hand in his grasp. "Please, do not leave me again," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "I can lose everything else—but not you. Never you." His head bows again, his forehead brushing against Daervon’s hand as his tears wet the fabric of the blanket.

"One more chance," he pleads, his voice breaking. "Just this once." His words trail off into another kiss, his lips lingering on Daervon’s hand as though the touch alone might wake him.

Time stretches into an eternity, the room filled only with the sound of Aemond’s ragged breaths and muffled sobs. His body shakes with the force of his emotions, the weight of his guilt and love pressing down on him like a crushing tide.

The first light of dawn spills into the chamber, soft and golden, illuminating Daervon’s pale face. His lashes flutter, a faint stir of movement breaking the stillness.

Daervon’s eyes, hazy and disoriented settle on Vidor, seated beside the bed with the quiet composure of a sentinel. Vidor leans forward immediately, his hand moving to Daervon’s shoulder to steady him. “How do you feel, my boy?” Vidor’s voice is low, measured, but there is a weight behind his words—an unspoken relief that his nephew has returned to the waking world.

Daervon shifts, wincing slightly as he tries to sit up. Vidor is quick to assist, adjusting the pillows and helping him lean back against the headboard. “I have no choice but to be better,” Daervon says, his voice hoarse but laced with resolve. “There is a war brewing out there.”

Vidor’s brows knit together. “You’re in no condition to fight a war.”

“I am fine,” Daervon insists, though the weakness in his voice betrays his words.

Vidor snorts, shaking his head. “You said the same three words before you fainted last time. Perhaps you might refrain from testing fate so recklessly, my lord.”

Daervon exhales sharply, his frustration evident. “I must be the latest laughingstock of Silverlands,” he mutters. “A weakling, unfit to bear the Silvercrown name. The elders were right—I do not deserve to be Lord Silvercrown.”

Vidor straightens, his expression hardening. “We all have our ups and downs, Daervon. You are not immune to the flaws of humanity simply because you are a Targaryen. But you are still a dragon. And a dragon does not wallow in self-pity.”

Daervon’s gaze flickers, caught between defiance and doubt. He notices something then—a glint of silver on his finger. His Valyrian ring, one he knows he left on the bedside table, now rests snugly where it once belonged. His chest tightens as the realization sets in. Aemond.

“I wish I had never met him,” Daervon murmurs bitterly, twisting the ring on his finger.

Vidor eyes him knowingly. “Do you mean it?”

“I don’t know anymore,” Daervon admits, his voice faltering. He slides the ring off, holding it in his palm.

“You still love him, don’t you?” Vidor asks, his tone softer now, though his words carry a weight of certainty.

Daervon stares at the ring, his expression torn. “I cannot imagine a day when I won’t,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper.

Vidor lets the words settle before speaking. “He never left your side. While you were unconscious, he was here. He attended to you, wept for you, begged for your forgiveness. He was... quite a mess.”

Daervon’s head snaps up, his expression hardening. “Whose side are you on?” he snaps, hurling the ring toward his uncle. Vidor catches it effortlessly, his face calm despite the outburst.

“Yours, of course,” Vidor replies, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Daervon rolls his eyes, his irritation evident, but the moment passes quickly. “We must ready our fighting men,” he says, his tone steely. “If a war is coming, we cannot afford to be unprepared.”

“I’m already making arrangements,” Vidor assures him. His voice is calm but resolute, the voice of a man who has seen far too much war. “If the situation arises, Silverlands will not be caught unprepared.”

“Good,” Daervon says sharply. “But ensure Aemond learns nothing of these preparations,” he says, his tone sharp and unyielding. “Not a single whisper is to reach him.”

Vidor’s brow furrows as he turns to face his nephew fully. “He is your husband,” he reminds him, his voice tinged with caution. “Is it wise to treat him as an enemy?”

Daervon’s expression hardens, his silver eyes cold and distant. “He chose to be my enemy the moment he usurped Rhaenyra’s crown,” he says, his voice laced with quiet fury. “For all I know, he is here to spy on us himself. I must find a way to send him back to King’s Landing.”

Vidor exhales slowly, shaking his head. “You sound like your father,” he says, a trace of irony in his voice.

Daervon looks away, his jaw tightening. “Perhaps I should have listened to my father from the beginning. Things would have been far less miserable if I had.”

Vidor sighs, his expression softening. “Whatever you say, my lord.”

A heavy silence falls between them, but Vidor’s watchful gaze doesn’t waver. Finally, Daervon breaks the stillness, his voice low but resolute. “Summon Mila.”

Vidor raises an eyebrow, his expression curious but cautious. “For what reason?”

Daervon straightens slightly, his gaze distant. “I owe her an apology,” he says firmly. “Women should be cherished, not used as tools for the selfishness of men.”

Vidor’s expression shifts, a shadow crossing his face. He takes a moment before speaking, his tone heavy. “Mila is dead.”

The words hit Daervon like a physical blow. He freezes, his breath catching in his throat. “What?” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

“Aemond killed her,” Vidor says, the disappointment in his voice unmistakable. “The punishment for touching what he considers his.”

Daervon’s face crumples, a wave of guilt washing over him. His hands tighten into fists at his sides. “Did she have family?” he asks after a moment, his voice tight with grief.

“No,” Vidor replies quietly. “She was an orphan.”

The weight of those words presses down on Daervon, his guilt deepening. He closes his eyes, his mind filling with images of Mila—her gentle smile, her quiet kindness. He sees her now as she must have been in those final moments, frightened and alone. “This is my fault,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “An innocent life is gone because of me.”

Vidor steps forward, his hand resting on Daervon’s shoulder. “You are not to blame,” he says firmly, though his own sorrow is evident. “Aemond’s actions are his own.”

Daervon doesn’t respond. His thoughts are consumed by the memory of Aemond’s face—the love, the obsession that burned in his eye like wildfire. It had once been intoxicating, consuming, but now it feels like a chain around his throat.