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The maids enter Daervon's chamber with quiet efficiency, their heads bowed, arms laden with fresh linens and perfumes. They bustle about, drawing the bath with steaming water and arranging finely woven clothes on the divan. The air grows heavy with the floral scent of lavender and rose. Daervon sits silently on the edge of the bed, his posture rigid, his gaze distant.

One of the maids approaches him cautiously, her hands folded before her. "My lord, shall we assist you?"

Daervon's eyes flick to her briefly before returning to the floor. "No," he says firmly, though his voice carries a thread of exhaustion. "I can manage."

The maids exchange uncertain glances but bow without protest. They retreat quickly, their soft footfalls fading as they leave the room. The double doors close behind them with a muffled thud, leaving Daervon alone in silence.

The quiet presses against him like a weight. He rises slowly, his movements deliberate, and shrugs off the stiffness in his shoulders. As he reaches for the clasps of his jacket, his eyes catch on the glimmer of a ring resting on the bedside table. Aemond's ring. Its pale metal reflects the faint light of the chamber, an emblem of a bond forged in love and now fractured by betrayal.

Daervon's chest tightens, a knot of longing and anguish coiling deep within him. His fingers hover over the jacket's fastening as his gaze lingers on the ring, memories unspooling like threads. He recalls Aemond's touch, his whispered vows, the quiet moments stolen in the depths of the night. For a fleeting moment, he can almost feel Aemond's arms around him again, hear his voice murmuring his name with reverence.

"Stop thinking about him," a voice cuts through the stillness like a blade. It's smooth, cruel, and laced with mockery. "Do you still think he wants you?"

Daervon whirls around, his pulse quickening. Standing across the room, bathed in the dim glow of the brazier, is a figure identical to him in every way but one. Where Daervon's hair is dark as midnight, the other's shines like molten silver. The Unburnt Prince. His malicious smirk curves upward, his lilac eyes gleaming with malevolence.

"It's you," Daervon whispers, his voice barely audible. His fear is a living thing, clawing its way up his spine.

"It's me." The Unburnt Prince steps forward leisurely, his movements deliberate, his smirk deepening. "Who else could it be?"

"Leave me alone." Daervon's voice is sharp, but his alarm betrays him, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

The silver-haired twin sighs theatrically, his head tilting as if in pity. "So you still don't understand," he says, his tone dripping with condescension.

Daervon's brows knit together in confusion. "What do you expect me to understand?"

"Me," the Unburnt Prince replies smoothly, gesturing to himself with an exaggerated flourish. His smirk widens as he circles Daervon, a predator savoring his prey. "Why are you still struggling? You wield a power most can only dream of. You can destroy the world and do anything. And yet, you resist."

"Because I don't want to destroy the world," Daervon replies, his voice steadier now, though his pulse thunders in his ears.

The Unburnt Prince stops behind him, leaning in close. His breath is warm against Daervon's ear, his tone sultry, almost coaxing. "You hold a fire within you that cannot be extinguished. No matter what you want, the invincible power you wield can do it for you."

Daervon stiffens, turning his head slightly. "All I want is for the people I cherish to be safe," he says quietly, his voice trembling with sincerity. "Happy. Content."

The Unburnt Prince laughs, a low, mocking sound that sends a chill down Daervon's spine. "You're fascinating," he murmurs, his amusement curling like smoke in the air. Then, without warning, his hand lashes out, gripping Daervon by the throat.

Daervon's eyes widen in shock, his hands clawing at the silver-haired twin's unyielding grip. Fear and defiance war within him, his breaths shallow and ragged.

"How long can you hold on?" the Unburnt Prince sneers, tightening his grip. His violet eyes gleam with sadistic delight as he watches Daervon struggle. "Why not give yourself to me, as you did before? You remember, don't you? The funeral pyre. The fire. The surrender."

Daervon's mind flashes the memory vividly. The Unburnt Prince had control, had taken his body, his will, and made him a vessel of fire and ruin. "Never again," he gasps, his voice barely a whisper, trembling with both pain and defiance. His hands tremble as if trying to claw the memory from his very bones. It will never leave him-the feeling of being powerless, of being a stranger to his own body, a prisoner to something far more ancient, far more powerful.

The Unburnt Prince leans closer, his lips brushing against Daervon's ear. "Fighting me is fighting yourself," he says softly, almost tenderly. "It's futile. Why endure the agony of a fire that will never leave you?"

With a sudden shove, the Unburnt Prince releases him. Daervon stumbles backward, coughing violently as he clutches his throat. His knees nearly buckle, but he forces himself to stand, glaring at the twin through blurred eyes.

"What are you hoping for?" the Unburnt Prince demands, his tone shifting to fury. "Give up, Daervon. Look at yourself-weak, broken. And look at me." He spreads his arms, his presence dominating the room like a shadow. "Embrace me. Embrace what you are!"

"Shut up!" Daervon's voice rises, hoarse and desperate, the words tearing from his throat.

The Unburnt Prince's smirk returns, slow and mocking. "Still so naïve," he murmurs, taking a deliberate step forward, then another, his movements predatory.

Daervon retreats with each step, his heart pounding as he watches the silver-haired twin close the distance between them. His mind races, searching for an escape, for anything that might break the hold this apparition has over him.

And then, from behind him, a hand, strong and steady, closes around his waist. Daervon jumps, startled, his body twisting, his breath catching. He spins to see Aemond standing there, his face a mask of quiet concern. Relief floods through Daervon like a torrent as his husband stands before him, real and solid.

The Unburnt Prince is gone. As if he was never there, his presence evaporates into nothingness, leaving only Aemond, his sharp, silver hair catching the firelight. Daervon's breath comes in uneven bursts as his shoulders shudder with relief. His fear lingers, but Aemond's presence is enough to push it back.

"What is it?" Aemond asks softly, his voice low and filled with concern as he looks over Daervon's shoulder, eyes searching. "You didn't even hear me coming in."

"Nothing," Daervon says quickly, shaking his head, stepping away from Aemond as if his touch burns. His voice is sharp, strained, his chest tight with emotion. "Don't touch me."

"I learned a method from a book that can relax you," Aemond says, his voice calm but resolute. His words are carefully chosen, trying to soothe. "It will make you feel better."

"I don't want you to do anything. Just leave me alone." Daervon's words are sharp, brittle, his frustration spilling over like a tide.

"Even Maester Kelvyn confirmed that it will bring effective results," Aemond adds, his voice steady, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watches his husband.

Daervon rolls his eyes, his anger barely contained. "I'll ask a maid to do it," he says, knowing full well that Aemond will not relent.

Aemond tilts his head, his sharp gaze settling on Daervon's neck. His brow furrows as his eye catches the angry bruise, an ugly mark, a sign of violence. His lips press into a thin line, his expression unreadable for a moment, but his gaze lingers.

"It is me or no one, my Lord Silvercrown," Aemond says, his voice low and demanding. His tone brooks no argument, leaving Daervon with no choice but to face his husband's unyielding determination. "If you let me do it, it'll be over soon."

Daervon scoffs, not out of amusement but knowing that Aemond will not leave him alone unless he agrees. His voice is bitter as he says, "Fine. Do what you want."

Aemond smiles, a wicked, satisfied grin, and beckons for the maids. They enter the chamber quickly, their presence swift and efficient. One carries a tray with oils and towels, the other refilling Daervon's now-cold bath with steaming water. They move quickly, preparing the space, and leave when the water is ready.

Aemond steps toward Daervon, his voice commanding yet smooth as silk. "Get in before the water goes cold," he says, his hand reaching out as if to coax him.

Daervon hesitates, his heart beating erratically as his body trembles beneath his defiance. His shoulders are tight, his arms shaky as he struggles with his own will. His breath is sharp as he begins to undress, his eyes averted, his focus on the water. Aemond's presence looms behind him, watching.

"Look away," Daervon growls as he catches Aemond staring at him. His voice is steady with anger, his shoulders flinching at the intrusion.

Aemond rolls his eye and mutters under his breath, "Nothing I haven't seen before," before turning his gaze away. His voice carries that unnerving calm, a stillness that unsettles Daervon further.

Daervon sighs, pulling himself into the warm, soothing water. His body sinks, his shoulders relaxing as the warmth envelops him.

Aemond pulls his sleeves up, his fingers deftly working with the oil as he applies it to Daervon's shoulders, following the instructions of the maester. His touch is firm, purposeful, almost eager as he massages Daervon's shoulders, his movements precise.

Daervon grips the edge of the tub, resisting the urge to moan, his body responding despite his will. The sensation both soothing and terrifying, like surrendering to a drug he can't stop.

When Aemond finishes, Daervon lies back in the water, his eyes closed. His chest is light, and his body is relaxed, but his mind is a chaotic storm.

Aemond's fingers brush against the bruise on Daervon's neck, the mark undeniable.

Daervon opens his eyes, his hand snapping up to grab Aemond's wrist. His voice is cold, emotionless, but sharp. "Mind your hand, Prince Aemond."

Aemond's voice is soft but sharp, cutting through the tension. "Who did this to you?" His voice has the edge of genuine curiosity, but the weight of Aemond's obsession carries in his words.

"It is none of your business," Daervon says with venom, his voice icy and sharp. He pulls himself out of the bath, ignoring his husband's presence, pulling fresh clothes over his damp skin. His hair drips, and Aemond's glare burns into his back.

His movements are quick, deliberate, his anger rising. He reaches for a towel and dries his hair, but Aemond's glare burns into him like a wildfire.

Before Daervon can gather himself, Aemond explodes. His hand snatches the towel from Daervon's grasp and throws it across the chamber. His voice is no longer gentle, no longer smooth - it is a roaring command.

"Who did it, Daervon? I ask again," he growls, his tone hard and commanding.

"Stay away from me!" Daervon shouts, his voice rising with all his fury. His voice cracks, the anguish of betrayal coiled in his chest, breaking free.

"I can't. You're mine," Aemond says, grabbing Daervon's chin, forcing him into his gaze. His voice is low, final, unyielding. "We are one flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever, remember?"

Daervon shoves Aemond's hand off his chin, the sharpness of his frustration cutting through his voice. "Have you lost your fucking mind?!"

Aemond's lips curl into a faint, smug smirk as he meets his husband's eyes, his voice calm but laced with venom. "When it comes to you? Possibly."

Daervon's heart twists at the words, and the weight of betrayal sinks into his bones. His voice is rough, haunted. "Is that why you took Mila's life?"

The smirk on Aemond's lips grows wider, more confident. "What are you going to do about it, my love?" His words come as sharp and biting as his smile. "Punish me? Make it rough as much as you want. I'll be happy to take any punishment... if it's from you."

Daervon's chest burns with a mixture of grief and rage. His voice comes out as a hiss between his teeth. "If you cause any harm to my people again, I will never forgive you."

Aemond leans in closer, the amusement in his voice dripping with malice. "One way or another, I will have you."

Before Daervon can respond, his body moves on instinct. He pulls a fighting move, his hands finding Aemond's wrists with strength and precision. Aemond groans as he is driven to the ground beneath Daervon's weight. Daervon straddles him, pinning him, his hands firm on Aemond's arms to keep him from moving. His eyes blaze with a mixture of fury and sorrow as they lock onto Aemond's.

"I warn you, Aemond," Daervon snaps, his voice a sharp blade slicing through the tension.

"Who is seducing whom now?" Aemond mutters smugly, his voice full of confidence, his chest rising beneath Daervon's weight. His words are meant to sting, meant to push, meant to remind Daervon of the thin line between love and domination. His initial intent had been seduction-to make Daervon forgive, to make him return-but that changed the moment Aemond noticed the bruise on Daervon's neck.

Daervon's gaze shifts downward, landing on Aemond's eyepatch. His heart sinks as his eyes linger on it, because he knows what lies beneath-the scar, the sapphire, the insecurities Aemond fights to conceal. Aemond's body is a fortress of pride and passion, but Daervon knows better. His free hand slides over Aemond's waist, his movements slow and deliberate, seductive.

He grips a handful of Aemond's silver hair, and the sharp tug draws a moan of surprised delight from his husband's lips. Daervon leans in closer, his face hovering over Aemond's neck. His warm breath grazes Aemond's skin, sending shivers through both of them. Aemond's eye flutter closed, lost in the sensation.

Daervon's lips brush the edge of Aemond's neck, teasing, taunting, and then he uses this moment of passion to take Aemond's eyepatch away. The eyepatch comes off, and Daervon takes in the sapphire beneath, the scar that has been the source of Aemond's deepest insecurity. Daervon never saw it as a flaw; in his eyes, Aemond was always beautiful, scars and all. But he knows the truth beneath the pride-the fear, the shame, the unspoken wounds.

Daervon stops, pulling himself back as he watches Aemond's face. He watches the flicker of emotion that passes through his husband's closed eye, his expression vulnerable. Then, without warning, Daervon steps back and rises, leaving Aemond on the floor, disoriented.

Aemond opens his eye and sits up, confusion written all over his face. His gaze shifts to Daervon, who now stands by the fire. Daervon's hand holds Aemond's eyepatch, the firelight illuminating it as it catches flames. The patch is devoured by fire, reduced to nothing but ash and memory.

Aemond's face falls as he watches the eyepatch burn, his body frozen. His voice is steady but cold as ice. "You can try now to see if I'd leave you over anything."

"You can try now," Daervon taunts, his voice cutting, his heart pounding. "No one is stopping you from running back to your soon-to-be lady wife."

Aemond does not move, his calmness maddening. His voice is low, devoid of anger or fear. "Nothing's burning in me, Daervon. Nothing but my love."

Daervon's rage bubbles beneath the surface as his hand clenches the hilt of his sword, Soul Reaper. His grip tightens, his body shaking as his anger reaches a boiling point. His eyes flash as he raises the blade, the sharp steel catching the firelight, the tip pointing toward Aemond's heart. His breath comes quick, his body trembling. He can't do it.

But before Daervon can release the fury, Aemond's hand finds the blade. His grip is steady and deliberate, stabbing the edge into his own flesh. Blood wells up from the shallow cut, pooling onto the floor beneath them. His expression is unyielding, as if daring Daervon to do more, to let the rage win.

Daervon freezes, his tears already welling in his eyes as the sight of his husband's pain sinks in. His own emotions become a turbulent sea-anger, grief, helplessness. His hands shake as Aemond pulls the sword from his own skin, blood streaking over his pale hand.

"Is this supposed to soothe your anger?" Aemond asks, voice calm and composed as he pulls the sword from his flesh and holds his bleeding hand over the wound. His words sting worse than any weapon.

Daervon can only stare, unable to move, unable to fight, unable to say anything as Aemond rises, his movements steady despite his pain. Tears stream down Daervon's face as he watches Aemond in agony. His body is rigid, frozen in place.

Before Daervon can stop him, Aemond leans forward, pressing his lips to Daervon's forehead. His voice is soft, intimate, full of anguish. "I love you."

And then he's gone, stepping away, leaving Daervon kneeling in the firelight, his hand trembling as he lowers his sword to the ground. His breath comes in ragged, broken sobs as he drops to his knees, his heart breaking. Why does it hurt so much? Even though he isn't the one injured, the pain is unbearable.

The door creaks open behind him. Rhaena enters with Daervon's medicine in her hands, her eyes wide with concern as she steps into the warm glow of the firelight. She sees him there, bloodied sword at his side, tears streaming down his face. Without hesitation, she rushes to him, pulling him into her arms, offering him a comfort only a sister could provide.

Daervon's body shakes against her as he cries into her shoulder, all the grief, pain, and betrayal that he cannot voice flooding out in raw, unfiltered sobs. She holds him tightly, her arms strong, steady, her voice soft as she whispers words of reassurance.

But there are no answers, no escape from this sorrow. Only firelight, silence, and the broken sound of Daervon's heart.