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Aemond stands in the flickering light of the hearth, the warmth casting long shadows across his chambers. His shirt-fine, dark linen-rests discarded on the chair as he reaches for his nightclothes. The Maester's stitches across his chest throb faintly, the shallow cut neatly bandaged, but the ache does little to slow his movements. He winces as he slips the tunic over his head, careful not to aggravate the wound.

A sharp, sudden pounding on the door breaks through the stillness, loud enough to make Aemond's hand dart instinctively to the dagger lying on his bedside table. His eye narrows as he approaches the door, every muscle coiled and ready. His fingers tighten around the hilt as he pulls the door open.

But the tension melts the moment he sees him-Daervon.

Aemond's stern expression softens into faint confusion as he takes in the sight of his husband. Daervon leans heavily against the doorframe, his raven curls tousled into a chaotic mess, as if he's just walked through a storm. His lilac eyes, dull and rimmed with exhaustion, look up at Aemond with a glazed, unfocused warmth. His clothes are in disarray, the loose threads and crumpled fabric betraying the hours he's spent in this state. His lips curve into a goofy, lopsided grin.

"Why do you look so pretty today?" Daervon slurs, his words thick and unsteady, but his tone is one of genuine wonder.

Aemond exhales sharply through his nose, his amusement tempered with disbelief. "You're drunk." The statement is as much a realization as it is a soft admonishment.

"Am I?" Daervon tilts his head, blinking as though the idea has only just occurred to him. He stumbles forward, attempting to brush past Aemond into the room, but his legs betray him. He falters, and for a moment, it seems gravity will claim him entirely.

Aemond moves without hesitation, his dagger clattering to the floor as his arms wrap firmly around Daervon's waist, pulling him upright. The weight of him in Aemond's arms is familiar, yet different now-heavier with the burden of his inebriation, lighter with the vulnerability he rarely shows. Aemond's fingers press against his back, steadying him. His lips press into a thin line, disappointment flickering in his gaze. "Maester Kelvyn advised you to avoid wine," he says quietly.

"Fuck the Maester," Daervon mutters, his voice muffled as he buries his face against Aemond's shoulder. He clings to him like a drowning man to driftwood, his grip clumsy but desperate.

Aemond snorts softly, shaking his head with an air of reluctant affection. He maneuvers them into the room, kicking the door shut behind him, and begins guiding Daervon toward the bed. "How in the name of the gods did you manage to walk across the castle in this state?" Aemond mutters, half to himself.

Daervon, oblivious to the rhetorical nature of the question, looks up, his eyes struggling to focus. "When are you going back to King's Landing?" he asks, his words slurring together as his tired gaze searches Aemond's face.

Aemond chuckles low in his throat, the sound dry but tinged with warmth. "Why are you so desperate to send me away?" he teases, though his words are edged with curiosity. He crouches slightly to meet Daervon's unfocused eyes. "I'm here for you, my love. Without you, I have no reason to leave."

For a fleeting moment, Daervon's lips part, as though he's about to speak, but his expression darkens instead. He pushes away from Aemond's hold, wobbling dangerously as he stumbles toward the center of the room. "You're not here for me," he spits, his voice suddenly sharper, though still heavy with drink. "You're here for the power that comes with me. You want Silverhold seat and it's fighting men."

The words strike Aemond like a blow, and his breath catches in his throat. He stares at Daervon, disbelief etched into his features. "Is that what you think of me?" he asks, his voice quieter now, but laced with an ache he can't hide.

"You forced me into this political game," Daervon slurs, swaying as he points a trembling finger at Aemond. "I didn't want to play. I never wanted this. I'm so done with you, Aemond Targaryen. So fucking done." His voice cracks, and he turns away, stumbling toward the door.

"Don't leave." Aemond's words are barely above a whisper, but they carry a longing that stops Daervon in his tracks.

"I'm not leaving," Daervon replies bitterly, his steps unsteady as he veers toward the small table near the window. "I'm here to drink all your wine. I drank all mine." He pours himself a goblet of Aemond's finest, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim as his hands shake. He downs the drink in one go, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand before pouring another. "Come here! Have a drink with me," he commands, his tone equal parts playful and pitiful.

Aemond watches him, the corner of his mouth twitching with reluctant amusement. Daervon has always been a lightweight, and the sight of him now, so disheveled and vulnerable, stirs something in Aemond that he can't quite name-an odd mixture of affection, exasperation, and the obsessive need to hold him close. "I think I love you more when you're drunk," he says dryly, stepping forward and taking the goblet from Daervon's hand.

Daervon beams at him, his drunken smile wide and boyish. "Come on. Drink it, husband," he urges, his voice lilting as he sways on his feet.

Aemond obliges, downing the wine in one swift motion. He tips the goblet upside down to show it's empty. "Happy?" he asks, arching a brow.

Daervon nods enthusiastically, but before he can pour another, Aemond catches his hand. "No more drinking," he says firmly, adjusting Daervon's arm around his neck, supporting his drunken husband's weight as he guides him to the bed. Daervon's head lolls to the side, his lilac eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. His breath carries the pungent sting of wine, and his limbs hang heavy, a testament to how utterly wasted he is. He whines softly, a pathetic sound, as Aemond lowers him onto the mattress.

"You should sleep," Aemond murmurs, his voice tender despite the frustration simmering beneath. His strong hands guide Daervon under the sheets, pulling them over his husband's lithe frame with care. Daervon groans, trying to turn away, but his drunken movements are sluggish.

The silver-haired prince sits beside him, leaning down to press a kiss to Daervon's forehead. His lips linger as though seeking to absolve his sins through that fleeting touch. When he pulls back, Daervon captures his lips in a kiss, sudden and sweet. It catches Aemond off guard. The drunken haze doesn't dull Daervon's yearning; it only amplifies it, and for a moment, Aemond lets himself fall into the kiss, his heart tightening in his chest.

When their lips part, their faces remain inches apart, breaths mingling. Daervon's hand, trembling but firm, rises to cup Aemond's face. His touch is gentle, his thumb brushing along the sharp line of Aemond's cheekbone. Aemond closes his eye, leaning into the warmth of his husband's palm. Daervon gazes at him, his expression soft, vulnerable, even as pain flickers in his drunken lilac eyes. Whatever bitterness he harbored, whatever anger, seems to dissolve in the intimacy of the moment.

"Make love to me," Daervon whispers, his voice hoarse and pleading, slurred from the wine but desperate.

Aemond opens his eye, his brow furrowing as a pang of guilt strikes him. "You are too drunk," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You will regret this come the morning."

"I don't care," Daervon breathes, his voice breaking slightly. His hand slides to the nape of Aemond's neck, pulling him closer. His eyes glisten, and though he is drunk, the sorrow in his gaze is unmistakable. "Aemond, please."

Aemond hesitates, his mind warring with his desires. He knows the state Daervon is in, knows the morning will bring nothing but regret and bitterness. Yet the way Daervon looks at him, the sheer desperation in his voice, undoes him. Daervon is his weakness, his obsession, the only thing in this world capable of both destroying and healing him.

He leans in slowly at first, their lips brushing tentatively, but then all hesitation melts away. Aemond's mouth claims Daervon's with a ferocity that betrays his restraint. He shifts, crawling over Daervon, his hands cradling the sides of his face as the kiss deepens. Daervon's fingers tangle in Aemond's hair, pulling him closer, drowning in the passion that consumes them both.

The kisses turn hungrier, fiercer. Aemond pulls back only to catch his breath, his lips swollen and glistening as he gazes down at Daervon. Slowly, reverently, he begins to undress him, unfastening each layer of clothing with deliberate care. Every movement, every touch, is laced with the weight of his love. His hands glide over Daervon's bare skin as if committing every inch of him to memory.

"You are everything to me," Aemond whispers against Daervon's skin, his voice thick with emotion. He trails kisses along his husband's jaw, down his neck, his lips lingering over his pulse. "Everything."

Daervon's hands tremble as they explore Aemond in return, his touch uncoordinated but filled with longing. His drunken state robs him of precision but not intent. He sighs Aemond's name like a prayer, his voice heavy with need and pain.

When Aemond finally joins him beneath the sheets, their bodies move together slowly at first, every moment deliberate, every touch a silent vow. Aemond pours his love into each caress, each kiss, as though trying to prove the depth of his devotion. Daervon's lilac eyes flutter shut, his lips parting with soft gasps as he surrenders entirely to his husband's touch.

The pace quickens, passion igniting like a wildfire as they lose themselves in one another. Daervon's drunken laughter mixes with moans of pleasure, and for a brief moment, all the hurt and betrayal between them is forgotten.

When the haze of passion fades, the chamber falls into a deep, tranquil silence, broken only by the sound of their labored breaths.

Daervon is the first to succumb to sleep, his body spent and his breathing even. He looks content, a faint smile gracing his lips even in slumber. Aemond lies beside him, propped on one elbow as he watches him, a rare, tender smile tugging at his own lips. The candlelight bathes his husband's flushed face, illuminating the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. For a moment, Aemond feels an aching tenderness, his heart tightening in his chest. He does not deserve this man-this love. Yet, Daervon remains by his side, even in the midst of betrayal and heartbreak.

A sharp, searing pain rips through Aemond's side, shattering the fragile moment. He winces, his breath catching as his hand instinctively presses against his wound. His fingertips come away sticky and red, the bandage soaked through. The stitches have torn from the strain of the night.

Clenching his jaw, Aemond swings his legs over the edge of the bed, forcing himself upright. The movement sends another wave of agony through him, but he grits his teeth and pushes past it. He glances back at Daervon, ensuring he hasn't stirred, then fumbles for his trousers. Every motion is a struggle, each breath shallow as he fastens the ties with trembling hands.

The door feels miles away as Aemond staggers toward it, his arm clutching his side. When he finally reaches it, fortune seems to favor him; two guards pass by, their boots echoing softly in the corridor.

"You," Aemond rasps, his voice strained with pain. The guards halt, startled by the sight of their prince hunched over, blood seeping through his clothes. "Summon the maester. Now."

The guards exchange a brief glance before one nods and rushes off, while the other lingers, clearly uneasy. Aemond waves him away impatiently, unwilling to be gawked at. He leans heavily against the doorframe, his breathing labored, the world spinning around him.

By the time Maester Kelvyn arrives, Aemond has managed to lower himself onto the settee. His tunic is damp with blood, his usually composed features pale and tight with pain. The maester hurries to his side, his weathered face etched with concern as he examines the state of the wound.

"I warned you," Kelvyn begins, taking a seat beside Aemond. "I advised you to prevent the wound from reopening by keeping activity to a minimum-"

Aemond raises a hand sharply, his other clutching his side as he exhales through clenched teeth. "Silence," he orders in a low, hoarse voice. He winces again, his fingers tightening over the torn stitches.

The maester frowns, momentarily perplexed, until his gaze shifts toward the bed. There, Daervon lies curled beneath the blankets, his breathing steady, his face serene in the dim light.

"Lord Silvercrown," Kelvyn murmurs, as if the realization suddenly dawns on him.

"Do not bother him with unimportant things," Aemond says quietly but firmly, his voice carrying a hint of steel despite his obvious discomfort. "Let him sleep a little longer."

Kelvyn inclines his head in silent acknowledgment, his lips pressing into a thin line. He examines the wound more closely, his fingers gentle but thorough as he assesses the damage. "The stitches will need to be redone," he says finally, his tone grim.

Aemond swallows hard, nodding once. He braces himself against the settee as the maester retrieves his tools, the air between them heavy with unspoken understanding.

The process is agony. Every pull of the needle through torn flesh sends fiery pain coursing through Aemond's body, but he remains silent, his jaw locked, his breathing measured. His gaze flickers toward the bed, where Daervon stirs faintly but does not wake. Aemond clings to that sight, drawing strength from the knowledge that his husband remains undisturbed.

When the stitching is complete, Kelvyn rises, wiping his hands on a cloth as he issues a final warning. "You must keep activity to a minimum, my prince. The wound will not heal otherwise."

Aemond merely nods, dismissing the maester with a curt wave. As the door closes behind him, the room falls silent once more. Aemond stands, his movements deliberate and strained as he peels off his bloodied tunic and changes into fresh garments. Despite the throbbing pain that lingers, his focus shifts to Daervon.

He adjusts the pillows beneath his husband's head, tucking the blankets around him with a care that belies the turmoil in his heart. Instead of joining him under the covers, Aemond settles on his side of the bed, watching Daervon sleep. He aches to touch him, to hold him close, but he does not dare disturb the fragile peace that has finally settled over his husband.

The first rays of dawn spill into the chamber, bathing it in a soft golden light. Daervon stirs, his lashes fluttering as his consciousness slowly rises from the depths of slumber. It is the most content he has felt since arriving in the Silverlands. For a fleeting moment, his mind is unburdened, a rare serenity washing over him. He stretches languidly, his muscles loosening with the motion, until his gaze shifts-and freezes.

Aemond lies beside him, the silver cascade of his hair spread across the pillow, his angular face softened in sleep. Daervon's breath catches in his throat, his heart pounding against his ribcage as a wave of conflicting emotions crashes over him. He does not move at first, unwilling to disturb the prince's peaceful visage, but the weight of realization presses down on him like a leaden cloak.

His gaze shifts around the room, piecing together the unfamiliar surroundings-the richly carved furniture, the tapestries adorning the walls, the faint scent of leather and firewood that lingers in the air. This is not his chamber.

The realization strikes him with the force of a hammer blow. He is in Aemond's bedchamber.

A flicker of memory returns-disjointed fragments of the previous night. The wine, Aemond's hands guiding him to bed, the soft press of lips, and the way his own drunken desperation had taken hold. Daervon's face flushes with heat, equal parts embarrassment and self-recrimination. His gaze lowers to the sheets, where he realizes with dawning horror that he is naked beneath them.

He drags a hand over his face, groaning softly to himself. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

For a long moment, he remains motionless, staring at the man beside him. Aemond's breathing is steady, his features unguarded in the vulnerability of sleep. Daervon's chest tightens painfully. Betrayal and love war within him, each feeling cutting as deeply as a blade. He cannot deny what Aemond has done-the lies, the disloyalty-but neither can he deny the way his heart still beats for him, a traitorous rhythm that refuses to falter.

Shaking himself free of his thoughts, Daervon throws off the sheets and moves to dress as quickly and quietly as possible. His fingers fumble with his clothes, trembling slightly as he works to cover himself. Once dressed, he spares Aemond one last glance. The silver-haired prince remains asleep, unaware of the storm raging within Daervon.

Without another sound, Daervon slips out of the chamber, his heart hammering in his chest. The corridor outside is cool, but the biting air does little to soothe the heat of shame and anger coursing through him. He moves swiftly, his boots echoing faintly against the stone floor as he makes his way toward the West Wing.

It doesn't take long for the servants and guards to notice him. Their gazes linger, curiosity and judgment thinly veiled. Whispers seem to follow him, and though none dare speak openly, Daervon feels their stares like a thousand needles piercing his skin. He glares at them, his lilac eyes flashing with unspoken fury, and the boldest among them quickly avert their gaze, their faces paling in fear.

By the time he reaches his chambers, Daervon is bristling with frustration. He pushes the door open and steps inside, only to find himself face-to-face with Vidor. His uncle leans casually against the mantelpiece, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, his piercing gaze alight with amusement.

Daervon halts, his expression darkening. "Don't say a word," he warns, his voice low and sharp.

Vidor raises his hands in mock surrender, the smirk never leaving his face. "I didn't say anything," he replies smoothly, his tone laced with feigned innocence.

Daervon narrows his eyes, his jaw tightening, but despite his irritation, there's a flicker of warmth beneath the surface. Vidor's teasing is as infuriating as it is familiar-a reminder that, no matter the chaos surrounding them, his uncle remains steadfastly by his side.

Vidor steps away from the mantel, his smirk softening into something more genuine. "You're too tense, nephew," he remarks, crossing the room to pour a goblet of water. He offers it to Daervon with a knowing look. "Drink. You'll need it after last night's... festivities."

Daervon accepts the goblet, though he glares at Vidor over the rim as he drinks. The cool liquid soothes his parched throat, but it does little to quell the storm of emotions churning within him.