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The corridors of Silverhold are colder than Daervon remembers, their shadows stretching long as he walks them alone. It feels as though Aemond lingers in every corner, his presence haunting, though his touch has been absent. Whenever their paths cross, Aemond offers him nothing but a faint smile, a mere curve of lips that unravels Daervon’s carefully maintained composure. It is maddening—how such a small gesture can leave him shaken, his heart stumbling over itself like a foolish child.

Tonight, however, Daervon has no room to dwell on Aemond’s piercing glances or the agonizing weight of his yearning. The grand hall of Silverhold is alive with celebration, the nameday feast in full swing. Lords and ladies from across the Silverlands gather to honor their new Lord Paramount. Their voices rise and fall in a steady hum of admiration, their respect tangible as they bow low before him.

Daervon sits at the head of the great table. Yet, his thoughts are far from the festivities. He grimaces as he downs the bitter medicine handed to him by a dutiful steward.

“Why is it so vile?” he mutters, his nose wrinkling as he gulps from his goblet of water to rid himself of the taste.

Vidor, seated beside him, glances over with a pointed glare. “Don’t be a child, Daervon.”

Daervon huffs, setting the goblet down with an audible clink. “Can my day get any worse?”

The words barely leave his lips before his gaze is drawn down the table to where Baela sits. She leans toward Rhaena, her voice low and animated as they exchange quiet laughter. It is not their conversation that captures his attention, though. It is him.

Aemond Targaryen sits beside Rhaena, clad in Silvercrown colors. The sharp lines of his face are softened by the firelight, though his expression is as bored as ever. His pale hair is tied back, save for a few loose strands that curl against his cheek. He looks out of place, a storm within the silver calm of the hall, yet impossibly perfect.

Daervon stares, his breath hitching as his chest tightens. He swallows hard, his heart thrumming in his ears. It is unbearable—how someone who has betrayed him so deeply could still hold him captive like this, how the mere sight of Aemond makes him forget every wound, every slight.

Aemond must feel his gaze, for he turns, his piercing eye meeting Daervon’s. And then, that damned smile.

Daervon sobers immediately, his face burning as he looks away, his movements awkward and abrupt. He curses under his breath, furious with himself for being so easily swayed. “Why is he here?” he mutters, leaning toward Vidor.

Vidor’s smirk is almost too casual as he replies, “Because he is your husband.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” Daervon snaps, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Vidor meets his nephew’s glare with a dry look of his own, his smirk widening ever so slightly.

“Keep him away from me,” Daervon demands, his voice low but firm.

“He is away from you,” Vidor replies, gesturing toward the table where Aemond sits quietly, far enough to respect Daervon’s unspoken boundaries but close enough to remain tethered to him.

The tension in the air softens as servants begin to pour wine, the tables filling with decadent dishes. Vidor stands, raising his goblet high. His deep voice carries easily over the chatter, commanding the attention of the hall.

“To my nephew,” he begins, his tone rich with pride. “The new Lord Paramount of the Silverlands. May his reign be long, his name honored, and his enemies crushed.”

The hall erupts in cheers as every guest raises their goblets to toast Daervon. The sound is deafening, the weight of so many eyes upon him both humbling and suffocating.

Daervon rises next, lifting his own goblet. “To the reign of the rightful Queen and her health,” he declares, his voice steady. “Long live Queen Rhaenyra!”

Another wave of cheers follows, the crowd echoing his cry. Even Aemond, seated among them, lifts his goblet with an amused smile, his gaze lingering on Daervon.

Daervon meets that gaze briefly before looking away, his chest tightening once more. The feast carries on, but his appetite is gone, lost amid the maelstrom of emotions Aemond continues to stir within him. Despite the noise and revelry, Daervon feels as though he is drowning in silence, his heart caught between longing and rage.

The air in the grand hall hums with music and laughter, but Daervon’s thoughts are a tangled web. He sits at the head of the table, wine goblet in hand, watching the festivities through a hazy lens. The bitterness of the medicine still lingers on his tongue, but the sharpness of wine numbs it. The weight on his shoulders, ever-present and suffocating, feels lighter with each sip. He gulps down the remainder of his wine and sets the goblet down with a muted thud.

The alcohol soothes him, but it is a fleeting relief. His mind, clouded with grief and anger, drifts unbidden to Aemond. The memories of betrayal sting fresh in his heart, a pain that wine cannot dull. Yet, despite it all, the love he bears for his husband remains—a cruel and unyielding tether. It frustrates him, this inability to sever his feelings, this longing that persists against his better judgment.

As Daervon reaches for the wine jug, Vidor’s hand darts out, pulling it away from his grasp. His uncle’s stern expression leaves no room for argument.

“My lord,” Vidor says, his voice low and firm, “you are still recovering. You cannot consume so much liquor while taking medicine.”

Daervon frowns, leaning forward as if to snatch the jug back. “But it is just one—”

“No more,” Vidor cuts him off, his tone brooking no defiance. His worry for his nephew’s well-being is evident in the tightness around his mouth, the furrow of his brow. “You think wine is your ally, but it is a thief. It will rob you of your strength if you let it.”

Daervon sighs, slumping back in his chair with a scoff. “Fine, keep your precious jug. I shan’t die of thirst tonight.”

Vidor’s lips twitch with faint amusement, though his watchful gaze never wavers. Daervon respects his uncle’s care, even if he finds it overbearing at times. Vidor has always been his steadfast pillar, the one who remains when all else crumbles.

Before Daervon can dwell further, a familiar voice pulls him from his thoughts.

“Lord Silvercrown.”

He turns to see Lady Shireen standing before him, her golden hair gleaming under the chandelier light. She bows gracefully, her movements refined yet confident. Her beauty is striking, a natural elegance that leaves many breathless.

“Lady Shireen,” Daervon greets, his tone softening. A faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, a rare reprieve from the storm within him.  “How wonderful it is to see you again.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Lady Shireen straightens, her boldness shining through as she meets his gaze without hesitation. “I thought it proper to extend my congratulations in person,” she says, her voice warm yet measured. “The Silverlands could not ask for a better Lord Paramount.”

The sincerity in her words catches Daervon off guard, though he masks his surprise well. “You flatter me, my lady,” he replies, dipping his head slightly in acknowledgment.

If she notices—or cares about—the furious glare from Aemond across the room, she gives no sign. In fact, her next words seem deliberately crafted to stoke the fire. “Dance with me?”

Aemond’s eye narrows, his lilac gaze burning with barely restrained fury. His hand tightens on the armrest of his chair, his knuckles whitening under the strain. For a moment, Daervon hesitates, caught between Aemond’s searing gaze and Shireen’s unyielding smile. He knows Aemond’s hatred for the lady runs deep, born from the knowledge that she was once meant to be his bride.

Daervon’s lips curl into a slow, deliberate smile. “Fuck yes,” he says, taking Shireen’s outstretched hand with a flourish. The satisfaction that courses through him at the sight of Aemond’s tightening grip is almost wicked.

The two step onto the dance floor, blending seamlessly into the sea of guests. The music swells, and they move in perfect harmony. Shireen tilts her head up at him, her golden locks framing her face like a halo. “Missed me already, did you not?” she teases, her smile mischievous.

Daervon pretends to ponder the question. “Mmm. I miss the days when my biggest problem was an overconfident young lady attempting to woo me off into marriage so I won't be waging war against her house.”

“Or worse, burning it down,” Shireen counters with a grin.

Daervon throws his head back and laughs, the sound rich and unrestrained. “Touché.”

Shireen’s expression softens as she studies him. “Marriage quarrel?” she asks, her voice laced with genuine curiosity.

“Is it that obvious?” Daervon replies, arching a brow.

“Your husband is a King, and yet you refuse to stand by his side or even acknowledge him. Marriage does not suit you, my lord.”

The lightness in Daervon’s eyes dims, his gaze darkening. “I stand by the rightful Queen,” he says firmly, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken grief.

Shireen studies him for a moment before leaning closer, her tone quieter but no less bold. “Leave him, then,” she suggests. “I’d still take you in a heartbeat.”

Daervon’s lips curve into a teasing smile, the tension in his posture easing slightly. “Oh? Never took you for a husband stealer.”

Shireen rises onto her toes, her weight supported by him, though it is still not enough to match his height. She tugs him closer until he leans down, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispers, “It’s not stealing if I ask for permission.”

Daervon tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “You wouldn’t survive me, my lady.”

“I can try,” Shireen retorts, her gaze challenging.

“Careful,” Daervon warns, his tone laced with mock seriousness. “You do not want a ruined reputation.”

Shireen places a hand on his chest, her touch light but deliberate. “Reputations don’t scare me anymore,” she says, her voice low and confident. Her gaze flickers with an unspoken understanding as she adds, “I am more like you than you realize.”

Daervon’s smirk widens at the implication. “A bold claim, my lady. I do admire your courage.”

Shireen winks at him, her grin unabashed.

As the music continues, Daervon leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do me a favor, will you?”

Shireen raises a brow, her tone playful. “What could the mighty god of the Silverlands possibly want from me?”

“Smuggle a jug of wine to my chambers,” Daervon says, his expression entirely serious.

Shireen laughs, the sound bright and unrestrained. “I was expecting something far more dramatic.”

“The maesters have forbidden it,” Daervon explains with a mock sigh. “Apparently, it’s unwise to mix wine and medicine, but how can I not drink on my own nameday?”

Shireen snorts, shaking her head before placing her hand on his chest once more. “Consider it done, my lord,” she says, her voice dripping with mischief.

Daervon watches as Lady Shireen strides away. Her steps are confident, her posture unyielding, and her parting grin is as sharp as her wit. His own lips curve into a smile, a soft chuckle escaping as he shakes his head.

Her boldness never ceases to amaze him. She has always been like a storm—beautiful, fierce, and impossible to ignore. Their bond is one of easy camaraderie, forged from what could have been a marriage of duty and tempered into friendship by mutual respect. She teases him with the ease of someone who knows him well, and in her presence, he feels no weight of judgment, only lightness—a fleeting respite from the burdens that crush him.

Yet, as he steps off the dance floor, his smile falters. The lingering warmth Shireen leaves behind is quickly eclipsed by a shadow—a shadow that sits rigid and unmoving at the high table. Aemond.

Daervon does not need to look to feel the intensity of his husband’s gaze. It burns into him, unrelenting, like dragonfire licking at his skin. When Daervon dares to meet it, he sees the fury that smolders within that singular lilac eye. Aemond’s face is a mask of control, but his jaw clenches tightly, his knuckles white where they grip the edge of his chair.

For a moment, Daervon’s heart clenches too. Despite everything—despite the betrayal that had shattered him, despite the lies and the disloyalty that cut deeper than any blade—he still loves Aemond. That is the cruelest truth of all.

But that love is poisoned now, tainted by grief and a hollow ache that will not fade. He yearns for the man he once thought he knew, the man he gave himself to without hesitation. Yet, the Aemond before him now is a stranger, his obsession suffocating, his love as sharp and dangerous as a dagger pressed to Daervon’s throat.

Aemond’s gaze is unreadable, yet Daervon knows the storm brewing behind it. He can feel the unspoken plea, the unyielding need that radiates from him. Daervon is his drug, his sanctuary, and his torment all at once. But Aemond’s love has become a weight, and Daervon is drowning beneath it.

He tears his gaze away, forcing his expression into neutrality as he moves through the crowd. The murmurs of the guests fade into the background, their laughter a distant hum. Daervon lifts his chin, maintaining the poise expected of him, but his thoughts are a tumultuous sea.

He is acutely aware of Aemond’s stare, following him like a predator tracking prey. The memory of Lady Shireen’s laughter lingers faintly, but even that cannot shield him from the raw, unrelenting tension that tightens his chest.

As he exits the dance floor, his steps are measured, his expression calm. But beneath the surface, his heart is heavy, and his thoughts are a mess of conflicting emotions—love, pain, and the unbearable ache of what was lost.