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As the celebration winds down, Vidor places a steady hand on Daervon’s back, guiding him through the dimly lit corridors of the keep. The torches flicker, their glow casting long shadows on the stone walls, but neither man speaks for a time. Vidor’s presence is steady, protective—a sentinel watching over his nephew. His worry is unspoken but palpable, woven into the quiet glances he steals at Daervon, whose steps seem a touch too measured, his movements just shy of natural ease.

When they reach Daervon’s chambers, Vidor pauses, his hand brushing against the door handle. “You’ve had a long night,” he says softly, his tone measured but tinged with concern. “Let me—”

Daervon yawns theatrically, stretching his arms in an exaggerated manner before leaning lazily against the doorframe. “I’m tired, Uncle,” he murmurs, his lilac eyes glinting with a hint of mischief.

Vidor arches a brow, folding his arms across his chest. “That mischievous smile of yours is unsettling,” he remarks, his gaze narrowing. “You’re hiding something.”

Daervon’s grin widens as he shakes his head. “Of course not. Why would I hide anything from you?” he counters, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. He steps back, placing a hand on the door. “Have a lovely night, Uncle.”

Before Vidor can protest further, Daervon swings the double doors closed, the heavy wood muffling whatever retort his uncle might have offered.

Alone, Daervon exhales a breath of relief, the grin lingering on his lips as he turns into the room. His eyes immediately catch sight of the wine jug sitting prominently on the table, its polished surface gleaming in the low light. His grin broadens, a flicker of delight sparking in his chest.

“Bless you, Lady Shireen,” he mutters under his breath, striding toward the table with purpose. But his elation is short-lived. The moment his hand hovers over the jug, a presence prickles at the edge of his awareness.

He stiffens, his heart lurching, and turns slowly, his eyes narrowing as they land on a figure half-shadowed in the corner of the room. Aemond.

The tension is immediate, suffocating, as Daervon straightens, his hand dropping from the jug. “You are not welcome in my chambers,” he says flatly, his voice as cold and sharp as Valyrian steel. He moves toward the jug once more, his fingers curling around its handle. If he is to face Aemond, the liquid courage is a necessity—though he knows it will do little to soothe the tempest raging within him.. “I thought I made that clear enough to you last time.”

Aemond’s lilac eye gleams with suppressed rage as he steps forward, holding a crumpled parchment aloft. His voice is tight, barely restrained, as he demands, "What is the meaning of this?"

Daervon doesn’t even glance at the paper. He doesn’t need to. The sight of it makes his stomach twist into knots. He hasn’t read it thoroughly, but he knows its contents all too well: a list of eligible ladies prepared by Lord Ironclad. His lips curl into a sneer as he meets Aemond’s gaze. "Why are you snooping around my things?" The accusation is sharp, barbed, meant to wound.

With a growl of frustration, Aemond strides to the hearth and casts the parchment into the flames. The fire eagerly consumes it, the edges curling and blackening as smoke rises. "Is that why that vulturous Stormcrest bitch keeps circling you?" His voice rises, edged with fury and desperation as he drags a hand down his face, pacing like a caged beast. "What did she offer you?"

Daervon pours himself a generous goblet of wine, his movements slow, deliberate, calculated to inflame. He doesn’t look at Aemond as he lifts the cup to his lips, taking a long, defiant sip. "Don’t burden yourself with things that don’t concern you, my prince," he says, the title laced with venom, as though it were an insult rather than an honor.

Aemond stiffens, the slight tremor in his hand betraying his simmering rage. "I will decide whether it concerns me or not when I hear it," he snarls, his voice a low growl that reverberates through the chamber.

"Oh? Will you now?" Daervon’s tone is mocking, goading, as he reaches for the jug to refill his cup.

The sound of shattering glass echoes through the room as Aemond snatches the goblet from Daervon’s hand and hurls it against the wall. Red wine drips down the stone like blood, a testament to the violence of the moment.

Not to be outdone, Daervon seizes the wine jug and flings it with equal force. It crashes against the wall, the dark liquid splattering across the floor in crimson arcs. He laughs bitterly, the sound hollow and sharp. "I’m my father’s son," he says, his voice laced with dark amusement. "So naturally, I can throw tantrums better than you."

Aemond pinches the bridge of his nose, drawing in a slow, shuddering breath as though the act alone could temper the storm raging within him. Anger won’t give him answers—he knows this, even as his blood boils with unspent fury. Patience, he tells himself. Patience will yield what wrath cannot.

When he lifts his gaze, the sharpness in his features softens, giving way to something raw and unguarded. His single eye, gleaming in the dim light, carries a silent plea as he steps closer. "Daervon," he says, his voice trembling at the edges, heavy with desperation. "Please."

Cruel amusement flickers in Daervon’s eyes as he smirks. "I like it when you beg. Do it again—on your knees this time."

Aemond’s jaw tightens, his patience thinning. His glare speaks volumes, but his voice is calm, though the effort it takes to keep it so is evident. "Daervon."

"Boring," Daervon scoffs, turning to leave, but he doesn’t make it far. Pain shoots through his arm as Aemond grabs him, twisting his wrist behind his back and pressing him against the wall. The air leaves Daervon’s lungs in a sharp gasp as Aemond’s body pins him firmly in place.

"Fine! Fine! Let go!" Daervon hisses, the pain sharp and unrelenting.

"Say it. Now," Aemond growls, his breath hot against Daervon’s ear, his grip unyielding.

Daervon glares over his shoulder, defiance etched into every line of his face. "A marriage proposal. And I’m considering it this time."

The words hang heavy in the air as Aemond releases him abruptly. Daervon staggers forward, rubbing his wrist and wincing. "Seven hells," he mutters, his voice laced with irritation. "That hurts."

Aemond’s face contorts with disbelief, his fury mingling with raw, unguarded pain. "So that’s what you want now? To leave me and marry the Stormcrest girl?"

Daervon turns to face him, his expression a careful mask that does little to conceal the anguish beneath. "I can't afford a marriage full of lies and disloyalty," he says, his voice trembling, the words cutting as deeply into himself as they do into Aemond. "I don’t want it either."

The words strike Aemond like a physical blow, and for a moment, he is silent, his chest heaving as he struggles to find the right words. Daervon watches him, his heart breaking even as he refuses to yield. He loves Aemond—gods, he loves him—but that love has been twisted and tarnished, and it cuts deeper than any blade.

Aemond steps closer, his single eye glistening with desperation. "I’m arrogant and cold-hearted," he admits, his tone raw, his voice breaking. "And I’m full of lies. I’m disloyal and not considerate enough. If I change all my worse habits, can you stop leaving me?"

The vulnerability in Aemond’s voice twists Daervon’s heart, but his pain outweighs his pity. He shakes his head slowly, biting back the tears threatening to spill. "Love shouldn’t be this hard," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond’s brow furrows, confusion and hurt flashing across his face. "What do you mean by that?" he asks, his voice tight.

Daervon exhales shakily, his gaze turning to the floor as if the stone beneath his feet might provide him the strength to say the words he dreads. "Maybe it just can’t work," he says, his voice hollow. "I can’t live like this anymore."

Aemond grabs his arm, his grip firm but not rough, his eye wide with disbelief. "You don’t mean that," he says, his voice trembling with the sheer force of his refusal to believe. "I love you, and you love me."

Daervon pulls his arm free, his movement sharp and final. He looks at Aemond, his eyes filled with grief and anger, and the weight of a love that feels more like a burden now. "And look what our love has brought us," he snaps, his voice rising, thick with emotion. "You should be truly sorry for what you did to me."

Aemond takes a step back, his jaw clenching as he inhales deeply, his hand trembling at his side. "It’s all my fault," he says softly, his words like a confession, a prayer.

Daervon doesn’t soften. He won’t. "Yes," he spits, his voice cold and unrelenting. "It’s all your fault. So just forget about me." His words are sharp, but his heart aches with every syllable. He doesn’t know if he says it to hurt Aemond or to convince himself.

Aemond stares at him, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His voice cracks as he whispers, "I can’t. Just… ask me to kill myself, and I’ll do it for you. Please." He steps closer again, his hand reaching out but stopping short of touching. "Just tell me a way. What do you want me to do for us to go back to the past?"

Daervon’s laugh is dry, bitter, devoid of mirth. "What past do we even have?"

Aemond’s frustration boils over, his voice rising as he shouts, "There is one!" His eye burns with a mixture of fury and heartbreak as he points at Daervon, his entire body trembling. "Daervon, as long as you’re willing to treat me like before, I swear I’ll listen to you in everything. But if we can’t go back… if you won’t let us… then I’ll have my way of dealing with our relationship. And I can’t guarantee what will happen next."

Daervon scoffs, his lips curling into a humorless smile. His voice drips with venom as he responds, "What are you going to do? Lie to me? Cage me? Poison me? Humiliate me? Betray me? You already tried all that." He takes a step closer, his voice rising with every word. "You want to fix what you broke? It’s too late for that. I never want to see you again."

Aemond’s face crumbles for a moment, his mask of rage slipping to reveal the raw anguish underneath. But then his expression hardens, his voice low and dangerous. "Tell me it’s not true," he says, stepping closer until they are mere inches apart. "Do you actually have no feelings for me?"

The question stabs at Daervon’s heart, and for a fleeting moment, his resolve falters. But then he steels himself, forcing his voice to remain steady. "I had once taken you as my soulmate," he says, the words laced with sorrow and finality.

Aemond’s expression shifts, the pain in his eye replaced by something darker, something possessive and dangerous. "Once?" he whispers, his voice trembling, but the fire in him hasn’t dimmed.

"Once," Daervon confirms, his tone clipped, final as his husband teeters on the edge of sanity.

Aemond’s jaw tightens, his lips curling into a thin, dangerous line. He takes a step closer, the fire in his gaze burning brighter. "You will not marry anyone else. Not as long as I live," he declares, jabbing a finger into Daervon’s chest with enough force to make him take half a step back. "And you will not leave me again. Not for that Stormcrest girl, not for anyone. I will not allow it. You love me, and—"

"Loved," Daervon interrupts, his voice sharp as a blade. The single correction slices through Aemond’s composure, and the flicker of fury in his eye becomes a storm.

"Love!" Aemond shouts, the word erupting from him with unbridled emotion. "You love me!"

Daervon chuckles bitterly, his voice dripping with sardonic wit. "You should save those confessions for your soon-to-be lady wife," he says, folding his arms. "She’ll appreciate them more than I ever could."

Aemond’s temper snaps. He surges forward, seizing Daervon by the collar of his tunic with both hands. Before Daervon can react, Aemond shoves him backward, sending him sprawling onto the bed. In one swift motion, Aemond straddles him, pinning Daervon’s wrists above his head, his grip like iron.

"Get off me!" Daervon struggles, thrashing beneath Aemond’s weight. His voice is filled with rage, but his chest heaves with something else—an ache he can’t shake, no matter how much he wishes to.

"No," Aemond says, his voice low and dangerous, the sheer force of his possessiveness vibrating in the air between them. "If we cannot go back, then just do as I want, Daervon. You will only belong to me. No matter what you think you want, you can only be mine."

Daervon stills beneath him, his muscles taut with the effort of his resistance. But when he realizes he can’t win against Aemond’s superior strength—not now, not like this—he exhales sharply and switches tactics. "Aegon was right," he says, his tone deceptively calm.

Aemond’s brow furrows, his grip faltering slightly. "He was here?"

"As a guest, yes," Daervon replies, his voice tinged with disdain. "I shipped him off right before he warned me about this exact situation we’re in. Which, of course, I ignored wholeheartedly because I trusted you. And here I am, proved to be the imbecile."

Aemond blinks, taken aback. "What?"

Daervon presses on, his words deliberately chosen to provoke. "Oh, and he also confessed his long-lasting love for me. Promised to be a better man for me. Said he’d fight for me if he had to."

Aemond’s grip loosens further, the mention of his brother’s name slicing through his defenses. For a fleeting moment, a flicker of uncertainty crosses his face, though he masks it quickly with an almost amused smirk. "You believe a drunkard’s words? Aegon is a fool."

"At least that drunkard fool wasn’t wrong about you," Daervon says, a dry chuckle escaping him. With the tension in Aemond’s grip lessened, he pushes himself upright slightly, enough to meet Aemond’s gaze head-on. "I do regret it now."

"Regret what?" Aemond demands, his voice sharp, his eye narrowing. "Not making Aegon your lover? The fuck you will."

Before Daervon can respond, Aemond’s hand shoots out, roughly cupping Daervon’s face, forcing him to look at him. Aemond’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "You’re mine. Mine to fight with. Mine to fight for. Do you hear me, bastard? Fucking all mine."

Daervon closes his eyes for a moment, a bitter laugh bubbling in his chest. He knows what he’s about to say will haunt him later, but the words are already forming on his tongue. When he opens his eyes again, Aemond is watching him intently, a predator poised to pounce.

"Last time, Aemond," Daervon says, his voice steady but edged with warning. "Fuck it up, and there will be no more."

Aemond’s expression shifts instantly, the cold possessiveness melting into something softer—something almost hopeful. A smile breaks across his face, a rare, genuine thing. "I won’t," he vows, his voice trembling with the weight of his sincerity. "I won’t, and I’ll make it up to you for the rest of my fucking life."

"I’d like that," Daervon murmurs, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles.

Aemond’s tears come then, unbidden and unstoppable. He lowers himself into Daervon’s arms, wrapping them around his husband with a ferocity born of relief and love and despair all at once. He buries his face in Daervon’s shoulder, his body shaking as he whispers, "You belong with me, Daervon Targaryen. Only me. Say it. Say you’re mine."

"I’m yours," Daervon whispers back, his voice soft but steady.

Aemond pulls back just enough to capture Daervon’s lips in a fervent kiss, his hands tangling in Daervon’s hair as he presses him back into the mattress. The kiss is passionate but not demanding, desperate but not violent. When they finally part, breathless and trembling, they collapse into each other’s arms. The world around them fades, leaving only the two of them. No more accusations, no more fights—just the quiet, fragile promise of something new.

They fall asleep like that, holding onto each other as if the night itself might steal them apart, their bodies entwined in a rare moment of peace.