AN:
This is the last update for the weekend. I was half asleep while writing this. Forgive me for errors and any bad writing you might find while reading! I'll redo this chapter later. I'm exhausted and badly need a good rest(:
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The next morning, the dim light filtering through the tall, narrow windows of Daervon’s chambers casts a soft glow over the space. Steam rises lazily from the large bathtub that sits in the corner of the room, its surface reflecting the dim light. Aemond and Daervon sit within it, the water warm against their bare skin. Daervon leans back against Aemond’s chest, their bodies pressed together, forming an intimate silhouette within the misty haze.

“Vhagar, the only living dragon from Aegon’s Conquest. A reminder of what once was,” Daervon murmurs, his voice quiet, contemplative. The sound of their slow breathing fills the room. Aemond’s arms encircle Daervon’s waist, his hands resting gently on his husband’s chest.

“She was old even then, but her strength remains unmatched. Still…” Aemond’s voice trails off, his breath hitching slightly, the weight of his words heavy. Aemond feels the sadness rising within him, the constant awareness of Vhagar’s aging, a truth he cannot escape. “I can feel it, Daervon. Her days are numbered. It pains me to think of it.” His tone is low, almost a whisper, as though speaking any louder might shatter the fragile moment between them.

Daervon remains silent for a moment, his own heart heavy with the knowledge that Aemond’s fears are not without reason. He closes his eyes briefly, trying to gather his thoughts before offering a response. “It might be just your overthinking, Aemond,” Daervon says softly, his voice soothing, almost an attempt to comfort his husband. “Vhagar might have years ahead of her, yet. The rider always knows better, but still…” His words drift, uncertain, even though he knows Aemond’s intuition is sharper than anyone else’s.

Aemond smiles faintly at Daervon’s attempt to ease his concerns, though the pain in his voice remains. He shifts slightly, his grip tightening just enough to feel the warmth of his husband beneath his fingers. His gaze lowers, and something shifts within him as he contemplates a different memory. “I saw a portrait of Lady Aurélie yesterday,” Aemond says, his tone taking on a softer, almost wistful note. “You… you look so much like her.”

Daervon’s brow furrows slightly, his expression distant as he recalls the echoes of those who had spoken of his mother. “I’ve heard that a lot lately,” he admits, his voice tinged with a bitter edge, though he fights to keep it from showing too clearly. “All my life, I wanted to be a Targaryen. But everyone keeps reminding me otherwise.” His words carry the weight of his frustration, a longing for a connection he had always sought, yet always felt out of reach.

Aemond tilts his head slightly, his silver hair falling over his shoulder as he leans closer to Daervon. His gaze remains fixed on his husband, the admiration, and obsession beneath his obsidian eye undeniable. “I like the way you look,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into something softer, more intimate.

Daervon rolls his eyes, a flicker of sarcasm lacing his words. “Why? Do I remind you of Floris Baratheon?” His tone is sharp, carrying the bitterness of wounds not fully healed, though his sarcasm is laced with a longing for Aemond’s attention.

Aemond leans down, his lips brushing against the curve of Daervon’s ear. His breath is warm and heavy, dripping with desire. “No,” he breathes, his voice a low murmur, filled with hunger. “I love the way you look when you react to my touch.”

Daervon rolls his eyes, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re far too pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” he says, his voice light, almost teasing. “Must everything be about your ego?”

Aemond only smirks in response, his single lilac eye gleaming with mischief as he presses a lingering kiss to Daervon’s back. His lips linger on the curve of his shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin, his lashes trembling as his breaths grow heavier. “Husband,” he murmurs hoarsely, his voice a velvet caress, “I miss you. Don’t you miss me? Even a little?”

Daervon turns to face him, his brow furrowed, his lips parting as if to reply, but no words come. He falters under the weight of Aemond’s gaze, so sincere, so piercing. It disarms him, rendering him momentarily speechless. Aemond’s hand comes up to cradle Daervon’s face, his thumb brushing over his cheek, and Daervon feels his resolve waver. The love he harbors for Aemond, despite everything, claws its way to the surface, drowning out the lingering ache of betrayal that he still struggles to reconcile. He gazes at Aemond, his lips parting as if to speak, though no words come.

Aemond leans forward, brushing his lips gently over the edge of Daervon’s lips, his touch feather-light. “Let us try something new,” Aemond whispers, though there is no room for negotiation in his tone. His lips trail across Daervon’s back, each kiss slow and deliberate, searing into his skin. His hands, firm and unyielding, roam freely over his husband’s body, mapping every curve, every muscle, every shiver. He is relentless, a man obsessed, his touch both tender and possessive, as if Daervon might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

“Who said I wanted to try anything… uh…” Daervon begins, his voice faltering as the words die in his throat. His head falls against Aemond’s shoulder, his breathing shallow and uneven.

“Do you feel that?” Aemond whispers. His voice thick with emotion, vibrating against Daervon’s skin. “This is what you do to me, Daervon. No one else. Only you.” He presses another kiss to the nape of Daervon’s neck, his lips lingering as his hands continue their slow exploration.

Daervon closes his eyes, his resolve crumbling under Aemond’s leisurely ministrations. The heat of the water does little to temper the fire building within him. He bites the inside of his cheek, the temptation so great it nearly drives him to curse. His heart betrays him, hammering against his ribs, his body yielding to Aemond’s every touch despite the turmoil lingering in his heart.

Aemond’s lips continue their unhurried assault, pressing kisses along Daervon’s spine, each one lingering, burning. His hand moves lower, brushing over Daervon’s waist before settling on something softer, more intimate. The tremor that courses through Daervon’s body is immediate, undeniable, and Aemond feels it all—every shiver, every gasp, every surrender. A wicked smile curls his lips. He revels in the control he holds over the man he adores, the man who has consumed his every thought, his every waking moment.

Daervon is dizzy, his mind clouded with pleasure that builds like a storm, relentless and overwhelming. He is painfully aware of Aemond’s hand, of the way it explores him with calculated precision, the pressure just enough to drive him mad. Beneath the water, his body responds without restraint, his arousal pressing into Aemond’s palm. His breath quickens, sharp and ragged, his chest rising and falling as if he might drown in the sensations overtaking him.

“Pay attention to me,” Aemond whispers, his voice a silken command, as he squeezes Daervon’s length with a touch that borders on cruel.

Daervon jolts, his eyes flying open as a sharp gasp escapes him. “Seven hells, Aemond,” he growls, his voice shaky, breathless. “Why should I pay attention when you clearly can’t keep your hands off me?” There’s frustration in his tone, but it’s undercut by the way his body leans into Aemond’s touch, betraying his own hunger.

Aemond’s laugh is soft, dark, dripping with satisfaction. His grip tightens just enough to make Daervon arch against him, his body trembling under the intensity of his desire. Aemond’s other hand slides up to cup Daervon’s chin, tilting his face to the side so he can press his lips to his husband’s jaw. His kisses are deliberate, methodical, each one a claim, a vow, as if to remind Daervon that he belongs to him and no one else.

Daervon feels as though he is coming apart, unraveling under the weight of Aemond’s touch, his kisses, his whispered words. His lower body burns, a fire that spreads through him, leaving him raw, exposed. He can’t ignore the hardness pressing against him, Aemond’s own need evident, unrelenting. The sensation pulls a moan from his lips, soft and unbidden, and he bites down on it, mortified by how easily Aemond reduces him to this.

Aemond, however, drinks in every sound, every reaction. His eye darkens with unbridled desire, and his voice is thick as he murmurs against Daervon’s ear, “You are mine, my love. No one else will ever have you like this.”

The words strike something deep within Daervon, a pang of pain interwoven with pleasure. Despite the betrayal that still lingers in his heart, despite the hurt, he knows he is lost to Aemond, bound to him in ways that defy logic and reason. He hates how much he loves him, how much he craves him, how his body answers to Aemond’s touch without question.

The pleasure builds, a relentless wave that pulls him under, and Daervon feels as though he might break apart. His breaths come faster, his moans more frequent, and his fingers dig into Aemond’s arms as if to anchor himself. His head falls back against Aemond’s shoulder, his body writhing, trembling, as the torrent consumes him. The climax hits him like a lightning strike, sharp and all-encompassing, and he cries out, his voice breaking as his body convulses with release.

Aemond follows moments later, his grip tightening around Daervon as his own release overtakes him. He buries his face in Daervon’s shoulder, his breath hot against his skin, his body shuddering as he holds Daervon close. The world feels suspended, the only sound the ragged breaths they share, the water lapping gently around them.

Daervon remains slumped against Aemond, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. His mind is a haze, his body trembling from the aftershocks. Aemond presses a kiss to the top of his head, soft and tender, a gesture so full of love it almost hurts. They are bound together, their love a force as destructive as it is beautiful. And in that moment, nothing else matters.

The peace between them is fragile, delicate, and it is shattered by a sharp knock at the door. Both men tense, the moment breaking as the door swings open, and Vidor strides in, his expression grim. The urgency in his step sends a ripple of unease through the room.

"What is it this time, uncle?" Daervon sighs, his tone bordering on petulance, though his body remains nestled against Aemond’s. He doesn’t want to leave this rare moment of peace behind.

Aemond chuckles softly, the sound low and indulgent, his arm tightening around Daervon as if to keep him tethered.

"This is urgent," Vidor states, his voice as measured as ever but with an edge that betrays his concern. "A raven from Dragonstone."

Daervon’s casual demeanor shifts in an instant, his brow furrowing. "What does it say?" he asks, his curiosity piqued, his body straightening atop Aemond’s lap.

Vidor hesitates, his eyes flickering with a rare uncertainty. He takes a step closer, his voice lowering as though to brace Daervon for the blow. "Prince Lucerys and Arrax are dead. Killed by Prince Maelor and Shrykos on their return from Storm’s End, after delivering the Queen’s message to Lord Borros."

The words hit like a physical blow, leaving the chamber heavy with silence.

"What?" Daervon breathes, his voice trembling as disbelief washes over him. His eyes widen, searching Vidor’s face for some sign that this is a cruel jest, but his uncle’s grim expression leaves no room for doubt. "No," Daervon whispers, shaking his head in denial.

Lucerys Velaryon, the boy who had been like a little brother to him, was gone. Images of the boy’s wide, eager smile, his laughter, his innocent enthusiasm, flash through Daervon’s mind, now tainted with the knowledge of his violent end. His heart clenches painfully, and tears well up, threatening to spill. "No," he repeats, the word breaking as it leaves his lips. His thoughts turn to Rhaena, and his grief deepens. How would she bear this? Lucerys was her fiance, the person she loves, and the loss would cut her deeply. He imagines her devastation, the way her strength might falter under the weight of such news, and it breaks him further.

Aemond's expression shifts, the weight of the news settling heavily across his sharp features. For all his calculated plans and cold ambition, this was not how it was meant to unfold. The situation has spiraled beyond his grasp, slipping through his fingers like sand. He watches Daervon’s face crumble, grief and disbelief etched into every line, and an unfamiliar pang pierces him—a rare, bitter taste of regret. He knows the fragile threads holding their mended bond together are now at risk of snapping entirely.

His throat tightens as he hesitates, his gaze fixed on his husband. Daervon, his Daervon, looks utterly shattered, his stormy eyes filled with tears that threaten to spill. Aemond swallows hard and reaches out, his hand trembling slightly as it moves to rest on Daervon’s shoulder. The touch is hesitant, almost tender—a silent offering of comfort.

But the reaction is immediate and brutal. Daervon jerks away as though Aemond’s touch burns him, his tear-filled eyes blazing with fury.

"Are you happy? Are you satisfied?" Daervon’s voice cuts through the room like a blade, sharp and raw, trembling with the weight of his anguish. He turns on Aemond, his expression a mixture of heartbreak and anger. "Is this the result you wanted?"

Aemond freezes, the accusation striking deep. He opens his mouth, but no words come. His hand lingers midair, suspended between reaching and retreating, as the realization of Daervon’s pain crashes over him like a wave. For the first time, the consequences of his actions—the toll they exact not only on the realm but on the one person he cannot bear to lose—become achingly clear. He feels the weight of Daervon’s earlier warnings—how power, once seized, exacts a terrible price.

Vidor watches the exchange in silence, his unreadable expression betraying a flicker of concern. He steps forward, his presence steady and grounding, as if silently offering Daervon his support. Despite the chaos of the moment, his respect for his nephew remains unwavering.

Daervon’s chest heaves, his breaths uneven as he struggles to contain the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Grief, anger, and love war within him, and for a moment, he feels as though he might drown under the weight of it all.

With Lucerys’s death, the tenuous dance of ravens, envoys, and marriage pacts has been brought to an abrupt end. The war of fire and blood has begun in earnest, and there is no turning back. The realization settles over Daervon like a shroud, heavy and inescapable. He closes his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek as he mourns not only Lucerys Velaryon but the world they are leaving behind.