AN:
Vote for frequent updates!
Don't be ghost readers👻! Be nice and leave comments to appreciate your favourite writer. Your comments means me a lot😃
Enjoy the chapter❤️

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━

The moon casts a pale glow over the balcony, illuminating Daervon as he leans heavily against the railing, dressed in flowing white sleepwear that billows in the gentle night breeze. His gaze is distant, fixed on the horizon where Moondancer and her rider vanished hours ago. Baela had taken Rhaena back to Dragonstone for Lucerys's funeral, leaving Daervon behind with a heart weighed down by grief and despair.

Rhaena’s sobs still echo in his ears, the feel of her fragile body trembling against his chest haunting him. For hours, she had wept, clinging to him as though he were the only thing tethering her to sanity. Her agony is etched into his soul, and now, in the solitude of his chambers, the ache is unbearable.

From what he has been told, the pieces of Arrax’s broken body were found below Storm’s End, scattered on the rocks, offered up to crabs and gulls. Lucerys's body was never recovered, but among the wreckage of his dragon lay his belongings—a cruel confirmation of the boy’s fate.

Daervon exhales shakily, gripping the cold stone railing tighter as the weight of the future looms over him. Rhaenyra’s grief, he knows, will not be contained. It will burn through the Greens like wildfire. And if he cannot stop the war, he will lose Aemond. The thought alone makes his stomach twist.

He is so consumed by his thoughts that he doesn’t hear the door to his chambers open, nor the soft footsteps that follow. It isn’t until arms snake around his waist that he jolts slightly, startled. Aemond’s taller frame presses against him from behind, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of Daervon’s clothes.

Aemond buries his face in the crook of Daervon’s neck, breathing him in deeply. The scent of his husband fills his senses—clean, soothing, with a faint trace of eucalyptus. His voice is low, almost pleading. “Don’t be mad at me.”

Daervon stiffens, his heart constricting. “Luke is dead,” he replies, his tone flat, void of the emotions threatening to choke him. “And you believe I shouldn’t be mad at you?”

Aemond doesn’t release him. His arms tighten slightly, his lips brushing Daervon’s skin as he speaks. “I didn’t order his death.” His voice carries a careless shrug, as though the weight of the boy’s life means nothing.

“But you’re responsible for it,” Daervon snaps, pulling free from Aemond’s hold to turn and face him. His glare cuts like a blade, his lilac eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Sooner or later, we’ll be enemies, standing on opposite sides of a battlefield. Forced to kill each other.”

Aemond steps closer, his expression softening as his gaze locks onto Daervon’s. “I would gladly take anything if it comes from you, even death. You know that.” His voice is fervent, his words laced with a devotion so fierce it borders on madness.

Daervon shakes his head in disbelief, retreating toward the bedchamber. “You don’t understand, do you?”

“Then make me understand.” Aemond follows him, his tone sharper now, frustration creeping in. “I haven’t the cleverness of a Silvercrown, have I? Enlighten me, husband.”

Daervon spins on his heel, his temper flaring. “You haven’t seen the cruelty of war,” he hisses, his voice trembling. “But I have. Luke will not be the last innocent to perish in this war for power. There will be more. So many more.”

Aemond’s jaw tightens, his patience fraying. “And what would you have me do? Shed tears for them?” His voice rises, tinged with anger.

“What I want,” Daervon seethes, stepping closer until they are eye-to-eye, “is for you to bend the knee to Rhaenyra and beg for her forgiveness. End this fucking war you’ve started. Do you hear me?”

Aemond’s face darkens, his lips curling into a snarl. “Why are you so keen on helping her?!” he shouts, his composure cracking.

“I’m helping you!” Daervon shouts back, his voice breaking under the strain of his emotions. He stares at his husband, searching for a flicker of understanding, but finds none. Defeated, he sighs, stepping back. “Fine. Do as you wish. I’m returning to Dragonstone to resume my duties as Master of War on my queen’s council.”

He turns to leave, his steps heavy, but his voice remains sharp. “Sharpen your sword, Aemond. I’ll see you on the battlefield.”

Before he can take another step, Aemond grabs his arm, spinning him around with a strength that takes Daervon by surprise. His grip is firm, unyielding, and his one eye blazes with determination.

“You’re not going anywhere without me,” Aemond growls, his voice low and possessive, the words dripping with both fury and desperation.

Daervon doesn’t flinch, but his lips curl into a wry smile as he looks at his husband. “I hate you,” he says, his tone cutting but laced with the kind of dark humor only he can manage in moments like this. “Your love is a curse—an iron chain that strangles my neck and refuses to let go.”

Aemond’s eye narrows, a spark of something wild flickering in its depths. “No one in this world loves you more than I do,” he counters fiercely. “And no one ever will. You hate me because you think it will free you—so you can fall into someone else’s arms. But you know as well as I do, Daervon, no one will ever love you like I do.”

Daervon’s expression hardens, but his heart skips a beat at the intensity in Aemond’s words. “I hate you because you are hateful,” he retorts, his voice quieter now, as though the admission costs him. “It has nothing to do with anyone else.”

Aemond’s grip tightens slightly, his voice dipping to a whisper, heavy with emotion. “Am I so hateful to you that you wanted to kill yourself?”

The air seems to still around them. Daervon’s breath catches, his dark lilac eyes widening as the words strike him like a physical blow. He stares at Aemond, speechless, his mind racing as he wonders how his husband discovered something he thought was buried deep.

Aemond steps closer, his hand rising to gently cup Daervon’s cheek. His touch is tender, a stark contrast to the harshness of his words. “The moment you approached me in Driftmark a decade ago, you became mine,” Aemond says, his voice a low, dangerous caress. “Your life is mine. If you ever do that to yourself again, I swear I will burn every single thing you ever loved until nothing remains but ashes. And then, I will take my own life to follow you in death.”

Daervon’s lips part, but no words come. He can only watch Aemond, the flickering candlelight casting a silver glow on his ethereal hair. He has always been beautiful, but now, in this moment, he looks almost otherworldly, his features sharp and striking, his love a force as consuming as wildfire.

Aemond’s gaze softens, his thumb brushing against Daervon’s cheek. Slowly, he leans in, his lips hovering over Daervon’s.

“We can’t,” Daervon whispers, his voice breaking. He turns his face slightly, the words barely audible. “I’m mourning.”

Aemond doesn’t flinch or look wounded. Instead, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Your loss,” he says smoothly, stepping back and moving to the table where a tray of medicine waits. He picks up a bowl, holding it out with an expectant look. “Drink, my love.”

Daervon hesitates but takes the bowl, his gaze lingering on Aemond. He swallows the bitter liquid quickly, grimacing at the taste before placing the bowl back on the table.

Despite everything—his anger, his grief, the lingering betrayal—Daervon can’t help but feel a flicker of warmth at Aemond’s gestures. He has always loved being spoiled by those he holds dear, even if his heart feels too heavy to fully accept it now.

Aemond shrugs off his robe, tossing it onto a nearby chair with practiced ease. Then he steps forward, his hand reaching for Daervon’s, guiding him toward the bed.

But before they can settle, Daervon pulls Aemond into an unexpected, passionate kiss. It is not soft or gentle—it is raw, filled with every ounce of anger, love, and longing he has buried inside. Their mouths move hungrily against each other, a clash of teeth and tongues as if they are trying to devour the very air they breathe.

Aemond groans softly, his hands sliding down to Daervon’s waist, pulling him closer as they tumble onto the bed. Daervon falls back, Aemond atop him, their bodies pressed together. Daervon’s hands trace the length of Aemond’s spine, fingers pressing into the ridges as though he’s trying to memorize every part of him.

The kiss deepens, becoming more desperate, more consuming, until Aemond finally pulls away, his lips swollen and glistening. He smirks, his voice teasing. “You’re mourning, my love.”

Daervon laughs softly, the sound both bitter and affectionate. His hand moves to tangle in Aemond’s silver hair, stroking it with a tenderness that belies the storm of emotions raging within him.

Aemond shifts, resting his head against Daervon’s chest, his breaths evening out as sleep begins to claim him. “Come with me,” he murmurs, his voice slurred with exhaustion. “Let’s go to King’s Landing and end this war together.”

Daervon doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as his fingers continue to thread through Aemond’s hair. The war feels like an inevitability, but for now, with Aemond in his arms, he allows himself the smallest moment of peace.