AN:
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The skies darken with smoke and shadow as Gaelithox, his scales gleaming like polished obsidian, circles the volcanic cliffs of Dragonstone. His mighty roar echoes through the Dragonmont, announcing their arrival. Beside him, Dreamfyre answers with a melodic trill, her iridescent blue wings casting an ethereal glow.

Aemond and Daervon dismount Gaelithox together first. From Dreamfyre, Helaena descends with her usual dreamlike grace, her pale hair cascading like moonlight over her shoulders. Vidor follows, his face stern and unreadable as always, with Jaehaera's small hand clutched in his.

Behind them, Gaelithox nudges Dreamfyre with his massive snout, a low rumble escaping his throat. The sound isn't threatening but playful, almost coaxing. Dreamfyre tilts her head, considering him, her blue wings shifting as if in coy response.

Daervon watches the exchange with a raised brow, noting how Gaelithox dips his head and leads Dreamfyre deeper into the caves, his massive tail curling behind him as if to block her escape. "He's showing her his lair," Daervon mutters, shaking his head. A rare flicker of amusement dances in his dark lilac eyes before he turns to the group.

Aemond steps closer, his hand brushing Daervon's shoulder. The touch is fleeting but charged, Aemond's gaze lingering on his husband as though he might vanish. For Aemond, Daervon is everything-his anchor, his obsession, his only light in a world marred by fire and blood.

Guards stiffen at the sight of Aemond Targaryen, his single eye a piercing amethyst that burns with quiet intensity. Swords are drawn in an instant, the scrape of steel cutting through the heavy air.

"He's with me," Daervon says sharply, stepping forward and positioning himself between Aemond and the soldiers. His voice carries the weight of command, calm yet unyielding, freezing the guards in place. A ripple of tension hums in the air as the soldiers hesitate, their hands still gripping the hilts of their swords.

"Brother!" Rhaena's exclamation breaks the tension like sunlight piercing a storm cloud. She rushes toward Daervon, her joy radiant and uncontainable. Before he can react, her arms are flung around his neck, and she clings to him with a childlike fervor that draws a rare smile from him.

Daervon lifts her effortlessly, her laughter ringing out as she buries her face into his shoulder. "You're squeezing the life out of me," he murmurs, his tone teasing yet affectionate as he sets her back down gently.

No sooner has Rhaena stepped back than Baela approaches, her arms crossed and her expression sharp, though a hint of mischief glimmers in her eyes. "Sometimes," she says, her voice carrying a mock edge, "I feel like you love Rhaena more than me."

Daervon chuckles, opening his arms wide in invitation. "Come here, you fool."

She hesitates for only a moment before leaping into his arms, the mask of her feigned annoyance dissolving into pure, unguarded affection. "What took you so long?" she demands, her voice muffled as she presses her face into his chest, her arms tightening around him as if she could anchor him to her side.

"I-" Daervon begins, but before he can answer, Baela's gaze shifts, noticing the others for the first time.

Rhaena is already engaged in quiet conversation with Vidor and Helaena, her easy smile lighting up her face. Jaehaera clutches Vidor's hand, her eyes wide with wonder as she glances around with deep curiosity.

But it is Aemond who draws Daervon's attention. Standing slightly apart, Aemond's gaze is fixed on them-or rather, on the hand Baela still rests against Daervon's chest. His jaw tightens, the faintest twitch betraying the storm brewing beneath his composed exterior. The single eye burns with an intensity that Daervon knows all too well, the embers of jealousy smoldering within.

Daervon exhales softly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He knows that look, the possessiveness simmering beneath Aemond's carefully controlled facade. Ignoring it, he gently steps back from Baela, his hands brushing hers as he extricates himself from her grasp.

Before the moment can escalate further, Ser Steffon approaches, his signature all-white cloak and fine silver armor glinting faintly in the torchlight. His gaze flickers briefly to Aemond, acknowledging him with wary respect, before settling on Daervon. "My lord," he says, his voice measured and formal, "the Queen expects you."

They are escorted to the throne room without incident, the tension following them like a shadow. The throne room is alive with the crackle of flames, and the air is thick with the scent of smoke and salt. Rhaenyra sits on the throne, her crown gleaming under the torchlight. She radiates power, her presence enough to command the room without a single word.

Her gaze first lands on Daervon, and a small smile graces her lips. "It is wonderful to see you again, cousin," she says warmly.

Daervon bows deeply, his respect for her evident. "Your Grace."

Rhaenyra's eyes shift to the others, her expression softening as she sees Helaena and Jaehaera. "You've brought guests," she observes, her tone gentle.

Helaena steps forward gracefully, bowing her head. "Your Grace," she says with quiet respect.

"My sweet sister," Rhaenyra addresses her with affection. "You and your daughter are pardoned. You are welcome to settle here on Dragonstone, free from the burdens of war. Should you wish to remarry, you may choose a match of your liking."

Helaena glances at Vidor, her hand slipping into his. The gesture is tender, her fingers lacing with his in silent declaration. "I wish to marry Ser Vidor Silvercrown," she says softly but resolutely.

Rhaenyra's smile widens. "Then it is settled." But as her gaze shifts to Aemond, her warmth dissipates, replaced by a glacial glare.

"Ser Steffon," Rhaenyra commands, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. "Bring me the head of Aemond Targaryen."

The guards seize Aemond before anyone can react, forcing him to his knees. His face remains impassive, but his lilac eye flickers with fury.

Daervon's heart lurches, and before he can think, he steps forward, his voice urgent. "You promised to pardon him if he bent the knee!"

Rhaenyra rises from the throne, her movements deliberate, each step echoing in the silent chamber. "He is the face of the opposition, Daervon. You know the rules of war better than anyone."

"Your Grace, please," Daervon pleads, his desperation breaking through his composure.

Rhaenyra descends the throne's steps slowly, her dark lilac eyes fixed on Aemond. Each step echoes through the throne room, a deliberate reminder of her authority. The black and red of her gown shimmer in the torchlight, her crown gleaming like firelight caught in gold. The room holds its breath, every soul present bowing to the weight of her command.

"He is a turncoat," she declares, her voice sharp and unyielding. Her gaze does not falter as it moves to Daervon. "He cannot be trusted."

Daervon's chest tightens, but he doesn't falter. He knows the weight of loyalty, but he also knows the depth of his love. Without hesitation, he steps forward, his hand moving to his sword. "You give me no choice," he says, unsheathing the blade. The sound rings out, silencing murmurs and drawing wary glances from the Queensguard.

"You made a promise to my father," Rhaenyra says, her tone cutting. "You swore you would stand by me when the dark time comes. Are you going against your queen for a traitor?" Her words are a knife, each syllable laced with the sting of betrayal.

"I dare not," Daervon replies, his voice steady, though his heart pounds. He raises the blade to his neck, the cold steel pressing against his skin. "But I will follow him in death."

A ripple of shock sweeps through the chamber. Gasps echo among the onlookers.

"He's bluffing," Ser Alfred Broome says, his tone dismissive.

Daervon tilts his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Am I?" he asks, the blade's edge biting into his neck. Crimson blood trickles down, the vivid stain of Targaryen lineage seeping into the fabric of his collar.

"No!" Aemond shouts, his composure breaking. His struggles against the guards are frantic, his eye wide with fear as he watches the blood trail down Daervon's neck. "Daervon, stop this madness!"

Daervon remains motionless, his dark lilac eyes locked with Rhaenyra's. His respect for her is unwavering, yet his love for Aemond eclipses all else. His blade trembles, not from fear, but from the weight of his resolve.

Baela and Rhaena gasp, their hands flying to their mouths, horrified by the sight before them. Vidor stiffens, his knuckles white as he grips his sword, though his gaze flickers with helplessness.

"Your Grace," Rhaenys steps forward, her voice steady yet tinged with an undercurrent of urgency. Her gaze fixes on the Queen, unwavering, though the faint furrow of her brow betrays the depth of her worry. The light of the chamber glints off the pearls in her hair, but her presence carries a gravity that silences the murmurs around her.

She inhales slowly, her tone calm but firm, the voice of a woman who has weathered storms and now stands as a shield for her grandson. "Consider this carefully," she says, her words deliberate, measured, but her eyes dart briefly to Daervon. There, in that fleeting glance, lies the silent plea of a grandmother who sees not just the man but the boy she has sworn to protect.

Rhaenyra exhales sharply, her shoulders dropping slightly under the weight of her decision. Her eyes linger on Daervon, searching his face for weakness but finding none. "Release him. Now," she commands, her voice low but authoritative.

The guards hesitate for a moment before obeying, their grips loosening as Aemond is freed. He stumbles forward, his focus solely on Daervon.

"I wish to speak with you," Aemond says, his voice low and urgent, his gaze finally shifting to Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra's eyes narrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. She lifts a hand, dismissing the room with a single gesture. "Leave us," she says, her tone brooking no argument.

Daervon hesitates, his eyes flickering between Aemond and Rhaenyra. His heart wavers, torn between loyalty to his Queen and the man he loves. Rhaenyra's gaze sharpens as she repeats firmly, "All of you."

Reluctantly, Daervon bows and departs with the others, his steps heavy as the door closes behind him.

"What is it you wish to say, brother?" Rhaenyra asks, her voice quieter now but no less commanding. She descends the final step, her gaze locked on Aemond, her displeasure simmering beneath the surface like the fires of Dragonstone itself.

Aemond takes a step forward, his single eye reflecting the firelight as he draws Blackfyre, its black and gold hilt glinting ominously. With deliberate movements, he kneels, holding the blade aloft in both hands. "Your Grace," he says, his voice steady, though his heart pounds with desperation.

Ser Steffon approaches, taking the ancestral sword from Aemond and presenting it to Rhaenyra with reverence. She grasps it firmly, lifting it into the light. The sword gleams as her fingers trace its ancient inscriptions, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"What made you give up?" she asks, her voice quieter now, though no less commanding.

Aemond's gaze remains fixed on her. "I learned my lesson," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "Power is not what I want. It never was. I would rather be with my husband than wear a thousand crowns."

Rhaenyra's grip tightens around Blackfyre, her knuckles whitening. The weight of his words does little to soften the anger simmering in her chest. "Then you shouldn't have usurped my crown in the first place!" she snaps, her voice rising, each syllable a lash. She points the sword at him, its edge hovering near his throat.

Aemond's jaw tightens, but he does not flinch. "You think I wanted this? All that hatred between us-it wasn't born, Rhaenyra. It was bred into us. We were taught to hate you."

Her glare hardens. "Taught by whom? By Alicent? By Otto?"

"I tried to make peace with your sons," Aemond continues, his voice faltering slightly. "Many times. But it turned out the worst for me. I lost an eye."

"You started it!" she hisses, her fury unrelenting.

"I was a child too!" Aemond retorts, his voice rising. "I did many things wrong, and I regret them deeply." His single eye gleams with unshed tears, though his voice remains firm. "But I cannot undo the past. Only the future."

Rhaenyra exhales sharply, lowering the sword. She steps back, her gaze still piercing. "Then make things right," she says, her voice quieter but no less firm.

"Vhagar is dead," Aemond says, his shoulders slumping slightly. His voice carries the weight of loss. "I have no dragon. I'm useless to both sides."

Rhaenyra's eyes narrow, her mind working swiftly. "You are an excellent swordsman," she says. "And we need every blade we can muster. Swear your loyalty to me, Aemond, and help me win this war. In return, I will pardon your crimes."

Aemond hesitates, his head bowing slightly. "I swear it," he whispers, his voice barely audible.

Rhaenyra studies him for a long moment, then nods. "Good," she says, her tone final. "Do not make me regret this mercy."