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The corridor outside Daervon’s chambers is dimly lit, the flickering torchlight casting restless shadows along the cold stone walls. Aemond approaches with measured steps, the rhythmic thud of his boots echoing like a drumbeat heralding a storm. His jaw tightens, and his hands flex at his sides, a telltale sign of the tempest brewing within.

The door creaks open just as he reaches for it, and the maester emerges. His shoulders are hunched, his expression taut with unease. He clutches his tools and mutters a polite farewell, bowing deeply before shutting the door behind him. Aemond steps inside moments later, his boots striking the stone floor with deliberate force. His face is a mask of barely restrained anger, and his single lilac eye gleams like molten fire.

Daervon sits on the edge of the bed, his head bowed slightly, exhaustion etched into every line of his frame. His neck is freshly bandaged, the crimson stain beneath the linen a stark reminder of his earlier recklessness.

“You’re out of your fucking mind!” Aemond bursts out, his voice a sharp crack against the quiet of the room.

Daervon does not flinch at the outburst. He barely lifts his gaze, his posture heavy with weariness. “I’ve already been scolded by my grandmother,” he mutters, his voice low and edged with fatigue. “I don’t need another lecture.”

Aemond exhales sharply, his anger softening into something rawer as he crosses the room. He stops before Daervon, towering over him, and his voice drops to a near whisper. “Never do that again,” he says, his tone laced with something dangerously close to desperation.

Daervon finally looks up, his lilac eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he snaps, though the sharpness of his retort is betrayed by the way his face contorts in pain. He winces, his hand instinctively rising to his bandaged neck.

Aemond’s expression hardens. “Your neck is wounded, and you’re still as stubborn as a mule,” he scolds, his voice clipped but trembling slightly. He steps closer, leaning down to inspect the bandage. “Serves you right.”

Despite the words, his movements are gentle as he blows softly on the wound, his breath cool against the sensitive skin.

Daervon’s lips twitch into a faint smile, his fatigue momentarily forgotten. “Is this how you treat the man who just saved your life?” he teases, his voice light as he wraps his arms around Aemond’s waist. Remaining seated, he rests his head against Aemond’s chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat soothe him.

Aemond’s anger melts at the touch, replaced by something deeper, more consuming. He lets out a soft laugh, his hand instinctively reaching for Daervon’s hair. His fingers trail through the silken strands, then trace the sharp hollow of his husband’s cheekbone. His touch is reverent, as if Daervon might vanish if he lets go.

“That was foolish,” Aemond murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically tender.

“Perhaps I am foolish,” Daervon replies, tilting his head to look up at him, mischief lighting his face. “But I am no fool. You like something about me, surely.”

“Oh, I love everything about you,” Aemond says, his voice barely above a whisper. His eye softens, the weight of his obsession evident in the way he looks at Daervon—as though he is air and flame, both his salvation and his undoing.

Before either can say more, a knock resounds at the door. A maid steps in, balancing a tray with a steaming bowl of medicine. “The maester’s orders,” she says hesitantly, glancing between the two.

Daervon groans audibly at the sight of the bowl. “Not again,” he mutters, flopping backward onto the bed and burying his face into the pillow.

The maid hesitates, but Aemond waves her away with a curt nod. “Leave it with me,” he commands, taking the bowl from her. The maid bows and quickly departs, leaving them alone once more.

“My love…” Aemond begins, sitting on the edge of the bed and placing the bowl on the nearby table.

Daervon lets out a loud, dramatic whine, his face still pressed into the pillow. “I don’t want it,” he protests, his voice muffled. “I feel better now that you’re here.”

Aemond’s lips curve into a faint smile, but his gaze remains firm. “Just this once,” he pleads softly, his voice coaxing. “For me.”

Daervon shakes his head stubbornly, the motion making his plethora of raven hair spill over the pillow. “No,” he grumbles, his refusal clear.

Aemond stands beside the bed, his patience thinning as he watches his husband sulk. His lilac eye gleams with a mixture of frustration and amusement, a dangerous glint that betrays the obsessive depths of his love. Slowly, he lifts the bowl of medicine, his lips curving into a sly smile. Without hesitation, he tilts the bitter liquid into his mouth, his gaze never leaving Daervon.

The bed creaks under his weight as he climbs onto it, straddling Daervon in one fluid motion. Before Daervon can react, Aemond pins his wrists above his head with one hand, the other steadying his weight. Daervon gasps, his initial struggle fierce but ultimately futile. Aemond’s strength is unrelenting, his grip firm yet careful not to harm.

“Aemond, you—” Daervon starts, his voice cutting off as Aemond leans down, forcing the medicine from his mouth into Daervon’s. The taste is vile, and Daervon twists beneath him, but there’s no escape.

When it’s done, Daervon glares up at him, panting slightly. “You’re insufferable,” he spits, his voice hoarse.

Aemond smirks, his face mere inches away, his breath warm against Daervon’s skin. “You’re such a child,” he teases, his tone dripping with mockery.

Daervon scoffs, narrowing his dark lilac eyes. “And you’re a tyrant,” he retorts, his voice sharp with sarcasm. “Perhaps I should alert the realm to your innovative methods of administering medicine.”

Aemond chuckles, low and dark, the sound reverberating through the room. “Perhaps I should’ve employed this technique sooner,” he counters, his tone smug.

Daervon shifts slightly, a faint smirk curling his lips. The mood between them is light for once, the earlier tension dissipating like mist under the sun. Daervon revels in it, the rare ease in Aemond’s piercing gaze, and he cannot resist pushing further.

“Apparently,” he begins, the words carrying a playful lilt as he leans back into the mattress, “that’s how Baela gave me the antidote when I was poisoned. The only difference is—” his smile grows wider, teasing “—it was less violent, and I was on the verge of death.”

The jest is meant to land lightly, a barb to match the wry humor they so often exchange. But the moment the words leave his mouth, Daervon feels the shift. The playful air fractures.

Aemond’s playful smirk vanishes in an instant. His jaw tightens, his eye darkening with a storm of emotions—anger, jealousy, guilt. “Baela,” he repeats coldly, his grip on Daervon’s wrists loosening slightly.

Realization dawns too late. The smirk falters, and Daervon’s eyes widen slightly, the weight of his own careless words crashing down on him, his mind racing. He knows his husband well enough to recognize the dangerous mix of emotions brewing within him. Wasting no time, he seizes the opportunity, flipping them over with surprising agility. Now straddling Aemond, Daervon leans down, his lips brushing teasingly against Aemond’s.

“Forget about her,” he murmurs, his voice low and sultry. His tongue flicks over Aemond’s lips, the gesture slow and deliberate, an attempt to distract him.

For a moment, Aemond falters, his eye flickering with desire. But just as quickly, he regains control, flipping them back over with a growl. His weight presses Daervon into the mattress, his expression a mix of lust and frustration.

“You’re impossible,” Aemond mutters before capturing Daervon’s lips in a fervent kiss. It’s not gentle—it’s a clash of emotion, of obsession and love and anger all rolled into one. Their breaths mingle, the intensity of the moment leaving them both gasping as the kiss deepens, their movements urgent and unrestrained.

Aemond’s hands work quickly, pushing aside the fabric of Daervon’s tunic. He reveals his husband’s pale, smooth skin, his touch reverent yet possessive as he traces the contours of Daervon’s chest. Daervon’s hands move to return the gesture, reaching for Aemond’s clothes, but Aemond catches his wrists, stopping him.

“Tell me,” Aemond demands, his voice low and commanding. His gaze pierces Daervon, the intensity in his eye almost unbearable.

Daervon swallows, his heart pounding beneath Aemond’s palm. He searches his husband’s face, weighing the consequences of his silence.

Aemond’s lips graze Daervon’s collarbone, the faint warmth of his breath stirring a shiver in his husband. His hands trace languid circles over Daervon’s bare chest, fingers mapping the skin as if committing it to memory. The weight of his body pins Daervon to the mattress, and though there is no violence in his hold, the intensity is suffocating.

“Speak,” Aemond murmurs again, his voice low, almost a growl. His lips gently press to the hollow of Daervon’s throat, trailing lower.

Daervon’s breath catches, his body betraying him even as his mind resists. “I…” he begins, only to falter when Aemond’s mouth finds a sensitive spot just above his heart. A gasp escapes him, his voice trembling. “I don’t remember much after Grandmother brought me here.”

Aemond hums against his skin, the vibration sending another wave of sensation through Daervon. His lips trace the faint battle scars left on Daervon’s chest, his movements both worshipful and possessive.

“All I recall is a blur of silver…” Daervon’s voice wavers again as Aemond’s teeth graze his skin. He draws a shaky breath, his words spilling out between gasps. “I thought it was you… and then… nothing.”

Aemond’s tongue follows the curve of Daervon’s collarbone, the heat of his breath searing. “Go on,” he commands, though his tone carries the weight of obsession rather than mere curiosity.

“When I woke… I was in my bed,” Daervon continues, his chest rising and falling beneath Aemond’s touch. “The maesters were everywhere… Baela was crying so loudly… it hurt to hear her.” He pauses, his lips parting as another gasp escapes him. Aemond’s hands tighten slightly on his hips, grounding him in the moment.

“Father and Grandmother were there,” Daervon says, his words tumbling out in a rush now. “Jacaerys too, I think. I remember—” He chokes on his next words as Aemond’s mouth finds the base of his neck, the sensation sharp and dizzying. “I remember… hurling my guts out. Disgusting. Then I passed out again.”

Aemond pulls back slightly, his eye meeting Daervon’s. His breathing is fast, his expression unreadable save for the flicker of jealousy that darkens his features. “How do you know Baela gave you the antidote that way?” he asks, his voice measured but laced with tension.

“Rhaena told me,” Daervon replies, his voice uncertain. “Baela told her, I think?”

Aemond’s jaw tightens, his scowl deepening. The veins on his forehead become prominent, his emotions barely restrained.

Daervon watches him, concern flickering across his face. “Aemond,” he says softly, “she saved my life.”

“I know,” Aemond replies, his tone unnervingly calm, though his anger is unmistakable.

“Then why are you angry?” Daervon presses, his voice firmer now. “Baela is my sister.”

“And we’re Targaryens,” Aemond counters, his tone clipped, the meaning of his words heavy with implication.

Daervon stares at him, disbelief etched into his features. He pushes against Aemond’s chest, managing to break free. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

Aemond doesn’t respond, his gaze clouded with a mixture of guilt and jealousy.

“For fuck’s sake, Aemond,” Daervon snaps, scoffing as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He’s barely upright before Aemond’s arms encircle him, pulling him back with a strength that leaves no room for argument.

“Don’t go,” Aemond whispers, his voice breaking. His face buries into the crook of Daervon’s neck, his grip desperate. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Daervon sighs, his anger melting at the raw vulnerability in his husband’s voice. He feels the tremor in Aemond’s hands, the way his shoulders tremble as he clings to him.

“I’m afraid to lose you,” Aemond confesses, his words muffled against Daervon’s skin. “You’re everything to me. Don't leave me again.”

Daervon hesitates, then wraps his arms around Aemond, holding him tightly. His lips press to the top of Aemond’s silver hair, his voice soft. “You won’t lose me,” he murmurs. “I’m here, Aemond. I’m always here.”