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Dragonstone looms dark and jagged beneath the dawn’s first light, its winds howling through the cliffs as two dragons descend upon the ancient stronghold.

Gaelithox lands first, his massive black wings stirring the air, smoke still curling from his maw. Caraxes follows, his serpentine form twisting midair before touching down behind them, his throat vibrating with a low, guttural growl. The scent of charred flesh lingers on both beasts, the stench of war clinging to their scales.

Upon Gaelithox’s back, Daervon does not move at first. His fingers twitch against the saddle, gripping the reins in a way that is not quite conscious. His body—his hands, his very breath—still hum with the aftershock of possession. The silver glow has left his eyes, his normal lilac gaze returned, yet he feels hollow, as if something has been torn from him.

The moment his boots touch the ground, he wavers, blinking as the world around him sharpens into focus.

Ash clings to him. Blood stains his once-white clothes, dark streaks soaking through fabric, dried in places, fresh in others. His tunic is singed at the edges, his hands dirtied with soot and remnants of war, but his skin—his skin is untouched. No burns, no wounds, not even a scratch.

He breathes in.

Gasps ripple through the gathered crowd. Guards stiffen, hands tightening on sword hilts, their knuckles white.

At his feet lies Criston Cole’s severed head.

For a long, stretched moment, no one speaks. No one moves.

Then, Zyre Blackpaw steps forward.

The ruling Prince of Zhuyin is always a vision of calculated grace, his every movement deliberate, his expression unreadable. But now, as his sharp eyes flicker over the bloodied Targaryen before him, over the trophy that rests at his feet, there is something else in his face—something rare.

Astonishment.

His mouth parts slightly, dark lashes lowering as if he is taking in every detail, committing it to memory. The admiration in his gaze is unguarded, raw. Daervon has not only avenged Daemon Targaryen—he has avenged Prince Haoran Blackpaw, the father Zyre lost to Cole’s treachery.

Before Daervon can process it, he is pulled into an embrace.

Aemond.

It is not a careful, tentative thing. It is desperate, crushing—arms winding around him as if to keep him from slipping away. Aemond buries his face into his hair, his breath coming fast and uneven against Daervon’s temple. There is something frantic in the way he holds him, in the way his fingers dig into his back, as if he is trying to ground himself, to confirm that Daervon is still here.

"Aemond—" Daervon’s voice is hoarse, breaking under the weight of something too tangled to name. Memories flash in fragments—his own hands on Aemond, but not his will. Pain, rage, the Unburnt Prince’s voice curling through his mind like embers catching flame. He buries his head into Aemond’s neck, his body trembling. "I’m sorry," he chokes out. "I—" His breath shudders. "I didn’t mean to—I'm sorry, I’m so sorry."

Aemond hushes him, his hold tightening. "You're here," he murmurs, pressing his lips against Daervon's temple, his voice thick, unsteady. "That is all that matters."

But it is not enough.

He holds Daervon as if his very existence depends on it, as if letting go would mean losing him forever. There is something unhinged in his grip, something Aemond cannot contain, cannot control. His love for Daervon is a sickness, a madness that consumes him whole.

And then, the air shifts.

The gathered crowd stiffens, guards turning sharply, hands still on their weapons.

The only sound is the distant roar of the sea, the wind howling through the mouth of the Dragonmont. Every eye is fixed on the Queen as she enters, her presence swallowing the space with the weight of her authority.

Rhaenyra moves like a storm given form—slow, deliberate, unshaken. The blacks and reds of her gown seem darker in the dim torchlight, her crown gleaming atop her pale hair. She is flanked by the Queensguard, their pristine white cloaks a stark contrast to the blood and soot that stains the chamber.

Yet, even with her sworn swords poised around her, it is Rhaenyra herself who commands the room. The air tightens with her presence, a reminder to all that she is the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

The guards remain tense, their hands gripping the hilts of their swords, their knuckles pale. They have witnessed what Daervon became—what possessed him. The Unburnt Prince was not merely a myth; he was a force of destruction, fire and vengeance given a vessel. The silver glow in his eyes had been inhuman, unnatural. And now, as Daervon stands before them, it is not the bastard son of the Rogue Prince they fear, but what lingers beneath his skin.

For a moment, Daervon does not move. His breath is shallow, his body caught between exhaustion and the remnants of something foreign still clinging to him. The weight of all he has done presses against him like a second skin.

Then, slowly, he lowers himself to one knee before the Queen. "Your Grace." His voice is quiet but steady, though beneath the calm, his heart pounds against his ribs. He does not know what punishment awaits him. He does not know if Rhaenyra sees him as a kinsman still—or as something far worse. "I am willing to face the consequences of my actions."

The words are barely spoken before Rhaenyra lifts her chin, her expression unreadable.

"Follow me," she commands, dismissing the gathered crowd with a flick of her wrist.

The tension does not ease even as the hall empties. The moment lingers, the weight of Daervon's deeds pressing into the stone itself. The guards hesitate before leaving, their eyes flickering back to him, as if expecting the silver glow to return.

The throne room is near silent save for the distant crackling of torches. Here, beneath the looming presence of the Black Queen’s throne, there is no battlefield, no fire, no blood—only judgment.

Rhaenyra settles into her seat, the high-backed throne of Dragonstone casting long shadows behind her. The weight of her crown does not bow her; it makes her sharper, stronger.

Daervon remains standing before her, but his posture is rigid, his hands curled into fists at his sides. He does not meet her gaze.

Rhaenyra watches him for a moment before speaking, her voice softer than expected. "Are you hurt?"

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders barely easing. The truth feels irrelevant, but he answers regardless. "No."

"Good." Her expression shifts—hardens. "Do you accept me as your Queen and ruler?"

Daervon does not hesitate. "I do, Your Grace."

But his voice is quieter now, and Rhaenyra does not miss it. Her gaze sharpens.

"Then why did you turn a blind eye to my command?" Her voice is not merely anger—it is something deeper, something raw. There is a scolding edge, yes, but also desperation that lingers beneath it.

"Do you understand the danger you put yourself in?" she presses, her tone rising. "You could have been struck down, you and Gaelithox both. A single scorpion, aimed true, and you would have fallen from the skies. I have lost too much, Daervon—I will not lose more. I will not lose you." Her last words are quieter, but they do not lack force.

Daervon keeps his head lowered. His chest tightens, shame creeping into his bones. He had not merely defied her; he had wounded her. "I am sorry, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra exhales slowly, the weight in her gaze unwavering. "Daemon loved you more than any other being in this world."

At last, Daervon looks up. And she holds him there, caught in the truth of her words.

"Yes, he loved me," she continues, her voice steady, though there is something distant in her eyes, something heavy. "But not as he loved Lady Aurélie. A part of him always belonged to her, even to the end. And you—" She leans forward slightly, her gaze burning into his. "You are the last piece of that love. He cherished you, Daervon. Until his dying breath, he cherished you."

Silence stretches between them.

Grief is a slow, creeping thing, curling around Daervon’s ribs, settling deep in his chest. He does not move, but he does not need to—the sorrow is in the way his breath wavers, in the way his fingers twitch as if grasping for something that is no longer there.

And Rhaenyra lets him feel it.

Then, after a moment, she speaks again. "What I witnessed today was raw Targaryen power."

He barely hears her at first. His mind is still caught in the past, still lingering in the echo of his father’s presence.

"A gift," she adds.

Daervon exhales sharply. His voice is colder when he finally responds. "It is a curse more than a gift." His jaw tightens. "I cannot control it—it controls me."

Rhaenyra studies him, her expression unreadable. "It is said that Maegor the cruel had a similar power," she muses, though there is no certainty in her tone. "And if he had a way to master it, then so must you. The path will not be easy, but there is always a way."

Daervon does not respond.

She watches him carefully, taking in the exhaustion that lines his face, the heaviness in his posture.

Finally, her gaze softens. "Rest well, cousin," she says. "You need it now. We will find a way later."

Daervon only nods.

By the time he leaves the throne room and walk through the familiar corridor to his bedchambers, the weight of exhaustion crashes down upon him even more. His body aches in ways he cannot describe, as if something deeper than flesh has been drained from him.

The air in the bedchamber is heavy with quiet murmurs, a hushed conspiracy unfolding beyond the half-open door.

Daervon halts just outside, his breath steady but his pulse hammering beneath his skin. The voices inside—familiar, beloved—carry the weight of judgment. He does not need to hear much to understand what is being said.

"They were the eyes of a madman," Baela whispers, her voice trembling. His eyes. The words strike him sharper than Valyrian steel.

Jacaerys murmurs something low to her, a comfort meant to soothe, but Daervon does not care for what he says. It is Baela’s voice that rings in his skull, Baela who had once called him brother without hesitation, without fear.

Rhaena, ever his most understanding sister, is silent. When she does speak, her voice is hushed, as if she cannot believe the words she is uttering. She is horrified.

And Aemond—Aemond says nothing.

Daervon steps into the room, his presence an unspoken force that makes the air turn cold. The conversation dies instantly. His dark lilac gaze sweeps over them, lingering on each face before settling on the man sitting silently on their shared bed.

He scoffs, slow and sharp, his voice edged with something dark. "How quick you all are to gather and speak filth of me behind my back," he drawls, his tone cold as the wind before a storm.

Baela stiffens, guilt flickering in her eyes, but it is too late. The damage is done.

"Brother—" Rhaena begins, her voice gentle, pleading.

"Leave." His command is quiet, but it might as well be a dragon’s roar. His eyes land on Rhaena last, and though he feels a deep, aching betrayal, he cannot bring himself to harden his gaze fully against her. And yet, she leaves all the same. They all do.

Only Aemond remains.

The moment the door shuts, Daervon turns to him. His sharp gaze does not waver as he plucks a small container from his belt and tosses it. Aemond catches it with ease, his eye flicking down to see what it is.

"Balm for the bruise I caused," Daervon says, his voice devoid of warmth. "Apply it yourself."

Aemond’s fingers tighten around the container, his throat working as he watches Daervon. There is no mistaking the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his mouth parts slightly, as if he wants to speak but does not dare. "Daervon—"

"If you speak another word," Daervon cuts in, his gaze flashing dangerously, "I will walk out of this chamber and not return."

Aemond stills. The air between them is suffocating, heavy with everything unspoken. He nods once, stiffly, and does as he is told.

But he is doing it all wrong.

A frustrated sigh leaves Daervon before he even realizes it. He crosses the room in swift strides and snatches the container from Aemond’s hands, fingers barely grazing his husband’s skin. The moment he touches him, something unravels in his chest.

He does not speak as he applies the balm himself, his fingers tracing over the bruised skin at Aemond’s throat, spreading the cool salve with a touch far gentler than his words had been. His lips part as he exhales softly, blowing over the tender flesh.

He does not cry. But he it coils in his chest, a tightness so suffocating it feels as though he is drowning. His breath is uneven, his throat raw, his hands trembling as he works. The grief inside him is a beast, clawing at his ribs, desperate to escape—but the relief of tears does not come.

Aemond watches him, unmoving. He is enthralled, tortured, desperate.

Daervon Targaryen. His love, his ruin, his religion.

He wants to take Daervon’s face in his hands and tell him he is not lost, that he will never be lost, not so long as Aemond breathes. But he does not. He cannot. Instead, he lets Daervon tend to him, lets the silence stretch between them, lets the weight of their love and ruin hang in the air like smoke from a dying fire.

When Daervon is done, he steps back, shaking. His voice is quieter now when he orders the maids to prepare a bath. Aemond insists on helping him.

Daervon does not fight it. He stays still, unmoving, as Aemond kneels beside the tub, as his hands glide over Daervon’s skin, scrubbing away the blood and dirt. He does not look at him. He stares blankly, as if lost to the abyss within himself.

He is slipping. He is losing himself.

The Unburnt Prince looms, waiting to consume what remains.

The supper is quiet. Daervon eats, but he does not taste the food. Aemond watches him, his gaze burning, searching, wanting.

Daervon does not meet his eye.

When Aemond retires to bed, Daervon does not follow. He remains on the balcony, alone beneath the darkened sky. And then, finally—finally—he weeps.

His body shakes, his hands clutching the stone railing as he crumbles beneath the weight of it all. He has fought wars. He has taken lives. He has bled, burned, conquered. But this? This is a war he does not know how to win.

A knock at the door startles him. He straightens immediately, wiping at his tear-streaked face before stepping back inside. When he opens the door, he finds Rhaenys standing there, a plate of lemon cakes in hand and a knowing, tender smile on her lips.

"Grandmother." His voice is hoarse, his attempt at a smile weary. His eyes are swollen, red, his grief laid bare for her to see.

"I heard you were feeling rather upset," Rhaenys murmurs, stepping inside. "I brought lemon cakes to lift your spirits."

He follows her like a shadow, like a lost child, watching as she places the plate on the table.

He takes a bite. The familiar taste—sweet, tart, familiar—pulls a small, fleeting smile from him. For a moment, however brief, his burdens feel lighter. "Spirit lifted. You're a goddess, Grandmother."

Rhaenys hums in amusement but does not miss the exhaustion written across his features. She studies him, eyes sharp and warm.

"You must rest, sweet one," she murmurs, her voice gentle.

Daervon sighs, setting the plate aside. "They think I’ve gone mad," he mutters. "Perhaps they are right. Everything is a disaster—an absolute disaster. It is my fault."

"Trust me, child," Rhaenys says softly, "it is not."

"I just feel like it was wrong," he admits.

"No one could have done better than you, my sweet boy," she assures him, pressing a kiss to his forehead, her touch warm, grounding. "You are the strongest force I have ever known. Remember your strength."

And he does.

For her, he will try.

When she leaves, Daervon moves like a specter through the chamber, exhaustion dragging at his limbs as he approaches the bed. The golden glow of the dying candles casts flickering shadows across Aemond’s sleeping form, illuminating the sharp edges of his face, the curve of his lips, and the bruises marring the pale column of his throat. Daervon reaches out, fingertips brushing lightly over the darkened skin—a mark he left in his madness, in his loss of control. A sharp pang twists in his chest.

He exhales heavily and turns away, rolling onto his side, putting distance between them. His mind is a battlefield, torn between the love that keeps him tethered to himself and the terror that he is becoming something unrecognizable, something monstrous.

Just as he begins to surrender to the weight of his exhaustion, strong arms wrap around him, a firm, unwavering hold, and he is pulled backward into the familiar warmth of Aemond’s chest. The scent of leather, fire, and something distinctly Aemond surrounds him.

A breath ghosts against his ear, a voice low, unshaken. “I am not afraid. Not of you, not of your darkness, not of your madness.” Aemond’s lips graze the shell of Daervon’s ear as he speaks, his tone filled with devotion, with something dangerous. “I am more than happy to embrace every part of you. You are my maddest obsession. I can never unlove you.”

Daervon closes his eyes, allowing himself—just for a moment—to sink into the comfort Aemond offers. But beneath the warmth of his husband's touch, the fear still lingers. “But I am afraid,” he whispers, voice barely audible.

“Don’t be,” Aemond murmurs, pressing a feather-light kiss to the nape of Daervon’s neck, his touch reverent, soothing, as though his love alone could exorcise the darkness threatening to consume him.

Daervon opens his eyes slowly, shifting in Aemond’s embrace to face him. Their gazes lock—lilac meeting sapphire. There is no hesitation in Aemond’s expression, only a terrifying certainty, a love so fierce it threatens to burn them both.

“I hurt you,” Daervon admits, his fingers hesitantly ghosting over the bruises once more. Shame coils deep within him. He remembers the way his hands had closed around Aemond’s throat, remembers the way he had nearly lost himself completely. “What if I lose myself in the depths of my madness?”

Aemond does not flinch, does not falter. His grip on Daervon tightens, unwavering. “Then I will dive into the depths of your madness to find you.”

The words steal Daervon’s breath, raw and unrelenting in their devotion. Aemond would follow him into the abyss, would tear through fire and ruin if it meant bringing him back.

Daervon takes in the silver-haired prince before him—the hard lines of his face softened in the dim candlelight, the sapphire in his lost eye glistening like a star swallowed by the night. He is beautiful in a way that feels almost cruel. He is the only thing that has ever made Daervon believe he is still human.

He leans in, and Aemond meets him without hesitation. The kiss is slow, deep, laced with something desperate. It is not a plea but a vow—a silent promise between them. When they part, Aemond's fingers trail along Daervon’s jaw before tilting his chin up, forcing their gazes to meet once more.

“Know only this, my love,” Aemond murmurs, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “You are the only being I trust and whom I love above and beyond myself. All my love belongs to you. You are its keeper.”

Daervon lets out a quiet, breathless laugh, his lips curling into the first genuine smile he has worn in what feels like an eternity. “You are,” he whispers, voice teasing yet unbearably fond, “the absolute worst idea I have ever had.”

He knows Aemond has ruined him. There is no escaping this. There is no breaking free. The love between them is a chain, binding them together, for better or worse.

Aemond smirks at that, his obsession for Daervon shining in his gaze like a flame that will never be extinguished. He pulls him impossibly closer, until there is no space left between them, until they are one. His voice is nothing but a murmur against Daervon’s lips as he commands, with all the authority of a prince, but all the tenderness of a husband—

“Sleep.”