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The wind howls around them, fierce and untamed, as Gaelithox soars through the boundless sky. Below, the sea stretches endlessly, shimmering under the golden kiss of the sun. The world is vast, endless, and yet—in Aemond’s arms, pressed against the warmth of his body, Daervon feels confined, caged in something stronger than steel.

Aemond’s hold is possessive, his hands steady upon Daervon’s waist as they ride together, their bodies flush against one another. Gaelithox moves with effortless grace beneath them, great black wings cutting through the heavens, the wind roaring in their ears. Daervon’s fingers tighten around the reins, but his thoughts remain elsewhere—on the lingering warmth of Rhaenys’s last embrace, on the echo of her voice that refuses to fade.

"Always remember who you are."

She had whispered it against his brow before they departed Dragonstone, her love a quiet, unyielding force, wrapping around him like armor. For so long, she has been his anchor, the light that steadies him when the darkness within threatens to consume. He cannot fail her. He cannot become the thing he fears.

He has already lost control once—to the Unburnt Prince. It must never happen again.

But there are answers. Or at least, there is someone who might hold them. Calista Norwich. The Red Priestess.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, she waits, and with her, perhaps, the truth Daervon dreads to learn.

For now, though, there is only Aemond. Aemond, who presses closer, whose breath warms the side of Daervon’s neck, whose hands move like a serpent, sliding over the contours of his body as if committing every inch to memory. The heat of him is intoxicating, a smoldering flame licking at Daervon’s resolve.

"Once the war is over," Daervon murmurs, his voice nearly lost to the wind, "I mean to relinquish Silverhold to Vidor. To leave all of this behind. Find some place of peace, far from war and crowns."

Aemond hums lowly, his lips grazing Daervon’s pulse, his fingers tightening at his waist. “Peace?” he muses, his voice edged with something dangerous, something amused. "A fool's dream, perhaps. But I care not. If it is with you, I shall follow."

Daervon catches Aemond’s wandering hand, his grip firm, but not unkind. He turns slightly, enough to meet his husband's gaze, their foreheads nearly touching. "Do you truly understand what that would mean?" His voice is quieter now, almost fragile beneath the weight of what he asks. "To abandon your place as a Targaryen prince? The comforts of court, the wealth, the power. There may come days when we must toil for food, for shelter, for everything we once took for granted."

Aemond scoffs, his good eye dark with something unrelenting, something that sears through flesh and bone. "I would sooner carve out my own heart than be parted from you." His voice drops lower, thick with a hunger that has nothing to do with war or ambition. "I need only you, Daervon. You are my home. My ruin. My salvation. Fuck everything else."

The words steal Daervon’s breath. He has known Aemond’s love to be fierce, unyielding—a hunger that devours, a fire that does not burn out. But there are moments like this, where it feels like a madness unto itself, an obsession that neither of them can escape.

Aemond presses closer, his lips trailing along the side of Daervon’s throat, branding him with every kiss. His hand is already moving, slipping under the folds of Daervon’s tunic, seeking the warmth of his skin. Daervon’s breath hitches, his grip on the reins loosening as heat coils low in his stomach, desire warring with restraint.

Aemond knows it, feels it—and he revels in it.

Daervon curses softly under his breath, head tilting back as Aemond’s lips trace the column of his throat, his fingers burning against his skin. The reins slip from his grasp entirely as he turns, no longer able to resist, no longer willing to. He tangles his fingers in Aemond’s silver hair and drags him forward, their mouths colliding in something desperate, something ravenous.

He is lost—completely, utterly lost in the sensation of Aemond, in the heat and the hunger, in the way they melt into one another as though they have never been separate.

Which is why neither of them hears the thunderous roar until it is nearly upon them.

A shadow looms overhead, vast and monstrous, a sound like a howling storm ripping through the skies, and suddenly, Gaelithox jolts beneath them, snarling, his massive frame shuddering with instinctive fury as Daervon and Aemond break apart, startled.

Aemond swears viciously, his grip tightening as Gaelithox twists sharply to the side, nearly pitch from the saddle, a fatal drop that would dash them against the stones far below.

Daervon seizes Gaelithox’s reins, ready to command the beast into battle. But then he sees it—scales of deep crimson, a serpent-like form twisting in the air with unhurried grace.

Caraxes.

Aemond’s breath is heavy against his ear. His hand is still gripping Daervon’s waist, but there is no teasing now, no lingering touch—only the sharp edge of readiness, of instinct.

Gaelithox’s reaction is immediate and violent and does not recognize friend from foe. The great black dragon hisses, his emerald eyes burning with challenge, wings twitching as he prepares to strike. No one comes this close without consequence. He would die before yielding Daervon to another. His rider’s unease is his own, their bond so intertwined that Daervon’s heartbeat might as well echo in his own chest.

"Dohaerās, Gaelithox." (Serve) Daervon’s voice is firm but gentle, a command wrapped in devotion. He leans forward, fingers trailing over the dragon’s scales, his touch familiar, grounding. "Lykirī." (Calm down)

Gaelithox lets out a growl, low and reluctant, but he does not strike. His massive wings adjust, his body no longer coiled to attack, though his eyes never leave the red serpent above.

Aemond, still breathless from their entanglement, watches Caraxes with cool detachment. His silver hair is tousled, his lips kiss-bruised, and yet, his gaze is sharp, calculating. "He followed you."

Daervon, equally breathless, frowns up at the beast, brow furrowed in confusion. "It seems so."

Caraxes is no threat, but his presence is a reminder. A reminder of war. Of what might waits for them beyond the clouds. And they had nearly fallen to their deaths, undone by their own recklessness, their own weakness.

Yet Aemond, as ever, does not care. His eye gleams with something wicked, his fingers trailing seductively down Daervon’s arm as he smirks, utterly unfazed. "Now, where were we?"

Daervon huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he reaches to button his disheveled clothing. "Aemond. Not here." His tone is half amused, half exasperated. He loves Aemond, gods, he loves him, but they are in the midst of a war. Had it been Shrykos instead of Caraxes, they would be dead by now, careless as they are. Aemond pays no mind to consequence. He never has.

Aemond’s gaze fades into something colder as he glares at the crimson beast wheeling lazily in the sky, almost taunting in his playfulness. His lips curl into a sneer, his grip tightening against Daervon’s waist. “Fucking dragon,” he mutters, his voice just low enough for Daervon to hear before he buries his face into the curve of his husband’s neck. He exhales, irritated but content to have Daervon beneath his hands once more.

By the time they reach the Cave of Red, dusk has bled across the sky, casting its crimson light over the ancient stone walls. It is a place of whispered prophecy, of flickering flames that dance in worship of a god Daervon has never fully trusted.

The moment their boots touch the ground at the entrance, they are met by a young priestess. She is draped in the deep scarlet of her order, her face eerily smooth—too young, too untouched by time. She is younger than Rhaena, but Daervon knows better than to be deceived by the illusion of youth. Witches wear many faces.

She bows and leads them through winding corridors, the air thick with the scent of burning incense.

Inside their chamber, Aemond prowls like a caged beast, his single eye flicking to every shadowed corner, searching for threats unseen. The way the priestesses look at Daervon unsettles him. He does not miss the way their gazes linger, the way their lips part as if they see something divine in his husband. His upper lip curls in distaste.

Daervon, oblivious to their stares, stands by the fire, lost in thought. The matter of the Unburnt Prince weighs upon him like a chain around his throat. Aemond watches him, frowning. He hates that look on Daervon’s face—wary, burdened. He wants to burn whatever it is that troubles him.

They are interrupted by the arrival of the head priestess.

Calista Norwich steps into the chamber, a vision of fire and shadow. Her red gown clings like flowing blood, her deep auburn hair cascading down her back, her ruby necklace gleaming against her pale throat. She is ethereal, otherworldly, and her expression is one of quiet power.

She inclines her head slightly. “My lord.” Her voice is smooth, measured. “We meet again.”

Daervon does not return her courtesy. “Not willingly.”

Calista’s lips curl in amusement. She turns to Aemond. “My prince.”

Daervon gestures between them. “Aemond, this is Calista. She conducted my trials in Silverlands.”

Aemond nods once, his expression unreadable, but he says nothing.

Calista’s eyes flick back to Daervon, sharp and knowing. “It has happened, then?”

Daervon stiffens. He does not answer, but the flicker of unease in his gaze is answer enough.

Calista hums, pleased. “Fascinating.”

His jaw clenches. “I want to control it.”

“There is no easy path to control,” she replies smoothly.

Daervon exhales sharply, the weight in his chest pressing heavier. He had known as much, but still, the words unsettle him.

Aemond, silent until now, steps forward. His voice is colder, demanding. “How did Maegor Targaryen control it?”

Calista’s smile does not waver. “History tells us he never controlled it.” She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “He yielded to it.”

Daervon’s breath catches. Yielding is not an option. He has read of Maegor, of how the fire consumed him, of how his cruelty grew insatiable with each passing year. He wielded power as a blade against the world, carving a legacy of terror. They called him ruthless. Unfeeling. Empty.

Daervon swallows hard. “If I yield, he will bring ruin. I cannot let that happen.” His voice wavers slightly, but the steel in his resolve remains.

Calista only smiles. “Rest well, my lord. We will begin at dawn.”

Daervon narrows his eyes. “You said there was no method.”

She steps closer, her gaze locking onto his. “I said there is no easy method.” The firelight flickers across her face, casting shifting shadows. “But there is a way. A harder one.”

Aemond watches her warily, but Daervon does not flinch. He has never chosen the easy path, and he will not start now.

“I will do whatever it takes.”

Calista’s smile lingers. “Then we shall see.”