When Daervon Targaryen wakes, he does so slowly—emerging from a sea of shadow and smoke into the gentle hush of firelight and incense. The bedchambers at the Cave of Red are cloaked in twilight. A deep red glow spills from the braziers, and the air is thick with the scent of myrrh and crushed moonbloom. Bitter herbs curl smoke into the rafters, dulling the ache in his bones and the sting of the deep cuts on his wrists.

He blinks up at the ceiling, but his gaze quickly falls to the weight beside him.

Aemond sits at the edge of the bed, ever still, his single eye watching him with a heavy, sleepless grief. His fingers are balled into his lap, stained faintly with dried blood—not his own. His face is unreadable, carved of ice and iron, but his shoulders are tense, and his jaw clenches each time Daervon exhales too sharply.

The red priestesses move quietly around the bed, dabbing salves onto the wounds at Daervon’s wrists. The chains had bitten deep.

“You’re awake,” comes Calista’s calm, distant voice. She stands at the foot of the bed, her red robes like a bleeding shadow in the low light. “My lord… did you speak with him?”

Daervon shifts, feeling the pull of soreness down his spine. His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

Calista steps forward, her ruby necklace catching the candlelight like bloodied glass. “Was it fruitful?”

There’s a pause. A silence filled with the crackling of firewood and the brush of silk. Then Daervon’s head turns toward the window, away from them all.

“No,” he says simply. The word lands heavy. Final.

“What brought you back?” Calista asks, her tone careful but unyielding.

Daervon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze flickers across the bed… to Aemond. Aemond, who has not moved. Aemond, who looks at him as though he’s the only star left in the sky.

Calista follows his gaze. Her lips twitch slightly, just for a moment. “So he is your anchor,” she murmurs, more to herself than to anyone else. “This was not entirely fruitful then… but not a failure either.”

Aemond doesn’t flinch at the word. Anchor. He lets it settle in the air between them like smoke.

He would hold his husband through every madness, every storm. He would walk willingly into fire and drag Daervon back from the edge, again and again. If needed, he would burn the world for him.

Let them call him what they will. Anchor. Obsession. Madness.

To Aemond, it is love. And it is holy.

“What happened in the depths?” Calista presses softly, tilting her head like a raven sizing up a soul.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Daervon says tightly, and this time, his voice is firm. His lilac eyes avoid everyone. His shoulders are stiff, and something dark coils behind his words—shame, dread, perhaps both. His hands tremble ever so slightly beneath the covers.

Aemond notices. He always notices.

“Let’s call it a day,” Aemond says sharply, rising to his full height with that quiet, commanding presence. His eye flashes briefly to Calista, a silent dismissal.

Calista nods with solemn grace. “Of course. We can begin anew at first light.” She turns to go, gathering her priestesses with a flick of her hand like crows dispersing from a carcass.

“Thank you,” Aemond says curtly as they leave, though his attention never strays from his husband.

When the door closes behind them, silence settles like dust.

Aemond sits beside Daervon once more, studying him. The silence between them is full of unspoken things. His hand lifts gently, fingers brushing against the bruise at Daervon’s neck—a phantom mark left behind from the torment of the Unburnt Prince.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly, as though afraid the answer might break him.

Daervon flinches at the touch but doesn't pull away. His voice is quieter than before, threadbare. “Nothing. I’m tired.”

Aemond nods, though his eye searches every line of Daervon’s face. “Shall I bring you something?” he asks. “Food? Water?”

Daervon shakes his head weakly. “I just want to sleep,” he murmurs, barely above a breath.

Aemond says nothing. He only lifts the coverlet and lays beside him, gently drawing Daervon into his arms. There’s a heartbeat’s pause—Daervon hesitates, as if unsure he deserves comfort. But then he folds into Aemond’s chest, resting his cheek above his heart, allowing himself to be held.

Aemond’s fingers glide through his raven-dark hair, slow and reverent. He whispers soft nothings against Daervon’s temple—old High Valyrian endearments, prayers, names of stars, anything that might soothe. His voice is low, the kind used for calming dragons. And soon, Daervon’s breathing evens, his body softens, and he sleeps—peacefully, for the first time in what feels like ages.

Aemond closes his eye, resting his cheek atop Daervon’s hair. But peace is short-lived.

He feels it first as absence. The warmth in his arms is gone.

Aemond’s eye snaps open, still heavy with sleep. He turns his head—Daervon is lying beside him, facing him, supported on one elbow. He’s watching Aemond with a strange, almost mocking amusement.

But it’s the eyes. Not the dark lilac he adores.

Silver. Luminous. Inhuman.

Aemond bolts upright, tension snapping through every limb like a drawn bowstring. “…Why?” he breathes, not even sure what he’s asking.

The Unburnt Prince chuckles, slow and indulgent. He sits up leisurely on the bed like it belongs to him. “Why I’m here instead of bathing the castle in fire and blood? Slitting the throats of those red-cloaked whores while I have hands this time?”

He leans closer, silver curls catching firelight. “Perhaps I already did. Or maybe…” his voice dips into a purr, “…I simply wished to see, with my own eyes, what he sees in you.”

Aemond stays still, eye fixed like a hawk’s on every motion.

“After all you’ve done, he still loves you. Can you imagine?” The Unburnt Prince grins, running the back of his hand down Aemond’s cheek. “Is it your blood? Your face? Your cock?” He hums, tapping Aemond’s chin. “I don’t see it.”

Aemond’s voice is iron. “He loves me.”

“Apparently,” the Prince scoffs, rising to grab a dagger and a polished apple from the bedside table. He slices it with eerie calm, takes a bite. “But here’s the problem, my Prince. You’re his anchor. You keep me trapped. So, tell me—what shall we do about that?”

“How are you even here?” Aemond hisses, his shoulders coiled like a striking adder.

“Oh, Daervon is feeling terribly guilty,” the Prince drawls, tapping the sharp end of the blade against his chest. “His heart is all twisted up. And guilt? Guilt unlocks doors.”

Aemond’s eye darkens. “What did you do?”

The Unburnt Prince pouts mockingly. “Why assume it’s my fault?”

“What. Did. You. Do?” Aemond growls, teeth clenched.

A wicked gleam dances in the silver gaze. “I was… inside him,” he says, slowly. “He thought I was you—called your name. Begged for more. Until he realized. Then he screamed. Fought me. I held him down.” He shrugs with indifference. “A pleasant conversation, if I’m being honest—until you rudely interrupted.”

Aemond lunges, fury igniting like wildfire in his blood. He tackles the Unburnt Prince, slamming him down against the bed, one hand at his throat. “I’ll kill you!”

The Unburnt Prince only laughs, calm even beneath the weight of Aemond’s wrath. “Kill this body and in a century or two, I’ll crawl into another broken Targaryen’s mind. But Daervon? He dies forever. Is that what you want?”

Aemond falters. The grip weakens.

And in a flash, the Prince flips them, pinning Aemond beneath him. His strength is unnatural, more shadow than flesh.

“Let him go,” Aemond breathes, the plea a blade hidden in silk.

The Prince hums, twirling the dagger, pressing it teasingly to Aemond’s neck. “How about a trade? Your life, for his soul?”

“Do it,” Aemond says without hesitation, his voice steady as stone. “Spare him and take me.”

The Unburnt Prince clicks his tongue, amused. “So brave now, are we? As much as I loathe to admit it, you are both his ruin and his salvation.” He draws the blade back, tracing it down Aemond’s chest. “If you die, he follows. He’s that much of a fool.”

Aemond’s jaw clenches. “You said if he dies, you’ll find another Targaryen.”

“I did,” the Prince says with a chuckle. He grabs a fistful of Aemond’s long silver hair and tugs sharply, making him groan. “But there’s a war burning outside. The war you started and left behind like a craven. And our dear Daervon? He made a vow—to shield Rhaenyra with his life. We can’t have him break his word, can we?”

“You care nothing for vows or causes,” Aemond bites out. “Speak plainly—what is it you want?”

The Prince leans in, lips grazing Aemond’s ear. “Chaos. Power. To make the Seven Kingdoms kneel before me with fear.”

“You had that,” Aemond snarls. “Maegor Targaryen gave it to you.”

“He did.” The Unburnt Prince sighs. “But he bored me. Too brutish. No finesse. Daervon though? He resists. It makes him… desirable.” He straddles Aemond now, hips pressing low, his fingers dragging down Aemond’s chest with a seductive ease. “So what now, hm? How will you save him from me?”

Aemond’s hand snakes up the Prince’s spine, dragging him down. Their faces are inches apart.

The Unburnt Prince smirks, eager for the kiss—

But Aemond flips him in one swift motion. The dagger clatters to the floor, the apple half-eaten, discarded like a sin.

Aemond leans low, his breath hot against the Prince’s ear. His voice is a whisper of fire. “He’s not ours. He’s mine. And mine alone.”

The Prince laughs softly, silver eyes gleaming with something between admiration and rage. “Not for long.”

But in a blink, the silver glow in Daervon’s eyes gutters out like dying embers. They return to their natural dark lilac—soft, stormy, human.

He gasps as though waking from drowning, his breath ragged as he searches Aemond’s face in a panic. His fingers instinctively reach for his husband, cupping his cheek. “Aemond… what happened? Did he hurt you?”

Aemond exhales with trembling relief, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he surges forward into Daervon’s arms. He buries his face in the curve of Daervon’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent that grounds him like nothing else in this world.
“I’m not hurt,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Daervon tightens the embrace, his palm sliding over Aemond’s back in soothing circles. Aemond clings to him as if letting go would send them both plummeting into some abyss neither could return from.

“You regret it now, don’t you?” Daervon says softly, his voice a hushed confession against Aemond’s hair. “You should have chosen your family. Left me behind.”

“My life is yours to take,” Aemond breathes. “My heart, yours to break. I chose you the moment I laid eyes on you, and I would choose you again—even if it ends in ash.”

A flicker of pain glints in Daervon’s eyes. “I feel like I’ve taken everything from you. And more.”

Aemond presses a kiss to his throat, slow and reverent. “You’ve taken nothing from me. You’ve only ever given.”

“There’s more to life than me,” Daervon whispers, still caressing his back.

“No,” Aemond says, his voice firmer now, surer. He lifts his head and looks into Daervon’s eyes with naked, consuming devotion. “Before you, I had nothing to live for. And nothing to die for. You’ve given me both.”

A quiet smile spreads across Daervon’s lips, small and aching. He closes his eyes for a breath. “I want it to stop, Aemond. I’m tired. I want to rest.”

“Then rest,” Aemond whispers, brushing Daervon’s hair back from his face. “We’ll find a way. Together.”

He leans in and their lips meet—soft at first, but quickly swelling into something far deeper. A hunger not just of flesh, but of soul. Their mouths move with urgency, as if trying to carve solace out of each other’s skin. The kiss is bruising, desperate. Aemond’s hands cup Daervon’s jaw; Daervon pulls him closer, fingers tangled in silver hair.

When they part, Aemond is panting, forehead against Daervon’s. “You should rest,” he says hoarsely.

“Shut up,” Daervon mutters, half-laughing, half-pleading, as he fists the hem of Aemond’s tunic and tugs. “Off.”

Aemond lets out a breath of a chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, my Lord Silvercrown.”

But he obeys, because he always does when it comes to Daervon. He peels his tunic off, the candlelight catching against the old scars and the tense stretch of his body. Daervon watches him with open hunger, fingers trailing up the lines of Aemond’s torso like he’s committing a prayer to memory.

The rest of their clothing falls away in a hush of fabric and fumbling hands. There’s no rush, only a slow-burning ache that builds between touches. Daervon lies back, and Aemond follows—his lips finding every hollow and mark of his beloved’s skin, worshipping it like sacred scripture.

Daervon gasps when Aemond’s mouth brushes over the bruise left on his neck—the remnants of the Unburnt Prince’s grip. For a moment, he tenses, haunted by silver eyes and cold voices. But Aemond’s hands are warm, grounding. His kisses are gentle. Each movement is a vow.

And Daervon lets go.

He gives himself over, letting Aemond ravish him with all the love, obsession, and aching desperation he holds in his soul. Their bodies move in rhythm, in reverence. Sweat-slicked skin, tangled limbs, whispered names and bitten lips. Moans echo softly against the stone chamber walls.

Aemond kisses him through it—his mouth on Daervon’s temple, his shoulder, his jaw—as if trying to stamp his love deep enough to banish the shadow forever.

When it ends, they lie in silence, bare and spent, Daervon’s head cradled against Aemond’s chest. The prince’s arms wrap tight around him, possessive and protective.

For now, there is only this: two lovers tangled together in the aftermath, and the faint glimmer of peace before dawn breaks through the window once more.