The next morning dawns gentle and golden, yet Aemond Targaryen's mind is anything but calm.

He rises before the sun fully crests the canopy, his eye shadowed and weary. Not from lack of sleep, but from the clawing fear that never leaves him. That someone—or something—might steal Daervon from his arms again. The Unburnt Prince’s shadow lingers in his thoughts like a sickness, and Aemond cannot shake the bitter taste of helplessness it leaves on his tongue.

So, upon Calista’s irritatingly serene suggestion, he decides to take Daervon to the hidden hot spring nestled deeper within the woods. A place meant to ease the mind and spirit. A place, Calista said, "where one may find clarity amidst the warmth of the old mountain’s breath." Aemond does not care for riddles. But if there is even a chance it helps Daervon… he will endure it.

They ride on horseback, much to Aemond’s distaste. He detests the space between them. The way the horses move at different paces, denying him the comfort of Daervon's warmth beside him. His fingers ache for his husband's hand, for the weight of his palm against his thigh. It is an itch beneath his skin, that maddening need to touch Daervon—to keep him within arm’s reach, as though closeness alone could anchor him to this realm and not the one clawing at his soul.

The forest swallows them whole, the dragons’ distant growls fading like a memory. Gaelithox’s snarls and Caraxes’ thunderous snorts are replaced by the hum of wild insects and the rustle of green life. The air is clean here. Cool and scented faintly of pine and stone, brushing across their cheeks like whispered secrets.

Aemond steals glances often. He always does. At the way Daervon’s raven curly hair dances with the breeze. At the way he hums absently when something in the woods catches his attention. At the curve of his amused smile when Aemond throws another flirtation his way.

“You keep staring, my Prince,” Daervon says at one point, his voice like silk teased through sunlight.

Aemond only smirks. “Can you blame me? The gods don’t craft such beauty often, and when they do, it’s best one not waste the view.”

Daervon’s smile deepens, shaking his head. “Ever the poet.”

“Only when you are the subject.”

They speak little after that. But it is a silence filled with ease. With love, aching and unspoken, threading itself like gold between them.

Eventually, they reach the foot of the Red Mountains. A cave mouth yawns before them, hidden beneath a curtain of moss and flowering vines. The horses are tethered, and the rest of the world is left behind as they step inside.

The cave is warm, humid with ancient steam. Fire torches line the stone walls, casting flickering shadows across damp rock. The scent is heavy and pleasant—spices, herbs, and something floral and sweet, like soaked rose petals. It wraps around Daervon instantly, easing the weight on his chest. He exhales slowly, as though he’s been holding his breath for days.

Two young priestesses await them at the edge of the spring pool.

They rise to greet the princes, both bowing gracefully, but there is nothing humble about their expressions. One, with thick lashes and a crown of braids, offers a sly, lingering smile. “The hot spring is prepared for you, my lords,” she says, voice purring like a cat basking in sun.

The other’s gaze is bolder—hungry, even—as she looks at Daervon. Not a mere glance of reverence. She devours him with her eyes.

Aemond sees it all.

His jaw tightens. His good eye twitches, the muscle beneath flickering with suppressed fury. His hand, resting near the hilt of his sword, curls instinctively. His mind hisses with the urge to draw steel and carve that look from the woman’s face.

But he doesn’t move. Not yet.

He cannot afford the scandal. Daervon needs this healing—he needs peace, and Aemond will not be the storm that robs him of it.

Even as bile burns in his throat, even as the priestesses giggle at Daervon’s gentle, unknowing smile, Aemond holds still.

He watches Daervon thank them—kindly, sweetly, like he always does—and it rips through him. That Daervon could look at anyone like that and not see the threat they pose. That he could smile like that and not know how easily Aemond could bleed for him.

The priestesses bow once more and leave, their giggles echoing off the damp walls.

Aemond’s gaze follows them until they vanish. Ice-blue and cold. Predatory.

When Daervon turns to him, there is that knowing gleam in his eye. That soft amusement that only he can wear in the presence of Aemond’s madness.

“What is that look upon your face, husband?” Daervon teases, voice laced with silken warmth. “You look as if you might burn the mountains down.”

Aemond drags his gaze from the empty doorway and meets Daervon’s. The tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease, not even in the presence of the one soul who can calm him. “I hate Calista,” he mutters, voice laced with disdain. “And her whispering minions. They leer like wolves circling the last stag of winter.”

Daervon tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes like a spark teasing the edge of dry parchment. “Then perhaps I ought to be rotting in the dungeons instead of lounging in hot springs,” he murmurs, a wry smile curling his lips. “Might do us more good if I spent my time devising how best to put down the Unburnt Prince—should we need to flee this gods-forsaken place sooner than we hoped.”

His jest is light, but the weight behind it is not. There’s exhaustion in his voice, buried deep—but Aemond hears it, feels it, as if it were his own.

Aemond’s gaze softens, though it burns no less fiercely. He steps closer, his hand brushing Daervon’s wrist, grounding him. “Calista said relaxation might help you regain clarity. If there’s even the faintest truth in that… we owe it to ourselves to try.” His fingers lace with Daervon’s. “Besides… when the world offers us something good, even fleeting, we’d be fools to refuse it.”

Daervon arches a brow, half amused, half touched by the rare gentleness in his husband’s tone. “And what, husband, do you believe this pool might possibly offer us?”

Aemond smirks faintly. He’s already unfastening his riding coat, letting it fall away. His leathers follow, deliberate and slow. “This is no mere pool,” he explains as steam swirls around them. “It is the millennium water of the Red Mountains—heated by the earth’s blood itself. Enriched by flowers, roots, and old mountain spices. Twelve species, Calista claims.” His voice drops slightly, eyes fixed on Daervon’s mouth. “Its effects are known far beyond the Reach. Healing of body… calming of the mind…” A pause. Then a grin that holds something darker. “And it’s said to enhance fertility in bonded couples who bathe together.”

Daervon lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. “So,” he says as he begins to undress, his tunic slipping from one shoulder, “what you truly mean is—it makes people more desperate to fuck.”

Aemond hums. “Precisely.”

With a mock sigh of disbelief, Daervon sheds the last of his clothes and follows Aemond into the water.

The spring welcomes them with a hiss of heat and silence. The surface ripples as they sink in. Petals drift lazily between their bodies, clinging to wet skin. Daervon’s hair clings to the nape of his neck, while Aemond’s own hair glistens as water slides down his cheekbones. The torchlight dances along their shoulders, gilding collarbones and the slight tremble of breath.

“Then you hardly need to soak in it at all,” Daervon mutters, eyes glinting with mischief. “You already take every possible chance to have your hands on me as it is.”

Aemond rolls his eye, but the smirk that spreads across his face is feral and boyish all at once. “Guilty.” He glides closer through the water, wet hair slicked back, droplets clinging to his lashes. His mouth brushes along Daervon’s jaw, slow and deliberate, until his lips find skin and suck gently—branding, claiming. Then he leans to Daervon’s ear, voice molten. “Or perhaps,” he whispers, “we ought to ask Calista if her god can grant you a womb, so that I might fill you and watch you swell with my heir…” His lips graze the shell of Daervon’s ear. “What a sight that would be.”

Daervon shudders, the heat of the water nothing compared to the fire blooming beneath his skin. His fingers grow restless with want, and he finds himself reaching—stroking Aemond’s collarbone, dragging fingertips down the sharp line of his shoulder, his toned arms beneath the water. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet but thick with desire.

“You want to fill this bastard with your seed, hmm?” he whispers, staring into Aemond’s eye, pupils blown wide.

Aemond’s breath catches. His lids flutter shut, and for a moment, he melts—utterly undone by the thought alone.

Then Daervon moves—mirroring Aemond’s earlier action. His mouth finds his husband’s jaw, his teeth grazing the edge of it before sucking a mark into his pale skin. He lingers there, tasting, breathing him in. Then he leans into Aemond’s ear, voice low and silken.

“Then you best work harder,” he murmurs, “and do your marital duty well to your wife… like a devoted, dutiful husband should.”

Aemond’s eye snaps open. He tilts his head, amusement twinkling amid the ever-present hunger. “And you say I am the untamed one between us,” he whispers, biting down a laugh.

Daervon shrugs, feigning innocence as he leans back lazily in the water. “Perhaps it is the wonders of the millennium water. Or the added spices.”

“Perhaps,” Aemond growls.

Then he’s on him.

The kiss comes fast, unrelenting, mouths meeting with desperate hunger. Their torsos press together under the water, skin slick, muscles tensing. Daervon wraps his arms around Aemond’s neck, pulling him closer, one hand diving into soaked strands of silver-blond hair to massage his scalp in slow, reverent circles.

Aemond moans, lost. His lips devour Daervon’s, like he’s drinking in his soul. Every taste, every sigh, drives him mad. He feels unhinged, overwhelmed by the sheer love radiating off Daervon’s touch. “All mine,” he breathes into the kiss, hoarse and trembling.

“All yours, husband,” Daervon replies, voice dipped in molten heat. “This wife is all yours.”

Aemond curses in High Valyrian—vulgar, breathless—and turns Daervon around, pinning him gently against the stone wall of the spring. Water splashes up around them as he lifts him slightly, positioning them both.

Their bodies lock again, tighter this time. Aemond thrusts forward, and Daervon cries out softly, head falling back against Aemond’s shoulder. The pool around them rocks, water slapping against the stone edge in waves.

“Look at you,” Aemond whispers against Daervon’s ear, his voice unsteady. “You take me like you were made for me.”

Daervon gasps, nails digging into Aemond’s forearm as he braces himself. “I was made for you.”

Their rhythm grows frantic—raw, punishing, but laced with love. Daervon’s body responds to every touch, every command of Aemond’s hands, which wander with purpose—caressing, gripping, worshipping.

The heat is unbearable. The sounds they make—the breathless moans, the whispered names, the sloshing of water—fill the air like a ritual. Aemond’s mouth finds Daervon’s throat again, sucking hard enough to bruise, claiming him all over again. He can barely breathe. His love for Daervon is unbearable. He wants to crawl inside him, mark him, ruin him for anyone else in every way imaginable.

“You are fucking mine,” Aemond whispers. “Mine in flesh, mine in flame. You're the one I burn for.”

And when release comes—after relentless, fevered thrusts and whispered vows—it is explosive. Daervon cries out, his body writhing in Aemond’s arms, every nerve alight. Aemond follows, burying himself deep as he lets go, clutching Daervon like a lifeline, gasping against his skin.

After a time, when the tremors fade, Aemond doesn’t let go.

He keeps Daervon in his arms, the both of them still half-submerged, the pool now calmed. The scent of their shared passion hangs in the humid air.

“Tired?” Aemond asks after a moment, voice low.

Daervon breathes heavily, face buried in the crook of Aemond’s neck. His body, though strong, trembles faintly—spent, yet utterly content. “A bit…” he whispers, then smirks weakly, eyes fluttering. “Another round?”

Aemond chuckles, pressing a kiss to his damp forehead. “It is indeed the wonders of the millennium water… and the added spices.”

Daervon laughs softly, fingers tracing the angles of Aemond’s face with a gentleness only lovers know. “I love you, Aemond.”

Aemond smiles, wide and genuine—one of those rare, boyish smiles Daervon sees and no one else. “I love you, my dearest wife.”

Daervon lets out a hum of delight before sleep tugs at him. His body slackens, and he slips, unconscious, into Aemond’s embrace.

The full weight of him passes into Aemond’s arms. Aemond adjusts his hold, and wraps his husband tighter against him. One hand slips to stroke Daervon’s soaked back, slow and soothing, just as Calista advised him. His palm slides in lazy circles over Daervon’s sore muscles, easing tension and whispering love in silence.

Daervon sighs in his sleep—a sound so delicate, so intimate, that makes Aemond’s lips curl with pride and contentment.

He leans in, pressing another soft kiss to his shoulder. “I could do this all day,” he murmurs, voice thick with reverence. “And I would still never have enough of you.”