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The chamber is filled with warmth, laughter echoing softly as Daervon and Aemond sit across from one another, their supper long finished but the conversation lingering. The remnants of their meal lie forgotten on the table as Daervon leans back in his chair, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. Aemond watches him, captivated, as Daervon's delighted smile spreads wide across his face, his dark lilac eyes glinting in the soft candlelight. That smile-it is because of him, and the realization sends a strange lightness through Aemond's chest, a feeling he scarcely allows himself to embrace.

Aemond reaches out, his fingers brushing Daervon's wrist as if to tether him closer, unwilling to let the moment slip away. He cannot help but marvel at the sound of Daervon's laughter-rich, melodic, and entirely unrestrained. It is a sound he would move mountains to hear again, a joy he would endure any torment to preserve. The world outside these walls, the chaos of war and politics, melts away in this fleeting instant of bliss. Nothing else matters. Nothing ever will, so long as Daervon remains at his side.

When Daervon rises suddenly, mischief glimmering in his gaze, Aemond tilts his head in question. "Dance with me," Daervon says, holding out his hand. There is an almost boyish excitement in his voice, and Aemond's heart clenches. How could he ever refuse?

Aemond stands without hesitation, his hand slipping into Daervon's, feeling the warmth of his skin. The look on Daervon's face-pure and radiant-makes Aemond feel as though he has conquered the heavens themselves. Together, they move to the center of the chamber, Daervon guiding them both with graceful steps. Aemond follows, his movements stiff at first, but Daervon's laughter, that sweet, intoxicating sound, loosens him. Soon, they are twirling, their laughter mingling, and for Aemond, the world narrows to Daervon's touch, his voice, his smile.

But then, a knock at the door shatters their perfect moment. Daervon pauses, his hand slipping from Aemond's as he frowns and moves to answer. When he opens the door, a young maid stands there, her head bowed respectfully.

"Forgive me, my lord," she says softly, "but the Queen summons both you and Prince Aemond."

"At this hour?" Daervon asks, his brows furrowing. "For what reason?"

The maid shakes her head, her expression apologetic but uncertain. Daervon dismisses her with a nod, closing the door gently before turning back to Aemond with a raised brow. "What did you do?" he asks, though his tone carries more teasing than accusation.

Aemond scoffs, stepping closer to his husband. "What could I possibly have done? I've been with you the entire time."

Daervon chuckles, his earlier irritation melting away. He steps forward and presses a kiss to Aemond's lips, lingering just long enough to leave the silver-haired prince staring at him, utterly enchanted. Aemond looks at him as if it is the first time he has been kissed, his single lilac eye wide with wonder, his breath caught in his chest.

Daervon smiles, slipping his hand into Aemond's and pulling him toward the door. "Come, husband," he murmurs, his voice soft but insistent.

Aemond allows himself to be led, though his gaze never strays from Daervon, the man who holds his heart so completely it borders on madness.

The Dragonstone throne room hums with quiet tension, a space bathed in the dim flicker of torchlight. There are few souls present-a handful of stoic Queensguard stationed at their posts, the towering figure of Princess Rhaenys standing sentinel beside the imposing throne, and Prince Zyre, who lingers near her, his expression unreadable. Yet, amidst the stillness, the figure on the throne commands all attention.

Queen Rhaenyra sits with effortless grace, her posture regal and unyielding. Clad in Targaryen black and crimson, the hues of fire and blood, her presence is a force of nature. The weight of her crown seems inconsequential on her brow, for it is her authority that shines brightest, the power of her voice and the unwavering respect she commands. Her gaze, sharp as Valyrian steel, sweeps across the room, landing on the unfamiliar figure that dares to trespass into her court.

Aemond stops dead in his tracks as they enter the chamber, his normally cold visage cracking in the face of something raw and vulnerable. Daervon feels the shift immediately, the tension in Aemond's body like a coiled spring beneath his touch. Confusion flickers in Daervon's lilac gaze, a question unspoken as he glances at his husband. Even Rhaenys, who seldom betrays her thoughts, casts a concerned look toward her grandson, her eyes narrowing as if she, too, senses the brewing storm.

And then Daervon sees her.

The woman stands apart from the others, her presence both understated and commanding. Lady Floris Baratheon, despite her disheveled state, possesses an undeniable elegance. Her gown, once befitting a noblewoman, is now torn and dusted with grime, yet it does little to diminish her natural beauty. Her coal-smeared face and unadorned braid speak of hardship endured, but her posture remains poised, her chin lifted as though defying the indignities she has faced. She is a Baratheon to her core-unyielding and proud, even in disgrace.

Daervon's joy from moments earlier vanishes like smoke in the wind, replaced by a bitterness that curdles in his chest. His hand slips from Aemond's grasp, his voice dripping with venom as he mutters, "Say the name, and the devil shall appear."

Rhaenyra's voice rings out, calm yet resolute, cutting through the tension. "You chose an auspicious time to arrive at Dragonstone, my lady. We have decided to pardon those who once served the wrong ruler." Her words are gracious, yet her tone holds a quiet warning, a reminder of her power.

Floris steps forward, bowing with practiced grace. "Your Grace," she begins, her voice soft yet steady, "I am humbled to stand before you." She speaks with deference, but her dark eyes dart toward Aemond and Daervon, a subtle smirk playing at her lips.

Daervon's blood boils. That smirk feels like a dagger aimed straight at his heart. He leans closer to Aemond, his voice low and dangerous. "If I see her smirking at us one more time, I'll send her home in two halves."

"You will not do such a thing," Aemond replies, his voice equally quiet, though there's a flicker of amusement in his tone.

Daervon glares at him. "Oh, my. I see it now. Are you worried for your pretty whore?"

"She is not my pretty whore," Aemond whispers, lowering his voice further. "You are."

Despite himself, Daervon's heart stutters, but his jealousy refuses to be quelled. "You cannot change my mind. I will kill her, and I'd probably enjoy it."

Aemond leans closer, his lips brushing the shell of Daervon's ear as he murmurs, "You surely will, my love."

Their exchange is cut short as Floris speaks again, her gaze lingering on Aemond as she addresses Rhaenyra. "My purpose was to produce heirs for the former king, which I failed, obviously. My father has disowned me, and I had nowhere else to go. I come to you, Your Grace, to ask for aid."

Rhaenyra regards her carefully, her expression softening, though her authority remains unshaken. "You are my subject," she says, her voice measured, almost kind. "As your queen, it is my duty to serve you."

Floris hesitates before speaking again, her voice trembling slightly. "I barely survived my journey. I am no warrior, nor do I have anything of value to offer in return, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra's tone softens further, and for a moment, the stern ruler is replaced by a compassionate woman. "I do not need anything in return, my lady. I am glad you survived such a harsh journey. You are brave for one so young. I will place you under the care of House Stormcrest for the time being. Lady Shireen Stormcrest is of your age, and she will help you settle. Perhaps we can find you a perfect match in the future."

Floris's gaze flicks back to Aemond and Daervon, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "I want him," she says suddenly, pointing toward the Targaryen couple.

The three words hit Daervon like a slap. His fury ignites, raw and unrelenting, and his mind leaps to the worst conclusion. She is here to seduce Aemond again, to take what is his. He steps forward, his dark lilac eyes blazing with anger, but Aemond is quicker. The silver-haired prince wraps an arm around his husband's waist, pulling him close as though trying to shield him from his own wrath.

"Not him," Floris clarifies, her gaze fixed on Aemond. "He has no interest in women. I learned that the hard way." Her smirk widens as her eyes rake over Daervon, her voice dropping into something almost coy. "I'll have the other one. The former rake with the warmest heart."

Daervon struggles against Aemond's hold, his muscles taut with rage. "Let me go," he hisses, his voice low and dangerous. But Aemond's grip on him only tightens.

Floris chuckles, a light, mocking sound. "He's ruthless too. I find that quite romantic. You have such a taste, Aemond."

Aemond's patience snaps. "Floris, that is enough." His voice is sharp, carrying an edge that silences the room.

"How rude," Floris says, feigning a pout. "This is no way to treat an old friend."

Daervon's glare darkens as he turns to Aemond. "Friend?" His voice drips with venom. "You became friends with the pretty whore?"

"Daervon," Rhaenyra interjects, her voice firm and commanding, "I will not have you speaking such names in my court."

Floris smiles faintly, her composure steady despite the palpable tension lingering between them. "He has bad blood with me. I understand his concerns. I have some explaining to do to Lord Silvercrown." Her voice is measured, soft, but with an unmistakable poise that commands attention, her dark eyes flickering with a spark of kindness.

Rhaenyra inclines her head, her expression unreadable but her presence undeniable. She sits on the throne as if born to it, her silver hair cascading down her shoulders like a mantle of power. Her voice, though calm, is laced with steel. "If that is what you wish." Her piercing gaze turns to her cousin, Daervon, pinning him in place. "You will not harm the lady, do you understand?"

Daervon exhales a slow, measured sigh, the weight of Rhaenyra's command pressing heavily upon him. He straightens his posture, forcing his emotions behind a veil of composure as he nods curtly. "Yes, your grace," he says, his voice steady, though the storm beneath his calm exterior threatens to break free.

Aemond's single lilac eye flickers with a torrent of emotions-fear, desperation, and anguish. He stands rigid. His gaze darts anxiously between his husband and Lady Floris Baratheon, lingering longer on Daervon as though silently pleading for understanding, for forgiveness that he is certain will never come once the truth is spoken aloud. The thought claws at his chest like a relentless beast. If Daervon were to hate him-truly hate him-Aemond knows he would not survive it.

He clenches his jaw, his fists tightening at his sides, but it does little to mask the terror etched into his face. The truth is a bitter poison, one he has tried to shield Daervon from, hoping-praying-that they might return to the fragile sanctuary of their blissful marriage. But here, now, under the weight of the Queen's decree, he has no choice but to step back and leave his husband to confront the darkness that threatens to consume them both.

Aemond bows stiffly to Rhaenyra, his movements mechanical, as if forcing himself to obey when every fiber of his being screams to stay. His lips part, but no words come-no plea, no protest. Instead, he casts one last, desperate glance at Daervon, his eye shimmering with unshed tears, before he turns sharply on his heel and strides away. The sight of his retreating figure, shoulders tense and gait uneven, strikes a chord in Daervon, but he forces himself to remain still, his expression unreadable.

The chamber empties, the heavy doors groaning shut behind the last of the departing figures. Silence descends, save for the faint crackle of the torches lining the walls. Daervon stands motionless, his gaze fixed on Lady Floris Baratheon, who remains poised and unflinching under his scrutiny. Her elegance is unshaken, her demeanor calm, as though she has already anticipated his wrath and met it with quiet defiance.

Daervon's face is a mask, devoid of emotion, though his heart pounds relentlessly against his ribcage. The man who just walked out of this room is his world-his love, his torment, his everything. Aemond consumes him in ways he cannot begin to explain, and the thought of what this conversation might unveil leaves an ache in his chest that he cannot ignore. But for now, he buries it deep, locking it away beneath a cold, distant exterior as he levels his gaze at Floris. His voice cuts through the quiet, cold and unyielding. "I'm not Aemond. I cannot be seduced. And I will not be moved by your pitiful excuses. So say whatever you have to say quickly, and leave my sight before I forget my queen's command."

Floris tilts her head, her smile unwavering. "Yet here you stand, my lord, listening."

His jaw clenches, the faintest tremor betraying his inner turmoil. "And why do you think that is?"

Floris steps forward, her movements slow and deliberate, her smile never faltering. Her dark eyes glimmer with something unreadable, as though she holds the answers to questions Daervon hasn't dared to ask himself. "Because," she says, her voice soft, almost pitying, "deep within that handsome frame, you still believe Aemond is innocent-innocent in some way, don't you?"

Her words strike deeper than Daervon would ever admit. He scoffs, turning away, the movement sharp and full of intent. "I'm done listening to you."

"I was merely jesting," Floris says quickly, her voice drawing him back despite himself. "I have no interest in men."

That stops him in his tracks. He turns, confusion knitting his brow as he studies her, waiting for an explanation.

She doesn't falter under his scrutiny, her voice calm and even. "Aemond's choice was simple-bring you back to King's Landing as his consort or produce an heir with me while presenting me as the new queen. We had...an understanding. Neither of us was interested in the other. So, we avoided the inevitable. But eventually, we were caught. A maester was placed as a witness, and there was no escaping it. So, we did what was required-if you can call it that. Though I'm certain it was the least romantic union imaginable. Trust me, my lord, it wasn't pleasant-especially when he..." She hesitates, her voice softening, though her eyes remain steady on Daervon's. "...when he called your name instead of mine."

Daervon's breath catches, his fury dimming for a moment, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. His features shift as pity begins to creep into his expression, softening the edges of his anger. "I am... sorry, my lady," he says quietly, sincerity lacing his words. "You did not deserve to endure that. What was done to you was cruel, and I swear, you will have justice."

Floris shakes her head, a sad smile gracing her lips. "I do not seek justice, my prince. Pain was inevitable for a woman like me. But I am free now. Free from being married off to some lord who would see me as nothing more than a vessel for heirs. Aemond chose me because, in his own way, he was trying to protect me. And for that, I am grateful. It wasn't his fault."

Daervon stiffens, his compassion receding beneath the weight of his convictions. "It wasn't his fault?" His tone is sharp, a dagger cloaked in velvet. "It wasn't his fault that he usurped Rhaenyra's crown? That he betrayed me? Do not sugarcoat his sins, my lady."

Floris watches him intently, her gaze unwavering. "You were so certain you wouldn't be moved by my words," she teases softly, her smile returning, gentle and disarming.

For the first time, a small smile breaks through Daervon's hardened exterior, unbidden but genuine. Floris steps closer, her delicate hands reaching for his. She clasps them gently, her touch warm despite the coldness of their exchange.

"You have the warmest heart, my lord," she says, her voice almost a whisper, brimming with sincerity. "Use it wisely. Not everyone you encounter will deserve it as much as you think they do."

Her words linger in Daervon's mind as he strides along the sands of Dragonstone's beach, the chill of the morning breeze prickling his skin through his cloak. The tide churns violently against the jagged rocks, and the sound of crashing waves drowns out all else. Yet amidst the chaos of the sea, his gaze falls on Aemond-a lone figure perched near the shoreline, his silver hair glinting faintly under the first blush of dawn. He sits with his arms wrapped around his legs, chin resting on his knees, his posture heavy with the weight of thoughts that seem too dark to speak aloud.

Daervon's heart clenches at the sight of him. Aemond is many things-fierce, unyielding, proud. But here, he is just a man. A man burdened by the consequences of their choices, tormented by guilt, and perhaps, fear. The love Daervon bears for him surges like the tide, an overwhelming ache that settles deep in his chest. He cannot stand to see him like this.

Drawing closer, Daervon allows himself a small, teasing smile to mask his concern. His voice carries warmth as he breaks the silence. "Are you planning to throw yourself into the water, husband?"

The silver-haired prince does not move, does not even turn his head, but his voice reaches Daervon, low and frayed, as if worn thin by the weight of his despair. "And if I did?" Aemond murmurs, his tone bitter yet vulnerable. "Would you follow me?"

Daervon stops just behind him, his chest tightening at the brokenness in Aemond's words. Without hesitation, he sits beside him on the cold, damp sand. His answer comes softly, but it carries a certainty that cannot be mistaken. "In a heartbeat, I would."

For the first time, Aemond glances at him, his single lilac eye gleaming in the dim light. There is a flicker of something unspoken in his gaze, something that feels like hope clawing its way through despair. Daervon continues, his voice steady, laced with quiet conviction. "My happy ending... it isn't a crown or a kingdom. It's you. It's us, together, in the end."

Aemond says nothing, but Daervon's words ripple through him like a balm to an open wound. The tension in his shoulders eases, his breaths slowing as if the weight pressing against his chest has lessened. Those words-my happy ending is you-are enough to pierce through the darkness that clings to him. He doesn't have to speak for Daervon to know how much it means to him.

Daervon edges closer, noticing how Aemond's frame trembles faintly, how his skin is chilled from sitting out here for so long. He drapes his cloak over both their shoulders, his voice gentle as he asks, "How do you feel?"

Aemond finally turns to him, his face streaked with dried tears, the hollow look in his eye betraying the storm within. "Now that you know the truth... both relieved and ashamed," he admits quietly, the words spilling out like a confession.

Daervon's brow furrows, his hand reaching out instinctively to brush away the damp trails from Aemond's cheek. His touch is tender, his eyes filled with concern as he asks, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Aemond hesitates, his gaze dropping to the sand as though he cannot bear to look at him. When he speaks, his voice cracks under the weight of his emotions. "I'd rather have you think of me as unfaithful... than as a cruel monster," he mutters, his head lowering until it comes to rest on Daervon's shoulder, seeking solace where he knows it will always be given. The vulnerability in the gesture shatters Daervon's resolve, and he wraps his arms around Aemond without hesitation, holding him close as if to shield him from the world.

In the safety of Daervon's embrace, Aemond breaks. Words tumble from him in a torrent-apologies, explanations, regrets-each one more anguished than the last. His voice is hoarse, his tears warm against Daervon's neck, but Daervon says nothing, choosing instead to let his touch speak for him. He cradles Aemond as if he might shatter, his hands threading gently through his husband's hair, his lips pressing soft reassurances against his temple. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath Aemond's ear is a silent promise: I am here. I will always be here.

As the first rays of dawn break across the horizon, painting the beach in hues of gold and rose, the storm within Aemond begins to quiet. His sobs subside, his breaths evening out as he clings to Daervon like a drowning man to driftwood. The light catches the sheen of his tears, but there is something softer in his expression now-a fragile peace that Daervon's presence alone has brought him.

Daervon presses his forehead to Aemond's, his voice a whisper against the dawn. "You are my home, Aemond."

Aemond's hand tightens in Daervon's cloak, his love for him so fierce, so consuming, it feels as though it could burn the world to ash. In this moment, he knows there is nothing he wouldn't do to keep him by his side. Nothing at all.