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The chamber is dimly lit, the warm glow of the hearth flickering against the stone walls. Aemond reclines against the headboard, a book in his hands, though he has scarcely turned a page. His gaze lingers instead on Daervon, who sits at the desk, absorbed in the scrolls before him. The candlelight casts a soft sheen over Daervon's dark hair, the strands falling forward as he leans over his work, utterly focused.

Aemond watches him as one might observe a caged dragon-awed, enamored, but ever wary of the fire beneath the surface. His husband is the Lord of Silverlands, yet he wears the colors of House Targaryen, black and red draping his form like the very blood in his veins. Aemond, however, has taken to donning the gray and dark brown of House Silvercrown, a silent declaration of the bond between them. A bond he will not see broken.

A maid moves about the chamber, quietly gathering the remnants of their supper. Most of the dishes have already been taken away, but she returns for the last of them, her presence an afterthought to Aemond-until a thought takes root, curling into a smirk upon his lips.

"Issa jorrāelagon," he murmurs from the bed, his voice cutting through the quiet. (My love)

Daervon glances up, distracted from his work for only a moment, his eyes meeting his husband's. "Mm?"

Aemond places his book on the bedside table, tilting his head as his smirk deepens. "Since you are Lord Silvercrown, does that make me the Lady of Silverlands?"

The maid-unfortunately still in the room-snorts with laughter before she can stop herself. The sound is brief, but damning. She freezes, her face paling, and quickly stammers out an apology, her voice trembling with fear.

Daervon, ever merciful, waves a hand dismissively. "It is fine."

She bows her head and all but flees, the last of the supper plates forgotten in her haste.

The door barely shuts before Daervon turns to Aemond with a look of pure exasperation. "When did you become a jester?"

Aemond only grins, stretching out on the bed with lazy ease, arms open in silent invitation. "Come to bed already."

Daervon exhales a soft laugh, the tension in his shoulders loosening. The scrolls are abandoned on the desk as he crosses the room, wasting no time before sinking into Aemond's arms. The moment he presses against him, he melts, every tight muscle in his body unwinding.

"I swear, nothing is as comfortable as this," he murmurs against Aemond's chest, voice thick with weariness and something softer.

Aemond holds him close, one arm secured around his waist, the other threading through Daervon's hair in slow, languid strokes.

They stay like this for a long moment, the only sound the quiet crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of Aemond's heartbeat beneath Daervon's ear. It lulls him, threatens to pull him into sleep.

"Talk to me." His voice is quiet, but firm, breaking the heavy silence between them. He presses his lips against the crown of Daervon's head before tilting his own back against the headboard. "Tell me about the Unburnt Prince."

Daervon shifts slightly, his breath steady, his eyes closed. "There is nothing to talk about him." His words are a mere murmur, heavy with exhaustion, as if he wishes to dismiss the subject entirely.

But Aemond does not forget. He has been thinking of little else since the morning, since he watched his sister and Vidor vanish into the skies upon dragonback. Daervon had sent them to Silverlands-had urged Vidor to go.

All his life, Vidor has been Daervon's shadow, his sworn protector, a promise made to Lady Aurélie before she bled out giving birth to her son. A promise that has guided Daervon's every step since. And now, Daervon wants more for his uncle. He wants Vidor to have peace, to start a family, to finally live for himself.

Vidor had hesitated. But in the end, he agreed.

Yet it was not Vidor's departure that haunted Aemond-it was Helaena's parting words to Daervon, spoken in that strange, far-off way of hers:

"This is the All Hallows of the prophecy. I know it. He will finally arrive in a rageful night with fire and blood. Our fearsome Unburnt Prince."

Aemond had not understood her meaning. But he had understood Daervon's reaction. The way his husband had gone still, the color draining from his face, his fingers curling as if bracing for an unseen blow. It was not shock. It was terror.

That terror has lingered, seeping into Aemond's thoughts like a slow poison. Each time he presses Daervon for answers, he is met with silence, with diversion. With denial. And it is driving him mad.

His fingers tighten slightly on Daervon's waist. "I thought you were the Unburnt Prince," he says at last, his voice laced with confusion.

Daervon exhales, slow and drowsy, his body lax against Aemond's. "In a way, I am. And yet, I am not."

Aemond's brow furrows, frustration flickering through him like a hot coal. "What in the Seven Hells does that mean?"

But Daervon does not offer clarity. Instead, he sighs again, the sound almost reluctant. "The Unburnt Prince is not worth mentioning." His words are barely above a whisper, spoken into the darkness like a secret he wishes would vanish.

But Aemond does not let things vanish. He does not let them slip away into nothingness. He has given up too much to accept being left in the dark.

His grip loosens-not in affection, but in distance. Slowly, deliberately, he pushes Daervon from his embrace, cold air rushing in where warmth once lay. His single eye burns with unspoken emotion as he stares at his husband, his jaw taut.

"I did not sacrifice my glory to be kept in the dark like some blind fool." His voice is sharp, brimming with a quiet fury that trembles at the edges. "This is not a life, Daervon."

Daervon opens his eyes then, blinking against the haze of exhaustion. He sits up, his patience thinning, his love for his husband warred by his need for rest. His voice comes sharp, edged with frustration. "For fuck's sake, Aemond." He rubs his temples, sighing heavily as he glances at his husband, whose eye burns with silent demand. "What do you want me to say?"

Aemond does not flinch. He never does. But there is something unrelenting in his stare, something raw beneath the controlled façade. "I acknowledge that I am not perfect. But I am trying to be there for you." His voice is tight, a mix of accusation and pleading. "And you-"

"You want to know it all? Hmm?" Daervon's laugh is humorless, bitter. He shakes his head, his annoyance mounting. "Fine. You once said that to find the light, we must first touch the darkness. What if I am the darkness?"

Aemond's brow furrows. "I do not follow."

Daervon exhales sharply, shoving the sheets aside as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He rises, putting distance between them, though Aemond's gaze never wavers. His voice drops lower, trembling at the edges. "Everything I am gifted with is a fucking curse." He clenches his fists at his sides, his breath uneven. "Yes, fire does not kill me. But my mind is shattered."

Aemond watches him, his jaw tightening.

Daervon lets out a slow, uneven breath before turning toward him again. "Sometimes, I have no control over my own body. Burning the elders, for instance-I didn't do it. It was him. The Unburnt Prince." His voice turns unsteady, his gaze distant, haunted. "He lurks in my mind like a shadow I cannot escape. Taunting me, tormenting me, sinking his claws into my very thoughts until I am left with nothing but doubt. Sometimes, I do not know what is real and what is not."

Aemond feels the weight of each word as if it were a blow. His body stiffens, his mind reeling, trying to piece together this truth that has eluded him for so long. He had suspected there was more to Daervon's fears, more to the way he avoided speaking of the prophecy, but this-this is beyond what he had imagined.

He says nothing, struggling to process it all, his fingers tightening on the sheets. His silence stretches too long, thick with unspoken words.

Daervon watches him-watches the way his husband hesitates, the way no answer comes. The flickering candlelight makes Aemond's face unreadable, but Daervon does not need to see his expression to feel the crushing weight of his silence.

His heart clenches, a sharp ache blooming in his chest. He stumbles back a step, his breath catching. "Say something." The words escape him in a whisper, heavy with expectation, with hope for understanding-for something, anything.

But Aemond says nothing. And Daervon's heart sinks. His vision blurs as tears sting his eyes, burning like hot embers. His whole body tenses, his mind racing with the worst possibilities. He doesn't want me anymore. He sees me as broken. As ruined.

Aemond shifts then, inhaling sharply as if to speak-but before the words can leave his lips, a distant roar cuts through the silence.

Caraxes.

The sound is different this time. Not his usual fierce, war-hardened cry, but something deeper-agonized.

Daervon's breath stills. His blood runs cold. His first thought is of his father. Daemon. Returning from Harrenhal, perhaps.

But something is wrong.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise as a sense of dread coils in his stomach, tightening like a vice. Caraxes's pain echoes across the night, and Daervon knows-he knows-that whatever awaits them is nothing short of ruin.