[ that would be terribly inconvenient, is alina's first thought, given her very nature depends on light and heat. her second thought —
is that she would very nearly feel bad about him squirming like a fish baited on a hook, if he weren't reversing this on her. time to put an uno reverse card on top of this uno reverse card. ]
First you ask me to participate in your fetish, and now you're asking what my own may be? That's a bit perverse.
[ a heartbeat of moments passes between one missive and the next. it's not particularly surprising that a man steeped in pride would take it as a great offense, on par with filth smeared across pure white: a dirty stain on a reputation.
alina still finds herself dumbly confounded by it, anyway. no, not by it. by the sheer misinterpretation of who she must be. as if suffering degradation her entire life would make her turn the blade on someone else and savor it.
it allows enough of a lull for the teasing, evidently, to mellow — temporarily, at least. lucky him. ]
You could think me not needlessly cruel, for one.
I relished in your surprise, not your humiliation. You're telling on yourself.
[ maybe not lucky him, after all. she'd never have interpreted it as mortification, without his help. ]
[ welcome to jon snow™: dutiful and loyal to a humdrum degree, but also not super into siting on the northern throne and very new to the targaryen experience. ]
[ A little hazing is due, as Jon takes it so well. None could blame Aemond, his reputation for antagonizing his bastard nephews is not entirely untold information among certain circles. Of course he would not pass the opportunity to prod at a bastard king, no matter how reluctant he is to his claim. A dragonseed, no less. At least Ned had good taste.]
I shall see you in the fields, then. At dusk, we shall race our dragons.
[ thing is, ned wasn't the one with "good taste"... his sister was, but jon has kept that under wraps. he doesn't want anyone to know that his father was actually prince rhaegar and that he's actually a legitimate targaryen with claim to the throne.
he doesn't want it.
he's fine with people assuming that ned stark bedded some bastard girl with targaryen lineage if that means he doesn't have to sit on the iron throne. ]
[With as much turmoil there is to the future succession to the iron throne, it's better Jon stay out of it anyway. It's enough fuss going around as it is with the North reclaiming its independence. ]
We have to get there first, do we not?
Scared to lose?
[Rhaegal is young and more agile compared to the living mountain that Vhagar is. It is not as though he doesn't have a chance. Though, Aemond considers that chance very slight.]
sorry for the delay! the extreme heat wave in my area fried my ability to brain tags for a while.
[ why must everything be a competition? jon was far more competitive in his youth at winterfell when he was constantly trying to prove his worth by outdoing robb and theon. now on the other side of dying and coming back to life and learning things about himself he never knew, jon's just tired. ]
Of course not. You and your dragon just have more experience than Rhaegal and I do.
[ jon doesn't even have a saddle to sit upon. he just holds on and hopes for the best, just like dany taught him. ]
no worries!! 'too hot, cant tag' is def a relatable mood
[Not everyone has the benefit of getting humbled by the cycle of death and rebirth, Jon. The rest of them, even bratty Targaryen princes, are out here still trying to fight for their place in this world. ]
What better opportunity to learn, no? I think he'd enjoy it. You might too.
[ it's not dany's fault for not knowing any better; it's been over a century since dragons were last sighted and the knowledge of how to care for and handle them has been lost to time. everything she knows, she figured out on her own through trial, error, and the advantage the literal magical blood of her lineage granted her. it's a feat in and of itself that she's kept three dragons in line as well as she has. a feat jon is now beginning to understand as he navigates his own way around being bonded to one of her dragon sons. ]
There's only one way to find out.
[ meet you there, great uncle? (great uncle times seven, apparently.) ]
( no trace of dreaming clings to gwenaëlle in the thin early light of the morning when they reach the rift.
the deep green of her long-tailed coat — bladed at the ends, which seems overdramatic — maybe suggests more coincidence than design in her choice of gowns, but mostly what the way she dresses for battle says about her is probably that she thinks pirates are very cool, actually. the supple leather of the garter-like holsters for her blades hugs her thighs intimately, glimpsed beneath the open flare of her coat; the corset she's wearing is armoured. much of it seems designed to prize flexibility and range of motion; the hat just seems like style points.
that she nearly matches the sickly green light emanating from the unopened wound in the sky is probably not purposeful, regardless. whoever chose her family colours couldn't have known—
no more than the hightowers might've done. the visual is striking, all the same, the rift bearing no small resemblance to a signal fire, and gwenaëlle thinks not for the first time on how easy it can be to spin a story if one's of a mind to. she tips her head towards it, and it's mostly for aemond's benefit that she explains, )
I'll open it to close it. Solas, ready to dispel.
( that this is the only instruction does not seem like an oversight of any kind as her closest companions form into position — nor do any of them seem concerned at their small numbers, the inquisition soldiers having established a perimeter to prevent civilian casualties and it having clearly been no question that they would not come any closer.
this is familiar. no one jolts any more, when she raises her hand and the gleam from it leaps to connect with the fade, the force of it an impact that drives her backwards but not off her feet, wrenching—
wrenching—
motherfucker, it would be pride demons. )
Edited (accidentally a word) 2023-08-13 22:41 (UTC)
[ aemond noises something of an acknowledgement to a very loosely cobbled plan. a bit more distanced than he was just a night or so prior, a bit more stiff.
as though the rest of it is as simple as any other battle and that aemond should know what to expect. he doesn't. he's been standing there like an idiot while the rest of the inquisition prepares for the encounter. vhagar too, stands by (much farther back from the riffraff). oddly inquisitive by the sleeve of magic hanging in the air. the odd snort that rumbles throughout her cage spells dissatisfaction.
the targaryen prince has not seen the high tower's green flame, though he imagines it to be a similar color than the odd distortion suspended in the air. not like fire at all, instead akin to more like a piece of warped green glass. one that moves,lives, whispers.
his head turns, as if to finally address gwen. looking for his order (if any) but magic from her hand crackles through the air and a burst of energy blooms from the rift. he watches her, the way she holds herself, the ripple of power leaping from her hand.
the tension breaks and the air draws out and upward as demons spill out. everyone around him leaping to their positions without hesitation or order, they fall into a well-practiced sync. ]
Ōregon arlī, Vhagar! [ hold back, to the dragon thumping behind him with more active interest. feeling her mistrust in the situation and the keen inclination to simply light the entire field afire regardless of friend or foe. aemond takes a step or two back and to the side as he draws his own sword, confronting the fray as it meets him. losing sight of everyone in their chaotic dance but those that target him.]
( a screaming collection of wraiths surround the improbable creatures that are pride demons — massive, like creatures wrought of rock and wielding lightning, blue light mingling sickly with the rift's tear. the bolts of cold ice and whipcrack of blazing electricity light up the battlefield as something unreal, and in the center of it—
gwenaëlle, determined. she bursts apart from the rift itself to focus her energy on the first wave, to buy herself enough space to close it again without being gutted in the process; the way she accounts for her companions is clearly second-nature, familiarity with both their capabilities and their instincts, but aemond — and vhagar — is a wildcard element, something she's more consciously tracking to the best of her ability.
an arrow sails past him, trailing cold ice, and plunges into where a wraith's eye might be if it had a face, swiveling its blast of the same to spray off-side, spluttering out.
it has been suggested that there might be some sort of reason why that's so often where she aims, but she doesn't put much stock in it. )
Lace your hands together, ( she calls, eyeing the back of the pride demon nearest, ) and bend your knees—
[ ultimately, this is not aemond's battle. this is not his moment to step forward and claim himself a moment of glory. he is here (mostly) to confirm the inquisition's plight and deem it a necessary investment for the good of westeros as a whole. secondly is to not die in the process attempting to configure how exactly one fells a malformed spirit from another dimension. the inquisitor and her companions at least have given him some hot tips in that regard.
one enemy felled, he heeds gwen's calling without needing further instruction. though why him, he's certain the big one with the horns could do a better job at throwing her. drops to the ground with his sword at his side to help her vault onto the back of the rumbling demon.
shadows swipe at his left and his attention is off her again to pursue anything else wandering into his radius. behind him a plume of fire as vhagar grows impatient and one creature ventures a little too close, smudged out like vermin. ]
( aemond gives her just enough momentum to land digging her heels into roughened flesh and running still— you go arse over teakettle all the way over a pride demon just once, and then you start being a bit more strategic about exactly how hard you want to be yeeted anywhere.
it is not a very glorious battle. it is nasty, brutish and short; there is a brutal efficiency to the way that the inquisitor's companions have learned to move in sync with one another, primarily prizing speed and effectiveness over giving a good show. (pavus, the exception; gwenaëlle is pretty sure he'd be like that if there were no one to see him at all.) that it is, to some degree, nevertheless a show...
well, it is instructional. the destructive capacity of even this handful of demons, how far they might roam were this rift not wrenched from westerosi skies. above the fray, gwenaëlle braces herself in a way that seems specific even as she locates the space between skull and neck to sink a blade in—
instructional. the moment the pride demon is sent back from whence it came, she is falling, positioned to land catfooted and surging to connect with the rift. )
[ ser criston had prepared him the best way he could, the only man that aemond could speak to about what to expect on a battlefield. though the knight's warring had been done against mere men, he's certain even tales of fighting demons and further abominations wouldn't exactly have prepared the prince better. by a different measure, watching demons wither into putrid piles on the ground is far more surreal and less traumatizing than watching fellow men crumple and die.
there is a certain thrill to it. blood pumping through his veins feels hot and heavy under the sickening curl of a scream, wrenching his blade out of muck. a semicircle of dragon flame catches the field of the final wave before the rift lurches as gwenaëlle wills it closed.
he straightens among the muck, eye locked to the ethereal tether shooting from her hand. perhaps the most remarkable of them all, he thinks. as the gap in the air contorts and collapses in on itself. leaving nothing but a scorch in the ground beneath where it once stood.
seven hells.
the look on his face is telling of a boy who hadn't really seen much, despite all to the contrary. he supposes he can't keep thinking the inquisition is just a crock full of shit now. he supposes now he has to make a decision. ]
( gwenaëlle lays in the grass near that scorched earth, her blade still in her hand and her gaze on nothing in particular until a hand breaks her sunlight and she considers batting it away, allows pavus to hoist her onto her feet, landing to rattle her teeth in her head.
imagine if they could strategize for a dragon—
well, she has been. imagining. but in this moment she's thinking of much more mundane things, with the mild complaint, )
Ugh, it always gets in my hair,
( a grumble, and not one there's much to be done about now when her hair is — for that reason among others — so tightly braided to her head. she wipes her weapon on one leg of her trousers, sheathes it— )
So that's that, ( she says, conversational, to aemond. ) I prefer doing them, now, when I get a weapon of my own.
( — someone says, so do we, and she laughs, bright with adrenaline. )
(what a spectacular fucking waste of time, no one says to her,
which doesn't mean she isn't aware they think it. some use has been wrung from this diplomatic salvo; some possibilities of particularly niche trade opportunities the inquisition can make use of, the possibility that they may broker information or alliances back and forth across westeros and thedas, the not insignificant establishment of lines of communication and familiarity with the inquisition and the court of the seven kingdoms.
it's not nothing, but it didn't warrant the lingering, and gwenaëlle is so transparently sore about it that there is no possibility of imagining that it will be productive to tell her a thing she already fucking knows. so they don't. they go home to their own war, leave the westerosi to their wrangling, part ways at least as amicably as a first volley of diplomacy can hope to. not a resounding success, neither a disaster, just—
time spent. gwenaëlle's arm, slowly killing her; how much time does she have?
the first handful of letters take months, intermittent, and then with the latest comes a gift. )
AEMOND,
Under the moon, the mirror will reflect not what it sees but what was seen by the twin to it, hanging in Skyhold. It was intended by an ambitious mage to create an immediate conversational exchange; he didn't quite manage it. It will remember your message if the mirror's in direct moonlight, and play you back anything recorded at the other end in direct daylight.
gwenaëlle.
( when the first message plays, it is: gwenaëlle's mirror has been placed in her high up quarters so that it looks onto the balcony open out to the frostbacks, where it will catch whatever light she needs it to. she is standing in front of it, arms folded, expression skeptical, her hair loose and the robe she's wearing curiously familiar. to someone out of view, she says, )
I'm going to look incredibly stupid if we've just sent an ordinary fucking mirror, I hope you know.
( she walks out of sight, too, and for perhaps an hour and a half, the mirror reflects the empty view, the faint sounds of movement and distant conversation, music spilling loud when a door opens, quieting again to nothing,
and then the room it is in, as if it had never done anything more interesting than that. )
[ With all that's happened in the past months, the mirror has gone neglected in his room on several nights since its delivery. On the night it is unveiled, the reflection plays a corner of Aemond's outer chambers overlooking two setees draped in emerald and black fabric around a low table. Behind one, Aemond is brushing back the lattice to let in the light of the moon, squinting towards the mirror like it should make any difference now than before to tell him that this was working.
The prince eases down from his spot, circling back around the furniture towards the reflection. Her letter lies unfurled on the table at his calf. He stares for a good fifteen seconds before speaking. ]
I'm not certain this'll be much better than ravens.
[ With ravens, he could actually sit on his response. Did she think his letters were too clean? Did her spies want something more to glean off of?]
I may as well be talking to myself—[ Aemond scoffs, glancing up at his reflection as he grumbles under his breath as he rounds the table to snatch his goblet of wine. With a secondary glance upward at the mirror, a discomforting realization prickles his ski. The way it seemed to play back on her end. It fluffs at his hackles, the idea of being seen by unseeing eyes. Pushing forward through that discomfort, he wanders back towards the mirror. ] If you mean to entice me this way, I should remind you we're still at war.
Mayhaps yours has yet to swallow you whole.
[ As if that matters as little to him as it should. His pause again in thought, a sliver of fleeting vulnerability only meant to be witnessed in a room alone. Tensing up again when he remembers that's not the case. Like before, he just pushes on as if it hadn't happened at all. ] You may need to hold on a bit longer, our victory should be within grasp soon enough—[ A knock echoes across the room behind him, turning Aemond's attention away. A muffled voice begins instructing him of his visitor. Blindly, he reaches forward to drag a cloth over the mirror to effectively sever the recording. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
~sunsummoner
I am beginning to think that your sainthood may be going to your head.
hello darkness my old friend
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[ and now they'll never know because apparently he can't fuck around and find out after she's sexualized it. ]
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I don't miss.
[ unless, of course, it's deliberate. a warning shot is more conducive than risking a burnt, princely corpse on her hands. ]
The look on your face was worth more to me than burning you, anyway.
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[ he’s definitely scraping for it if he has to pull the uno reverse card on her ]
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is that she would very nearly feel bad about him squirming like a fish baited on a hook, if he weren't reversing this on her. time to put an uno reverse card on top of this uno reverse card. ]
First you ask me to participate in your fetish, and now you're asking what my own may be? That's a bit perverse.
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[ for the record, he's not a fan. ]
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alina still finds herself dumbly confounded by it, anyway. no, not by it. by the sheer misinterpretation of who she must be. as if suffering degradation her entire life would make her turn the blade on someone else and savor it.
it allows enough of a lull for the teasing, evidently, to mellow — temporarily, at least. lucky him. ]
You could think me not needlessly cruel, for one.
I relished in your surprise, not your humiliation. You're telling on yourself.
[ maybe not lucky him, after all. she'd never have interpreted it as mortification, without his help. ]
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sdka sorry work week has got me in the weeds
my tired ass relates 😔 no worries!!
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he shouldnt be allowed to talk to girls tbh
CRYING aemond is That Kid who pulled every girl's hair as a child
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i love it when i notice my tag ate a word when its too late
rip the pain of seeing a typo in an old tag is ceaseless and never-ending
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~jelmor
Who would you be to deprive your dragon of enjoying its very nature?
I take it you agree.
[Usually Aemond is the one with a stick up his arse about duty over indulgence. Leave it to a dour northman to out-obstinate him.]
thanks for moving this over!
[ welcome to jon snow™: dutiful and loyal to a humdrum degree, but also not super into siting on the northern throne and very new to the targaryen experience. ]
Yes, I agree. Let us take our dragons out.
👍
[ A little hazing is due, as Jon takes it so well. None could blame Aemond, his reputation for antagonizing his bastard nephews is not entirely untold information among certain circles. Of course he would not pass the opportunity to prod at a bastard king, no matter how reluctant he is to his claim. A dragonseed, no less. At least Ned had good taste.]
I shall see you in the fields, then. At dusk, we shall race our dragons.
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he doesn't want it.
he's fine with people assuming that ned stark bedded some bastard girl with targaryen lineage if that means he doesn't have to sit on the iron throne. ]
Race? I thought you wanted to set things ablaze.
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We have to get there first, do we not?
Scared to lose?
[Rhaegal is young and more agile compared to the living mountain that Vhagar is. It is not as though he doesn't have a chance. Though, Aemond considers that chance very slight.]
sorry for the delay! the extreme heat wave in my area fried my ability to brain tags for a while.
Of course not. You and your dragon just have more experience than Rhaegal and I do.
[ jon doesn't even have a saddle to sit upon. he just holds on and hopes for the best, just like dany taught him. ]
no worries!! 'too hot, cant tag' is def a relatable mood
What better opportunity to learn, no? I think he'd enjoy it. You might too.
[Get that man a saddle though, by the gods. ]
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There's only one way to find out.
[ meet you there, great uncle? (great uncle times seven, apparently.) ]
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lmao sorry for making him explain the timey wimey
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the deep green of her long-tailed coat — bladed at the ends, which seems overdramatic — maybe suggests more coincidence than design in her choice of gowns, but mostly what the way she dresses for battle says about her is probably that she thinks pirates are very cool, actually. the supple leather of the garter-like holsters for her blades hugs her thighs intimately, glimpsed beneath the open flare of her coat; the corset she's wearing is armoured. much of it seems designed to prize flexibility and range of motion; the hat just seems like style points.
that she nearly matches the sickly green light emanating from the unopened wound in the sky is probably not purposeful, regardless. whoever chose her family colours couldn't have known—
no more than the hightowers might've done. the visual is striking, all the same, the rift bearing no small resemblance to a signal fire, and gwenaëlle thinks not for the first time on how easy it can be to spin a story if one's of a mind to. she tips her head towards it, and it's mostly for aemond's benefit that she explains, )
I'll open it to close it. Solas, ready to dispel.
( that this is the only instruction does not seem like an oversight of any kind as her closest companions form into position — nor do any of them seem concerned at their small numbers, the inquisition soldiers having established a perimeter to prevent civilian casualties and it having clearly been no question that they would not come any closer.
this is familiar. no one jolts any more, when she raises her hand and the gleam from it leaps to connect with the fade, the force of it an impact that drives her backwards but not off her feet, wrenching—
wrenching—
motherfucker, it would be pride demons. )
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as though the rest of it is as simple as any other battle and that aemond should know what to expect. he doesn't. he's been standing there like an idiot while the rest of the inquisition prepares for the encounter. vhagar too, stands by (much farther back from the riffraff). oddly inquisitive by the sleeve of magic hanging in the air. the odd snort that rumbles throughout her cage spells dissatisfaction.
the targaryen prince has not seen the high tower's green flame, though he imagines it to be a similar color than the odd distortion suspended in the air. not like fire at all, instead akin to more like a piece of warped green glass. one that moves,lives, whispers.
his head turns, as if to finally address gwen. looking for his order (if any) but magic from her hand crackles through the air and a burst of energy blooms from the rift. he watches her, the way she holds herself, the ripple of power leaping from her hand.
the tension breaks and the air draws out and upward as demons spill out. everyone around him leaping to their positions without hesitation or order, they fall into a well-practiced sync. ]
Ōregon arlī, Vhagar! [ hold back, to the dragon thumping behind him with more active interest. feeling her mistrust in the situation and the keen inclination to simply light the entire field afire regardless of friend or foe. aemond takes a step or two back and to the side as he draws his own sword, confronting the fray as it meets him. losing sight of everyone in their chaotic dance but those that target him.]
claws my way back
gwenaëlle, determined. she bursts apart from the rift itself to focus her energy on the first wave, to buy herself enough space to close it again without being gutted in the process; the way she accounts for her companions is clearly second-nature, familiarity with both their capabilities and their instincts, but aemond — and vhagar — is a wildcard element, something she's more consciously tracking to the best of her ability.
an arrow sails past him, trailing cold ice, and plunges into where a wraith's eye might be if it had a face, swiveling its blast of the same to spray off-side, spluttering out.
it has been suggested that there might be some sort of reason why that's so often where she aims, but she doesn't put much stock in it. )
Lace your hands together, ( she calls, eyeing the back of the pride demon nearest, ) and bend your knees—
the struggle is real
one enemy felled, he heeds gwen's calling without needing further instruction. though why him, he's certain the big one with the horns could do a better job at throwing her. drops to the ground with his sword at his side to help her vault onto the back of the rumbling demon.
shadows swipe at his left and his attention is off her again to pursue anything else wandering into his radius. behind him a plume of fire as vhagar grows impatient and one creature ventures a little too close, smudged out like vermin. ]
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it is not a very glorious battle. it is nasty, brutish and short; there is a brutal efficiency to the way that the inquisitor's companions have learned to move in sync with one another, primarily prizing speed and effectiveness over giving a good show. (pavus, the exception; gwenaëlle is pretty sure he'd be like that if there were no one to see him at all.) that it is, to some degree, nevertheless a show...
well, it is instructional. the destructive capacity of even this handful of demons, how far they might roam were this rift not wrenched from westerosi skies. above the fray, gwenaëlle braces herself in a way that seems specific even as she locates the space between skull and neck to sink a blade in—
instructional. the moment the pride demon is sent back from whence it came, she is falling, positioned to land catfooted and surging to connect with the rift. )
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there is a certain thrill to it. blood pumping through his veins feels hot and heavy under the sickening curl of a scream, wrenching his blade out of muck. a semicircle of dragon flame catches the field of the final wave before the rift lurches as gwenaëlle wills it closed.
he straightens among the muck, eye locked to the ethereal tether shooting from her hand. perhaps the most remarkable of them all, he thinks. as the gap in the air contorts and collapses in on itself. leaving nothing but a scorch in the ground beneath where it once stood.
seven hells.
the look on his face is telling of a boy who hadn't really seen much, despite all to the contrary. he supposes he can't keep thinking the inquisition is just a crock full of shit now. he supposes now he has to make a decision. ]
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imagine if they could strategize for a dragon—
well, she has been. imagining. but in this moment she's thinking of much more mundane things, with the mild complaint, )
Ugh, it always gets in my hair,
( a grumble, and not one there's much to be done about now when her hair is — for that reason among others — so tightly braided to her head. she wipes her weapon on one leg of her trousers, sheathes it— )
So that's that, ( she says, conversational, to aemond. ) I prefer doing them, now, when I get a weapon of my own.
( — someone says, so do we, and she laughs, bright with adrenaline. )
i didnt forget about this
suspicious specific denial but it checks out
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🎄💝
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crawls out of hell
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"wₑ'ᵥₑ gₒₜ dₑᵣₐₙgₑd ᵢₙbᵣₑdₛ ₐₜ ₕₒₘₑ"
like is she wrong
no :(
how tf has it been 2 wks.
makes time illegal
time crimes
it happened again
by talos this can't be happening
happy dragon day
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which doesn't mean she isn't aware they think it. some use has been wrung from this diplomatic salvo; some possibilities of particularly niche trade opportunities the inquisition can make use of, the possibility that they may broker information or alliances back and forth across westeros and thedas, the not insignificant establishment of lines of communication and familiarity with the inquisition and the court of the seven kingdoms.
it's not nothing, but it didn't warrant the lingering, and gwenaëlle is so transparently sore about it that there is no possibility of imagining that it will be productive to tell her a thing she already fucking knows. so they don't. they go home to their own war, leave the westerosi to their wrangling, part ways at least as amicably as a first volley of diplomacy can hope to. not a resounding success, neither a disaster, just—
time spent. gwenaëlle's arm, slowly killing her; how much time does she have?
the first handful of letters take months, intermittent, and then with the latest comes a gift. )
( when the first message plays, it is: gwenaëlle's mirror has been placed in her high up quarters so that it looks onto the balcony open out to the frostbacks, where it will catch whatever light she needs it to. she is standing in front of it, arms folded, expression skeptical, her hair loose and the robe she's wearing curiously familiar. to someone out of view, she says, )
I'm going to look incredibly stupid if we've just sent an ordinary fucking mirror, I hope you know.
( she walks out of sight, too, and for perhaps an hour and a half, the mirror reflects the empty view, the faint sounds of movement and distant conversation, music spilling loud when a door opens, quieting again to nothing,
and then the room it is in, as if it had never done anything more interesting than that. )
no subject
The prince eases down from his spot, circling back around the furniture towards the reflection. Her letter lies unfurled on the table at his calf. He stares for a good fifteen seconds before speaking. ]
I'm not certain this'll be much better than ravens.
[ With ravens, he could actually sit on his response. Did she think his letters were too clean? Did her spies want something more to glean off of?]
I may as well be talking to myself—[ Aemond scoffs, glancing up at his reflection as he grumbles under his breath as he rounds the table to snatch his goblet of wine. With a secondary glance upward at the mirror, a discomforting realization prickles his ski. The way it seemed to play back on her end. It fluffs at his hackles, the idea of being seen by unseeing eyes. Pushing forward through that discomfort, he wanders back towards the mirror. ] If you mean to entice me this way, I should remind you we're still at war.
Mayhaps yours has yet to swallow you whole.
[ As if that matters as little to him as it should. His pause again in thought, a sliver of fleeting vulnerability only meant to be witnessed in a room alone. Tensing up again when he remembers that's not the case. Like before, he just pushes on as if it hadn't happened at all. ] You may need to hold on a bit longer, our victory should be within grasp soon enough—[ A knock echoes across the room behind him, turning Aemond's attention away. A muffled voice begins instructing him of his visitor. Blindly, he reaches forward to drag a cloth over the mirror to effectively sever the recording. ]