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ππ―π¦π°π’ π«π¬π΄ πΆπ’ πππ―π«π¦π°π₯π’π‘ πΆπ’ π‘π’ππ‘ π΄π₯π¬ πΆπ’π± π©π¦π³π’
βif you and i are both still alive and miserable,
i propose we begin to hunt each other for sportβ
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It's a fool's dream to try and think the world could be any different. That he could have been born to any other sort of life that didn't end in him plunging to his death in a tangle of dragons. As honorable as it was. Whatever he had intended to make of himself before his father died, whatever he had thought to do once the Blacks were all dead and his brother sat the throne, nor whatever fragments of life he had begin to see with Alys and the babe that grew in her belly (Had that babe been made out of love? It felt more like desperation)
Foolish dreams, all of it.]
I guess we'll never truly know.
[ Except they kind of know. They're here. Divorced from everything and still living, if it can be still called living. Severed from their war with no way to return to it. His duty is obsolete here. He has no one to protect against Daemon. Desire is like a phantom limb, twitching without any true purpose. Aemond's not used to purposelessness. He wants to ignore it and put the twitching to an end.
Otherwise, he has just been himself. They both have. With no one else to reign in the fire in their blood. They are free, and so is that chaos threats to consume him knowing it cannot be stopped.]
What now?
[ What will he do? What does he want? ]
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Nothing but craven mongrels in ill-fitting silks. Viserys had been fooled, but Daemon has ever seen the honest face of every single one.
They could have known. Daemon remembers watching them as children, drunk and bleeding and eating snails, and thinking what he'd do to everyone in that chamber if it was his son who lost an eye. Maybe he should have gone back to King's Landing after allβ giving himself to Rhaenyra hadn't exactly worked out.
Oh, well. He laughs quietly. ]
Now we see how many turns at death it takes to quiet one or the other.
[ Foolish dreams indeed. ]
Or do you want to go find a nice hut to live in here, minding your own business?
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Whispers say dragons are in this world too. As the time passed since his arrival, he has felt the vacancy of Vhagar's presence peeling at the hole in his chest. If given the chance would he claim another? Would his uncle?
It would speed up the process re: reaching a mutually assured permadeath. ]
And play a country lord of rocks and ruins, what fun is in that?
[ Well by the night's findings, Some people have found their fun in that. And as nice as it was taking a well-stocked keep for a night, what's the point of keeping it in a place in a perpetual state of anarchy? It sounds like madness to try. Equally as mad sounding as the call to arms that summoned them from the dead for. ]
Becoming the Elden Lord sounds like a bad joke. [ More cursed and bloody to collect a bunch of magical runes than it might be to claim the Iron Throne. But the power it grants, Aemond is at least slightly seduced by that idea of it. As tonight has proven, all this realm's chaos is a little fun. Maybe he can deserve a little fun, he's fucking dead. ]
Though it wouldn't hurt to try. Maybe quiet you in the process.
[ Somehow, he makes that sound simultaneously hostile and suggestive while seemingly innocent of both. ]
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His brother. His niece. Dreams of making Westeros a place worthy of inheriting the legacy of Valyria.
Here he is not a prince, he has no dragon, and being Targaryen means nothing except to him. And Aemond, perhaps, though he's still fairly skeptical. Too much Hightower in him. Raised by bitter little snakes and abandoned so thoroughly he found himself in the arms of a witch. Can Daemon pry him out from that? β¦ Would it be worth it to?
(Better question: Will he be able to keep himself from trying? The pull of their blood has always been too strong, for him.) ]
Are you sure that's why you might want it? [ Somewhat dryly. He recalls the fuss made about Prince Aemond, Regent. Just one more Westerosi desperate for the Iron Throne. Power for power's sake. Tedious. ]
They say that death was shattered, by those runes. Perhaps it's what brought us here.
[ Fragments of great magic, reaching across worlds. ]
I wonder what else they could bring back.
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Is power from want and hunger or is it survival and starvation? As if anything this place offers could make him stop craving something impossible.
A ripple in the water as Aemond lifts himself out of the bath onto the pools edge. Peeling the blanket of water-logged hair over one shoulder to comb his fingers through and wring out.]
You speak the power of literal gods that have made or broken this world in some way or another. Where is that kind of power supposed to end?
[ Again, if it is to be believed. Which in these parts, people seem to remark as something more tangible than the fabled legends of old recanted by one maester or the other. Those runes are one of the most interesting things about this place. Those who hold the shards known to have done equally remarkable things. Possessing even just the right one could play with life and death itself. Is it wild to dare to want despite the rest?]
Think you might resurrect your blood wyrm, is that it?
[ As if he wasn't similarly curious or wanting. ]
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[ What a bullshitter, this guy. Daemon is absolutely thinking of Caraxes, but he's going to pretend it's about his lost children to look like less of a selfish cunt. It lets him needle Aemond more as he watches him climb out of the bath; Only worth something once you stole my wife's dragon. Thief, impostor, pretender.
Miserable of him. He'd have liked Aemond quite a lot, if the world had been different.
He would like his lost children back, too. And Laenaβ perhaps her most of all. As the years have gone on he's felt her absence more and more, and the realization of perhaps valuing honesty and patience in a romantic partnership over passionate love has been a strange one. He was never mad with obsession over Laena like he's been from time to time over Rhaenyra, but Laena would have never lied to him like Rhaenyra did. A cold blade.
But what the fuck would he do with any of them, like this? No. Better it's them, draining each other's venom. This is not a hell of the Seven or of the gods of Valyria. But it is condemnation, of some kind. ]
Lightheaded already?
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No. It was more relaxing when I didn't have the company of a miserable old cunt.
[ It was nice, it was quiet. Far less prickling. Not that being alone with his own thoughts had been granted him much more peace to contend with. A flick of his wrist to dispel cooled droplets across the steamy water's edge. Lightheaded? Piss off.]
Whose fire has gone out long before he could begin to question mine.
[ Being dead is no excuse, apparently. No mercy is granted towards him or what he's lost. He respects it the same. Funny how he spent weeks searching for his uncle only to find it growingly insufferable to be in his company. Had he expected something different? Isn't that the definition of madness?
More foolish dreams. Perhaps he really just does want to get drowned, reset, and pulled into the Erd Tree's embrace. He'll have to try harder.]
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He laughs, low and lazy. When he was Aemond's age, he'd have reacted violently to a taunt like that. It's a different kind of fire, now. Smoldering like a collapsed mine under the earth, ever-burning, dark and horrid. ]
Is that why you couldn't stop burning fields and villages? [ The older prince sits up, though he doesn't make a move to get out. Only the teeniest bit pruned in places, he's still enjoying the hot water. One hand fans out, making ripples. ] Concerned with the legitimacy of your own fire? Envious it wasn't you seeing visions in it?
[ And then, a sighβ ]
Oh, nevermind. Go on and take what you will of this place, it's had enough of quarreling, ours isn't going to improve the situation.
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Aemond's jaw clenches as he rises, sweeping the woven towel off the tiled floor from behind his seat that he may make his exit with some dignity. A concerted effort to ignore the deep and constant needling. For all Daemon's efforts in the night, it may as well be a dagger-sized wound.
He steps out, lower legs pinkish and dripping onto the pool's ledge. Sorting the towel between his hands as he ignores the off-kilter line that a better man might throw out to quell a spat.
Aemond's chest rises and tightens, shifting one step to leave. Only to instead turn a split second. A long, thin blade of a stiletto cracks into the grout of the pool's edge beside the arm of Daemon's rippling hand.
Will he get in his own way tonight? Perhaps.]
No? [ Said in the tune of someone who is casually three seconds from losing his shit. What's certain by the look on Aemond's face is that he meant to only just miss. A warning. At least one of them can take the highroad without resorting to the Westerosi equivalent of gaslighting.
Go on, improve the situation then.
Aemond's gaze flickers down to the water and up again, adjusting the towel over his shoulder as he takes his leave. ]
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Furious little viper. Daemon sinks back, and is planning on dunking his hair under to try and work out some of the tangles before it dries again, and then he's reminded about just how dangerous it is to let his attention diffuse.
Aha. No startle, but not because he's too badass for it. Purely because he's grown sluggish with the heat. Woops. But he's fine with appearing to have unflinchable nerves.
Daemon's quiet laugh follows the younger prince. ]
Guess you don't want to fuck, either.
[ Why? Shut up, Daemon.
He does dunk his hair back this time, and if Aemond chucks another knife, it could very well get him in the throat. ]
...this motherfcker
If this is what you find stimulating, I might actually feel slightly sorry for my sister.
[As if it should come as any surprise that constant negging would do little to stir the passions of someone bullied relentlessly his entire life. Far less so than the fleeting idea of taking his hands around Daemon's throat, especially when its presented so openly that way. The tip of Daemon's head keeps him peacefully oblivious to the sway in Aemond's weight as he fights the exasperation of lurching forward and into temptation.]
Think of something better. You know where to find me.
[Biting words. Certainly a tall order from someone who has no leg to stand on. There's no point in denying that he doesn't want a taste of what Daemon is offering. Even if that feeling muddles so easily with the one that would like to crush his skull between his hands.
He will leave Daemon to finish his bath. A rather noisy exit of damp feet slapping against tile and the wrenching of doors. Followed by a startled yelp by one of the lady's serving maids for having unexpectedly run in with a furious storm of a half-naked prince stomping his way back to his guests' quarters. To where he can be later found should Daemon consider taking up the offer.]
huehuehue
He takes his time extricating himself from the bath, and drying off in blissful solitude. Lurking maids find his company less objectionable, and he retires to his loaned room β not the lord and lady of the castle's, quite content to inhabit whatever's been set up and small enough to solidly bar the door from the inside. This is when, were he another man, he might follow up on that something better. But he doesn't. Because it's more petty, and thus more satisfying, to leave Aemond waiting.
And also because there is in fact something more sad and pathetic than the idea of Aemond scrambling after his knife, and that's the state of Daemon's passions. He would literally rather die being choked in a bath with a soggy towel than let the younger prince know he isn't turned on by negging, to the extent where the slightest hint of discomfort or insecurity makes him unable to perform. No thanks! Absolutely the fuck not!
He stays in his room. Menacing seduction from afar is plenty.
When someone knocks on Aemond's door in the morning, after not enough hours and when the sky is still grey outside, it's not Daemon, but one of the serving girls. She nervously tells him that a visitor has arrived to request an audience, and his companion is already in the dining room with him.
Daemon waits, a new knife tucked into his boot, with a strange man telling him about an even stranger invitation. ]
smh at them both tbh
It's a fucking lie, but that is neither here nor there.
It's still effective, a thorn driving slowly and steadily into his spine. Wandering to the same thought now and again as the rest of his night is spent before the hearth. Had he gotten in his own way? The prince knows it's better that he never finds out. Dwelling further will only beget shame and humiliation. Daemon has surfaced enough of that on his own, he needn't do it to himself.
Morning comes around with him never making it into bed. Fire smothered down to ashes. Emerging from his quarters with his things freshly laundered. Pale hair dry and waved, drawn mostly away from his face. Dark Sister back at his side still a far better trade than the dagger left in Daemon's possession — a (now) relic from Qohor. Reliable, but likely pales in comparison to some of the weapons forged in the Lands Between.
A indifference follows as Aemond descends the hall to where his uncle and this grand-dressed stranger are conversing. Be it deliberate frostiness or just tiredness, he draws a chair at the opposite side of the table to deposit into. The young princes glance is only spared to the fellow in his large hat — who delights in Aemond's decision to join them.]
["— as I was saying as a Tarnished myself, I know what it is like coming to these lands the first time. Which is why I believe joining the Roundtable Hold crucial to your surviving here. —"]
[Oh, is that all? One would think something named the Greater Will would have had a better handle on managing all of their puppets.]
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He sees it in Aemond as the younger prince joins them.
Makes his decision to scorn him overnight sting just a little (for Daemon has never been in denial of what he really wanted, merely resigned to the impossibility). But only a little. What'd have been worse? Failing to maintain an erection, or accidentally calling him his father's name?
No one, it turns out, should fuck Daemon Targaryen. And yet. He turns a spoon over in his fingers listening to Rogier and his absurd hat, decidedly not thinking about sex, and some of what the man says lines up with the masked man he'd murdered. Some more lines up with rumors he's heard whispers of. ]
The wind tells tales of the Roundtable Hold not really existing, [ he drawls. ] Does it? As a place? Or is it merely metaphorical?
[ When the sorcerer explains that it's a place just slightly out-of-step with the realm of the Lands Between, and further out-of-step with any other reality, Daemon is forced to accept that is sounds like it might as fucking well be true. It's not like he and Aemond are from this place; they did not arrive by being carried from one place to another.
The talking hat continues, ]
I see you have managed to apply some runes here and there. To really take advantage, you'll need to negotiate with a Finger Maiden. The collective at the Hold can point you in the right direction.
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For all the food that got dragged through the mud the night prior, it is a surprise to find anything was left to put on the table the next morning. It's not as though the lands they've passed through seem particularly viable — acid swamps and corpses for flowers as far as the eye can see. His travels so far largely consisted of meat which he swiftly learned to ask little about where it came. What he would do to have access to the cooks of the Red Keep about now.
As Rogier speaks, the young prince helps himself to the scant helping of platters. Turning a stone fruit around in his hand for blemishes with passing interest.]
The maidens not reside in the Hold itself?
[ Aemond's head tips out of his own way to look beyond the fruit to the sorcerer at the end of the table. Awfully inconvenient sounding. If their purpose is to aid a tarnished, what other place need they be?
It is shortly explained that the path maidens are guided upon is equally complicated. Following the guidance of grace throughout the Land's Between. Which is further explained as their means to even reach the Hold itself — honing in the guidance of grace to transit between realms. Because there is no in-universe explanation for how fast travelling there actually works. At least it is without the need of clicking one's heels and repeating 'there's no place like home']
— It's rather simple reaching there once you get the knack of it. Many young tarnished such as yourselves have no problem seeing the light of grace, but one should not find it impossible to reach the hold if they find themselves without.
[ As far as Aemond recalls, the faint glimmering light that would be grace came and went as vivid as the spots behind his eyelids. Had he seen it or simply was the refraction of the Erd tree's light plying him with some inflated sense of purpose? And what of his uncle?
Aemond does look across the table now to Daemon. Addressing his presence for the first time since storming away like a flat-footed duck the night prior. Wondering if their Greater Will graced him any more than they did him. If he had any interest in pursuing the sorcerer's invitation at all. As usual, it is impossible to divine anything of Daemon. Much to his displeasure. ]
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Aemond and Rogier maintain their straight faces. What a world, what a world.
A keep set between realms, mystical women that commune with strange powers, the light of grace. Daemon thinks of priestesses of fire, glass candles, and blood magic. He wonders how much of the world was like the Lands Between, before the time of the Freehold. How much of it is still like this, in the shadowlands.
He takes a breath and sits up from his lean, looking at his nephew before finally moving his gaze back to the sorcerer. ]
I see no reason not to investigate your claim. [ Sure, it could be true. But it could also be bullshit. Hard to tell, here. ] If you speak true, it would be very helpful. And if notβ
[ He shrugs. ] Seems like a waste of your own time, really.
[ Apparently they'll come back, more likely than not. ]
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[ Aemond hums — agreeably snarky — as he bites into his plum. As with anything here, the flavor is less than desirable. Sad, nearly flavorless, still somehow tart. He sets it down on an empty platter. ]
Demonstrate for us. [ The young prince agreeing with the elder one, in so many words. Not without the regal haughtiness as one might be instructing a fool to dance for a court's pleasure. He does look a bit like one, after all. ] Since you're so inclined.
[ To which the man underneath the great sorcerer's hat cracks a smile out of the corner of his mouth and asks the tarnished party to follow him.
The halls remain silent as they were the night after the slaughter. No indication of who has or has not returned, would seem to imply at least some of the felled guards have resumed their postings. Heads turn silently under the creaking of plate and helm to watch them as they pass.
The end of their journey resides in a meager chapel long abandoned. Dusty pews and a lesser statue of Marika looking over them in glazed judgement. Just the faintest of glow rests in the center of the aisle like a flame without a candle.]
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And of course it's another fucking sept. What's wrong with these people. (Just wait until he hears the whole history of Marika vanquishing the race of dragonlords that ruled the Lands Between before she was imbued with divinity.) He's plainly unimpressed as he trails behind Rogier and Aemond, taking stock of everything with a critical, skeptical gaze. ]
'Grace', [ he says, his voice dry with disrespect. ] Does your god truly welcome her own replacement? Do traps not exist in this realm?
[ Little things skitter and retreat in the rafters, startled by speech when footsteps had not disturbed them. Rogier is somewhat incredulous about this challenge, explaining that it's the various powers of nature β that include the Greater Will, sure β allowing them to shift around, not Marika.
Her statuettes being all about the place and facilitating things are just a coincidence, Daemon's sure. Mmhm. ]
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He shares not Daemon's disdain would suggest he is more amicable to the ways and means in which the faith of this world is entwined with the living. Perhaps it is because Daemon has not died in this realm or felt what it is like to be awakened again by the light of the Erdtree.
At least, that is what the young prince tries to make of it. Even then, he doubts if even that could change his uncle's mind. For someone who is so difficult to kill, yet somehow continues to walk around as if he is willing to die — it would seem to be the natural way to walk this world. Unfortunately, he's pretty sure Daemon has always been this way. Erdtree or no.
Rogier proceeds with his tutorial, in the face of two incredibly incredulous outsiders. Requesting a hand from them each in order to facilitate the transcending from one realm to the next.
Aemond scoffs, it feels like they're being set up to fall prey to a cheap trap. Maybe the Roundtable Hold existed inside the hearts of the friends they made along the way. Though nevertheless takes a step forward to lay his hand upon the sorcerer's white glove.
As soon as Daemon may do the same, the decrepit little sept crumbling around them is gone in a blink.]
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He reaches out a hand to join with his nephew's, and the sorcerer's. Serpent-quick, his hand shifts, they moveβ
When all three materialize in the Roundtable Hold, Daemon is already jerking Rogier forward. It sends the man offbalance and stumbling towards him, and Daemon darts his other hand up to grab him by his collar. What starts as a sound of awkward apology quickly shifts to alarm when it's clear Daemon did it on purpose, and is even now taking a step back and hauling the man with him, one hand at his throat, the other keeping him from grabbing his sword.
Other people are noticing. ]
Interesting, [ he says, around shouts of protest. ] It worked.
[ As if he was going to just go into that blindly without the potential for a hostage if needed. And now, jeez, everyone is so riled up, maybe if they'd?? Relax?? He'd just let Rogier go??? ]
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There is a split second between fading from a crumbling sept and emerging in the golden glow of the great round table. Looming statues illuminated by the phantasmal light of grace floating in the center.
They are not aligned in their thinking, but Aemond's hand is at the hilt of his sword the moment Daemon snaps forward in his periphery. By the time the chairs are scattering the stone floor — a variety of armored warriors taking to the offensive — the young prince has his blade drawn and high at the closest throat to approach them.]
Of course it fucking worked.
[ Aemond grumbles, speaking to Daemon through his blinded side, trusts that Rogier is still firmly in his grasp and the standoff is still on.
With blades being equally drawn against them, only halted as a voice pipes up behind the crowd somewhere he cannot see. Explaining firmly the agreements upon the Hold to not shed brethren blood under their metaphysical roof. Should they lay down their arms, they would find it safe there. Or they should take their rabble outside (wherever outside ends up being) and take care of it there.
Their choice.]
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You put your faith so blindly in these people? [ His voice pitches lower, speaking his native tongue. How's your High Valyrian, kiddo? ] In this magic that isn't ours, in this land that's taken us.
[ Speaking to Aemond, while still holding fast to Rogier, whose free hand is flailed out to forestall his companions from reacting. Daemon is only restraining him, no blade of his own out yet (despite the younger one's escalation, which his uncle finds funny).
Perhaps someone's ears prick to hear something that sounds like the dragonlord glyphs of old made alive. Perhaps it goes unnoticed, irrelevant. Either way, Daemon keeps his gaze fixed on his captive, whose face is finally clearly visible up this close, stupid hat knocked askew. Not a bad looking man. Daemon speaks quietly to him after a moment, deliberately private; no harm in being a little mysterious. For fun. He and Aemond are not a team, after all.
Things continue to be tense, until suddenly, they're not. Rogier steps away, no harm done, and for a brief heartbeat before he sweeps his hat back on, there's the sense that his face has gone red.
He's also holding a spoon.
Daemon raises both hands, and smiles. ]
That was very dramatic of all of you. We were only speaking.
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[ Aemond's High Valyrian is perfectly fine, thanks for asking. It reflects the contradicting nature as he holds up half the room at sword-point. Ready to see through whatever trouble Daemon was capable of cooking up at a moment's notice. Without knowing what it even was.
They're not a team, not even slightly. Whatever goes on behind his back is none of his business. Whatever he sees when he turns once the tension breaks the surface goes unchecked. Tipping his blade back into his scabbard as he steps away into the space made for them.
Well, it's not the most awkward introduction he's ever witnessed. It's up there. Rogier is swift at composing himself to explain, though Aemond surmises that the hat is doing a bit of the work for him. He recounts for them their small achievement as though it is levying their passage.
The crowd is tepid and uncertain as to what their doors have been opened to. It feels a bit like the first day in a training yard, waving around a shitty wooden stick when everyone else swings their steel.
The only one to change their tune is the one who spoke before. Clearly a figure of seniority among the tarnished, at least in this realm. The only one to grant their welcome to the Roundtable Hold and the expectation that comes with the invitation to use it. ]
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(Daemon is still an asshole.)
Awkwardness is for everyone else. Daemon stands there, utterly unfazed, no doubt further annoying the others with his audacity to feel no shame at his own poor behavior. Setting the tone. He doesn't want to be welcomed, or to be seen as a fledgling in need of guidance; he wants hostility and distrust, he wants people to leave him the fuck alone.
Negativity is honest. He wants to see them without pretense.
His voice is smooth and gracious when he speaks to the tarnished who nuts up and talks to them, faint smirk tucked into one corner of his mouth the whole time. It's all very interesting, but he's never been much of a joiner. These assorted cunts aren't Valyrian sealords. They're desperate failed men all grasping for the same escape hatch, and this brotherhood will crumble, one way or another. They will betray each other or they will buckle in sentimentality.
Maybe they'll have food that sucks less, though. Daemon incline his head, accepting an invite for a tour. Probably this will not include seeing the Two Fingers so early, which is a shame, as Daemon would have Opinions. ]
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Though, Aemond is not immune to the temptation spun by this brotherhood and the order they look to. It speaks to the young lonely boy who still tastes for some sort of belonging. It's a safe and familiar cage of destined duty that would distract him from the venom and despair eating away at his heart.
Even so, he would agree with his uncle that it is strange and destined to fail. The fact that it still exists only solidifies that they have failed to get any sort of progress. What good is that to any of them? Why help one another at all?
They take their little tour. Daemon is robbed of his ability to make any fingering jokes this time.
What they are introduced to is the central, windowless labyrinth lit only by candles, hearths, and grace. The Hold was clearly made in mind to accommodate a far larger number than who is all present. They are repeatedly reminded to clean up after themselves when clearly that has not been the case for who knows how long. So much so, Aemond nearly trips over a pot or a stack of books creeping in under his blind side throughout their wandering.
Most of the company have retreated back to their places now it seems neither of the newcomers are here to begin a slaughter, but the ice is thin — thanks to the elder prince's antics. ]
Why play nice at all? [ Aemond utters from just over Daemon's shoulder as they are guided through halls of quarters.
Their tarnished guide prattling on ahead, too involved with what they're talking about to really pay attention to the two princes trailing behind them. ]
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aemond, wheezelol
he has a feral quota to meet
he is valid and daemon deserves it
spins the wheel of scathing remarks
way harsh tai
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i prewrote that in a word doc and still made all those typos lmao fml
rip. meanwhile i just continue to write with -0 chill and vomit a wall of feelings
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1 very horny tag sponsored by a rewatch of saltburn, yw
yeehaw festive boners βοΈ wrote this listening to mariah carey btw
thx for the xmas scheming and xmas dick ππ€
this tag isn't late either i definitely didn't forget how to rp
β₯ may next weeks trailer drop invigorate u
trailer helps, no longer having pneumonia helps,,,
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