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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
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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[ Taking the piss out of himself. (Then again, you never know. Maybe a lonely widow would come in swinging.)
It's not the most dreary keep he's ever been in. And it has security going for itβ at least superficially. Still standing despite their insubordinate aims. He wonders who the initial engineer is, and what their stated reasons are; more, what their hidden reasons are. Who benefits? Who stands quietly at the center, an idealist or a strategist?
Hmph. ]
With who, you? [ Daemon is a little over-quick in High Valyrian, sometimes. A habit picked up from Rhaenyra, all her mumbled rs and smushed words. She sped through to sound yet more mysterious as she got older, and he would mimic her to tease her. Now it's thoughtless.
Anyway. Just pulling Aemond's pigtails for a second. ]
This appears to be a valuable resource towards understanding this world and our appearance in it, even if their goal is childish.
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A blur of High Valyrian is still rough terrain on untrained ears. The prince's delay could be construed as struggle to understand it, but it could also just be belligerence. Toddling behind in his silence at the back of the tour train, he fleeces a book off a passing table into his hands. His stroll does not slow as he tabs through a droll compendium of the Caelid Wilds recorded by a fine pen.
They had all learned it as children as a part of their training in the Dragonpit, but beyond that he may have been the only sibling to continue his study. Most of his practice came from engaging with the keepers, who only spoke in the mother tongue. They never tried to correct his pronunciation beyond the commands one uses to speak to their dragons. It's more than his father ever bothered, who only ever responded back in common.]
What was your record for banishment from the Red Keep again? [Comparatively, his speech is stiff despite the determination to barrel through the words in some semblance of fluency. At the very least, his tone correctly reflects the casual flippancy of a statement one might make to step on the heels of another. He leaves his finger stuffed in the middle of the book as he resumes holding his hands behind his back.]
A day? Three? I heard at my sister's first wedding, it not lasted the night.
[He knows the circumstances are different. It's hard to ignore the reputation after a stint like the one they just left behind. Rogue prince rogueing and all that. ]
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Daemon considers shoving Aemond into a wall and getting into a fight just here, in a hallway.
It'd be funny.
Instead, serenely, ] If anything's worth doing it's worth holding the record.
[ Including getting banished. But Daemon thinks he's technically tied with Maegor, alas. ]
I wasn't banished, after her wedding. I chose to leave Westeros.
[ Viserys never actually followed through on anything even though his marriage to Laena was unsanctioned. What was he going to do, banish them to Essos? Too late. Surely his small council seethed, but even then, Viserys was simply too avoidant to do anything about it. (Maybe, if his brother asked him to return, he would have. But they'll never know.) ]
You learned the same lesson I did, you just took a different path. You gained no more recognition through obedience than I did from deviation. That must be very frustrating.
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He had been so proud to have claimed Vhagar. He wanted to see the look on Father's face when he told him that he had claimed the biggest and oldest dragon. Not some skinny, weak drake from Dragonstone his father had dared him to claim if he was brave enough. If he was to be brave, it couldn't just be any dragon. It had to be the best. Whatever pride he could have reaped was gone with the loss of his eye. Instead he only saw wroth and disdain. Disappointment.
It was frustrating. It it is frustrating to be reminded of it. Nearly every moment in his uncle's company.
Aemond scoffs, and says nothing more. Silence spreads among the collateral of their footsteps tapping against stone.
Their guide pauses between two open doors positioned opposite of one another, both leaking with a warm glow into a rather unremarkable hallway decorated in the banners of the Golden Order.
As he turns, to introduce them to their quarters Aemond is already leaping forward — meaty history book wielded in both of his hands lifted high above him — striking Daemon over the back of his head as hard as he possibly can.]
aemond, wheezelol
Because he does get him. WHAM, the book connects and Daemon staggers and their guide shouts in alarm. It's not like a mummer's puppet play, he does not keel over unconscious, he merely has his ears ringing and the kind of impact burn that lets him know he'll have a headache for two days. He's swearing luridly with a paradoxical rasp of laughter in his voice as the native tarnished man rounds on Aemond, hollering about behaving, bringing the sound of clanging armor to all ears present as others are roused to the commotionβ ]
Oh, let him off, [ the elder prince says, despite being bent at a funny angle still, one hand at the back of his head. Fuck, that hurt. Crosstalk, clangclangclang of a knight coming down the corridor after them, muddled chaos in a tight space. ]
He's just sore over figuring out his life was meaningless. But we've all been there, haven't we, gentlemen.
[ If it had been the side of a sword, Daemon would be headless right now. Alas. Still talking. ]
he has a feral quota to meet
Click-clacking of both knights rush at him from both sides. He lowers the book until the weight of it flies out of his hand onto the ground. Swaggering away from where Daemon remains in a small step or two. Absolutely burgeoning with smugness.
Well. Until his uncle opens his mouth again.
A moment passes where Aemond might actually do nothing.
Abruptlyβ the young prince's hand touches his sword handle, triggering a wall of hands restraining him as he takes flight. The low, riling growl that seethes out of him is mostly drowned out as multiple people are yelling in his face to just calm down. Aemond's knees wobble in some staggering dance with whomever has his arms drawn back. The guide once again asking him if he can comply, his one eye remains trained on Daemon over a stupidly ornate pauldron. Fucker.]
You might want to put him somewhere else, [ the prince pipes up with a mild restraint before swallowing it down. ] — so I don't kill him in his sleep.
he is valid and daemon deserves it
It is funny, though.
The miniature pile-on doesn't seem to concern Daemon as he straightens up properly, not bothering to hide his wince. Despite it, there's no mistaking the look in his eyes: though Aemond got a stellar and comical hit in, he hasn't managed to get under his uncle's skin. Daemon has learned to eat his own emotions, and it's been many years since he's flown off the handle for anything less thanβ
(Well. Doesn't matter any more. Rhaenyra and her insecurities are far away. Wearing her rightful crown. He will hope eternal, no matter how they ended, that she's able to maintain her throne without him enforcing her will.) ]
Your sorcerer had the wrong impression of us, [ he chuckles, addressing the beleaguered knights. ] But we'll keep peace. I will, anyway. Hopefully you have enough of a buffer between chambers so I don't have to sleep with one eye open.
[ A pause, as if he's going to say something else, and then he makes a faux-apologetic face and closes his mouth.
He doesn't have to say the one eye joke out loud, does he? ]
spins the wheel of scathing remarks
The young prince's rage isn't even white hot, but it is simmering. Sharpness cutting into his jaw as it winds and swallows down what he consciously knows is a reckless mistake. To get himself banished, after all of that, isn't worth getting a second pot shot in.
And though it doesn't need to be said, Daemon's implication is enough for a lapse in consideration. So original of him. Groundbreaking.
The creaking of gauntlets and plates strain against the smallest lurch forward. It would seem he's not fighting to get free. Aemond relaxes then, steadily releasing his steam in one long breath that fetters out into a bitter chuckle.Good one. ]
I've no issue with the rule of this hold. [ His hands raise to show his peace to show his cooperation before yanking himself loose. Immediately he tends to the straightening of his coat and easing a step further back. ]
Though if you do find him gone, consider it no fault but his own. He only yearns for his brother's hands around his throat and seems to forgotten how to ask nicely.
way harsh tai
A retort fills his lungs but dies behind his teeth. Aemond should take care when speaking of brothers. He traverses thin hypocritical ice.
Daemon looks at his nephew with a particular temperature in his eyes. Obvious that something has landed, though what it's elicited is harder to divineβ angry, predatory, a mixture? He offers no further verbal clues. He'd feel gratified by a full blown fight here, but he doesn't want to give Aemond the satisfaction of having set him off.
Not yet, anyway. There may come a time (perhaps soon) where he decides it's just as gratifying for himself to give in and take a fucking swing. There's something delightful about it, in a twisted way, to be on the receiving end of his own brand of instigation.
Instead of any of that: ]
He's had a long day.
[ Gracious. ]
Of course, we both have. Why don't you continue with my nephew, I'm happy to wait.
[ Go ahead and have first crack at picking a room, kiddo. Uncle Fuckface will hang out and twiddle his thumbs in the meantime. ]
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What's this about not giving Aemond the satisfaction? His uncle's expression is not easy to divine, but it is something; something is better than nothing. All considering, that quip was a shot in the dark (at best, a shot in dim light). Very different relationships had with his brothers compared to Daemon and his father. Some things just tend to ring truer than others. Turns out he was right.
To watch the temper bloom across Daemon's face tells him all he needs to know. As composed as he remains, the look shoots a chill down Aemond's spine. Should he be scared? Thrilled? Concerned?
There is something dark reflected in the young prince's obvious delight as he relishes his very small victory — having found a rugged path to getting under his uncle's skin. He barely smiles, taunting as he had drawn the ire of the fallen star beast. Daring it to come try to strike.
Their gallery is obliquely aware that it would be wise to heed the elder prince's suggestion. Any moment longer spent shared in this cramped hallway could spell disaster. A little nudge and belated agreement break up the veil of tension settled over their cohort. The young prince drops his gaze without a word to turn around to allow his escort lead him the way.
Have fun, fuckface.
The hold is expansive enough with its pinwheel of wings. Something suitable is found where they feel confident enough to leave him alone. Anticipating him following through on his very threatening sounding warning, a pass through the hold's central chamber is required. Though, there's no need for Aemond to get his hands dirty now. He had gotten in the last word (the better last word anyway). Nor does he expect Daemon to stoop to disturbing the peace this time. Much like the night before, that would mean proving something right.
The room he is given was meant for two. The secondary bed lies barren of blankets and covered in books by the last occupant. It's not as nice as the lord and lady's keep. The linens are more ragged, fixtures dusty, rug faded with constant treading. The reading is good enough to occupy him, if only for a time.]
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Daemon visits his room, and he minds his manners. The jagged edges beneath his polite smiles seem very apparent to some and completely invisible to others; more of a mix than he's used to, but that's fine. (He has no choice but to accept it all as fine.)
Days in the Lands Between are vague, no matter how pitch black nights are. They are even more vague here. He occupies himself and it could be for hours, or fucking weeks. He talks, he collects, he finds out precisely where his nephew's quarters are. For safety, you see. Wouldn't want to go wandering into the wrong neighborhood. Of course, of course, very understandable and proactive. (His nephew, he said?) (They seem royal, you know how those cunts are.) (Yes, well.)
There is a man poring over scrolls and books who is interested in the language they spoke to each other upon their arrival; Daemon is coy. There is a witch dealing in fucking corpses; Daemon is sympathetic. All manner of oddities, blacksmiths, gamblers, would-be heroes, a man who dies before his eyes, sitting in a corner and turning to golden dust. He buys a potion for a promise, and drinks it.
A funny tale. Sipping dreams. It'll be on his mouth for a whileβ
Knock knock.
No armor, his hair down, black linen and leather. Daemon is leaning against the stone relief that decorates the door to Aemond's chamber. He looks very placid. ]
I thought you might like to get it out of your system.
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It's impossible to tell what time had passed before Daemon came around to haunting his doorway. At some point he had tried to sleep. One futile task handed over to another, letting his guard slip perpetually down. Daemon finds him with his arms rested on open knees in a chair beside the fire, book pried open between his hands.
It is unexpected.
And like the tragic piece of prey he is, Aemond freezes with one eye fixed at the wall before him. Very, very briefly before tipping his book on the Stormlords of Stormhill (dry stuff, more limbs than expected) shut between his hands.]
Killing you? [Aemond regards him as he sits up to rise out of his chair. Book ditched in a measured toss onto a footstool. Cheeky, but in a way where it's still kind of not a joke.
By the look of it, would not be Daemon's intent to get even for his baby concussion. It's difficult to pin what the prince expects to what he actually sees in Daemon. Only that he appears far less patronizing than Aemond would now come to expect from him by now. It is mildly disarming.]
Was that your actual thought?
[ How merciful of him. Still a cheeky little shit, but a softer one. Ambling a step or two into the center of the room. It's the only armor he has left. At least when it blows up in his face, he'll feel less like a fool. There is an earnest curiousness to how he says it. If one listens hard enough. Don't put this all on him. He didn't start this.]
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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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