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βif you and i are both still alive and miserable,
i propose we begin to hunt each other for sportβ
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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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A shame that context looms so large.
He steps inside, unavoidably predatory despite the casual way he's put himself together. There's just always something like that about Daemonβ even in domestic situations, he has an air of recently retrained wild animal about him. This place is no exception, and though he's treating this mysterious castle like he's at home on Dragonstone carrying on practically in socked feet, he is still approaching an opponent in his own bolthole without fear. Inherently threatening. But Aemond's got a book on hand, so. ]
Do you want to try?
[ Killing him. Might be fun.
Still no fear as he draws close, and closer, right in Aemond's face if his nephew doesn't shy away. He doesn't think he will, though. He thinks the younger prince will stubbornly hold his ground even if he thinks Daemon might attack him.
The door is closed behind him. He reaches out to grasp Aemond by his hip and jerk him forward, chest to chest. ]
Well?
[ He kisses him. ]
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The coin could have landed either way on his showing up. He had baited him and managed to pierce something underneath Daemon's cooled surface in the process. Naturally, Aemond expects retaliation. He expects violence because that is almost all he knows and it's what he might have done. No matter how assuming the predatory sauntering, and the lapsed demeanor, there is no reason to trust Daemon. There is all the reason to expect him to turn and strike at the very last moment.
All that context looming should count for something. Yet, the moment comes, and all it would seem by the sharp incline of breath that rips through the young prince's nose indicates that he's wrong.
It all sort of collapses inward — dragged in like the starfallen beast's well of violet gravity. Aemond couldn't stop himself from meeting Daemon's mouth. Welcomed to a feeling that is not unfamiliar, even if he couldn't ever pin it before. A pull that comes from somewhere very deep.
Almost as soon as it begins, Aemond is reaching for him. His fist curling into black linen would almost seem to lock him into it, pushing back against his mouth. The other pinches Daemon's jaw firmly between finger and thumb, abruptly wrenching the kiss apart with a rattling grip.
He's still angry, it floods back to the surface of him like a tide. Heat and feeling palpable in the small breath of space he's put between them. He refuses to back down and yet he cannot allow himself to move forward. Suspended in a state of lingering that may very well cause him to implode.
Does he want to try? Almost as though Daemon already knows he still can't fucking do it. It's infuriating. What's almost more infuriating is that he has absolutely nothing to say for himself. ]
Fuck you.
[ More of a whisper than a hiss, but it comes from the heart. Almost as angry as it is weary, because he is conceding. With all due respect, it is exhausting having to feel everything all the time. ]
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Fuck you, in his own way. ]
I know. [ Close against Aemond's mouth. He knows, he knows about everything; it is exhausting, it is maddening. ] Let it pass through you for a moment.
[ They are all meant for this, all of them of their blood; Aegon the Conqueror only truly found it in his bastard half-brother, Viserys found it in his cousin, maybe Aemond found it in his sister, or displaced the boiling call of blood onto his mother, who even now might be throwing herself out of a window or kowtowing to Rhaenyra.
Has Daemon ever really found it? He still doesn't know. He loved Laena, he loved Rhaenyra, he loved Viserys.
Close, closer, and he kisses his nephew again, pushing past the sharp grab of his fingers. ]
Make me bleed this way, if you have to, [ is breathed against his mouth. Hands curl closer. He doesn't budge.
(Daemon doesn't know what the potion will to, if anything. To him or to Aemond. He felt dizzy for a few moments, then nothing; perhaps they will see something shared, perhaps it will be nothing, perhaps they'll both go mad with a curse.) ]
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All he's wanted is for Daemon to burn too. To see in him something equally unbridled, to incur the wrath Aemond has so earned. He has earned nothing else. Certainly, nothing as nice as this feels.
It is impossible to separate everything, he cannot do as he is told. Daemon's body is warm and flush with his, unyielding and welcoming. He allows himself to sink into it. One quiet shuddered breath caught up in the slight part before their kiss. The sharpness of his fingers slip away, entangling themselves in the soft curled hair along the nape of Daemon's neck.
Contrary to all, this time his return is a steadier welcoming.
Sabotage is a fleeting thought as he places the indelicate taste on Daemon's tongue as he pushes deeper into his mouth. The herbs of this land are still largely foreign. They taste nothing of the brews and tonics that Alys once had given him to aid his sleep. Perhaps it's a poison, perhaps it's only a tonic Daemon took to ease his ailing headache. Presently, he doesn't care what it makes of either of them.
If there is an effect, he cannot parse it between everything else firing off. Which of it (if not all of it) makes the young prince feel heady. Between the grief, the guilt, the anger, and the desire, the call of their blood thrums behind it all. If set free, it would try to claw itself a frenzy to become one again.
He had never heeded it before, he had never even gotten the chance. Now after scouring a foreign land and a place that no longer knows time, it takes everything else left in him not to be immediately baited by ravenousness.]
i prewrote that in a word doc and still made all those typos lmao fml
His emotions have been truncated again and again; Daemon wants to be listened to, and he wants to be honest, and he has run into endless punishment for what feels like simply existing. Quiet obedience was rejected, screaming rebellion was rejected, laughter was rejected. Asking, begging, demanding, all met with stone. Distant bitterness is the last refuge he has.
A bitterness which doesn't translate strongly to the taste in his mouth, which fades as the kiss melts from the initial clash into a proper one. It does nothing, apparentlyβ but that's fine, Daemon would have come to pester him regardless. He hadn't known what he was going to do right up until pushing the door open.
(It's a dream potion, you idiot, you have to be asleep.)
A thread of tension unwinds as he licks into his nephew's mouth, curling his tongue against his, gently but firmly sinking into hedonistic sensation. He's not sure if he'd actually rather do this than fight, but it satisfies a buzzing in his head that's on a different pitch than violence. Blood aches for blood, and they are the last. ]
rip. meanwhile i just continue to write with -0 chill and vomit a wall of feelings
He only ever wanted to prove himself, he only ever wanted affection. For some reason no one in this family could ever love one another unconditionally. Aemond had not the time to be boiled down to a muted bitterness, but he had poorly tempered himself for so long. To be what son he thought that everyone wanted so that he could simply be seen. In one fell stroke, he squandered it all. Whatever love he had cultivated became cursed by the stain of kin's blood.
In a way he would never admit (even to himself), he too is sorry that he is all Daemon has left. His tainted blood.
It's not enough to stop him from taking what's being given. If nothing else, it acts a boon to his loneliness. ( He had taken what Alys had given then too in those first nights at Harrenhal. Knowing her intentions could only be self serving. ) A desperate comfort in something warm and familiar, the fire pulsing through their blood.
It doesn't take much until it becomes inevitable Aemond wants to get closer than he can be in that moment. Releasing the crinkled linen of Daemon's shirt he had been clinging since his approach in favor of pulling his arms around his uncle's shoulders. Firmly pressed and off his heels in so much that his balance lies more in Daemon's hands.
When hesitation burns out, what gentleness there is gets cornered into something akin to a crushing against Daemon's mouth. As if Aemond determined to drag his elder down both physically and to meet him in his spiraling neediness.
The tethering of their blood beckons. Though he presently has no need to draw Daemon's blood in his persistent cause for revenge, he still desires it greatly. And as previously encouraged, he bites down rather hard upon Daemon's lip to draw his bitterness into his mouth. ]
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Does he love her now?
Aemond's kiss grows fiercer and Daemon meets him, holding him close and letting him sway forward, tolerating the bloodletting. (Barely-there, the finest scar bisecting his lower lip, the promise of his final marriage.) He can feel the fire in him and the gravity of his need, like a drowning child clawing at a rescuer to unwittingly sabotage. He rewards his nephew with a grunt that's as much ouch as it is enjoyment. He breaks the kiss for a moment to drag in a breath, and to let blood well on the little wound, to give Aemond more of the copper-tasting redness when he crushes their mouths together again.
Held by someone who hates him. Everything is so twisted and ruined, perhaps it's love, and he just has to hate more to get through to the other side. Daemon thinks of progressing this, distantly calculating the odds of success vs embarrassment, and realizes with bleak humor that it'll be no issue. But of course. Desperation has taken root in him, too. ]
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It's not so different, the desire to kill Daemon and the desire to fuck him. It's similarly satisfying to get him to strike in a fight as it is to feel his own neediness mirrored back at him. He wonders if achieving either will truly purge his need for it. At the moment, it doesn't feel feasible nor very wise. Though by now Aemond is proficient in doing very stupid and unwise things.
What does slow the very reckless careening forward is the taste of blood blooming in his mouth. Relief along a wave of dizziness. Footing between them a bit more uneasy until it passes and Aemond begins to pull back onto his heels. Be it the magic in their blood or what brew flows through Daemon's bloodstream hitting him now. It's not for him to know.
Pulling back a bit further. Aemond unwinds himself enough to turn his attempted drowning into a more purposeful pulling. Blind navigation back towards whichever bed has less on it. Balking for air isn't achieved without first wringing Daemon's lip between his teeth. Unwilling to let anything go at this point under the threat of reason returning.]
What accord will this be? [ He asks as quiet as it is breathless.] Going to fuck me tonight and throttle me in the morning?
[ It falls just short of a steamy taunt that likely could have been. Not enough heat. If anything, it's more likely his move. If anything, he is far less certain of what this is becoming. ]
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(Screwing around with another of his brother's children. If only you hadn't denied me, Viserys.)
He keeps a hand on Aemond, following him, observing the heading. Doesn't show it, but he's surprised that the younger prince is so immediately intentβ perhaps he expected a little more blood, or a denial.
But all of that is tiring. ]
Shall we be bosom friends in the morning instead? [ Just as quiet, but wry. Be Reasonable, Kiddo. Neither of them believe they're boyfriends now. ] A gamble. Who wakes up first? You have your youth and your studiousness, perhaps you're an early riser.
[ His hand moves from Aemond's side to the small of his back, encroaching on his space again. No better time for a throttling than any given morning after. ]
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There's draw to the innate ease of which Daemon moves, rewarding the perpetual storm of Aemond's caustic affection. Disarming, in a good way. The young prince may be trying to run away with the initiative, but he's not quite the one in control.
One step more and he stops. Presumably because he might trip if he wanders further. Allowing Daemon to fold him in once more. His back arches under the steadiness of his uncle's hand. Preserving the space between hovering mouths with a slighter tilt of his head. ]
As if you aren't a light sleeper.
[ He refuses to believe anything otherwise. There's a stalemate for their future selves. Easily remedied if Aemond would just kick him out.
Despite everything, he wants more. His instincts are screaming that he shouldn't be here. That he's standing in a pit of vipers. He should be drawing more blood, he should have too much pride to sleep with his enemy. Besides, it's not him Daemon actually wants. It's that decrepit, pathetic excuse of a brother-king he probably thinks of now.
Yet, Aemond persists. Pressed hip to hip with his uncle because he knows he can find some numbing comfort of his own in some part of it. Because their blood commands something in him stronger than his hate. Because maybe he's wanted this longer than knowing it. ]
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[ Dead-but-not. Days seem dull even at high noon with no clouds, even with the glowing gold tree stretched out all over them; the night is dark and full of terrors, yes, but it seems so often to differentiate less than it should. How long does he sleep? How deep?
This is a piss-poor idea. Daemon should leave, even if Aemond doesn't kick him out. He should hook his consciousness into a way to make it about using the younger man, but of course it doesn't take. No handles on this blade, just two sharp ends, and they've both got a hold on it like fucking idiots.
It'd be better if he was thinking of Viserys.
Better, too, probably, if he would just unstick himself and contribute to the forward momentum of this stupidity. Pitch them further into the fire that they want, start peeling skin and bone back to get to the heart, where he's sure they're both rotten.
Instead there's another hurdle to set out. ]
You'll have to ask me to stay.
[ Or he won't.
Different kinds of monsters. Daemon works in a particular way. ]
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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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