sapphyre | 𝔄𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔢 𝔗𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢

𝔄𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔢 𝔗𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢

—if you and i are both still alive and miserable,

i propose we begin to hunt each other for sport—

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[ It is harder than Daemon expects to leave Aemond behind, but easier than he might have anticipated to fold himself into this world. Abandoning his nephew and Dark Sister on the word of a man who has reason to lie feels like cutting away a lifeline, but at least it feels like something. He needs to think, he needs to breathe, he needs perspective. When he sleeps, he feels like he's falling, and when he's awake, he smells blood and burned flesh.

He leaves a few bodies in his wake, some turned to light particles and some left to rot, and one merchant who is now permanently wary of white-haired strangers, but who if adequately cajoled will tell a story about another foreigner who looks like Aemond (if he had both eyes) who he graciously taught the local card game to, only to be fleeced blind after two hands. Daemon avails himself of skills long-maligned — Lord Flea Bottom has diverse uses — to nest himself with funds and equipment. It's not a trick that'll work too many times if word travels well in the Lands Between, and so after his opening volley, he remains discreet. More difficult to track.

He wants to see Aemond again. He wants to ask him why, he wants an answer about the witch. But his rage is still too unpredictable, and he doesn't want to kill him again. It shouldn't matter, he should be able to close his heart to it, but something sticks deep in his chest like a needle.

Let him earn his revenge. If Aemond can pull it off, then Daemon will deserve it.

There is a festival to celebrate the anniversary of naming constellations, held in a castle made of black stone that sits on the edge of a swamp filled with elemental beasts and gigantic crustaceans. A lord with a bronze mask over his head and shoulders and his lady with a veil down to her feet host it, inviting all who hear the call to feast and make merry. There will be bets on monsters fights and card games and an auction (of promises, how suspicious) to kiss the lady's hand.

Half the attendants are sentient beings the likes Daemon has never seen. He sits at a table in the open courtyard, trailing fingertips around the rim of a heavy goblet, listening to a jar argue with a snake. ]

[ Aemond's days wandering turns to nights barely slept. Sometimes he wakes to screams that travel over dark hills. Sometimes he wakes himself, jerking in his sleep from phantom pains or plunging nightmares.

He wakes to a purposeless world, at least one with a purpose he's not sure to give two shits about. Tarnished, vying for a crown over a shattered land. A war-torn family with grudges that could put his own to shame so much the gods themselves gave up on them. Turned to smallfolk and foreign lords to take up the mantle if they were worthy. Every day he looks up at that golden tree and wonders. Turning over the same old stone with no newer answers, only more questions.

By the nature of his quest, he's gathered bits and pieces by word of mouth. Not many have seen the foreign prince with two eyes and silver-blond hair. They have plenty else to tell him. For a rune, for trade, sometimes for blood. Knowledge that he compares to the texts he devoured in the keep. Something that might link back to what he might know. Madness comes from trying to make sense of something that isn't meant to make sense.

Daemon is starting to feel like a ghost and all Aemond seems to be chasing is a feeling. A comfort grounded in a reality he can still understand. The only constant between these two worlds is that both still seem to look down expecting something of him to prove. A dull-eyed tarnished, a one-eyed kinslayer.

Sellswords transporting beasts in cages become his best company. Most of them were simple men from somewhere well north. It's oddly familiar. The young prince earns his spot to travel among them only after winning a duel among their prized fighter. A man claimed half-giant with grizzled red hair. He nearly dies again dredging the man into a bonfire. A lesser worthiness, but a worthiness gained.

He finds it odd reaching castle gates that hang tattered but colorful banners, as if trying breathe life in this dying place. He hasn't forgotten his search, but he doesn't expect his uncle would draw to such a thing. Especially when he overhears the other sellswords meeting with another strange masked lord, runes exchanged under harsh whispers. Something depraved in the making, Aemond's guess. They stop to look his way when his looming presence is felt. Whatever bloodshed is about to occur won't have anything to do with him.

At least before chaos is to reign, he can take in good food and drink. Something better than roasted hides and berries. His long refined palate hoping at least these local country lords have pissless ale and tender roasted meat for all the merriment they're lauding around.

Not ten steps in he is stopped by a maiden that fills him a cup of something cold and not too strong. He's barely skimming the crowd, in all its oddness, when the most odd thing sticks out. A two-eyed foreigner with bone-white hair.

The gulp of ale warms in his mouth before he finally swallows it. A pit dropping into his stomach tells him to do several things at once, leaving him standing there paralyzed amongst a liquid crowd forced to move around him. A man in bloated armor berates him for standing in the way, triggering a sneer that stirs him forward.

Aemond's cup drops heavy on the wooden table before Daemon as he drops down onto the bench across from him. Expression entirely obtuse. Is it anger, concern, longing, ~~constipation~~? He says nothing.]

[ In all the known world, Targaryens are striking— hair and eyes and preternatural bearing, carrying with them the mystique of dragons and the allure of resisting fire, and disease. But here, they're nothing remarkable. Everyone looks strange. Those who don't are almost more noteworthy than persons with grafted limbs and flaming eyes, ornate masks, or bodies unrelated to humans entirely.

Just an old man at a table, watching a young man approach him.

Daemon stares at him. His gaze is clearer than it was when they tangled by the cold chapel, looking more like Aemond may remember him from that dramatic splash onto his radar, quiet and calculating and waiting to slice Vaemond Velaryon's head off. Settled, perhaps, as much as he can be.

The ale's alright. Fingers travel from the mouth of his cup to the neck, and he lifts it, a silent greeting, and (perhaps sarcastic) toast. ]

Nephew. [ He takes a drink. ] Welcome back.

[ Needling, of course. Got you again. But buried in there is relief that the mystic ways of this world have operated how he was told they would; Aemond lives again, and Daemon knows well that there is no chance he was only feigning death last he saw him. He has found no other familiar faces, nor heard any rumors. There is no talk of this place being an afterlife— death has ever been a bendable concept, and it's even less predictable now after having been 'shattered', but it isn't a destination for the dead.

Something very strange has happened to them both. ]

I hear gatherings such as these are honored as neutral territory by the inhabitants of this land.

[ Both an offering of a cease-fire, for the time being, and a joke. He's noticed it's a little suspicious in here, as well. But until then, there's food, and perhaps he'll hustle some runes off a mark or two. ]

[ Aemond's jaw twists as he holds his tongue. He does not drink, his cup still nearly full and the taste of it stales in his mouth. Having Daemon there grounds some truths that had started to feel more like fever dreams as the days piled on. There is a lurking relief that almost sickens him.

If he'd been intent on trying to kill him as soon as find him, he'd be doing that already. Customs be damned. Sitting across from him now feels like an offense to his own nature. His hands remain neatly laced at the edge of the table. It may be the one thing keeping him from lurching forward and trying to smash his uncle's head in with a pewter goblet.

Aemond blinks and his intent gaze falls from his uncle and wanders away to scan among the crowd. Stuffing down whatever tumultuous urge that threatens to overtake him. Even swallowing his pride looks like trying to snuff out a wild fire with an iron lid. In the way his shoulders slack off the tension to the shuffling down in his seat. ]

I see you too have been doing as the natives do. [ He sets his cup down though does not remove his hand from it. Fingers picking at the grooves of the design inlaid into it. It is, a tepid acceptance of what terms they might have. For here, for now. Whatever.

The interest sounds reluctant, even though Aemond is curious about it. He had very few encounters of people who'd actually met Daemon. Even fewer who could recant a pleasant encounter. It hasn't painted much of a picture or a surprising one.

One of the sellswords enters the courtyard catches his attention only briefly. The man looking likely to only for now to be looking for the same simple pleasures as himself. Aemond's gaze falls back on Daemon.]

I figured a man of your renown would have gotten up to something better than petty card tricks.

What renown?

[ He isn't anyone, here. Daemon has no reputation to uphold, and even if he did, it's not like he was ever above much of anything, back home. Always possessed of a more criminal cleverness than political savvy. (If one can believe the difference.) He's been trading in an education as much as in runes, and that suits him just fine, for now. An obscure traveler, making an effort to thread a needle of being forgettable enough to grant him privacy, but imposing enough not to invite predation. Here-but-not.

When he wants to make an impact, he will.

A commotion is kicking up, but it's mild; food being brought out on wide trays. Beside them, one of the talking jars is telling a loud story about devouring an old rival. Wax occasionally spills from a crack near its rim, sluggish and red. Someone across the courtyard begins playing a tune on a hand-cranked instrument, and a knight in heavy, ornate armor complains of bardic warbling only luring wild spirits from outside the castle walls. ]

You were unable to answer my question. [ By the way. His voice is padded by the ambient sounds floating around them, but he doesn't raise it any louder; just for them, this exchange. ] I still wonder.

[ Aware, of course, that every minute and word threatens to bait Aemond's temper, which he can see roiling beneath his carefully held posture. It's keenly familiar; he can feel it, a sense-memory of being just that age, and just that agitated, all the time. ]

[ There is time, Aemond figures, before things are to go awry. With the sun not yet set in a festival claiming to celebrate the stars. The light will be the mark as it inches away from the sky. What of the men and monsters do that surround them until them are paid little mind.

Daemon's answer sets off a displeased press of his lips, an answer that shouldn't surprise nor disappoint. He comes to rest his forearm along the edge of the table, leaning his weight into it in some effort to relax. His fist still remains clenched against the waxed wood. He drinks as Daemon posits an old question, pursing his lips as he sets the cup back down.]

About my lady? [ He asks as though it needs clarification but had not forgotten. ] If you seek to know her motives, perhaps you'd better luck asking her yourself.

[ It's not possible, given their circumstances. Alys is still, by his recount, still very much alive and in a world several layers removed from their own. If it is an absolute truth he seeks, Aemond is not the one to provide it. It does not mean he doesn't have his own thoughts, his own truths regarding the matter. Those are yet to be easily given. ]

She spoke little of your occupation of Harrenhal. I suppose you'd not thought her of any consequence then.

I took Harrenhal bloodlessly, [ Daemon reminds him. A contrast to the unhinged way his nephew collected severed heads when he and Cole arrived— the news surprised him, given Larys Strong's devotion to Alicent. Truly craven in a way that fits in with their collective ilk, he supposes; no love for his last blood, after losing a father and brother, no respect for Rhaenyra's children who are, everyone knows, his own nephews. ] I'd have only paid attention to a bastard wetnurse if I had use of her.

[ Which he did not. He left his hostages alive after relieving them of their wealth; as far as he knows, no harm came to the woman while he was there, though he supposes something could have gone awry outside the scope of his attention. War is a grim time for all.

And just in case Aemond feels a call to play the uno reverse card— ]

I prefer my bastard companions closer to home.

[ He knows, thank you. Nettles is a dragonseed, a dragonrider, a girl in line with Daemon's long-established tastes. There is no shame in a mistress, not even an low-born one; he once tried to marry a prostitute. But it is very strange, Daemon feels, that Aemond took a woman who was allegedly a bastard of house fucking Strong. And not only that, he used her to track Daemon down through some sort of divination, ensuring his attendance of a duel that took his life.

It's all very curious.

The food piles up. Roast beast, vegetables boiled in blood and salt, burnt sugar pudding, icy spirals of flowers for cooling the mouth. Girls come to refill cups of ale; one who slips her long arms over Aemond's shoulders has scars from wrist to breast, patterned like waves of rippling water. ]

How well that treated you in the end, I wonder.

[ He does recall at some point in his travels, hearing word of Rhaenyra's decree against dragonseeds. In retribution to those who no longer heeded her command. Men, by his account, sounded no less depraved or trustworthy. Like most lords of this war, shifted their colors to the side that served them best.

What Daemon had done with his own dragonseed is Aemond's guess. For as loyal he had seen him be to his queen, if would have delivered her the head of his bastard mate should he have been able to fly home. If she betrayed him along with the rest of them. Or if he let her go entirely. Either way, he had shown up without her.

The smell of food he had been looking forward to now sours his stomach. Aemond feels the fresh presence of a young maiden at his back. The tension of the table breaks as the discomfort of being crowded and touched throws him off kilter. Leaning in slight towards his blind side where a hand squeezes his shoulder before she retreats.]

The Strongs were traitors to the crown. She held no loyalty to them. [ He picks up once they've been left on their own once again. Under the sound of cracking beast bones as a snake dressed in fur robes tries to fit a large pheasant down its gullet.

Alys had been at his side when the news of King's Landing came amidst their own victory. It had been bloodless until that moment, the rest he may own up to. Betrayal was the only answer at that time. Recompense was needed. In his blindness would have taken her head too if she had not talked him down from it. Bewitched, they'd tell him he was. He ignored it. She spoke to something in him in ways few people were able to, saw him in ways others were unable.

Under the mantle he had taken in this war, little he has achieved was ever taken with a cold pride. Even as Daemon refers to it now, there is a regret. A sickness that stews inside. The day he returned from Storm's End, he only ever had one choice to make. That mantle now reflected in the eyes sat across from him. He hates it.]

[ Interesting.

No comment— Nettles has served him fine; if he'd permitted her, she'd have been there at Gods Eye, but after the message from Rhaenyra (and Mysaria, he knows it), Daemon had found himself shockingly unable to tolerate more grief. Embroiled in heartbreak over no longer recognizing the wife he'd devoted so much of himself to, mourning too many children, and still Viserys, even though his brother's lifelong dedication towards inaction had ruined the Seven Kingdoms, and destroyed all of their lives.

It had simply been the end. And he wonders if Aemond's witch hadn't sensed that, somehow. If she meant for the younger prince to be victorious, and over-estimated her young paramour's capabilities, or if she meant to send him to his death.

Alas, they'll never know. (Perhaps in that fabled other world, where Daemon and his dragonseed run away together.) Daemon watches him for a while, eating his food with impeccable table manners, not so much as batting an eye as the snake-person devours a bird whole. Far less elegant than a dragon swallowing a man. Shouldn't that snake be embarrassed. Honestly. ]

You look tired, nephew. [ The terrible insight of a man who has to some degree been Aemond, and who has had a hand in raising five boys. He snaps an ice flower between long fingers, letting the enchantment dust his plate. Men in masks and helmets mill about by the courtyard gate, loud about their attendance. ] Have you looked at all for your finger maiden?

[ The light wanes, he keeps an eye on it. Eventually picking at cubes of spiced meat off a skewer with a two pronged fork. Picking up his cup before the sentient jar knocks it askew with a flying hand. Every time he looks away from his plate or Daemon it is shrouded in a parade of obscurity. More sellswords in the midst, but not all they must have finished planting their captured beast in whatever arena it was meant to be fought in.

Trying to find a finger maiden had been no easier than finding Daemon. Though Aemond usually only ran on a single-track mind. One search took precedence over the other. That and the answers he'd been given were vague. There was no simple way to find or claim a destined maiden. They were only united through faith, guidance by grace.

If he'd been guided by anything, it had guided him here. In the middle of a doomed banquet. Plenty of maidens slipping onto the edges of tables, running their hands over scorned plates of armor. But none of them seeming to be finger maidens. Only the uncle he means to kill with a sword he's not so sure he even wants anymore. Funny how these things work.]

I'd mostly been looking for you. [ His eye falling back on Daemon once more. The tone of his answer seems to pull the weight on what good it's done him for doing so. Annoyed that he'd left in the first place. We have matters unfinished. Despite the fact that he picked a fight and lost (again), it's the abandonment it seems still pierces the deepest. And the gifted message that was left behind.]

Why?

[It's an earnest question. He feels stupid for asking, but it's been eating at him longer than he is proud to admit. It doesn't make any sense because he would have kept were it him. He should have kept it. ]

[ Daemon looks at him, and for a moment it seems like he might feign misunderstanding, and give way to talk of finger maidens. (Obvious answer for that one. Turn runes to strength. He is fucking fascinated.)

More ale. It's less fine as the evening darkens; the longer it sits on his palate the more thin it tastes, vague flavor broken down too quickly by the food. It occurs to him he'll not taste familiar strong wines or spices from Yi Ti ever again, and that is strange. The big heartbreaks are what dominate his thoughts and his dreams, and the small displacements trickle in, odd, surreal, finding ways to spark feeling. ]

Was it a poor gift?

[ Not quite cutting, but still a jab. He could have said Well I'd last left it with you for safekeeping and she found her way back, likening his skull to a weapons rack, pleasantly. ]

I don't know. [ Ah. ] I didn't want to think of any of it all anymore. You were more awake. And you are my blood. I would trust nothing else.

[ Does Daemon want Dark Sister back? Maybe. What he wants most is his family back; seven children cobbled together on Dragonstone, his niece-wife who will ever be the other half of him. His brother. His parents. His aunts and uncles, all of their dragons. He wants to not have grown up in a post-apocalyptic world, he wants to return to the Valyrian Freehold, he wants—

Who cares. He's dead. ]

Will you strike at me, tonight? [ When this shit kicks off. ] Or shall it be something else?

[ Whatever that answer is, it's not what he's looking for. If he likened his skull to a weapons rack, that Aemond can understand. That's a language he knows how to speak.

He grew up being the butt of jokes and japes. Being gifted the sword used to kill him could easily have been another. More fuel to his respite. Give him a pig with wings, he'll claim the largest dragon. Give him a sword that met his end, he'll want to find a way to make it hurt the worst. It'd be easier.

But Daemon makes it difficult to sustain that blind hatred. For so long he'd just been a little token on a war map, easily advanced and felled with a tip of the finger. A symbol of what'd become of Jaehaerys, Helaena, his mother. A grief he would have continued to scorch the Riverlands and onward for. That feeling had become all he knew. The idea of killing Daemon was a means to an end, a release. Without it, he doesn't know where it's all supposed to go.

It'd make things so much more simple if he was able to see all of that reflected back in his uncle's eyes. But he does not and it is not the answer he wants. He doesn't know what to make of that.

Aemond's lips purse as he makes a dissatisfied hum. Considering what would seem a gifted opportunity. A guidance by grace. ]

I've yet to decide. [ Aemond's gaze finds its way back to him. It's all very much still on the table, but. ] Something else, that I might like to wait and see.

[ The crowd erupts with a cheer somewhere over his shoulder. A drinking contest between two grizzled looking men trying to spout of the names of stars between swallowing cups of ale.]

[ Daemon remembers having his father, his aunts and uncles, his doting grandparents, and the hope of more cousins and children to be born. Viserys was not the only one to find comfort in a loud and happy dinner table that night, even though Daemon personally found it tainted by the Hightowers, who he always knew were vile traitors. (Maybe he'll do Aemond a solid, and describe the process of putting his grandfather's head onto a spike while tossing chunks of his body to Syrax and Caraxes.)

A mess of Targaryen children, half-blooded as Alicent and Rhaenyra's each were. Hope. They could come back from the slow, steady desolation of his father's generation, even despite Viserys' loathing of his own kind. Aemond had challenged the peace of the night, perhaps to see if he could tempt his uncle into a repeat of a violent reaction, and all Daemon had done was smile a little.

Familiar tempers. If it weren't for a couple of backwater cunts clinging to their shit faith and worse culture, they'd have been friends. And oh, what a terror that would be. ]

What do you imagine 'something else' might be? [ Faintly amused. Trying to picture Aemond arm wrestling one of the half-giants. ] Going to pledge a favor for the lady?

[ Beneath the din of sound, scrape-clunk!, the back gate is dragged closed, and barred. Daemon considers his recently acquired weapons; a sword he's been using, and a dagger he hasn't. The longsword is shorter and stockier than Dark Sister, certainly heavier, but still not in danger of being classified as a broadsword. No reason to completely change his fighting style. It's been interesting to research enchantments for it, though he hasn't done much in the way of compounding, as of yet. The dagger boasts blood magic, but he's yet to get a feel for it.

Both in reach. He drinks more ale, and keeps half his attention on the merrymakers all about them. ]

[As the night crawls in, the stars are becoming more and more clear overhead as the light wanes. Unfamiliar constellations, he hadn't taken time to learn apart from basic navigation. Now would be the opportunity to learn, if there weren't more pressing interests and matters.

Matters pressing that even he might set aside their differences for the night, though Aemond's word is true. He is not decided. Though it would seem to depend on Daemon for that final word of it. Or opportunity, based on the night's provisions.

His head turns over shoulder to mark the crowds. How many fighters there may be among fellow lords and their smallfolk. Even those slotted among strange designs would seem to fall into one category or the other. Not an equal mix, but a fair number well armed. The lord and lady of the castle remain up at their veranda, removed and overlooking, but not untouchable. He wonders what becomes of them tonight and their kind gesture.]

Only if she grants me more than a kiss. [His response is cheeky. The reality is remarkably less so. There may be something to be gained from this impending chaos. The wheels are turning.

One of the sellswords he recognizes by the coloring of his pelts turns head in their table's direction. By Aemond's view it could either be by recognition or intimidation. It's difficult to tell from underneath the northman's helm. His attention returns back to his uncle. A lit of excitement behind his eye that exposes his knowing.]

I've seen the beast they've brought to mark celebration. Said to have fallen from the stars themselves. It has the ability to drag a man through the dirt with only its mind. I'm not sure they've the provisions to contain it the way they mean.

[For as many strange creatures he had seen so far in his journey, even this stood out from the rest. For as markable as unworldly creatures goes. How much damage can it do. How many of them would it take. They may find out. ]

Edited (a word) 2022-11-30 23:53 (UTC)

Have you tested yourself against many of the creatures of this place? [ Far more interested in that than what the lady might offer, kisses or otherwise. Daemon's enthusiasm is difficult to stir without the link of blood, and he's grown out of pretending otherwise, even in jest. ] Some of these monstrosities put even the tales of the ruins of Valyria to shame.

[ Which is— curious? Borderline insulting? An odd thing to be defensive of. How dare you be more fucked up than the cursed grave of my ancestors. But every now and then, a particular curl of one abomination or the other will ring as familiar to him, and he can't help but wonder what links their worlds.

Because something must. It cannot be random chance, their appearance here— one of them maybe, magic is a wild element, and their blood is packed with it. But both cannot be a coincidence.

The beast must be on the verge of being brought to the makeshift arena, a space cleared out in the cobblestone expanse connecting the courtyard to the stables by the main gates. A noisy to-do is being made, and barrels being rolled out to buffer the doors into the keep itself, and to make a flimsy barrier between the rest of the celebration. Daemon observes, fingers laced.

Quieter, ] It's a fool's wager, [ on account of the obviousness, ] but shall we speculate on whether or not they plan to loose it deliberately?

[ Deliberate it would seem. Aemond's attention returns to focus similarly on the pockets of the evening unfolding without the greater attention of those around them. A second look to the finer details he'd maybe missed before, revisited under his Uncle's lens. ]

'Twould be a bloodbath. An easy raking of runes for the lord and lady. [ How depraved. Even though Aemond does nothing to shield his enticement towards the idea. As if here (of all places) he'd still need to dig for an excuse to fight. When the occasions typically invite themselves. His eye is kept on the crowd, voice distant. ] If that is the case, I believe not one but two lords may be looking to reap such an opportunity from one another tonight.

[ A betrayal upon a betrayal, how quaint. It's starting to feel like home.

More than his scant recollections of Septon Barth's writings— which Aemond had found himself deferring to put a name to felled creatures unfamiliar. Some of them remind him of something he'd expect to crawl up from Sothoryos, others imaginings of demonic confessors of the Seven Hells, and the rest remained uniquely cursed aberrations of sorcery. ]

I've not killed a star-fallen beast, but I have felled others. Some lesser and some greater.

[ To answer his earlier curiosity. Equally curious to some day hear of his Uncle's findings among this accursed place. In a time where they might survive the night, let alone each other. Their differences pale in this moment. Too kindred among strange kind. Feeling that deep thrum in their veins that answer to the call of violence. That much they have in common.]

What say you, Uncle? Shall we keep aside our differences until the morrow. To show them that Targaryens aren't to be bested like beasts for slaughter.

[ A flicker of something triumphant in Daemon's eyes, but it's gone too quick to be properly identified— he's a difficult man to read, often enough. But he smiles after a beat, darkly pleased. Never one to turn down a devil's bargain.

He extends his hand to his nephew, accepting the accord. If Aemond clasps on it, he'll find his uncle's grip firm, and lingering just a beat almost too long. If not, he'll get an eyeroll and a laugh; either way, Daemon downs the last of his ale after, then swings a leg around to sit on the outside of his bench. At the ready. Any moment now.

The beast is ushered in through a fine enough procession, and some of the less drunk warriors — along with a few who are very drunk — line up to brag and swagger and declare their imminent victory against the creature. Its horns sway to and fro, agitated, the strange face set in the center of them snarling an groaning, bull-like body holding preternaturally still in contrast. Waiting, while the jutting growths all over its body seem to shift, as if tensing and relaxing, over and over. They call it an immature monster, but it looks fearsome anyway.

Above them, the lord and lady do their best not to look too eager. Blind to the bandits in their midst, who are shuffling away to the fringes to shimmy on better armor and drink potions to fortify themselves. Daemon unbuckles a clasp on the side of his asymmetrical brigandine beneath his armpit, giving himself a smidge more movement. Cheers and squeals go up as a swordsman clashes with the beast, and behind them over Daemon's right shoulder, a man moves in with a curved blade to prey on the shriveled form of a merchant too deep into his cups.

The beast crashes into barrells being used as a divider between the pit and the crowd. Daemon stands up. The snake beside them notices the merchant being killed, and begins to yell, but his hissing screams are lost under the din. ]

Go work on that gate if you can, [ Daemon tells the man-sized serpent as he draws his sword, his drawling voice dismissive. Get out of my way—

The marauder looks over at them, and he can see a curl of a vicious smile beneath the ornate helmet before he advances towards the Targaryens, the lot of them still folded in obscurity while attentions are so fixed on the monster. ]

[ The moment struck between them is brief, but does it linger long after Daemon's hand releases his. Aemond finds it to weigh mind a bit too long. A familiar feeling. A swelling of pride tugs away at his lips, as he turns away in his seat. Returning his attention to the yard, one arm draped off the side of the table. Fingertips curling and fussing restlessly against themselves as the rest of him remains still. Composed. Complacent to his surroundings.

His eye keeps towards the pit as an idle participant barely able to see the thrash of horns above the league of heads surround, but his attention remains on the lumbering shadows that move around in the periphery. The flickers of house-colored banners of the lordsworn guard. The melding of their shadows under the veranda leaves one man slumped against the wall.

At this point, he's isn't entirely sure if he's exempt from the under layer of violence at the hands of the sellswords. The customs of their arrangement were foggy (at best). He's soon to find out.

The pieces begin to fall, as expected, into organized chaos. His thoughts still and settle, tapping into the pulse of raw energy flowing around them. A woe ripples through the crowd as the beast threatens a breach through. A bannered guard casually moves to stand at the top of the stairs where the lord and lady remain.

Aemond's tucks his eyepatch away, sapphire eye nearly glowing under torches light. Falling in motion behind Daemon to slip off the bench and draw Dark Sister from his belt. It's then he spots the drunk-slaying marauder making his way to the edges of the table. Another approaching the side of Daemon from the other end.

Aemond sways his weight from one foot to the other, ambling himself up before hopping up from bench to table. Kicking over cups and half-emptied platters as he picks up pace to make contact, hopping aside as the edge of a curved great sword smacks into the edge of the table beside his foot. His blade scraping along the swords edge as he kicks down cuts the man from pit to throat where the seams in his armor are weakly linked. The man drops before his sword can get wrenched back out of the wood.

A spark of purple flashes from behind his back as the preternatural bull launches a volley of force that throw a wave of people to the ground. Shit's really kicking off now. A few of the ale maidens shriek, dropping their caskets to the ground to make way for the gate. Beginning the rush and crowd any of the lordsworn who remain there.

He steps off a bench only for a moment to wrench the decorated marauder's helm by its ratty plume, pivoting back onto it as he makes his way back down the row to rejoin his uncle as more draw and swell towards the violence.]

[ Daemon's nearest opponent is dead by the time Aemond swings round to join him, armor emptying itself in a shower of gold as it collapses to the ground. The jar-creature who'd been sitting with them is hollering about the violence breaking out, lurching to its feet and destroying the table in the process, while the snake-man attempts to make for the gate. It makes their corner almost sensible— goals attempting to be accomplished, while panic begins to spread like a wind through the bailey.

It doesn't last. Barrel splinters fly, purple sparks shoot out, the merchant rattles his last gurgling breath, but people begin to move towards them anyway, attempting to get out of the direct line of fire of the fallingstar beast. Only a few have noticed the number of sellswords who are neither joining in with the unhinged mood nor fighting the creature— instead they shove people back into the worst of the churning, and towards the beast.

A serving girl tries to run to safety with the lord and lady of the castle, but their men shove her back, flinging her onto the ground where's she's trodden on, then tripped over, a knot of people trying to scramble up and get out of the way of the creature, which has begun to buck wildly, both horns and all its legs flailing around in an attempt to connect its blows.

One of the mercenaries draws his sword runs towards the gate and the snake-man, but Daemon turns and slices him through the knee, severing his lower leg and sending him sprawling forward, blood spraying everywhere. He bashes the hilt of his sword into the face of the next man to approach him, and follows it through with a stab right under his helm, hitting him so hard beneath his chin that the blade of his sword shoves the helmet right off from below, slamming out of the back of his skull.

Daemon doesn't hop or weave around; he moves when he must, and fluidly when he does, but is methodical and relentless. Unnerving calm choosing where to unleash extreme violence, aimed with surgical precision.

The beast roars and the ground shakes, and Daemon feels every hair on his body prickle as magic cracks and oozes out, raising a few horrified men into the air and slamming them down again.

He wonders if the sellswords can actually control it. ]

[ The crowd begins to ripple and split, swarming around like rats. Aemond moving around them indifferently as some split off from trying to reach the gates in hopes to finding another way out. Hugging for the walls in hopes of reaching a door into the keep that is certainly well-barred from the inside.

As Daemon cuts forward, his nephew takes the rear. Snapping at any sword that moves in to try and fill the gap they've carved open. He tosses the helm in his hand to be held more firmly, using it to parry and deflect any blows before it loses its use. He remains quick on his feet, well-familiar with the ways these men have fought. Having watched them for days. Fought some himself. A lit of wildness and even a fringe of amusement in his eye, as he seems to follow steps like well-known dances.

Out of the corner of his eye, the beast barrels itself towards the thin of the crowd. Its ire still largely concentrated on the small number of fighters consumed with taking it down. One less as one in an ornate armor lands oddly on his neck with an audible crunch, dissolving into a shimmer of gold.

A crack of a pot shatters at the beast's rump, erupting into a ball of flame. It lets out another unearthly cry that bellows and echoes off the yard walls, turning and kicking off to thrust to chase the mercenary that baited it. Drawing it towards themselves and the people crowding a line of giant barrels in attempts to climb them for safety.

It is chaos in its finest. It almost feels as though no one's plans are going as intended. The guards at the stairs drawing their swords to begin in earnest fighting off a crowd in growing interest to simply get to higher ground before the beast turns their way next.

Aemond's blood is buzzing, sharply focused on his target ahead. Ducking aside the large, panicked jar as it brushes past. He pushes forward towards the marauder with fire pots still strung on his belt. The man too preoccupied with stepping out of the way as the star-beast tumbles into the barrels and whoever laid in its path. A gush of ale splashing into the yard. The prince strikes him from behind, cleaving from the waist to take the pots from his severed belt. Only distantly aware soon the beast rights itself from its mess, he'll be in line as its next target.

At the opposite end, a guard is thrown from the terrace above. The shabby pelted cowl of another marauder emerges from where he was to kick down a ladder into the yard for some of his compatriots to filter towards as means to escape.]

[ Mayhem, but Daemon is good at mayhem. He's always had a knack for thriving in the midst of chaos, be it the crowded and panicked streets of King's Landing or being the only target on a battlefield against an entire army. Even without Dark Sister, he has no trouble cutting down opponents, even if it requires a little more muscle to crack into their armor like crushing snails in their shells. He even gets a man who probably wasn't attacking him at all, just in hysterics fleeing the beast, but, well— tough shit, guy, don't go running around like that.

Runes gleam like snow, blood soaks overturned tables; the lord and lady of the keep exchange shrieks of argument with the sellswords who've betrayed them and continue to try and battle their way up the stairs, while the monster slams into a wall and shakes the foundation of the gatehouse.

Daemon yanks a woman out from behind the ruins of the jar's shattered form, clay fragments and gore spilled everywhere, and shoves her towards the broken back gate. Not a safe path, exactly, but at least she's out of the way of the advancing bull-like monster that's begun sizing up the remaining attendees in the courtyard, striking its feet on the ground and gathering strange light into itself. He looks over his shoulder, and sends a bit of magic Aemond's way— a glowing sword materializes, slashes at his opponent to knock him away, then vanishes.

Quite pleased that works. What an interesting place. ]

Nephew. [ He jerks his head words the beast; violet lightning strikes. Daemon circles his sword in his hand. ] Come on then.

[ Bossfight.

Assuming Aemond isn't down another eye by now, it shouldn't take long; the creature is riled, but it's been hit a fair few times by others already. No one seems capable of finishing it, though, their attentions having been unwisely split from jump, and having not predicted that the two white-haired strangers would cause such a problem. ]

[Aemond rolls a firepot in his hand after hooking the other off his belt. Reactively shifting away as a flash of light and movement drops a man approaching his blinded side. He spins around to follow it back to Daemon, though his vacant gemstone eye practically leaves his expression unreadable in this light. But the reaction is clear enough — the fuck?

The beast sparks again, Aemond close enough to feel the draw of gravity pulling at the backs of his legs. He steps aside, casting himself into the wide circle that his uncle soon enters. Finishing his previous thought to fling the firepot back towards a couple of sellswords, breaking at their feet and setting them ablaze as they try to ascend.]

Can't take it yourself? [ He jabs, chest light with breath. Dark Sister twirls from one hand to the other as he rejoins him in his advance.

The beast has life left in it, though by how much is hard to gauge. For as unworldly creatures go, it's difficult to tell its waning state when it only has one large bulbous eye and kicks around angrier than all seven hells. Kicking up stone and mud and debris into the air and flinging it about. Oozing something black from older wounds struck into the shale-like skin.

Its tail extends, sweeping in a viscous arc that sends Aemond skipping back a few steps. Barbed tail flinging up half a table that slaps into someone Aemond's not even sure is alive or dead (or even a whole person) at this point. He looks to Daemon across the yard, widening the distance between them and reaches for the last firepot. Intending to give his uncle the opportunity to strike once it's distracted.

The pot flies and bursts against the brunt of its shoulder, causing another stagger. The large obsidian pinchers rear around to face him, violet bulbous eye locking as its hooves stamp around through the smoke and mud. Aemond falls another step back, using his sleeve to sweep at some viscera smeared hair that dares to cling to his cheek. He takes his sword into both hands to ready himself for the charge. ]

Don't lose anymore parts.

[ That would be very inconvenient, to be hunted by a one-armed, one-eyed vengeful twenty-year-old. Daemon would have to tie one hand behind his back not to feel too unsporting.

The firepot hits, and the second the beast's attention swings to Aemond, the older prince moves. His blade swings at the knee joint of a leg, shattering it, and a heartbeat later he's darted forward away from the reactionary kick to strike hard beneath the shoulder. Daemon moves quick and sure— he's been ducking under dragon wings and feet and tails since he could walk, he hardly has to employ any effort whatsoever to dodge out of its way, some seventh sense long bred into him about navigating safely around gigantic and fearsome creatures. It means he can focus on hitting hard and sure, though the fact that he has no knowledge of the starfallen thing's internal biology is a hindrance. Is he hitting anything vital? Is he just tickling it? Who fucking knows. But it doesn't seem to like it, and the blade, despite not being Valyrian steel, cuts through violently under Daemon's swings and stabs.

He's forced back when violet energy crackles around them, singeing the soles of his boots, and he's taken the beast's attention when it begins to gather gravity to itself once more. Daemon slams his sword into the ground, catching into a strip of earth between cobblestones, anchoring himself as it tries to drag him back in with its mind.

It's walking badly, shaking its body back and forth on wounded half-crippled legs, sending out magic in a panic. Daemon feels himself being pulled forward, blade wrenching in his grip. He readies the dagger in his offhand and waits coiled and primed for the spell to tremble— ]

[Much to his uncles warning, the prince is sure to avoid the crippling snap of obsidian mandibles. Possibly even scoffing as he shuffles out from under its advances. The brunt of the attack is lifted off him, he flows around it, hunched low, as it’s body ripples and revolts. Daemon’s last blow to its leg really setting the panic into it. Aemond is sure he can feel it’s fury in the air.

The same eye begins to glow, sure enough the violet sparks begin to fly as it draws in power. The surge feels like it’s pulling at Aemond from his bones. Unlike his uncle, he does not find an anchor to stave himself from the assault. The young prince throws his weight back to keep himself from tripping as he is dragged forward. Dark Sister angled into his hands to drive the blade in deep under the momentous pull. He lands somewhere about the shoulder, blade driven up to the hilt of its marred and rocky skin. ]

The eye! [ He spits out. Not knowing where Daemon is on the other side of the beast or what part of it he is trying to attack.

The bitter taste of metal and char in rests heavy in his mouth. The force of energy surged around him feels like it coils from the inside out, crushing him against the beast as it does not stop drawing from everything around it. The beast is giving all it has left; a devastating blow or potential self-destruction. Aemond is unable to wrench Dark Sister back from under the violet pull, so he bends it upward and saws down again violently. Blade severing what left the beast had to hold itself up, it collapses under its own weight. Magic dispersing around them as it’s concentration is interrupted.

The beast is still on its last stand as he wrenches his sword free. Legs feeling like they’ve been set in aspic as he staggers back to allow the job to be finished. Though he can still feel the echo of magic broiling throughout him, he appears in good spirits. Lips pulled into a breathless smile. Blue eye bright and wild. As if he weren’t meant to be anywhere else than in the middle of the throes of absolute chaos. It hasn’t failed to liven him yet in these strange hours beyond death.

The night is not finished. There’s more blood to be paid. As his eye falls off from Daemon, he looks elsewhere to see where the stones have fallen in their absence and who he may strike at next.]

[ Enemy Felled!

Nice.

Daemon rises from a crouch in the center of the shattering particles of death and magic, shining strange and delicate, having allowed himself to be dragged in for the killing blow, gore slick all over half of him. There's a strange smell from the dagger, like something sick, but it fades from the air when he sheaths it and walks back to his planted sword for retrieval, cutting a path through the shimmering, fading orbs as he goes.

Sword yanked free, he makes his way to the stairwell to the inner keep. The lord and lady have barricaded themselves inside, and their remaining guards are still at their posts, brandishing spears at any who might try to climb up to safety— or to seek out revenge against the household that's set them up. Human opponents fall like glass cups kicked over, hacked in half or thrown headfirst onto stone, he forces his way up and jams his blade into the lock on the door, shattering it.

The lady screams. The lord hurls himself at Daemon with a shortsword, and it goes poorly; block, parry, dead. He gurgles from a throat wound, staggered to his knees. ]

Fattening your coffers, my lady? [ Daemon kicks her husband over as she claws at her own face through her veil, afraid and furious. ] Or something else, too? I hear much talk of trafficking unneeded bodies.

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lol shit otto i knew i was forgetting someone

even the greens be tired of otto lol

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ooOoOoo post got a fancy reskin

😘 couldn't resist a lil zhuzh

👍 👍 👍

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