#How Very Strange

[aceswinter]

How Very Strange.

Psst! Read me!!

This fic includes the following: Gore, Mentions of Suicide, Hallucinations, Bad Coping Mechanisms, Aemarr is his own warning, Mentions/Allusions of Insanity, Aemarr is a Freak, Derealization, Dissociation, Dissociative Fugue, an Unreliable Narrator(Aemarr), Prosopagnosia and Phonagnosia, War, Religious Trauma, Allusions to Sex, Eventual Smut, Hearing Voices, Cousin Incest, Canon Typical Targaryens, Vaemond, Death Mentions of Bastardy, Daeron is a bit more of a reliable narrator, and General Mad Behavior and Thoughts.

(The court scene belongs to HBO, I didn't write it I just added a few lines to better suit the story I'm trying to tell😓)

If any of these make you uncomfortable or trigger you, please do not read! You are responsible for the media you consume.

(Middle image in title card by couisszz on Twitter)

He stepped foot into the Red Keep with everyone else, quickly breaking off and carrying his trunk to his assigned Chambers, wondering how close to the boy without a face he was. Not that it mattered, he wound find the room. He would find the boy.

He set his trunk onto his bed and began to unpack, tossing the four outfits aside and putting the shoes by the wardrobe. He put his throwing knives into the draw by the bed.

Staring at his now empty trunk, his chest began to heave. Where was his Kiseru? He began to frantically look through the empty trunk, then his shoes, then the clothes. Finding: nothing.

Where was it?!

Where had it gone?!

He remembered packing it!

He swore he packed it!

Aemarr panted, coughing harshly and stumbling back onto a chaise. He cradled his head in his hands, letting tears stream from his eyes, ruin his makeup.

He gasped at a spider crawling up his leg, scrambling back and knocking over the chaise in his madness to get away from the figment of his imagination.

"Burn it!"

"Kill it!"

"Where is the pipe?!"

"Smoke! Smoke! Smoke!"

"Die! Die! Die!"

The whispers demanded so many different things from him.

Aemarr crumbled onto the bed, pushing the trunk off. He shrieked, feeling hands grasping at his ankles and wrists, entrails around his throat and blood spilling from the ceiling.

He lay on his elbows, staring up at top of the canopy, eyes wide and spilling tears. His mouth hung open, drool dribbling past his painted lips.

Make it stop, make it stop! Aemarr pleaded with his mind, to nothing. Nobody heard his pleas, nobody cared.

"Craven."

"What a pussy!"

"Crying over nothing!"

"The wars to come will tear you pieces!"

Now they were mocking him. Laughing at his terror. He was distressed and the whispers were mocking.

He fell back, his head falling off the edge of the mattress, spotting his pipe, on the floor, with his makeup container and brush. He...Packed them? When did he do that? He did not remember packing anything but his knives, shoes and clothes.

Was he contradicting himself, again?

How strange.

He pushed himself off the bed, or rather fell, landing on the floor with an unceremonious thump but, he didn't care. He needed to smoke.

He needed a high.

He grabbed his pipe and looked around for something to light the bowl with, finding a thin candle the servants in the Keep used to light the candles at the start of each day before the sun rose.

He grabbed the candle and held the wick above another flame, lighting it and using the now lit candle to light the finely shredded tobacco.

Placed his ruined painted lips to the lip and sucked in a long drag, sighing out the smoke in a sense of relief. He flicked out the candle and tossed it somewhere before dragging himself to the chaise, picking it up with his free hand before falling into it.

Sweet relief.

He took a longer drag as he laid back, exhaling the smoke as the hand holding the Kiseru fell out to the side, his grip on the pipe delicate, allowing it to teeter but not fall and light the fine carpet on fire.

Aemarr didn't know how long he laid there, smoking until the bowl was empty and his lungs full. He just laid there, watching as people came and went, he was sure he fell asleep at least once because he saw the boy sitting on the bed but when he looked again, nobody was there.

How very strange.

How boring more like.

Two days until the Court would be called, two days until he could finally learn the name of that Angel Boy.

Two.

Days.

He didn't have nearly enough tobacco for two days.

"Oh, poor little Dragon. Out of tobacco already!"

A voice mocked. He had long started to call this particular voice, Maegor, for how cruel it was.

Was it normal to name the whispers in your head? No.

He didn't care though.

Aemarr always did as he wanted, never followed the norms of society, never fit into the mould he was meant to. He was no Lord of Runestone. No, he was a blacksmith, a trader in the arts, a poet, a singer, a muse, a dancer, a Dragon rider. He was Lord of nothing; Lord of the whispers that demanded Blood for Vhagar, Lord of the hands that held him down, Lord of all things insane. Lord of Nothing.

How strange he was.

How very strange.

Yet the two days passed without little incident from Aemarr, he mostly crowed to his Chambers and fiddled with whatever metal puzzle Daemon had brought from Flea Bottom that particular day, ignoring all the hallucinations that ruined his mind.

Daeron

Daeron had only come to KingsLanding to see his Family, how did he get roped into a succession crisis about the Driftwood Throne. He found this formal wear itchy, and far too big for him, Aemond was taller than he was, why did he have to wear Aemond's clothes instead of Aegon's, or perhaps get a tailor to make a new set of clothes two days ago?

Regardless, Daeron turned to the doors as the Blacks arrived, paying keen attention to the names and titles called out.

"Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne."

"Her Royal Consort, Prince Daemon Targaryen."

"Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, her son and Heir."

"Prince Lucerys Velaryon, Heir to Driftmark, the Droftwood Throne and future Lord of the Tides."

If Lucerys was the settled Heir why was Court called in the first place?

"Lady Rhaena Targaryen."

"Princess Rhaenys Targaryen."

"Lady Baela Targaryen."

"Prince Aemarr Targaryen, Lord of Runestone."

When Daeron heard that, his eyes narrowed. Aemarr was said to be...Oh, Oh, by the Mother.

Aemarr looked beautiful.

Daeron felt something fluttering in his chest as Aemarr walked past him, their eyes meeting for a second. Sky blue meeting faded violet.

And for once, Daeron tuned out the world around him, in favor of admiring the supposedly Maddest Targaryen of their Generation.

Aemarr did not look mad, sure his expression was dead and he looked as if he may bite someone's head off, but he did not look insane.

He looked...Miserable? Daeron had never dealt with someone who was seemingly miserable, yet he felt drawn to Aemarr. With that look of 'I don't want to be here', the way his hands rested on the pommel of his sword much like Daemon, the black and red dress with drahon embroidery on the collar, the Visenya war braid, the makeup, those earrings; Gods, Daeron wanted to worship him.

How could someone so beautiful be as Mad as everyone said? Daeron only saw someone who didn't like crowds and that was it. He acted like the average Targaryen, maybe a little more twitchy but so was Daemon.

He wondered what it was like in Aemarr's head. Yet he only wondered for so long before Court began.

Otto climbed up the steps to the Iron Throne and turned, addressing the Court:

"Though it is the great hope of the Court, that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds, we gather here with the grim task, of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As Hand I speak with the Kings voice on this, and all other matters."

Before he seated himself on the Iron Throne. Daeron wanted to scoff at the action.

"The Crown will now hear the petitions. Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon," Otto called.

Varmond stepped forward, glaring at Rhaenyra. "My Queen, my Lord Hand," he greeted first. "The history of our noble Houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms, go the days of Valyria of Old. For as long as House Targaryen has the skies, House Velaryon had ruled the seas."

Vaemond placed his hands behind his back, and Daeron watched Aemarr's eyes snap to attention, gripping the handle of his sword in response. Daeron raised an eyebrow.

"When the Doom fell on Valyria, our Houses became the last of their kind. Our forebears came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name," Vaemond spoke, casting a nasty glare at Aemarr.

"I have spent my entire life on Driftmark, defending my Brother's seat. I am Lord Clorys' closest kin, his own blood," Vaemond boldly declared, Daeron scoffed, rolling his eyes.

Men like that did not deserve the Valyrian blood in their veins.

"The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins," Vaemind stated, nodding his head firmly at Grandfather. "As it does in my sons, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon," Rhaenyra spoke up, everyone snapping to look at her.

Daeron noted her hands crossed over her bump, and her unimpressed look, how she refused to meet Vaemond's eye.

"If you cared so much about your House's blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant it's rightful heir," The Princess declared, meeting Vaemond eye. "No, you only speak for yourself and you're own ambition."

"You'll have chance to make your own petition, Princess. Do the courtesy of allow his to be heard, first," Mother interrupted, her voice scornful.

Vaemond turned to look at Rhaenyra,  victoriously. "What do you know kf Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still could not tell the difference."

"Vaemond. Mind yourself, you still speak to the Heir," Rhaenyra scoffed, tilting her head back.

"This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours," Vaemond reminded right back. "My Queen, my Lord Hand. This is a matter of blood, not ambition," he turned back to the Throne. "I place the continuation of my House, and my Line, above all."

He said it like that was something to be proud of! Daeron rolled his eyes yet again.

"I humbly put myself before you, as my Brother's successor. The Lord of Driftmark and the Lord of the Tides." Vaemond nodded.

"Thank you, Ser Vaemond," Otto said, simply. Vaemond nodded again and turned to Rhaenyra, looking smug, before returning to the sidelines.

"Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Prince Lucerys Velaryon," Grandfather stated. Rhaenyra curled her lip and strode to the middle of the room, crossing her hands under her bump this time.

"If I am to grace this farce with some answer, I will start by reminding the Court that nearly twenty years ago, in this very..." Rhaenyra was cut off by the doors opening unexpectedly.

Daeron and everyone else turned to look, hearing the Kingsguard call out: "King Viserys of House Targaryen, First of his Name! King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protecter of the Realm!"

Daeron looked equally as shocked as everyone else, yet noticed that Aemarr looked as if he expected this, looking just as bored as a few moments ago, staring at Daeron like he wanted to eat Daeron for supper.

Daeron stepped back as his Father approached the Throne, and Otto descended. "I will sit the Throne today," the King wheezed. "Your Grace," Grandfather responded, pale looking.

"I must...Admit my confusion," Viserys declared as he sat on the throne. Daeron heard Aemarr exhale slowly as Daemon came to stand near him again, suddenly paying attention, instead of staring at Daeron with half-lidded eyes.

"I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession," Father, his wheezy voice making Daeron feel sick as if he could already smell his rotted teeth.

"The only one present...Who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys's wishes...Is the Princess Rhaenys," Viserys sighed out, his chest heaving with every breath.

"Indeed, Your Grace," Rhaenys said before she stepped into the middle of the Throne room.

"It was ever my husband's will that Driftmark, pass through Ser Laenor," Rhaenys declared before adding: "To his true born son. Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him"

Rhaenyra looked at Rhaenys almost in awe as the Princess continued: "As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys's granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which, I heartily agree."

"Well...The matter is settled...Again," Viserys groaned. "I hear by reaffirm, Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon, as heir to DriftMark, the DriftWood Throne and the next Lord of the Tides," The King sighed, heaving with every words.

Rhaenys smirked at Rhaenyra and Lucerys before stepping back into her place next to Baela.

Aemarr huffed with amusement and smirked at Daeron before turning and, nodding in congratulations at Lucerys. Glaring at Vaemond who began to speak, what a swift swapping of emotions.

"You break law, and centuries of tradition," Vaemond growled, stepping into the middle of the Throne hall. "To install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me who dares to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it."

"'Alow it'? Do not forget yourself, Vaemond," Viserys groaned, as everyone visibly tensed at the Kings change in tone, even Daeron tensed.

"That is no true Velaryon, and certainly no nephew of mine!" Vaemond shouted, turning and pointing at Lucerys.

"Go to your chambers," Rhaenyra told Lucerys, pushing him behind her. "You have said enough," the Heir told Vaemond.

"Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you...Are no more than the second son of Driftmark," Viserys groaned out.

"You may run your house as you see fit...But you will not decide the future of mine!" Vaemond hissed. "My house survived the Doom! And a thousand tribulations besides! And gods be damned I will not see it ended on the account of this..."

Daemon's expression darkened as Vaemond begun to speak his mouth twisted into a small scowl. His fingers moved to wrap around the grip of Dark Sister as he took half a step forward, taking in Viserys' response.

"Say it," Daemon challenged, his eyes remaining locked on the Lord.

"Her children are bastards!!" Vaemond shouted, shaking with anger like an old angry chihuahua. "And she is a whore."

"I..." Viserys began, shakily standing up and drawing the Cat's Paw Dagger. "Will have your tongue for that."

Daemon stepped behind Vaemond and swung Dark Sister, splitting Vaemond's head open horizontally. "He can keep his tongue," he scoffed.

Daeron exhaled and close his eyes, keeping his back straight as he swallowed heavily, trying not to breathe in the scent of the metallic blood. Refusing to look at the sight.

"Disarm him!" Otto shouted as Daemon wiped off his sword, responding with a hint of attitude: "No need."

Viserys sat back down, groaning in pain. Mother gasped and ran up the steps to him: "Call the Maesters!" The Queen Consort shouted. "Father?" Rhaenyra called.

"Please, my love. You must take something for the pain," Alicent said as she helped Viserys up. Daeron gagged slightly, knowing she would get his stink all over her nice dress.

"I will not cloud my mind. I must put things right," the King groaned as the Queen Consort helped him up and into the arms of his King's Guard and the Maester. Leaving everyone stood in the Throne Room.

Daeron stood with his siblings, before hearing Aemarr hum, then leave the room. Daeron felt a pull to follow him, but he remained.

How very strange that Daeron was drawn to Aemarr just upon seeing him.

[the-owl-tree]

thank fuck for this change to making it more explicitly cinderpelt's choice to be a medcat while also pointing out it wouldn't be impossible for her to be a warrior. it always was her choice, mind you, but a proper conversation between the two is appreciated.

really hoping that the tnp graphic novel team doesn't fumble this by keeping in that stupid crush retcon.

[chell-min]

well, i just assumed...

[shootyrefutey]

my blorbo from 2015

[razzafrazzle]

I think that I've only drawn Ford like. 3 times in my entire life. so here's some Fordsy (and some Fiddsy. and a Bill I guess)

[image description: a page of drawings of ford, mcgucket, and bill cipher from gravity falls. near the top are two portraits of ford, one in the gravity falls style and the other in a more realistic style. next to that is a simple doodle of ford and mcgucket smiling and embracing with the caption "old man yaoi!" beneath them. in the bottom left is a simple drawing of a younger ford, and next to that is a drawing of bill with a speech bubble saying "i'm here too! also i'm hatless for spacing reasons". next to that is bill's hat, as well as mcgucket in an orange and brown 70s-style outfit and a braided beard, and he is sitting on the ground, lost in thought. end id]

[technically-human]

You know I had to

[cosmosnout]

The real reason Oda had to get rid of her was not for plot convenience, but bc she would have kicked everyone’s ass. (Source: trust me bro)

[northstarscowboyhat]

Peepaw Starlo struggles. Autism 2 autism communication struggles.

[multiversal-pudding]

A fun Danny Phantom idea:

One of those “mediums tormented by the fact they can’t turn Off the ability to see ghosts” types moves to Amity, and for the most part, it’s great! Like yeah maybe there’s still ghosts everywhere, but now they can react normally, because finally for once in their life everyone else sees the ghosts too. Granted, judging from what everyone else says it sounds like they’re seeing significantly tamer humanoid proper-manifestations than the near-incomprehensible masses of emotion, spectral energy, and whatever that particular spirit’s associated with they’re used to seeing, but eh- between how jaded they are to seeing stuff like that after all these years and the fact that in practice the response of “GTFO” tends to be applicable regardless of whether you’re dealing with a poltergheist in overalls who likes hucking boxes at people, a giant robot guy who’s yelling about world domination, or reality breaking fever dream vomit, it’s not too big a deal

…There’s just ooooone little problem

Which is that when people look at the Fenton’s youngest kid and when people see local town hero/cryptid The Phantom, clearly everyone ELSE is seeing two different people/entities, but in their case, all they see is the same wild plasma-lightning living tear in reality either way, and they’re afraid if they mix the two “identities” up they’re either A) gonna fuck up some poor kid’s life/put him and those around him in danger, B) piss off a very powerful spirit whose repeatedly proven why that’s a very bad idea, or C) both-

(Bonus points if it’s some completely mundane guy like Ted the Bus Driver/ the county deputy in training/ some poor janitor who’d be reasonably expected to come in contact with either one fairly frequently-)

[aceswinter]

How very Strange.

Psst! Read me!!

This fic includes the following: Gore, Mentions of Suicide, Hallucinations, Bad Coping Mechanisms(not this chapter), Aemarr is his own warning, Mentions/Allusions of Insanity, Aemarr is a Freak, Derealization, Dissociation, Dissociative Fugue, an Unreliable Narrator(Aemarr), Prosopagnosia and Phonagnosia, War, Religious Trauma, Allusions to Sex, Eventual Smut, Hearing Voices, Cousin Incest, Canon Typical Targaryens, and General Mad Behavior and Thoughts.

If any of these make you uncomfortable or trigger you, please do not read! You are responsible for the media you consume.

(Middle image in title card by couisszz on Twitter)

Rhaenyra = King/Mother

Daemon = Rook/Father

Rhaenys = Queen

Corlys = Bishop 1

Jacaerys = Knight 1

Lucerys = Pawn 1

Joffrey = Pawn 2

Baela = Bishop 2

Rhaena = Pawn 3

Aegon III = Pawn 4

Viserys II = Pawn 5

Finally, onto the writing itself.

It was always so strange.

How he could go from a blissful dreamless sleep into a nightmare that would make his body shudder within his own bed.

Everyone wanted to be a Dreamer until they actually dreamt what he did. They always spoke to him about how they wished their dreams of Dragons would come true, how they wished they could ride a Dragon like they did within their false dreams; but they always ran away when he spoke about the gore he dreamt of.

That's what he was surrounded by now. Blood that lapped at his ankles, entrails that were wrapped around his throat, eyeballs that spilled from his mouth and corpses lining his peripheral vision; another Dream of the War he knew was coming. Yet he was still frightened.

It was always so strange.

A gasp was forced from his throat as he found himself pulled from the Dream and back within his Chambers, the horn above his door swaying gently with the wind as he gasped for his next breath. He jolted hearing a knock on his door.

"Prince Aemarr? It is time to wake up." A Serving girl.

Aemarr blinked, feeling the sweat drip from his forehead while he stared at the palms of his trembling hands.

Right. Today was the day that the Blacks would be called to KingsLanding; the day he would meet the man from his Dreams that would frighten away the whispers that told him to burn it all to ash in the wind.

Aemarr groaned when the girl knocked again. "Begone with you! I am awake!" He snapped, unknowingly snapping at the girl for nothing; he had imagined the sound.

He forced himself from his bed, almost getting tangled in the curtains. He sighed and pulled a random blue wrap around gown from his trunk, wrapping his over himself and tying it shut, being sure to adjust the shoulders in his vanity mirror before begrudgingly brushing his snow-silver locks.

"At least I think I'm awake," He mumbled to himself once his hair was plaited and pulled from his face. He took the lid off the dish that held his makeup and bent over, carefully painting on the tear-droplets on his cheeks and filling in his top lip, popping his lips together to give the bottom a red tint before painting in the centre.

Oh, how he hated the look of himself.

The more he stared at the reflection in the mirror, the less real it seemed.

How strange was that? He would always silently wonder to himself whenever he saw his reflection as he passed in the Dragonstone hallways. When did he leave his room? When did he put shoes on?

How very strange indeed.

Aemarr hated the Dining Hall. It was too loud, too many people, too many smells, too many textures at once. He could not stand it at all.

Yet on the outside, he seemed his most composed self, stone faced with unfocused eyes that spoke too many horrors for the simple minded blurry faces at the table to understand.

He quietly sat down next to his Father, at least he thought it was his Father. Medium platinum blonde hair, soft aquiline nose, blurry face. It looked like his Father, so that's who Aemarr was calling him.

His face scrunched up seeing the food, it was all touching and the playe was metal and not ceramic. It made his skin crawl, but he ate it in silence, not engaging in the muffled conversation at the table.

"How fun would it be to push over one of the lamps?"

"Yes! Yes! See if it lights the polish on fire!"

"Fire! Fire!"

Oh, joy. The whispers had returned with a new passion for fire, again. How very boring.

"No fire," Aemarr would scold himself, making the Knight with brown hair, glare at him and aggressive gesture in his direction.

He growled and put his eyes down, stupid Strong. What did he know of how Aemarr suffered? The Knight was a sheltered baby and Aemarr...

What was He, again?

He placed his cutlery down, deciding to trace the rim of his chalice of wine. He hated wine, so he wouldn't drink it. But he was tempted to tip it over, if just to see what happened. Yes, that could be fun.

"Aemarr," Father called, muffled, and Aemarr turned to look. Daemon(probably), held up cutlery and tapped on it, signaling Aemarr to keep eating.

"Kessa, Kepa," He groaned 'Yes, Father.'  He had meant to say. Oh well; looking back at his plate and picking up his knife and fork. He stared at the entrails on his plate for cutting into it, finding that it was just pork sausage.

How very strange.

His mind was playing tricks on him again, it seemed. Annoying.

He quietly ate, while the world around him drifted into madness, blood dripping from the ceiling, eyeballs in the walls.

"Help us!"

"Save our Souls, Mother Above!"

"Ring the Bells!"

"We surrendered!"

"Dragon!!"

The whispers screamed in his ears, ringing through his skull, making his hands trembling and his bottom lip quiver.

He could not stand the wailing! He could not bare it a second longer! He thought he would sooner - a gasp.

There was a gentle hand on his shoulder. He followed the hand and saw Rhaena attached to it.

"Are you well, Brother?" She asked him, ever so softly, as if he were one of her kittens.

Oh, sweet Sister. He was never well. Not even a little.

Aemarr hesitated before nodding. "I did not sleep well; my back," he poorly excused himself. Unclenching his hands from his cutlery and setting it down.

Rhaena did not buy it. Nobody bought it. He knew this, but quietly kept that to himself. He knew that no word from his mouth was believable to them. To them, he was a False Prophet a Septon that spouted nonsensical statements with naught but the saying 'the Crone told me' to back him.

How very strange; to never be believed.

"I think..." Aemarr hesitated again, trying to find the words that best matched what he wanted to say. "I think, I'll be going to my forge, for now," he finished as he stood up.

Nobody cared.

He shuddered to think that soon he would meet him. Aemarr moaned at the thought as he stepped down into the Dragonmont. His hand over his mouth, he licked his fingers, his expression one of a whore being paid all too well to please a Targaryen King.

Aemarr craved that boy. Yearned. He needed to have that boy in his arms. To hold him. To be held by him. Gods, Aemarr thought he would simply melt at just the thought alone.

Oh, to be cradled by hands he did not even know.

That, was truly something strange, indeed.

Aemarr shivered as he stepped into the Dragon Mont, Viserion already waiting for him by the platform. And once his eyes locked with Viserion's molten gold ones, the world went silent.

Finally.

Finally, the whispers shut up. He felt like he could breathe again. No more demands for fire, for death, for the demand to wring the Knight's throat until his eyes popped.

It was quiet.

And Aemarr was okay with that.

He stepped up to Viserion, climbing up onto one spike and grabbing another, being sure his grip was tight. He didn't fancy falling from thirty yards up.

Viserion grumbled and turned away from the platform, moving deeper into the Mont under he climbed into the third den on the left hand side. He let Aemarr jump off before bowing and placing his massive maw in the hole in the wall.

Aemarr trotted down the steps into his forge, undoing the top half of his gown and pushing it down and out the way. He grabbed a pair of gloves from the wall and an ore from the wall and thus began his endless cycle of making Valyrian Steel swords to decorate his Chambers.

He always would lie and say 'I think they're pretty and it's not like they're sharp,' whenever someone asked why he hung swords for decoration along side his paintings, thread tapestries and sculptures.

He would keep to himself that the swords made him feel a sense of security. Like, if the whispers saw the swords they would leave him alone.

Naturally, it never worked, but Aemarr was nothing if not Daemon's son.

With each pound of the hammer upon the steel, each quench that made him sweat even more, each blast of fire from Viserion - Aemarr felt the hours tick by, one by one.

Until.

Viserion bellowed and turned his head to the entrance of his den, flames already lighting up his jaws.

"Lykirī," a familiar voice said. Father.

Daemon only peaked into the forge and commanded: "Pack up and saddle up; We're going to KingsLanding."

Aemarr chuckled dryly and set his hammer down, wiping the sweat from his brow. Finally, the hour had come. It was time to pack and leave.

Time to set off to see his love for the first time.

Aemarr licked his painted lips, his eyes falling half-lidded as he thought about the boy from his Dreams, his blushing only hidden by his birthmarks and the flush from the heat of the forge.

"Kessa, Kepa..." he chuckled darkly, his voice a threatening rumble in his chest as his mind shifted to how the KingsLanding Court would react to his return. 'Yes, Father...' he hadn't meant to say this time.

One moment he was in his forge, the next he was in his Chambers. When did that happen?

He shrugged it off and grabbed his travel trunk from under his bed, pulling it up and placing it upon the mattress, flicking it open the first thing he packed into the compartment on the lid were his throwing daggers, twenty would do.

Shoes

Shins

Thighs

Hips

Wrists

All doubled.

He hummed lightly and turned on his heel, crouching down and scanning his shoes, choosing the three, no, four with the best heel and storing them away at the bottom of the trunk.

He packed four outfits accordingly, to match his shoes. He was also sure to pack his brush, comb, hair oil, and perfume.

One could never be too vain when it came to ones Court appearances. One must always look ones best!

He changed into his riding gear, all while ignoring the eyeballs in the walls and the blood lapping at his feet, the hands grabbing his ankles and trying to rune out the screaming for help. He tried to focus on putting on his greaves instead, struggling yet managing eventually.

Who's idea was it to put straps on the back of the leg, anyway?

Aemarr hesitated before grabbed his Valyrian Steel Sword, Thorn. Tossing her over his shoulder and closing his trunk. He grabbed the handle and began towards the Dragon Mont again.

"Fly!"

"You could run away now."

"No one would notice that you left."

"Fire."

"Burn them all!"

"Fire! Fire!"

Aemarr ignored the whispers, walking across Viserion's wing bone to the saddle and strapping the trunk in, deciding to keep Thorn on his person. To keep him safer.

Viserion rumbled as he climbed to the edge of the cave, flinging himself off and catching himself on his massive wings before hitting the ocean.

The Midnight Sun roared as he passed the King's ship. The gold and cream dragon was loud and terrifying, his roar a broken mix of cackles and shrieks sounding like he was constantly being interrupted.

The sound made Aemarr's heart swell.

How very strange, indeed.

[thursdaysyme]

what if i wrote a de-age fic but it's morgana trying to kill arthur and she messed up the spell somehow so now instead of a dead king she looks down at her five-year-old brother standing in the dirt

Morgana: what the fuck why are you so small

Arthur, sneering with gap teeth: why are you so dirty? forget bath time?

Morgana: oh my god i don't think i can go through this again

[moon-mirage]

Did anyone expect me to just ignore the latest Daima episode? 🫧🫧🫧

[humbuns]

pillar

[evercelle]

2024 art summary! it sure has been a year

[the-meme-monarch]

funny streamers i like have been 'playing' kingdom hearts union x and I haven't finished the vod yet but they're on some cinderella quests and i was overcome with Man I Should Watch Cinderella Again. i remember watching that movie all the time as a kid having such strong feelings about it (i am not paying for it as I watch it now)(I own the dvd)(am I watching it on the dvd? that's a secret I'll never tell) and I was having a good time before suddenly it ruined it bc I forgot and was reminded how they just made a cat evil for no reason. maybe the strong feelings were i hated it