#daemon.

I am not a headmate, I am not an alter. I am a daytrip soulbond. I can do things seperate from Pawn & Company (We both go by Daemon, this is just what I will refer to her as for now).

I haven't seen many soulbonder yumes talk about experiences. But then again I'm new to the community.

Anyway I'm tired of typing take this and go

No doubt.

Isn’t she embarrassed, in the face of that old Royce idiot’s name. Into her ear and from behind, eye cast about, he croons:

❛Is there anything your father taught you well?❜

The Valemen are slow, uncultured pigs in the art of the hunt, tracking filth wherever they stomp. They had him take one for a wife, but admittedly, she’s more sense in her than any of her drunken simpletons.

He’s not seen one banner.

Crooked as her arm is, she jerks. Is she trying to, what, strike him? Good. He was getting bored.

Daemon tut-tut-tuts. The last clasp on her breastplate hangs untouched and the rest loose around her middle. Where Daemon has her by the gauntlet, he tips her elbow up just so. De-armouring her will wait until she gathers her wits, few as they appear to be.

❛Now, I can can set it right,❜ her shoulder, that is, which he now introduces to a nightmarish angle, ❛or I can make it worse.❜

An ambush is only an ambush if you allow it to be, and Royce is no fighter. She can cut and not much else. He killed four of those cunts and the fifth one, well—he would have bled out hours prior under Daemon’s express care.

If inclined to take revenge and point his fellow cunts in their direction, he should have. Though Daemon has seen many a time what a challenge it is to speak with the tongue carved out at the root, through a hole of blood.

The rains have made the close-treed eve wet. His chin is sore up to his mouth from a hilt’s smack. A tongue for a scratch, as the poets spin.

More will come in the night. Daemon encourages them to; Dark Sister is very, very thirsty.

trying really really hard to be normal about House of the Dragon.

≺   𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩  𝘰𝘧  𝘢  𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦  𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵  𝘤𝘢𝘯  𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯  𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯  𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰  𝘢  𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵  𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮 .   𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯  𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵  𝘰𝘧  𝘢  𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦  𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱  𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩  𝘵𝘰  𝘤𝘶𝘵  𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴  𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮  𝘢  𝘮𝘢𝘯’𝘴  𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 .   𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴  𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥  𝘵𝘰  𝘨𝘦𝘵  𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘺 .   𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭  𝘰𝘧  𝘰𝘭𝘥  𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴  𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥  𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳  𝘢  𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨  𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 ,   𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩  𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴  𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵  𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴  𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵  𝘢𝘳𝘦  𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳  𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 .   ≻   

raise  your  goblets !   perhaps  you  haven’t  noticed ,   but  𝙷𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙸𝙺 𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁 ,   the   𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶  of   𝚆𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙰  is  coming  this  way !   closely  followed  by  their  daemon ,   𝙰𝙼𝙾𝚁𝚈 ,   who  settled  as  a  𝙻𝙰𝚁𝙶𝙴 𝙿𝙾𝙻𝙰𝚁 𝙱𝙴𝙰𝚁 .   tensions  are  pretty  high ,   considering  that  the  𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈 𝙴𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃  year  old  is  wandering  through  the  streets  of  wisteria .   i’m  sure  they  mean  no  harm  since  they’re  very  𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙴𝚁𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴   +   𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙸𝙻𝙸𝙴𝙽𝚃 ,   despite  coming  across  as  rather  𝙿𝙷𝙻𝙴𝙶𝙼𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙲   +   𝙰𝙲𝙴𝚁𝙱𝙸𝙲 .

By all means. Just yesterday Daemon was ridden and his cock shrinks at the thought of her having at it.

He scarcely keeps it secret that he resents freely and shortly. Anyone is welcome to it. Though Rhea Royce—“lady”—is a glutton.

Not one protest to marrying a Targaryen. She must’ve thought herself satisfactory. How truly magnificent for her.

Controlled, slow-stepped, he mounts Caraxes’ raw-red side.

❛Do something about the stench of horseshit while you’re at it.❜

Or she’ll die alone as well. Die, and dine.

𝙳𝚊𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗.

Spoken loudly enough for not a single soul in the room to miss it—to Daemon but addressed elsewhere.

Low. Lower.

To Cole. Many congratulations are in order, for appeasing once again the dirt that would have had her disowned.

Rhaenyra’s hand weaves a spiderweb over Daemon’s knuckles. There. They are now both flirting with the waist of his dagger; with each other’s proximity under Viserys’ nose. Cole’s eyes do their best not to swell out of his empty skull.

She’s saving Cole’s life and his reputation both. Bleeding out through his mouth is no knightly death, is it.

It’s the weakest he’s seen her yet. They are no longer touching.

❛Ser Cristal,❜ Daemon’s fingers snap, ❛seems fatigued. You,❜ a servant without a face, name or land, ❛see to it that the coals in his chambers burn hot, as well as the memory of who made him.❜