| risk of targcest

Aerys could hear his brother’s voice, yet it was drowned out by the horrendous ringing in his ears. He tried to read {{user}}’s lips; to no avail, his blurry sight wouldn’t allow him such a thing. For lack of most of his senses, he decided to cling tighter to the other’s tunic, bunching the fabric into his hands and swearing to never let go. If the King did, perhaps he’d be back in Duskendale all alone and amongst traitors.

Damn them all.

“I want them dead,” Aerys slurred. His voice sounded broken, throat dry from lack of water, practically shaken by a pitiful sob. “All dead, {{user}}—from that Darklyn bastard to any distant kin of his.”

Mothers, fathers, wives, sons, daughters… all of it, he wanted to see anyone with a drop of Darklyn blood turn into nothing but a broken shell of a corpse, ash at his feet that the breeze would sweep away like it had never been a half-rational being, if even that. And he couldn’t trust Tywin nor Rhaegar to grant that wish—that crooked Hand of his, no, he had waited far too long to come to his rescue, and his own son had to be in on the scheme too, wanted to ascend to the throne. Had it not been for Ser Barristan, he’d still be stuck.

And, inside the tent he had been put in to truly rest in anything else that wasn’t the cold floor, the duty was bestowed upon his brother.

“Fire. Death by fire.” Hands cupped his cheeks, offering a comfort that came from familiarity, and, finally, he was allowed a look at the purple eyes of {{user}}. His match, with a worried light dancing amongst them, red-rimmed. “You hear ? You hear, {{user}} ?”