Blood-painted kisses | Aemond Targaryen x female!OC | Chapter 7 ❝The Edge of the Storm❞
☽➛ Summary: Nothing satietes Maehrys Velaryon's hunger as well as revenge. Growing up at the Red Keep as the bastard of Rhaenyra Targaryen did not come trouble-free. Her childhood consisted of bitter words and repulsive looks from nearly everybody in the castle. As she grew older, Maehrys grew meaner. Once the Velaryons return to King's Landing to defend Luke's claim as Lord of Driftmark, Maehrys decides that it is time for the people who hurt her in the past to pay.
☽➛ Warnings: swearing, bullying, mentions of blood, overall 18+!!!!
☽➛ Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x female!OC ( enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers again?? romance is a subplot)
Masterlist
As Cannibal approaches Dragonstone, two figures and their dragons stand waiting before the castle gates: my mother, Rhaenyra, and Daemon. Their dragons, Syrax, and Caraxes, cast long shadows in the early dawn light. An anxious knot tightens in my stomach as Cannibal lands, a bit too close for comfort. The unpredictable nature of my dragon, combined with the uncertain reactions of the other dragons and my family, fills me with worry. Cannibal remains a mystery to me—a wild and terrifying creature.
Sliding off his wing is easier than my first attempt, though the ground beneath my feet reminds me of my recent trials; the pain of nearly dying three times in one night still lingers in my bones. As the first rays of dawn break, I keep my eyes on Cannibal, not daring to turn my back on him. His wings fold against his sides, their dark colour seemingly absorbing the morning light. I notice the shreds on his wings, similar to Vhagar’s, and I wonder how he got them. Does Cannibal fight other dragons when he gets hungry? I thought he fed on dead dragon’s carcasses and unhatched eggs. His head moves from left to right, studying the other dragons in silence. His horns, like two sharp towers of obsidian, stick out from his head.
"Maehrys," my mother's voice calls, making me finally face my family.
"The Cannibal, the wild beast," Daemon says, as Cannibal growls, shaking the ground beneath us. "Well done, Princess."
"How?" my mother asks, her tone a mix of curiosity and concern.
"It's a rather disturbing story," I admit, exhaustion weighing me down. "Don't congratulate me, your Grace. Cannibal claimed me." I meet Daemon's eyes as I speak.
Rhaenyra and Daemon share a worried look, while Syrax, my mother’s dragon, stares at the fierce dragon now under my control. From afar, Caraxes screeches, and Cannibal growls again. I wonder if they like each other.
"Alisha told me you left in the middle of the night with the iron chest that held your dragon eggs," my mother steps closer, her voice tinged with worry. "Did they hatch?" she asks.
"Yes," I reply, the truth stark and painful. "But Cannibal was starving."
"You fed your hatchlings to him?" Daemon, pointing towards the beast behind me and I cannot decipher the look on his face; shocked, disturbed, impressed?
"Look at him! Does Your Grace think I had a choice?" I snap, my patience wearing thin. Striding towards the castle entrance, I add, "I brought you a war dragon, Mother." With a final pat on her shoulder, I continue on my way, the weight of my night's ordeal pressing heavily upon me.
A gust of wind sweeps across my skin as Cannibal's massive wings beat powerfully, propelling him into the sky. I turn, my eyes following his dark silhouette as he ascends, disappearing behind the thick clouds. My mother and Daemon stand below, their gazes fixed on the heavens, watching the wild dragon vanish.
As I make my way up to my chamber, a heavy fog of guilt settles over my mind, seeping into every corner of my thoughts. A few nights ago, my mother made fateful decisions: she sent Jace to Winterfell to secure an alliance with Lord Cregan Stark and dispatched Luke to Storm’s End as a messenger. She chose them because they had dragons—trusted, bonded dragons. My stomach churns, and my body feels weighed down by regret. If only I had acted faster, if only Cannibal had found me sooner... I could have been the one to go. I should have been the one at Storm’s End, not Luke. The thought gnaws at me, a relentless torment.
Each step feels heavier than the last as I climb towards my chamber. The guilt is a tangible presence, pressing down on my shoulders, making every movement a struggle. My mind replays the events endlessly—my hesitation, the lost moments, the chance I failed to seize. I see Luke’s eager face, his determination, his trust in me as his elder sibling. The image of him flying off into the stormy sky haunts me, a constant reminder of my failure.
I should have fucking killed Aemond when I had the chance.
Suddenly, another memory crashes into my consciousness, striking like a dagger to the heart—Aemond's kisses, searing and forbidden. The taste of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the intensity of his gaze—all flash before my eyes with startling clarity. My heart skips a beat, and a shiver runs down my spine. The forbidden nature of our secret moments, the betrayal they represent, weighs heavily on my soul. The guilt is almost too much to bear, a relentless, crushing force.
I reach my chamber and close the door behind me, leaning against it as if to keep the world at bay. Helplessness creeps into my heart, a dark, insidious presence that saps my strength. The room is cold and dim, the first light of dawn casting long shadows that dance across the walls. I move to the window, staring out at the vast expanse of sky where Cannibal vanished. The horizon is tinged with the pinks and golds of sunrise, a stark contrast to the turmoil within me.
I clasp my hands together, fingers trembling. The weight of my choices, the burden of my inaction, presses down on me. I am at the mercy of my guilt, a prisoner of my own making. The dawn breaks, but for me, the darkness remains.
Later, I am awakened by Alisha’s gentle voice. I only got to sleep just a little bit, as I look out the window and notice the sun has barely begun to set.
“Your mother has asked to join her at the council table.” She announces. Dazed and confused, I leave my comfortable bed.
I get ready quite swiftly with her help, and when I am seated at my vanity mirror, Alisha is braiding my hair.
“I saw your dragon fly by this afternoon.” Alisha speaks. “He is quite the beast.”
“He is.” I affirm, looking at myself in the mirror, heavy bags rest under my eyes.
“I heard whispers that he ate your hatchlings.” She adds.
“He did.” I affirm again and I look at Alisha through the mirror’s reflection. She looks happy, and I try to smile, but my heart aches too much.
I can sense that she wants me to share the good news, but I cannot. My mind is troubled by the events that happened yesterday with Aemond, and my heart still aches for my brother. I feel isolated.
The council chamber is dimly lit, the flickering flames from the hearth casting long, shifting shadows across the stone walls. The air is thick with the scent of burning wood and tension. At the head of the table, my mother sits, regal and composed, the weight of her crown apparent in the solemnity of her gaze. Beside her, Rhaenys, Corlys, and Daemon, their expressions guarded, watch me with varying degrees of interest and suspicion. The other lords and council members are seated around them, faces I have seen countless times but whose names I’ve never bothered to remember. Their eyes are all on me, their scrutiny palpable.
I am seated at the far end of the table, feeling the distance between us both physically and metaphorically. The table, heavy and imposing, feels like a chasm separating me from their trust. The fire beneath the table offers little warmth, and I am acutely aware of every breath, every heartbeat, as I await their judgment.
“You have tamed the Cannibal,” Ser Robert Quince speaks, breaking the silence. His voice is calm, measured, but there is a hint of disbelief in his tone. I recognize him—he is the castellan of Dragonstone, the man who knows more about dragons than anyone else in this room.
“I did not,” I correct him, my voice steady despite the turmoil within. The words taste bitter on my tongue, a reminder of the blood I have spilled.
“The princess fed her three hatchlings to the Cannibal,” Daemon interjects, his tone laced with a mix of approval and something darker, something that makes my skin crawl.
A murmur ripples through the room, a mixture of shock and disgust. I feel their judgment in every whispered word, every sideways glance.
“Your Grace, if you don’t mind, I would like to hear the princess’ story,” Ser Quince says, his voice cutting through the murmurs as he shifts his gaze from Daemon to me. His eyes are piercing, demanding honesty, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of respect for the man.
All eyes turn to me, and the weight of their expectations settles on my shoulders like a physical burden. The pressure is suffocating, the need to explain myself, to justify the horrors I have committed, gnaws at my insides. The silence stretches, each second an eternity. Panic flares in my chest, and I instinctively look to my mother, seeking reassurance in her calm demeanour. Her gaze meets mine, and though she gives nothing away, I can see the faintest flicker of concern in her eyes. It’s enough to keep me anchored, to prevent the rising tide of anxiety from sweeping me away.
But as I prepare to speak, the weight of last night’s actions presses down on me, a suffocating reminder of what I have done. The kiss I shared with my uncle, the life-threatening fight we had, the regret in Aemond’s eyes—it all comes rushing back, threatening to overwhelm me.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, to find the words that might make them understand. But as I look around the room, at the faces waiting for my confession, I realize that no explanation will ever be enough. They want to hear about my dragon, but they will never truly grasp the choices I had to make, the sacrifices I had to endure.
Still, I must try.
"My decision to feed the hatchlings to Cannibal was not one made lightly," I begin, my voice trembling slightly but growing stronger with each word. The truth is, I did not mean to kiss the kin slayer. It’s what I wanted to say, what I needed to confess. "It was a choice born out of necessity, of survival. Cannibal is not a dragon that can be tamed by ordinary means." My words are measured, careful, each one a shield against the turmoil inside me. I did not understand why I reciprocated the kiss. "He is a beast of wrath and hunger, and to control him, I had to show him my strength, my willingness to do whatever it takes. The hatchlings... they were a sacrifice, a necessary evil to secure Cannibal's loyalty." I do not know why I liked his lips on mine so much, and why the taste of Aemond lingers in my mind.
As I speak, the memory of that kiss, fiery and desperate, rises unbidden. It was a moment of weakness, of raw emotion, and yet it consumes me. Just as I had to face the darkness within to master Cannibal, I had to confront the storm that raged between Aemond and me. The kiss was not planned, not wanted—at least not consciously—but in the heat of the moment, it felt inevitable, like two forces colliding with devastating intensity.
But just as with the dragon, I was drawn into that fire, helpless to resist its pull. I remember the way his hands gripped me, not in violence, but in a twisted kind of need. The way our lips met with an urgency that felt like drowning and breathing at once. It was wrong, it was madness, and yet...
My voice wavers as I finish my explanation, the words catching in my throat as the memory of Aemond’s kiss lingers like a wound. “The hatchlings were a necessary evil,” I repeat, more to myself than anyone else, as if saying it aloud could absolve me of both sins—the sacrifice and the kiss.
But deep down, I know that no amount of justification can cleanse me of the fire that still burns in my veins, ignited by his touch. And as the council murmurs in response to my words, I realize that I cannot dwell on this now. There are greater battles ahead, and the luxury of guilt is not one I can afford.
“So,” Rhaenys begins with a wry smile, “What are we going to feed him? Dragons?” Her jest cuts through the tension in the room, drawing a few quiet laughs. Even my mother, her heart heavy with grief, manages a faint smile, though it’s a fragile mask over her pain.
I watch her, trying to understand how she copes with loss, how she carries the weight of grief and still stands tall. I don’t even know how to cope with the loss of my brother, and the thought of losing a child as young as Luke is unimaginable.
“The better question is…” One of the lords begins, his voice hesitant but determined. “When are we going to send the Cannibal to slay Vhagar?” His words hang in the air like a challenge, and I see my mother’s composure crack as she violently shakes her head.
“We shall not. I shall not,” she declares, her voice rising, betraying the storm of emotions she battles to keep in check.
“The Cannibal is the strongest weapon we have,” the lord presses, his audacity surprising me. Where does he find the nerve to speak to his Queen with such boldness?
“I shall not send my daughter to such a cruel fate. The Cannibal is a wild dragon, not a war dragon,” Rhaenyra replies, her voice laced with a mother’s fierce protectiveness.
“If I may, your Grace,” Robert Quince intervenes, his tone more measured. “We can train Cannibal, and the Princess. He is wild, yes, but he is also ancient. I do not doubt that he has experience in combat, and we could make use of him. As a last resort.”
My mother’s gaze shifts to me, her eyes mirroring the same panic and anxiety I felt earlier. She wants me to say no, to refuse this path of danger and vengeance. She is terrified of losing another child to the Greens’ cruelty. But as I recall the petrified look on Aemond’s face last night, the memory of Cannibal’s arrival fills me with a dark satisfaction. The fear in Aemond’s eyes, the shock—it was intoxicating, a rush of power I’ve never felt before.
“I will need a very large saddle,” I finally say, breaking the silence. My mother’s head shakes again, disbelief and dread mingling in her expression.
“Meeting adjourned,” she sighs, her voice heavy with defeat.
As the council members begin to disperse, I remain seated, lost in thought. The decision I’ve made feels like a step toward something irreversible, a path that will either lead to my revenge or my downfall. The room clears out, leaving only the crackling fire and the echoes of our discussion. Daemon and Rhaenyra remain seated as well, starting a fiery exchange of whispers, about me and my dragon, no doubt.
Just as I rise to leave, the chamber doors swing open, and Alisha rushes in, her face pale and drawn. She kneels before my mother, clutching a sealed letter in her trembling hands.
“Your Grace,” she says, breathless, “it’s for you, from King’s Landing.” She turns to me and hands me the letter.
My mind starts to wonder in many different directions. Has Alicent decided to request a betrothal between Aemond and I? Does she have that kind of courage, especially now when he has slain my brother? Has she written to apologize?
With shaking hands, I open the letter and hold my breath.
“To My Niece, Maehrys,
Do you remember when we first met? How quickly we became enemies?
Writing to you feels like a betrayal of everything I stand for, yet I cannot silence the thoughts that have plagued me since last night. It sickens me to admit that you’ve found a place in my mind—a place you have no right to occupy, and yet, you do. I hate that I’m writing to you. I hate even more that I feel compelled to.
You are the villain in my story, Maehrys. Your bastard bloodline is the reason for this war, the reason for all this death and suffering. I should despise you entirely, and I do. But it’s not that simple, is it? Because despite the hatred that courses through my veins whenever I think of your family, there’s something else—something I can’t quite shake, no matter how hard I try.
And yet, despite every ounce of hatred I hold for you, I cannot banish the memory of those moments from my mind. It enrages me, this pull I feel toward you, this vile attraction that defies all reason. How dare you invade my thoughts, twist my desires, and make me question everything I have sworn to uphold? You are nothing but a traitor’s spawn, a tool of our enemies, and yet… yet you haunt me like a curse.
I hate that I feel this way, Maehrys. I hate that I’m torn between my duty to my family, and this twisted connection between us. I’ve been taught my entire life to see you and yours as the enemy, to destroy anything that threatens the Greens. And yet, when I think of you, I’m filled with a conflict I never anticipated.
You are everything I should loathe—a symbol of the war, of the bloodshed, of everything that has been torn apart. But you are also something else, something I can’t quite define. And that infuriates me. I want to hate you entirely. I want to see you as nothing more than the daughter of the woman who seeks to take what is rightfully ours. But there’s a part of me, buried deep, that can’t let go of what we shared, however brief, however wrong it was.
I don’t know what to make of this, Maehrys. I don’t know how to reconcile these feelings with the man I’ve always believed myself to be. But I do know this: I will not let these emotions cloud my judgment. My loyalty is to my family, to my cause, and I will not waver in that. But as much as I want to forget, I can’t. You’ve left your mark on me, and I despise you for it as much as I despise myself.
This war will end, one way or another. When that time comes, I don’t know where we’ll stand, or what will be left of these feelings. But for now, I’m caught between hatred and something I can’t name—a pull toward you that defies everything I’ve been taught, everything I’ve believed.
If we meet again, I won’t know whether to strike you down or to… I don’t even know. But until then, I’ll keep fighting this war, and the war within myself, knowing that both may tear me apart.
Yours in ways I cannot fully understand,
Aemond”
My heartbeat quickens as I finish reading the letter, a surge of emotions crashing over me like a tidal wave. My chest feels tight, my breath shallow, and I suddenly feel lightheaded. How dare I invade his thoughts? How dare he kiss me? How dare he send me this letter, setting my heart and brain at war with one another? How dare he make my soul twitch and convulse in this unbearable way?
"Your Grace," Alisha's voice cuts through my turmoil, making me jump. I look up from the letter, startled, and find her eyes locked onto mine, filled with worry. The world around me seems to blur as I try to steady my racing thoughts.
"Did you read this?" I whisper, my voice trembling with the hope that my words haven’t reached my mother’s ears. Panic tightens its grip on me, squeezing my chest until I feel I might break under the pressure.
"You kissed Aemond?" Alisha’s whisper is sharp, laced with accusation. The weight of her words sends a chill down my spine.
My eyes widen in horror as I meet her gaze. Panic floods my body, a cold sweat breaking out on my skin. Her expression hardens, shifting from concern to judgment, and I can’t bear the intensity of her stare. Shame crashes into me like a wave, pulling me under, and I quickly avert my gaze, my heart pounding painfully in my chest.
"You are dismissed for today," I say swiftly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Take tomorrow off too." Alisha huffs in response, leaving with a scoff that echoes in my ears like a slap. The sound of the council chamber doors slamming shut behind her reverberates through the room, amplifying the silence that follows. I can’t bring myself to look at my mother and Daemon, the weight of their unspoken questions pressing down on me like a boulder.
"Jace is flying back on the morrow," my mother’s voice finally breaks the silence, mercifully not mentioning the letter. "He will aid you in your dragon training, I think."
Grateful for the reprieve, I quickly shove the letter into my leg grater, next to my dagger. The cold steel against my thigh is a reminder of the choices I’ve made, the path I’m on. "Will he arrive with good news?" I ask, desperate to focus on anything other than the storm raging inside me.
"I hope so," she replies, and I finally gather the courage to meet her gaze. Her eyes are soft, filled with a pain that mirrors my own. "We will hold Lucerys’ funeral tomorrow."
"Very well," I say, standing abruptly, eager to escape the suffocating tension in the room.
"I love you, Maehrys," my mother’s voice trembles, the words heavy with emotion.
"I love you too," I reply, my voice thick with unshed tears. I sniff, fighting to keep my composure, and then turn on my heel, fleeing the council chamber before my resolve crumbles.
As I walk away from the council chamber, the echo of the heavy doors closing behind me feels like a sentence sealing my fate. The letter tucked against my thigh feels like a secret flame, burning with intensity I can barely contain. My steps quicken as I make my way through the winding corridors of Dragonstone, my mind a whirlwind of confusion, anger, and something far darker.
The distant roar of Cannibal pulls me from my thoughts, a sound that sends a shiver down my spine. He is out there, somewhere in the skies, a beast of legend—untameable, unpredictable, and now bound to me through blood and fire. I should feel victorious, perhaps even proud, but instead, all I feel is the weight of everything I have lost and everything I stand to lose. Lucerys, my sweet, innocent brother, gone to the whims of fate and the cruelty of war. And now this—whatever this is between Aemond and me, a poisonous thread weaving through the fabric of our destinies.
I take the stone steps two at a time, desperate to reach the solitude of my chambers. The halls blur around me as the ache in my chest grows sharper with each passing moment. When I finally reach my room, I slam the door shut behind me, leaning against it as I try to steady my breathing. The walls feel too close, the air too thin. Every breath is a struggle.
I pace the length of the room, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. His words churn in my mind, a poison I can't seem to rid myself of. Every breath I take feels like I'm drawing in the remnants of his presence, that arrogant smirk, the way he looms in my thoughts as though he's burrowed his way into the very fabric of my soul. I should be planning my next move, strategizing how to bring him down—but instead, I'm fixated on him.
In between these thoughts, I close my eyes, willing the chaotic storm inside me to calm, but the memory of his letter lingers, as does the ghost of his kiss. I hate him. I should hate him. And yet, I can’t deny the twisted thrill that courses through me when I think of him—the way his eye darkened with something more than hatred, the way our lips met like a clash of swords.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t just want to strike him down—I want to understand him. And I loathe myself for it.
I pull the crumpled letter from my pocket for what must be the hundredth time. The edges are worn now, the ink slightly smudged from where my fingers have repeatedly traced the words. As I unfold it, my eyes scan the lines, searching for something I’ve missed, some hidden meaning or lie, some trick meant to twist the knife deeper into my back. But it remains maddeningly the same—an enigma wrapped in promises and contradictions.
Do you remember when we first met? How quickly we became enemies? the letter begins.
Of course, I remember. How could I not? It was a dark time, our shared childhood at the Red Keep. It was a dance of hatred from the start, a venomous game of wills. But now, he dares to speak of it as if it were something else—as if it were the beginning of some dark, twisted connection. His words speak of regret, of a bond that transcends our enmity, but I can’t help but doubt every line, every sentiment. Does he mean any of it? Or is this just another one of his manipulations, another way to get under my skin?
I want to throw the letter into the fire, to watch it burn and erase his words from my mind. But I cannot. I hold on to it, my fingers tightening around the paper as I try to make sense of the torrent of emotions swirling within me. The letter speaks of things unsaid; things left between the lines. It’s not just an apology, not just an admission of our shared darkness—it’s an invitation. An invitation to what, though, I don’t know.
Am I supposed to believe him? Am I supposed to care?
I shake my head, forcing myself to remain detached, to keep a clear head. But it’s impossible. Every time I look at his words, I feel the confusion creeping in, the uncertainty of whether I’m reading them with a clear mind or through the lens of the feelings I refuse to acknowledge. It’s as though there’s a part of me that wants to believe him, wants to understand him, even though I know I shouldn’t.
And that scares me more than anything else.
I toss the letter onto the table, unable to stomach reading it any longer. Yet even as it lies there, taunting me with its presence, I can’t deny the pull it has on me. I can’t stop thinking about him. About the kiss that still lingers on my lips like a curse, about the look in his eyes when he spoke those final words.
There’s a part of me that wants to hate him completely, that wants to purge him from my thoughts entirely. But then there’s another part, the part that thrills at the game we play, the part that doesn’t just want to destroy him—it wants to unravel him.
And I despise myself for it.
I let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through my hair. This should be simple. He’s my enemy. He’s always been my enemy. But nothing feels simple anymore.
And the worst part is, I’m not sure if I want it to be.
With a frustrated groan, I push away from the door and stalk toward the window. The sun has almost set, casting long shadows across the room. The sky is tinged with deep purples and reds, and somewhere out there, Cannibal is prowling the skies, a living reminder of the line I have crossed.
I turn towards the table and reach for the letter once again. The parchment feels heavy in my hands, and I scan Aemond’s words again, each line a dagger to my heart. How dare you invade my thoughts? he had written. I shake my head bitterly, wondering the same. How could he think I wouldn’t?
Tearing my gaze away from the letter, I fold it carefully and place it back into its hiding place, where it feels safer, buried next to the cold steel. No one can know. Not my mother. Not Daemon. Not even Jace.
A loud knock at the door startles me. I turn, gripping the back of a chair as though I can anchor myself to something solid. The door creaks open, and a familiar figure steps inside.
Daemon. His silver hair gleams in the dim light of the room, and his expression is unreadable—calm, but there’s always something lurking beneath the surface with him. He closes the door behind him softly and regards me with narrowed eyes.
“What troubles you, Maehrys?” His voice is low, probing.
I shake my head, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Nothing I can’t handle, Your Grace.”
He doesn’t seem convinced, stepping closer. His gaze sharpens, scanning my face, searching for the cracks in my facade. I stiffen under his scrutiny.
“Don’t lie to me,” he says, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. “I see the storm in your eyes. You’re battling something, and I want to know what.”
For a long moment, I say nothing, my mind racing with all the things I cannot say. I glance toward the window, the dying light of day casting a long shadow between us. “This war,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “It demands more of us than we were ever prepared to give.”
His eyes darken at my words, and he crosses the room to stand beside me, gazing out at the horizon. “War is a cruel master,” he says. “It twists us into shapes we no longer recognize. It demands sacrifices.”
I close my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat. “And if those sacrifices leave us hollow inside? What then?”
Daemon’s hand falls on my shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort from a man who so rarely gives it. His voice softens, though there is an edge of steel beneath. “Then we fight on, Maehrys. We use that hollow place as fuel. We make it burn.”
I nod, though his words do little to soothe the turmoil inside me. As Daemon turns to leave, I catch sight of his reflection in the mirror—he is still a warrior, still a man who thrives in the fire of battle. I wonder if I am the same. Or if I am something else entirely.
When the door closes behind him, I let out a long breath, the tension in my body easing just slightly. The letter still presses against my skin, a silent reminder of the choices I have made and the ones I am yet to face.
Tomorrow, Luke will be laid to rest. And after that? Cannibal and I will face the skies again. The weight of vengeance presses heavily on my chest, a promise yet to be fulfilled.
And somewhere, in the distance, Aemond waits—whether for battle or for something else entirely, I cannot say.
But soon, I will find out.
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