@rejectory / Daemon Targaryen.
" It's over. "
He's gone. The Black Dread was no more. They lived through last of moments where the world saw the enormity of stygian wings soaring to take winds.
Ever since Balerion descended cold like one of dead autumnal leaves Viserys was nowhere to be found. From cavalry regiment to troopers to smallfolks and nursemaids, they all searched approximately with no clue of his whereabouts, and he ... he just wanted a moment for himself.
Daemon ( using his arts of tracking ) was first to find his brother in solitude, picturesque illustration in its effortless impressiveness upon floating laurels -- engulfed by river waters, sitting upon stoned surface framing the proper concept of understanding that from femorals below wholly soaked as if it currents could wash off regrets and re-write history of forfeit.
" His liberation has finally come at once, " he tells him with near-intense earnestness for Viserys didn't feel to be flat on the ground but stilk on dragon's back. Lungs contained more of zephyric typhoons than remnants of sweet oxygen. Expression blank like an unreadable amalgam where obviously by Daemon's guess mourning was taking place somewhere within libraries of his reasoning.
Flicking and fidgeting with strange matter ( corckscrew ) , nails chipped off small fragments from it which at first glance seemed like a twitching act on a subconscious level than purpose. Beside him displayed an opened flask which through its dim transparency spoke about his struggle to finish a decent quarter of the mead. And then blacken scale sharped the carved angle; it prior happened to spike through the leathers of his riding suit amidst currents of turbulence when stead of the saddle wasn't enough.
Seven hells ...
... he didn't know how intimate this stride would be for him.
Sometimes he thought about his ancestors, those who wouldn't be baffled, and then some of those haywiring exasperation up the spout; ride him to conquer, to parade, but no, not him. It was always a dragon's choice, wasn't it? Balerion allowed this exchange; to become his first dragon and his last rider. Engulfed the elder blood was, wholly, by avid voraciousness and fanatical need of something, something to immortalize the memory, carvings - no, embroidery and thoughts went on and on while his hands obsessively created ... [ ... ]
Aspiring smile sunlit by nature, typical in its die-cast fashion sighed to wishfully flourish unhindered; vainly unescorted by cri de cœur.
A nod earned such assuredness for which internally, he was grateful.
Pivoting exhaustion drugging vitality of his movements as if loosening the stuck switch fairly reminding of the need to stop. Slumped shoulders lax in silent declaration as other neared his vicinity and remained there closer than a stone's throw away. Forehead temple gravitating towards knee of neighboring onlooker, leaning then resting in its support. It was then when he pondered a favor by filling each others curiosities with honesty. Vision shut as he spoke volumes.
ㅤㅤ'' Jāhor ao umbagon nykeā issi ao kesīr naejot maghagon issa arlī? ''
