holyposition | IC Inbox

[ tim said to ask, didn't he? ]

Come see me.

I was strangled almost the death, and I'm the one being summoned?

Then tell me where you are. I'll come instead.

I'm going over notes in my room.

Unlock the door.

[ why is he so threatening all the time? likely because the chances of fingers being pointed to him again is high, having given threat to paul atreides loud and clear in a room of witnesses. partly also because the only other family he has here that he might have some kindness for has been killed for doing what was just and fair.

mainly because he doesn't know how to express worry in any way that isn't soft or gentle or sweet, and tim is sworn to his blood. blood of his blood, fire from flame.

when aemond strides into tim's room, he's wasting no time in setting the man's notes aside and pulling tim away for inspection. ]

[ He's got some bumps and scrapes, but the most obvious is the red welt that goes around his entire neck like a collar. Tomorrow it'll be purple. Tim submits to Aemond's inspection, pulling his shirt collar out of the way as need be. ]

Thanks for coming to see me.

[ His speech and breathing are both scratchy and labored. ]

Mhm. Don't speak.

[ his fingers are uncharacteristically gentle, pressing at the tenderness of the livid bruise around tim's neck. nothing feels broken so far, but— ]

You must alert someone if you feel some lightness to your head or extremities. Some injuries only make themselves known once your body forgets its fear.

Swallowing will be difficult for a while. Take off your shirt.

[ He winces slightly at the touch, the mark on his neck still tender where Aemond touches him. It's softer than the way he was handled the other day, and Tim notices, likes to think it's because he took his words to heart then, instead of just pity.

As requested, he keeps quiet and pulls his shirt off. Some more bruises and scrapes on his back and shoulders sustained as he was dragged, a deeper one on his chest that's been bandaged up already, taped into his chest hair. ]

[ chest hair. it feels truly stupid to find himself drawn to the sight of it, knowing many men have it — but rare is the targaryen who is hirsute. even daemon keeps his face clean, and aemond's own father only kept the most polite of beards for a short period, before sickness made grooming immaterial.

either way. aemond traces the drag marks and the cuts, imagines the paths that were taken to cause them. gravel cuts, perhaps; most do not look like finger scrapes. ]

You should shave. Hair gets into the cut, it could cause an infection. [ his fingers linger over the cut on tim's chest, pressing down on the bandage. ] You likely know that.

Well, you're not dying. You can put your shirt back on.

I don't need to shave, we were careful.

[ Tim notes the capital-L Looking, but leaves it be, too worn out to tease. ]

I need to find who did this.

Whoever attacked you will likely try again. You could just wait for them to come to you.

[ aemond even helps with the shirt, if it's giving tim some trouble. see, he can be helpful. ]

Put some distance between yourself and the hurt. The cold of vengeance provides clarity.

[ He sighs, puts his arms up, letting Aemond help him. His bedside manner could be better, but it's the thought that counts. He'll remember. ]

I want him caught. Not strung up on the grounds.

You would reward him for his daring? The jail cells are likely better furnished and safer. The house wants us to strike back.

[ he could be wrong; he's handling tim like he's handling his sister's children, which is that he's oddly careful so that their small and fragile limbs don't snap off in his grip. tim isn't a small child of four, but he's also currently injured. he's not in pain now; his blood is up enough that it shields his mind from it.

but later — later, the full brunt of his injuries will creep in, and they will be harder to ignore. ]

The fewer players there are to mind, the faster this game will end.

Alia's guilt was confirmed because we voted for her. If you--

[ He coughs, and reaches for a glass of water he has on his bedside. The adrenaline is starting to wear, the soreness setting in. ]

If you take it into your own hands, we'll never know for sure.

You can know for certain and still kill your attacker. The gods gave you hands to take your justice if you need it.

[ aemond is no help with the water, but he does offer a steadying hand when tim starts to drink, just so the glass doesn't tip over and spill water all over the man. if aemond seems weirdly adept at handling a person like an invalid — well, sometimes his mother's not around to mind their father.

(and sometimes, he wonders what it would take for viserys to trip over himself and break his own neck.) ]

Some people deserve to die, Tim Laughlin.

I don't believe that.

[ As firm as he can be, with his voice shot from the strangulation. Tim takes the hand that's offered to him, grasping firm, pleading. ]

Alia wasn't in control of it. Whoever came for me probably wasn't, either. Your anger ought to be with the house.

Should I be mad at the Iron Throne as well, given how it takes from the realm as it pleases? The house does as it does for reasons that have nothing to do with us. That is the game we're truly playing.

[ he doesn't shake off tim's hand, but the responding grip he gives tim is— not gentle at all. ]

We either win or we die. You would rather die, then?

Maybe you should be.

[ Yanking his hand back. Excuse him if he's sensitive to rough handling for a while. ]

The game has rules, we can win it without becoming wolves ourselves. You will not kill my attacker.

[ If it were done for his sake, it would be as bad as Tim killing them himself. He couldn't live with the guilt, not when this game is temporary but death is not. ]

No.

[ what a lovely word, that. how succinct of a refusal it is. ]

You said I deserve to have a say in what is done to me. That to share my will with another is to build trust. But you would command me to stay my hand? Do as you preach, but not as you act?

I will not kill without reason. That is as far as I'll allow.

So do I!

[ He coughs, a heaving fit that makes his throat burn, everything from his chest to the crown of his head. ]

I was the victim. It should be my word.

You are not the only victim or casualty to the game. You're not dead. Take it as the victory that it is.

[ regardless of what love is absent in him for rhaenyra and jacaerys, their deaths should have been by his hand. and that baela was killed — he would have spared her, out of respect for her skills and her grandmother's memory.

but he nonetheless places a soothing hand to the back of tim's neck, soothing the tenseness out with small, firm touches. ]

You do not have sole claim to rage, in this. Sleep for a few hours at least.

I know that. But the one who attacked me? He lives. Give me this one thing. Please.

[ It feels like a sacrifice, not demanding the same for them all. But he's too exhausted to fight every battle, not just physically, but mentally, spiritually. If he laid down to sleep, he's not sure he would even be able to, with all the possibilities and fears running through his head, about the wrong choices he's made, and the ones he'll continue to make.

If he's alone, he thinks, he'll panic. Aemond's talent for soothing him would, perhaps, be outshined by other potential company, but it's meaningful that he's making the attempt, rubbing out tense muscles. Tim leans forward, against him, head on his shoulder. ]

I kept the belt. Maybe some magic can be done on it.

Edited 2024-10-13 04:08 (UTC)

I won't strike to kill. If he lives, he lives. [ he's trying here. he can't promise to spare a life when he's never seen any value in keeping enemies alive. ] Do not press any further, Tim. I won't argue with you when you're injured.

[ manners demand he not pick a fight with the injured, much as he would not give a care otherwise. his mother would judge him harshly for the shameless behaviour. that's his reason, if anyone asks. ]

May I see the belt? Before you let the idiot witches touch it?

...fine.

[ He's not so pure to insist that he doesn't deserve a smack. Well, for Aemond it's probably a stab, but again - picking his battles. ]

It's there, on the table by the bed...and they're not all idiots.

Edited 2024-10-13 04:18 (UTC)

That is true, I suppose. Pierce Strickland has more sense in a thimble than most. More by miles compared to that... Who was the fool one? He was rightfully attacked for his idiocy. A lot of the accusations have been that way, these imbeciles.

[ it's a fine belt, when aemond finds it. the leather is sturdy but aged, and the notches have seen a lot of wear. DW is imprinted on the inverse, along the length of it. ]

You have seen the initials on the belt?

text — un: aemond_

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