[ Vhagar shares not just Aemond's wrath but his other emotions too and the way he moans softly into the deepened kiss, burying his fingers in Daemon's hair, is echoed by a lowing rumble as she crunches her way through bones. Both happy with what they have in their mouths, yes. They all really do look like they have been through their own private war, hair wild and soot from embers smeared here and there, Vhagar bloodied from her messy meal ... probably enough to cause some alarm when they return. Good. He likes making a minor scene for tongues to wag about them.
Aemond nips at Daemon's lip before drawing away, soft kisses dropped on a neck where he cranes around to nuzzle. He could have him here, amongst the ashes. His blood runs hot enough for it even if it's a bad idea, so he merely gives him a taste of that persistent hunger by curbing it to making-out in the saddle, petting Daemon's hair and thigh. ]
It might look better if you returned astride Caraxes, [ reluctantly keeping his wits about him while playfully biting over a pulse, Aemond hums, ] so they don't think I wanted you all to myself for more than ... flight training?
[ Primal, and ancient— he thinks even the Valyrians of old had lost the fire to indulge like this, having grown so complacent with their magic and their slave states and their great highways to use dragons as vehicles to move trade and cargo. They called House Targaryen a family of little note, living old-fashioned and more closely interbred than was the standard in the Freehold, but they had it correct.
Anyone who lost this deserves their doom. (They mustn't lose it again, they're fools, capitulating to the fucking Seven, mingling their blood, chaining their dragons.)
He makes an indulgent sound against his nephew's mouth before they part, and finds places to nose at. ]
You don't need flight training. [ He rubs the base of Aemond's skull, gently finding tension. ] Tell them the truth, we went hunting because they were both so restless.
[ He relaxes his neck into the touch, eye closing briefly as he bites a little too hard for half a second. Just a tiny bruise, right under Daemon's jaw. Is that allowed? Aemond kisses it better a moment later; restless is a good word for him. ]
Thank you ... for coming away with me.
[ It means something to have a clean slice of Daemon to himself, as much as it's mostly an illusion that will shatter once home and a bevvy of bodies surround him again, his own family like a wall that Aemond can't (and won't) approach. These few hours are worth more than their minutes in gold. ]
[ Mmn, it feels nice, but that's definitely a little sus. Daemon doesn't protest, though, merely keeps touching him. Rhaenyra is distracted of late (and not yet possessed by paranoid jealousy like she someday will be), she may not notice at all. No doubt he's got other little nicks and bruises about his person from debris, at this stage.
Just a tiny memento, for a short while. ]
Thank you for inviting me, [ he murmurs against Aemond's cheekbone, before he tilts his nephew's head enough to be able to suck on his earlobe. ] ... But I do think you just want to see if I'll fall getting off of her.
[ This is a hell of a descent to make into a burning landscape. But he's already humming a laugh about it. ]
[ Answering that hum with his own as he shivers with the attention to his ear, a laugh bubbles out of him at the imagery of Daemon falling head over ass down Vhagar's side. He shakes with it, laughing louder, and tilts his weight into Daemon. ]
Please don't. I don't have an excuse that would pass for that. Best stomp on the evidence with my dragon to hide it ...
[ Oh no, he has the giggles, turning his head away to cover his mouth. ]
[ Daemon wraps both arms around Aemond and jiggles a hand at his side in a way that's vaguely threatening of tickling, since his nephew is so keen on laughing all of a sudden— ]
That's to be my fate, is it? [ clearly teasing, egging Aemond's very cute laughter on. ] 'Oh no, I have no idea what happened to Uncle Daemon, he must've taken a wrong turn gotten lost in a swamp.'
[ He kisses the back of his neck, quick playful presses of contact that do little to attempt to reel him in. ]
Perhaps something more abstract. 'Alas, I tried to warn him about too deeply contemplating the reflections of the soul, but he's folded in on himself and out of existence.'
[ It does nothing to curb his giggling when encouraged, ducking his chin and losing that battle because he gets kissed on the nape for it, ahhh. His side twitches against any possible tickling and he has to bring his hands up to laugh into them, trying and failing to stifle his glee. ]
I brought along a philosophy book, but he — [ Wheezing anew, he pinches his brow. ] He ate all the pages and got too close to the fires. Went up at once. He did have a strangely wise expression as he expi —
[ No relief, Daemon continues to hold him and nuzzle against the back of his ear, speaking to him in a paradoxically smooth voice in contrast to all the absurdity and wriggling going on, even though the smile on his face is surely audible. It's wonderful to get him to laugh like this, completely carefree and open. ]
It was a transcendent experience. Transformative, even. All the studying he never did in his youth made a figure to mirror him, and pulled him away into another world.
[ Aemond won't be surprised to discover that Daemon isn't much of a philosopher (what incredible studies could be written on him and his moral objectivity, good heavens), but he's apparently perused enough theoretical metaphysics to be able to joke about the strangest nonsense. Realms beyond sight, glass candles and blood magic; normal reading material. ]
And Prince Aemond and his dragon were nowhere near any of it, especially not if it turns out to look suspicious.
[ Shuddering with the laughter he bites back in an effort not to be too loud and distract Vhagar, he wraps his arms around Daemon's and slouches back into his new safety-belt. His uncle is less intimidating out here, that wry humour harmless for all its sharpness, and it feels so very right to be with him. Not just in bed (or more commonly, elsewhere) but laughing with him on a dragon away from all the political scheming that drives a keen wedge between them back home.
He turns to kiss him, fond and sweet. Every part of Aemond aches to climb into his lap again, suffering the annoying reality instead. ]
If anything happened to you, I would want to die as well. For the record.
[ A cold shiver runs down his spine, pressing back into Daemon. ]
[ Daemon holds him more firmly, and buries his face against the side of his neck - high collars and soot make it less sensual than if they were bare, but the sentiment remains. He breathes and he can feel Aemond breathe, pressed so close, and beneath them, there's Vhagar; Caraxes in his peripheral vision, bones snapping between his teeth. What a cycle they make. ]
I would have you fight your hardest to live.
[ A tilt closer, and he mouths burn against his ear, knowing he'll be understood. ]
[ Death isn't something scary, it's an ending to a story like those in the histories. Even if he were faced with a dragon ready to attack and had no Vhagar, he thinks he would just let it happen. Sadness is like a beast, it can be overwhelming. Things will work out though, he tells himself that the women will sort out their differences and in time, perhaps, he will get to see Dragonstone again; be in these arms again. He nods and squeezes Daemon's hold on him, silent agreement to burn as best he can when grieving or alone.
Vhagar croons to Caraxes, nosing over the last horse carcass to the smaller dragon. ]
[ Death is just the next part of life, but Aemond is too young to think of things like I'll die without you. There is too much to see, would be even with no eyes at all. He hasn't yet been to Dragonstone, but he also hasn't been to Essos, he hasn't seen Aunt Saera or visited a witch from the Shadow Lands, he hasn't tried to get out of a betrothal he hates, he hasn't been just himself out of the constantly reinforced shadow of his brother or this stupid rift dug by his grandfather.
(He will think the same, later. That Aemond should fight as hard as he can, that if he's going to kill Daemon's children and stand by Aegon, he'd better prove himself til the bitter end.)
Caraxes slithers over to accept a gift, and the sounds he makes must be appreciation before he tucks in, burned horseflesh and bone vanishing easily into his jagged maw. ]
She's a nursemaid here, [ he teases lightly. ] Caraxes is her old friend.
[ It's sweet in a threateningly overbearing mother 'finish your plate or else' way. Aemond snorts and shakes his head at the odd display, gathering the reins as his attention slides back to Daemon, full of more current thoughts about what to expect when they get home (grounded to his chambers for Aemond, he supposes). ]
I'll move, [ Daemon assures him. Aemond's right, it's a wise idea. ] I'm merely waiting until no one's looking for leftovers.
[ Dragons in the snack zone can too easily shift around sniffing for more meat and mistake damn well anyone with a pulse for an extra goat. Best not to be underfoot until everyone has accepted that they've finished it all.
So they win another few minutes of just being there, and Daemon gives him a few more kisses, before it's time for him to settle Vhagar enough for his uncle to disembark. There's no way to do it gracefully, but he's perfectly competent about it, and his walk over to Caraxes is done with flurries of charcoal and ash kicking up about his knees. The male dragon panders for pets and chitters in his shrieking voice, happy about being returned to, and Daemon sweet-talks him for a while, hands on his muzzle like he's a puppy.
Caraxes swings his long neck around when Daemon begins climbing up, shoving his head beneath his rider's feet for a lift. A tricky needle to thread, but they've been at it a while. Up! There we are. ]
[ Savouring their last few minutes together, he makes sure that Daemon is down safely and makes it to Caraxes in one piece before turning his attention to Vhagar. She looks at him and he pets her beneath the saddle, telling her Time to go home, just a little more flying. Lots of bulls when we return. With a glance to check Daemon is in his seat, Aemond gives the command to fly and Vhagar screeches as her run turns into take-off, knowing the way back to King's Landing so well that Aemond can all but relax his hold on the reins. It's a different ride back, less swooping and showing off. She does enjoy flying through clusters of birds, however, and Aemond can probably be heard swearing over the wind as she bellows her equivalent of a laugh.
The light-hearted mood somewhat crashes when they land back near the Dragonpit looking like they've been in their own private little war, startling the keepers and guards. ]
[ What a hellish ordeal this will be to look back on, in a week. Rhaenyra accusing Daemon of overlooking whatever he must have seen while out with Aemond, and Otto Hightower no doubt looking for his own way to dissect the situation— was Daemon sowing insecurity, was he trying to undermine Aemond's control of Vhagar? Neither will be able to speak the truth.
(Well, Daemon might. Just to get a knife in when he's cornered, reeling, still seeing their little girl's pyre in his mind, still hearing her voice scream his name and Get it out. Grief is a monster and so is he.)
Caraxes and Daemon take a little longer, circling over the landing yard for a while as though the Blood Wyrm is turning his nose up at the pit already, but he lands as well, feet black with soot and Daemon no better, face and hair all painted like a bomb went off near him.
Clock's ticking. Soon, he'll be packing up back to Dragonstone. ]
[ The only and last thing he says is Give her the bulls tonight before a single glance at Caraxes wheeling above, and then he's told his mother wants to see him. Of course she does. The state of Aemond, far more dirty and ruffled than usual, has Alicent wringing her hands as she asks him where he went and why (an explanation of going for a hunt because the dragons were bored seemingly not cutting it), and predictably he gets sent to his room to have dinner alone while the rest of the family gather for one of Viserys's achingly awkward meals.
He's been dramatic enough; the flying took the last of the bad mood away. A hot bath is indulged where he dismissed the servants and uses his fingers on himself with Daemon's name on his lips, knowing he probably won't see him again in a hurry but too eager to care, not getting off entirely (he won't give the servants the snide joy of seeing his spend in the tub) but more relaxed as he pulls on a robe and putters around his private chambers. Reading, writing, drawing. Reading again. He draws the curtains between his living area and the bedchamber, tired of hearing guards walk by outside.
He settles in bed with a few books about him, slumped in his pillows where he watches the fireplace crackle. It would make sense to go to sleep and stop tormenting himself ... perhaps he will, he thinks. In an hour or two. ]
[ Aemond, it turns out, is the envy of all at dinner, with Aegon and Lucerys in particular finding it deeply unjust that the other prince be permitted to skip out while they are cruelly forced to attend. Everyone under the age of thirty is excused early in whatever shifts they please, leaving the beleaguered adults to pretend to be peaceable while Viserys attempts to eat soup.
He is a little worse tonight, Daemon thinks, but it's difficult to determine a cause that would be different from any other night; guilt eats at him for not being here, and he spends a while with Rhaenyra helping her undress for the night in an attempt to settle himself, sinking into the reminder that he chose her, that these years have been the best of his life. Their Targaryen marriage on their Targaryen island, cut away from all the rest of this.
Restlessness does not leave him.
On the one hand, it's a bad idea. On the other, why work harder to deny something than to embrace it? In the end: Ah, fuck it.
The passage is less busy tonight, with only Daemon slipping through, unearthly silent as he goes, ready to vanish if it turns out Aemond isn't alone. This time he'll wake him up if he's asleep, though, if only to tease him briefly before making his escape and letting his nephew rest. He makes the lightest sound, deliberately, near the optical illusion that hides the door in the back of the room. Knock knock. ]
[ That's not the popping logs. A little startled for the rarity of hearing noise back there, he gets to his knees, eyeing the hidden doorway where he assumes Daemon is (but you can never be too careful in the old-ass Red Keep). With the blankets gathered about his hips in a fist, he calls, ]
... Come.
[ It takes an effort not to make it sound like a question. This is probably where a maester will later write a crazed assassin leapt through the doorway twirling Dornish blades and took off his head, it's whatever. He could throw a couple of hardbacks with decent precision before meeting his grizzly end. ]
[ A pale hand first, so carefully moving (whatever mechanism idk), he is very quiet about it; clearly someone who knows what he's doing with these old family secrets. No surprise, it is indeed Daemon, his hair down (imagine the unrestrained decadent horniness if they let his wig do that) and in a black brocade robe. Slipped away from lounging in his own quarters, it seems. ]
I could have been anyone, you know, [ he says oh-so-softly, but in an audibly teasing tone. ]
[ He sits back on his haunches, a relieved smile in place as he cocks his head at the sight of his uncle. Dressed for bed, having stolen away from it? Scandalous. ]
If you were anyone else you wouldn't be here to begin with. [ Slouching back into the pillows, he drapes an arm over his head and watches Daemon mooch through his old room. ] Can't sleep, uncle?
[ Smallclothes, robe, and the mismatched presence of boots, because he's still walking over stone (and because no free feet pics #istandwithalicent). Daemon slinks inside and secures the passageway behind himself, looking about for a trinket of some kind to set nearby the door. Cheap alarm system, old paranoid scoundrel trick. ]
Oh, plagued by insomnia. Night terrors, practically.
[ Getting a closer look at everything is quite nice, taking in Aemond's arrangement of the space, and all his cluttered nerd shit.
[ Nerd shit, like his dragon models stone statues on the mantel aren't sick as hell. The tooth on his bedside table? Incredible taste in decor. He has to rest his chin in a hand as Daemon ferrets around for a doorjamb (take the giant tooth, fellow nerd), smirking at the way he's dressed. ]
You look like a night terror, swanning around the corridors in all black like Maegor's ghost. [ And then, because he really is pleased to see him, he gestures for Daemon to come to the bed with an open hand. ] You must be cold from your nefarious haunting, come and warm yourself.
[ He's not jamming an ancient mechanism installed by Aegon the Conqueror, he's just putting a noisemaker against it. Gentle touches, now and again.
Daemon gives him a look over his shoulder, sly, as he investigates whether or not the main door's barred for privacy. Imagine the ruin of them both if somebody thinks Aemond sounds like he's dying in a bit here. Maegor's ghost acquiesces, however, and drifts over to the younger prince and his very nice bed.
He takes his hand first, leaning in to give him a kiss. ] .. Dragonfire, my favorite way to escape cold stone.
[ Aemond can't imagine ruin, won't until next week when it feels like the world is falling apart in his hands hundreds of feet up in the air. For now he's on top of the world in a different way, trying not to let his amusement show when Daemon ensures they aren't going to be disturbed.
He snags the front of that robe during the kiss and tugs him down to the bed, a playful laugh caught behind his lips. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Aemond nips at Daemon's lip before drawing away, soft kisses dropped on a neck where he cranes around to nuzzle. He could have him here, amongst the ashes. His blood runs hot enough for it even if it's a bad idea, so he merely gives him a taste of that persistent hunger by curbing it to making-out in the saddle, petting Daemon's hair and thigh. ]
It might look better if you returned astride Caraxes, [ reluctantly keeping his wits about him while playfully biting over a pulse, Aemond hums, ] so they don't think I wanted you all to myself for more than ... flight training?
[ Deeply amused. ]
no subject
Anyone who lost this deserves their doom. (They mustn't lose it again, they're fools, capitulating to the fucking Seven, mingling their blood, chaining their dragons.)
He makes an indulgent sound against his nephew's mouth before they part, and finds places to nose at. ]
You don't need flight training. [ He rubs the base of Aemond's skull, gently finding tension. ] Tell them the truth, we went hunting because they were both so restless.
[ Like we were. ]
no subject
Thank you ... for coming away with me.
[ It means something to have a clean slice of Daemon to himself, as much as it's mostly an illusion that will shatter once home and a bevvy of bodies surround him again, his own family like a wall that Aemond can't (and won't) approach. These few hours are worth more than their minutes in gold. ]
no subject
Just a tiny memento, for a short while. ]
Thank you for inviting me, [ he murmurs against Aemond's cheekbone, before he tilts his nephew's head enough to be able to suck on his earlobe. ] ... But I do think you just want to see if I'll fall getting off of her.
[ This is a hell of a descent to make into a burning landscape. But he's already humming a laugh about it. ]
no subject
Please don't. I don't have an excuse that would pass for that. Best stomp on the evidence with my dragon to hide it ...
[ Oh no, he has the giggles, turning his head away to cover his mouth. ]
no subject
That's to be my fate, is it? [ clearly teasing, egging Aemond's very cute laughter on. ] 'Oh no, I have no idea what happened to Uncle Daemon, he must've taken a wrong turn gotten lost in a swamp.'
[ He kisses the back of his neck, quick playful presses of contact that do little to attempt to reel him in. ]
Perhaps something more abstract. 'Alas, I tried to warn him about too deeply contemplating the reflections of the soul, but he's folded in on himself and out of existence.'
no subject
I brought along a philosophy book, but he — [ Wheezing anew, he pinches his brow. ] He ate all the pages and got too close to the fires. Went up at once. He did have a strangely wise expression as he expi —
[ No, he's gone, goodbye. ]
no subject
It was a transcendent experience. Transformative, even. All the studying he never did in his youth made a figure to mirror him, and pulled him away into another world.
[ Aemond won't be surprised to discover that Daemon isn't much of a philosopher (what incredible studies could be written on him and his moral objectivity, good heavens), but he's apparently perused enough theoretical metaphysics to be able to joke about the strangest nonsense. Realms beyond sight, glass candles and blood magic; normal reading material. ]
And Prince Aemond and his dragon were nowhere near any of it, especially not if it turns out to look suspicious.
no subject
He turns to kiss him, fond and sweet. Every part of Aemond aches to climb into his lap again, suffering the annoying reality instead. ]
If anything happened to you, I would want to die as well. For the record.
[ A cold shiver runs down his spine, pressing back into Daemon. ]
no subject
[ Daemon holds him more firmly, and buries his face against the side of his neck - high collars and soot make it less sensual than if they were bare, but the sentiment remains. He breathes and he can feel Aemond breathe, pressed so close, and beneath them, there's Vhagar; Caraxes in his peripheral vision, bones snapping between his teeth. What a cycle they make. ]
I would have you fight your hardest to live.
[ A tilt closer, and he mouths burn against his ear, knowing he'll be understood. ]
... as long as you can.
no subject
Vhagar croons to Caraxes, nosing over the last horse carcass to the smaller dragon. ]
I've never seen her share a kill before.
no subject
(He will think the same, later. That Aemond should fight as hard as he can, that if he's going to kill Daemon's children and stand by Aegon, he'd better prove himself til the bitter end.)
Caraxes slithers over to accept a gift, and the sounds he makes must be appreciation before he tucks in, burned horseflesh and bone vanishing easily into his jagged maw. ]
She's a nursemaid here, [ he teases lightly. ] Caraxes is her old friend.
no subject
We're riding back together then?
[ Here, as one saddlefull, is the implication. ]
no subject
[ Dragons in the snack zone can too easily shift around sniffing for more meat and mistake damn well anyone with a pulse for an extra goat. Best not to be underfoot until everyone has accepted that they've finished it all.
So they win another few minutes of just being there, and Daemon gives him a few more kisses, before it's time for him to settle Vhagar enough for his uncle to disembark. There's no way to do it gracefully, but he's perfectly competent about it, and his walk over to Caraxes is done with flurries of charcoal and ash kicking up about his knees. The male dragon panders for pets and chitters in his shrieking voice, happy about being returned to, and Daemon sweet-talks him for a while, hands on his muzzle like he's a puppy.
Caraxes swings his long neck around when Daemon begins climbing up, shoving his head beneath his rider's feet for a lift. A tricky needle to thread, but they've been at it a while. Up! There we are. ]
no subject
The light-hearted mood somewhat crashes when they land back near the Dragonpit looking like they've been in their own private little war, startling the keepers and guards. ]
no subject
(Well, Daemon might. Just to get a knife in when he's cornered, reeling, still seeing their little girl's pyre in his mind, still hearing her voice scream his name and Get it out. Grief is a monster and so is he.)
Caraxes and Daemon take a little longer, circling over the landing yard for a while as though the Blood Wyrm is turning his nose up at the pit already, but he lands as well, feet black with soot and Daemon no better, face and hair all painted like a bomb went off near him.
Clock's ticking. Soon, he'll be packing up back to Dragonstone. ]
no subject
He's been dramatic enough; the flying took the last of the bad mood away. A hot bath is indulged where he dismissed the servants and uses his fingers on himself with Daemon's name on his lips, knowing he probably won't see him again in a hurry but too eager to care, not getting off entirely (he won't give the servants the snide joy of seeing his spend in the tub) but more relaxed as he pulls on a robe and putters around his private chambers. Reading, writing, drawing. Reading again. He draws the curtains between his living area and the bedchamber, tired of hearing guards walk by outside.
He settles in bed with a few books about him, slumped in his pillows where he watches the fireplace crackle. It would make sense to go to sleep and stop tormenting himself ... perhaps he will, he thinks. In an hour or two. ]
no subject
He is a little worse tonight, Daemon thinks, but it's difficult to determine a cause that would be different from any other night; guilt eats at him for not being here, and he spends a while with Rhaenyra helping her undress for the night in an attempt to settle himself, sinking into the reminder that he chose her, that these years have been the best of his life. Their Targaryen marriage on their Targaryen island, cut away from all the rest of this.
Restlessness does not leave him.
On the one hand, it's a bad idea. On the other, why work harder to deny something than to embrace it? In the end: Ah, fuck it.
The passage is less busy tonight, with only Daemon slipping through, unearthly silent as he goes, ready to vanish if it turns out Aemond isn't alone. This time he'll wake him up if he's asleep, though, if only to tease him briefly before making his escape and letting his nephew rest. He makes the lightest sound, deliberately, near the optical illusion that hides the door in the back of the room. Knock knock. ]
no subject
... Come.
[ It takes an effort not to make it sound like a question. This is probably where a maester will later write a crazed assassin leapt through the doorway twirling Dornish blades and took off his head, it's whatever. He could throw a couple of hardbacks with decent precision before meeting his grizzly end. ]
no subject
I could have been anyone, you know, [ he says oh-so-softly, but in an audibly teasing tone. ]
no subject
If you were anyone else you wouldn't be here to begin with. [ Slouching back into the pillows, he drapes an arm over his head and watches Daemon mooch through his old room. ] Can't sleep, uncle?
no subject
Oh, plagued by insomnia. Night terrors, practically.
[ Getting a closer look at everything is quite nice, taking in Aemond's arrangement of the space, and all his cluttered nerd shit.
Cute. ]
no subject
modelsstone statues on the mantel aren't sick as hell. The tooth on his bedside table? Incredible taste in decor. He has to rest his chin in a hand as Daemon ferrets around for a doorjamb (take the giant tooth, fellow nerd), smirking at the way he's dressed. ]You look like a night terror, swanning around the corridors in all black like Maegor's ghost. [ And then, because he really is pleased to see him, he gestures for Daemon to come to the bed with an open hand. ] You must be cold from your nefarious haunting, come and warm yourself.
no subject
Daemon gives him a look over his shoulder, sly, as he investigates whether or not the main door's barred for privacy. Imagine the ruin of them both if somebody thinks Aemond sounds like he's dying in a bit here. Maegor's ghost acquiesces, however, and drifts over to the younger prince and his very nice bed.
He takes his hand first, leaning in to give him a kiss. ] .. Dragonfire, my favorite way to escape cold stone.
no subject
He snags the front of that robe during the kiss and tugs him down to the bed, a playful laugh caught behind his lips. ]
I have plenty of dragonfire to warm you with.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)