Royal Stables, King's Landing – Morning, 269 AC.
Dawn spilled golden light over the Red Keep, warm and gentle against the ancient stone, as five figures headed towards the royal stables. Their boots echoed along the quiet path—three white-cloaked Kingsguards a step behind two silver-haired princes, deep in hushed conversation.
Aemon glanced sideways at his brother, his voice low as the crunch of gravel underfoot met the stillness of morning.
"Skoriot iā brōzi ābrar līr gō?"
("Have you chosen a name for your horse yet?")
Rhaegar shook his head. "Daor. Ñuhor rȳbagon nyke jorrāelagon."
("No. I've been thinking, but I haven't settled on one.")
Aemon smirked.
"Jelmazmo? Vhagar? Morghūl? Sōvēs? Zaldrīzo vāedar?"
("Glory? Vhagar? Death? Shadow? A dragon for a horse?")
Rhaegar chuckled softly, his gaze forward.
"Zaldrīzo vāedar…" he repeated, amused. Then, after a beat of thought:
"Nyke jorrāelagon syt Vermax."
("I'm fond of Vermax.")
Aemon tilted his head in approval.
"Vermax… drējī ēdruta."
("Vermax… bold choice.")
Behind them, Ser Jonothor Darry leaned toward Ser Oswell Whent with a sceptical glance.
"They're speaking Valyrian again, aren't they?"
Oswell gave a half-smirk. "Aye. Always do when they want to keep secrets from us."
Ser Barristan, walking just ahead, looked over his shoulder. "I caught the word for dragon. That's about all."
Jonothor snorted. "Well, that narrows it down. Either someone's getting a fierce name, or something's about to go up in flames."
Aemon must have heard them. Without turning, he slowed just enough to glance sidelong at the Kingsguard with a faint grin.
"We were naming the horses," he said casually. "In our mother tongue."
Rhaegar nodded in quiet confirmation, his silver hair catching the light like woven moonlight.
"He chose Vermax," Aemon added, jerking a thumb at his little brother. "Strong name. Regal. A dragon's name."
Ser Jonothor narrowed his eyes. "Vermax… wasn't that one of the greens' dragons?"
"No," Rhaegar said calmly. "He was ridden by Prince Jacaerys Velaryon—Queen Rhaenyra's son. Born of Syrax's clutch."
Jonothor gave a slow nod. "Ah. One of the blacks, then."
Ser Barristan turned to Aemon. "And yours?"
Aemon's smirk deepened.
"Balerion."
A brief silence followed.
"The Black Dread?" Oswell said, half in disbelief. "You named your foal after the mightiest dragon who ever lived?"
Aemon's grin widened, mischief glinting in his violet eyes.
"You'll understand when you see him."
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As they stepped beneath the cool shadow of the stable eaves, the familiar scent of hay, leather, and saddle oil enveloped them. Horses stirred in their stalls—hooves shifting, ears flicking—but the usual sounds fell into a hush as the royal party approached.
Some stablehands bowed; others just gaped at the sight of the princes flanked by white cloaks.
From the central aisle emerged the stablemaster, Harlan—a grizzled man with a frame of tough sinew and skin weathered like cured hide. A faded scar marked his left cheek, and his hands were more callused than flesh. He bowed with stiff precision.
"Your Graces," he said, voice gravelly. "Sers. All are ready as instructed."
He gestured toward a nearby chestnut palfrey fitted with finely tooled leather. The saddle and bridle, reinforced with polished wood and gleaming metal, balanced comfort with strength. Two apprentices stood nearby, making final adjustments to the girth and stirrups.
"Measurements for Prince Rhaegar's mount were taken three days ago," Harlan continued. "Saddle and bridle were made here in King's Landing. Best leather we've got. He's been walked twice at dawn, well-fed, brushed, and ready to ride."
Rhaegar stepped forward, stroking the palfrey's neck with a quiet fondness. The horse nickered in response, calm and alert.
Then Harlan turned toward Aemon.
"…Now, the other one."
A ripple of tension stirred the air.
"Your Grace," he said, his tone shifting from formal to cautious, "what's in that stall isn't just a horse."
Aemon raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"Five days ago," Harlan continued, "that foal could barely stand. Wouldn't eat. The lads said he wouldn't last the night. Then you took him."
He exhaled through his nose, glancing toward the far stall.
"And now? He's nearly tripled in size. Thick with muscle like a destrier thrice his age. His coat's black as midnight, his eyes burn like firelight, and he moves like a creature born for war... And he's still growing."
Rhaegar blinked. Ser Jonothor leaned forward, visibly curious.
The stablemaster's voice dropped. "So tell me, Your Grace—what did you do to him?"
Aemon offered a faint smile, reaching into his belt pouch. "We bonded," he said, holding a handful of apples and berries. "And I taught him a few tricks."
Harlan snorted—clearly unconvinced but too seasoned to question a prince outright.
"Well… he listens to your voice, lowers his head for you—and glares at everyone else. Don't let the lads near him with a brush. Nearly took a bite out of one."
He gave a rough shake of his head, voice dropping into a gravelly murmur.
"Acts like a demon with anyone else—but with you? He's a pup wrapped in a plate. I've worked with horses for thirty years, Your Grace, and I've never seen anything like him."
His fingers scratched absently at his jaw.
"The real trouble is, he's growing too fast. Outgrows every saddle and bridle we try. We can't measure him fast enough, and custom work's a fool's errand until he stops."
"Can he be ridden?" Aemon asked.
Harlan nodded. "He can. You'll have to use one of the larger warhorse sets. Not made for him, but it'll hold—so long as you stay light in the stirrups. He's strong enough, no question there."
Aemon gave a quiet nod. "That'll do."
Ser Barristan stepped forward, the early sun glinting on the polished pommel of his sword. "Then let's not waste time."
He turned to Harlan with quiet authority. "Bring out the horses."
With a sharp whistle from the stablemaster, the yard came alive—ropes tugged, hooves shifting, stablehands hurrying to obey. The sounds of the stables surged around them, echoing beneath the tiled roof like the first notes of something grand about to begin.
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The vast cobbled yard outside the stables basked in the pale warmth of the early sun. A light breeze stirred the hay, and the scent of leather and oiled tack hung in the air.
Two stablehands led out the first mount—a chestnut palfrey with a polished bridle and a saddle fitted snugly with gleaming brass reinforcements. The horse moved with a graceful trot, its coat gleaming, its eyes calm and alert.
Rhaegar stepped forward, his hand running softly down the palfrey's neck.
"Vermax," he murmured. The horse flicked his ears and nickered, accepting the name with surprising ease.
Ser Oswell observed with a nod. "A fine mount, Your Grace."
Peaceful. Poised. Predictable.
Then came the thunder.
A sharp crash rang out from within the stables—hooves hammering against wood, followed by shouts and the scrape of something heavy slamming into a gate.
"Seven save us—he's loose!" a stableboy cried, sprinting breathlessly into the yard, straw clinging to his tunic.
The noise swelled—shouts, hooves, crashing wood.
Then came the beast.
Balerion erupted from the shadows like a storm unchained—his black coat glinting like spilled oil, mane wild, eyes burning crimson light. The bridle dragged from his mouth, saddle straps trailing behind him like tattered banners. Stableboys gave desperate chase, one diving into a hay pile, another nearly tripping over a water bucket as he shouted, "Get out of the way!"
His nostrils flared with steam in the cool air, his gait thunderous like a heartbeat of war. For a moment, one might forget he was ever a foal.
"By the gods," Ser Jonothor breathed.
Oswell immediately stepped in front of Rhaegar, half-drawing his blade. Ser Barristan's stance shifted—watchful, poised.
Then Aemon stepped forward, calm as morning fog.
"Stand down," he said with quiet authority. "He's just being theatrical."
But Balerion didn't slow.
The black beast charged onward, a storm made flesh—hooves tearing at the ground, eyes alight with crimson fire, a blur of muscle and fury closing fast.
The Kingsguard didn't move. They braced—hands on hilts, weight shifted, every muscle tense.
Aemon waited.
Only when Balerion was a heartbeat away—close enough for the dust to stir their cloaks—did Aemon raise his voice.
"Balerion!" he called sharply. "If you keep this up—no apples today!"
The beast halted.
A clean, sudden stop—hooves skidding into the dirt, flinging dust in a circle. And its ears perked. One heartbeat passed. Then another.
And just like that, Balerion trotted forward—tail swinging once like a whip—and nudged into Aemon's chest with the force of a battering ram. His wild snarl melted into something absurdly tender.
Aemon laughed and stroked his muzzle, brushing a hand through the dark mane.
Balerion's crimson eyes, so fierce a moment ago, now gleamed soft as rubies in candlelight. He exhaled slowly, the great sigh of a creature utterly at peace, and lowered his head into the boy's palm.
From the Kingsguard to the stablehands hiding behind barrels, all stared as if they'd just witnessed sorcery or madness.
Ser Jonothor finally spoke. "That thing was ready to trample us a minute ago."
"And now it's purring," Ser Oswell added.
"He's a little dramatic, is all," Aemon grinned. "Likes to make an entrance."
"You sure he wasn't born from a dragon egg?" Jonothor asked, half-jesting. "No wings tucked under that coat?"
Barristan raised a brow. "Or perhaps he fed on one."
Aemon chuckled. "He may look like the Black Dread, but he's got the heart of a puppy."
He gave Balerion a playful pat on the muzzle. "Brought something special for you today."
At once, Balerion perked up—ears swivelling, eyes wide with anticipation. He nudged Aemon's side insistently, then his chest, nosed at the satchel on his belt with growing impatience, snorting like an overeager child denied dessert.
"Alright, alright," Aemon laughed, reaching into the satchel. "You're impossible."
He pulled out a ripe apple.
Balerion froze—eyes locked, head tilted, tail stilling with anticipation.
Aemon tossed the apple high.
With pinpoint precision, Balerion reared up and snatched it mid-air. The crunch was thunderous. He chewed with slow, deliberate satisfaction, eyes fluttering shut as if savouring every bite.
"Told you," Aemon said, brushing the horse's flank. "A pup in armour."
Then came the berries.
The instant Aemon unfastened the pouch, Balerion nearly danced in place, hooves tapping, tail flicking with delight. Aemon fed him the treats one by one, and the same creature who had just stormed the yard now ate with the tenderness of a child—lips gentle, movements reverent.
The morning sun caught on the brass fittings of the saddle, glinting against the black sheen of Balerion's hide. Calm returned to the yard—but awe lingered in every breath.
A stablehand approached nervously, holding the saddle and bridle meant for Balerion—but one scowl glare from the black beast sent him skidding back behind a post, muttering, "I'll not lose a finger over a saddle strap…"
Aemon chuckled and stepped forward, taking the tack himself. "He doesn't let anyone else touch him."
The Kingsguard watched with mixed caution and awe as Balerion, who had stormed the yard like a tempest moments ago, now stood perfectly still—lowering his head unprompted as Aemon approached. His hooves barely shifted. His breath came slowly. It was as if he knew.
With practised ease, Aemon secured the bridle and worked the buckles with fluid, familiar motions. When he tightened the saddle straps across the broad black back, Balerion gave only a single and slow exhale. His crimson eyes followed every motion—not warily, but like a knight watching his squire prepare for war.
Behind him, Rhaegar observed quietly, his hand resting on Vermax's mane.
"He was dying… and now look at him," Rhaegar murmured, eyes narrowed in thought. "You brought him back."
Aemon gave a soft smile but didn't look up. "He decided to come back."
As the final buckle snapped into place, Balerion lifted his head—and something shifted. His muscles coiled with tension, his frame rising taller and broader as if summoned to purpose. The air around him grew taut, like a bowstring pulled to its limit. The stablehands backed away without thinking, moved by instinct more than fear.
"Seven help us," one whispered, eyes wide. "That horse looks ready for battle."
Oswell let out a low whistle. "Now I see why you named him Balerion."
Ser Jonothor smirked, nudging Barristan. "Aye, and I hear he's a glutton. Keep feeding him like that, and he'll suck Aemon's purse dry."
At that, Balerion swung his tail—hard.
WHUMP.
The thick black lash cracked through the air and thumped squarely against Jonothor's thigh, nearly knocking the knight off balance.
The stallion's nostrils flared, ears pinned flat, eyes narrowing with a glare of unmistakable offence.
Jonothor stumbled back with wide eyes. "Bloody hells—he understood that!"
Aemon laughed. "Careful what you say around him. He's smarter than most men—and has better aim."
Balerion gave an exaggerated snort and reared slightly, stomping his hooves with dramatic flair as if proving his strength to the yard.
Ser Oswell chuckled. "The lad's got a dragon in a warhorse's skin."
He stroked Balerion's cheek affectionately.
"You kick him again," he told the horse, "and I'll knight you myself."
Balerion huffed—and reared up once more as if accepting the challenge.
The yard echoed with laughter.
Even Barristan cracked a smile.
Balerion stood tall and poised—his black coat rippling with every breath, his gaze scanning the yard like a sentinel awaiting orders.
Warhorse. Companion. Legendary warmount in the making.
And Aemon—smiling beside him, hand on his mane—seemed more rider than prince.
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The crisp morning air rang with the rhythmic beat of hooves as the Kingsguard took to the yard, preparing to demonstrate proper form and technique.
Ser Barristan Selmy mounted his pale destrier with effortless grace, his movements fluid, precise—like muscle and saddle had long since become one. He turned in a wide arc, posture regal and commanding, then urged his mount into a controlled gallop across the yard. Dust kicked behind him in perfect rhythm, not a jolt or stagger in sight.
He slowed the horse to a smooth trot, circled back, and brought it to a clean halt beside the boys.
"That," Barristan said, dismounting with ease, "is how it's done."
"Aye, aye," Ser Jonothor Darry said, swinging himself onto his grey courser with a practised flourish. "But there's a difference between riding like a knight and a champion."
He flashed Rhaegar a grin. "Watch closely, Your Grace."
Jonothor gave his reins a light tug and spurred forward, weaving through the yard with swift, showy loops. He rose and sat with the horse's motion, guiding it in elegant, curving lines.
At the end of the yard, he turned sharply on a heel and raised one hand as if finishing a tourney lap.
Rhaegar clapped politely, and Aemon laughed under his breath.
"Boasting again?" Aemon teased.
"Showing off," Barristan corrected, with a dry glance at Jonothor.
"Both," Oswell added with a chuckle.
Barristan turned back to the boys. "Now then—who's first?"
Aemon looked at Rhaegar expectantly, then nudged his arm. "Go on. You first."
Rhaegar hesitated. "Me?"
Aemon nodded. "You've already named him. It's only right."
Rhaegar took a breath, then nodded slowly.
The stableboy—still wary after Balerion's appearance—hurried out with Vermax, reins in hand. The chestnut palfrey looked calm and ready, tail swishing gently as he was led into place.
Ser Oswell stepped beside Rhaegar. "Foot in the stirrup. Good. Now swing over—yes, just like that."
With a bit of effort and awkward balance, Rhaegar mounted his horse. His posture was stiff at first, hands tight on the reins. Vermax shifted under him, steady but sensing his rider's unease.
"Easy," Ser Barristan called out. "Keep your heels down and loosen your grip. He's not going to fly off."
"Unless you jab too hard," Jonothor added helpfully.
Rhaegar shot him a look but followed the advice. His legs adjusted. His shoulders relaxed.
"Now, walk him forward," Oswell said.
At first, Vermax ambled with slow, uncertain steps. Rhaegar wobbled slightly in the saddle, clutching a little too tightly, but didn't fall.
Aemon watched with quiet encouragement, arms folded.
Then, slowly—step by step—Rhaegar found rhythm. His grip eased, his posture adjusted, and the horse responded, smoothing into a steady gait.
After a few laps around the yard, he circled back, a faint flush on his face—not from embarrassment, but exhilaration.
"Well done," Ser Oswell said, clearly impressed.
"You've a natural seat," Ser Barristan added, his voice calm and approving. "Just needs refining."
Rhaegar dismounted with Ser Oswell's help, cheeks still faintly pink as he looked at Aemon.
"I didn't fall," he said.
"No," Aemon smiled. "You didn't."
They both turned toward Balerion, who watched the proceedings with an air of restrained judgment as if deciding whether any of it impressed him.
Aemon rolled his shoulders and stepped forward with a slight grin.
"My turn then," he said.
He brought two fingers to his lips and gave a sharp whistle.
From the far side of the yard, Balerion responded immediately.
He came like a shadow born of wind and fire—hooves whispering against the earth, each movement a dance of raw grace.
Not in fury, but in purpose. His head rose like a banner, mane billowing behind him, and his crimson eyes locked on Aemon with the fierce devotion of a hound who would follow its master into the storm.
"He does love a dramatic entrance," Ser Oswell murmured.
Aemon chuckled. "You've seen nothing yet."
As Balerion came to a halt, Aemon didn't hesitate. With the ease of long practice—or—something instinct—he swung into the saddle in one fluid motion. No stumble, no pause. As if he'd been born for it.
The moment he settled, a shift occurred—subtle but undeniable.
Rider and mount moved as one.
Balerion's massive frame moved in perfect harmony beneath him as if shaped by his very will. Aemon's posture shifted from poised to instinctive—fluid, effortless. The boundary between boy and beast all but vanished.
Within his mind, something clicked.
[Connection established,] came S.E.R.A.'s calm voice.
[Warging link stabilized. Emotional sync: 87%. You may now enter a partial merge without a deep comatose state. Balerion's instincts, peripheral senses, and muscle control are available. Emotional resonance confirmed.]
Aemon felt it.
The rush. The joy.
The wind tore past his cheeks, tugging at his silver hair. He could feel the rhythm of Balerion's breath beneath him—strong, steady, and syncing with his own.
Beneath the thunder of hooves, he sensed a pulsing freedom, wild and untethered.
And even further down: affection. Loyalty. Unspoken trust.
The horse didn't just obey—he understood.
Aemon smiled—and urged Balerion forward with only a thought.
The black stallion surged into motion, hooves striking the ground like distant drums of war. But there was no buck, no resistance. Only flow. Harmony.
He circled wide, then tighter—tail flicking, ears pinned forward—gliding between the yard's outer flags with the grace of a dancer and the power of a destrier bred for battle.
[Emotional synchronization peaking,] S.E.R.A. noted.
[You now retain full visual and spatial awareness while accessing Balerion's sensory field. Neural feedback is fluid. No lag. No resistance. Compatibility nearing optimal range.]
Aemon barely registered the words.
He wasn't just riding a horse. He was flying with a piece of his soul.
He leaned low, guiding with knees and thought, body melting into the rhythm. He could feel Balerion's joy thrumming through his chest—ears twitching, heart thudding with elation.
"Faster," Aemon murmured, though he didn't need to say it aloud.
Balerion responded instantly, surging through the open yard like a living tempest. A ripple of wind followed his passage. He kicked off a turn with the force of a cannonball, mane whipping, hooves digging into packed earth with pride.
"Seven above," Jonothor whispered. "Is he controlling it with his mind?"
"He didn't even twitch the reins," Oswell murmured, disbelief tugging at the edges of his voice.
Ser Barristan's eyes narrowed, every line of motion studied. "He rides like a centaur."
"Like he is the saddle," Oswell said again, softer this time.
"Like they were forged together," Rhaegar added, wonder threading his tone.
Jonothor exhaled—still slack-jawed. "After all that showing off… I look like a hedgerow squire."
For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was the wind and the thunder in their chests.
Balerion thundered past again, mane snapping like a banner in the wind. Aemon leaned into his mount, one hand on the reins, the other brushing the stallion's thick neck. His eyes gleamed with exhilaration, and Balerion—sensing the moment—let out a sharp, proud snort as if laughing with him.
Balerion slowed with the barest twitch of Aemon's fingers.
His hooves struck a softer rhythm—still powerful but measured—as he curved back toward the gathered knights and princes. Dust swirled in his wake, rising like smoke before settling again into silence.
Aemon drew a steady breath, straightened in the saddle, and guided Balerion into a slow, measured trot—then, with neither word nor signal, brought him to a graceful halt.
The stallion stood tall and proud, chest heaving with heat, yet not a hint of wildness in his eyes. Only calm. Only trust.
Aemon dismounted with a fluid swing of his leg—no thump, no stumble—landing light on the balls of his feet. The earth still vibrated faintly beneath him, the echo of hooves not yet faded from the ground. He turned, one hand sliding along Balerion's powerful neck, and the great beast leaned into the touch, letting out a deep, satisfied huff.
Moments ago, he had stormed the yard like a living tempest. Now, he stood as quiet as falling snow.
The yard was silent. No one moved. Even the birds overhead seemed to hush.
Then—
"Well," said Ser Jonothor, breaking the silence. "That's just bloody unfair."
Aemon laughed as he gave Balerion a final pat and stepped away. "He has good taste in riders."
"Don't flatter yourself too much," Jonothor grinned. "I've seen less grace from knights twice your age—and I'm trying not to be insulted."
"I'm trying not to be jealous," Oswell muttered.
Barristan just nodded once, a flicker of something rare in his expression. Approval.
"He'll make a fine mount," Ser Barristan said. "But it's not just the horse—it's also you. There's a natural harmony there. No training can teach that."
Aemon offered a slight smile. "I suppose we understand each other."
"You don't just understand him," Rhaegar said, stepping closer. His tone was soft, contemplative. "You are him in that moment. Like the wind and its wings."
Aemon glanced at his brother, something unspoken passing between them—pride and the hint of a quiet challenge.
"You're not so bad yourself," he said, nudging Rhaegar lightly. "Vermax suits you."
Rhaegar gave a small smile. "He's steady. Loyal. Patient."
"Unlike you, then," Aemon teased.
The two princes exchanged a smirk.
Then, more quietly, Rhaegar added, "I'm glad he chose you."
Aemon blinked, then smiled. "I didn't choose him either. He found me."
Nearby, Balerion let out a long breath and dipped his head. The heat of the ride still clung to his coat, but his eyes were half-lidded now—content, at peace. One of the stable men dared to step forward… then quickly stopped as Balerion flicked his ears and gave a pointed look.
"He still won't let anyone else near him," Oswell observed.
"Would you?" Aemon said lightly, brushing dust from his sleeves. "After all this? He's earned his pride."
He glanced at Balerion with a small smile.
"He trusts me. That's not something I'm willing to break—for his sake or mine."
Barristan stepped forward, arms crossed, the lines of his face softening as he looked between the boy and the black steed.
"There's power in that bond," he said. "But there's more to it than strength."
Aemon turned slightly, attentive.
Barristan's voice lowered—not to command, but to confide. "When I was your age, I thought a good rider needed a strong horse and a tighter grip. I learned better. A true rider doesn't command with reins—he listens. Learns. Earns it, step by step."
He gestured to Balerion. "What you have here… that's not just talent, lad. That's trust. That's patience. That's the time you gave when no one was looking. And it shows."
Aemon glanced at Balerion, who stood steady and proud beside him.
"You're growing into something, Aemon," Barristan said, with the gentleness of a man who'd seen many boys try—and fail—to become more. "You've got a gift. But more than that, you've got choices to make. Every rider carries weight. Not just his own—but the hopes of others."
A beat passed, softer now.
"Don't chase glory," Barristan added. "Chase steadiness. Purpose. Honour. Ride like someone others would follow—even without being asked."
Aemon didn't answer right away. The words sat with him like stones laid carefully in a foundation.
Then, with a quiet breath, Balerion nudged his shoulder.
A reminder.
A promise. I'm not alone.
Aemon smiled faintly.
"Come on, Balerion," he said, his voice light, warm. "Let's walk it off."
He wasn't just a mount.
He was a mirror.
The fury. The wonder. The will to rise.
Aemon didn't command him—he walked beside him.
And maybe… that was what would matter most when the storm finally came.
With the reins loose in his hand, the boy and his black warhorse turned from the circle of men and drifted into the shade—two silhouettes, one shadow, framed by the soft golden light of morning.
One shadow. One heartbeat.
A name born in dread—now ridden in wonder.
Rhaegar stood in silence, the reins of Vermax slack in his hands.
Aemon didn't look back. He just walked—calm, definite, shadow and stallion in perfect step.
Rhaegar didn't speak. Didn't follow.
He only watched his brother disappear into gold and shadow—
And smiled, soft and small, without knowing why.
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Author's Note:
Thank you all so much for your continued support. Every view, comment, and review means the world to me — and yes, I read every single one. So if you enjoyed this chapter, please take a moment to leave a comment or review — it truly keeps me going.
Also, a small behind-the-scenes secret: Aemon's mount, Balerion, was heavily inspired by Maximus from Tangled. You know, the grumpy, judgmental, sword-stealing horse with a heart of gold? Yeah. That energy. So if Balerion seems a little extra for a horse… now you know why. And yes, expect more of him — I kinda love the guy.
If you want to read ahead, I've got 10 advanced chapters up on my Patreon. Your support there helps me write faster, sleep occasionally, and maybe buy a snack or two that isn't instant noodles.
patreon.com/Horcruz
Thanks again for being here. You're legends.
VALAR MORGHULIS