[ Soft, earnest. He believes it. He believes, then and now, that Aemond was true. They loved each other, as dangerous as it was. Maybe he still loves Daemon now, despite the war. ]
When you woke, for just a minute, you told me you would rather be slain than be a puppet, but I did not cut you down. I let you go, hoping to find some other way. I failed you in both respects.
[ He allowed Aemond to return to Alys, and to be used more. He did not discover a way to break him out— perhaps he could have, if it were his only focus. But of course it couldn't have been, not with the war and with two dozen other crises happening. He suspects that his nights on the battlefield in Cregan's tent discussing the magic of the old gods is what started rumors about Nettles, even.
Gods and fuck, it's a mess. ]
We met again, and you were still not yourself. We fell because we fought.
[ A puppet. That sounds right, it slots into every other thought he can recall, every yearning he had that was carefully redirected. Oh, he can see their meeting in the shadowy glade now, with Caraxes and Vhagar as sentinels: with a flinch he remembers the pain and lays a hand over his middle on instinct.
We fell. Not just I fell. Aemond looks at him, solemn and a little scared around the edges for the first time since waking. It's not like he can flee anywhere so he may as well use his words, recollecting everything as it starts to stem from the rage of — ]
Harrenhal.
You were not there, and I was ... angry.
[ Livid, in fact. He wanted to have Vhagar treat it as Balerion once did but was settled by the heads piled three-feet high that he took instead. Staring now at his knees, he speaks the memories as they return, glancing at Daemon in building anxiety. ]
They were punished for harbouring you. Then ... that woman was there. She understood. She knew things, knew me, like — like our own language. [ He doesn't want to use Valyrian for this. ] Alys was always there, after Harrenhal. She flew on Vhagar with me. [ That particularly offends him, shifting in his bed. ] I wanted to torch the riverlands to ensure they would not rise up against Aegon but it — it never ended. There was always more to burn, always more, and then you were there, and then not, and then ... then we were killing each other.
[ Aemond leans back in his bed, sadness permeating any trauma. Calm, mostly, but with signs of his own self there. None of Alys's cold, indifferent warrior-prince. Instead of freaking out he thinks of his old books on philosophy, trying to find reasons for their still being, apparently, living and breathing. ]
If death is a gateway, I am glad to have stepped through it, though I mourn I brought you with me.
[ A brutal head injury, and twisted magic. Daemon has got off easy by simply being miserable over his wife and letting himself be crushed to death in a fall. He listens as Aemond begins to struggle through it, looking as stricken as he feels, wanting to reach out but not wanting to make him feel claustrophobic, or controlled yet again.
He closes his eyes for a while.
Should have just announced their affair at dinner.
Daemon takes a slow breath, and settles again, shoulders down. Looking at Aemond with clear sadness. There's a part of him that's satisfied with the end — he sealed his pact, he protected his children — but the whole mess of it is a tragedy. ]
I made my choice. It was time for me to be gone from the world, and stop bringing such ruin into it. At least this way, I could ensure you were not alone in the dark.
[ Death is not what he would have preferred but it is immeasurably preferable to being in half his mind, egged on and encouraged with magic to be a warlord dragon-rider with no clear purpose. He always thought that would be Aegon, who did not study history or philosophy, who knew nothing of the warnings Maegor had left behind.
His temper got the best of him and another took advantage of it. As much of an upheaval as that gutting (humiliating) realisation is, there is more he owes Daemon to speak of and he weighs up whether it's wise.
Daemon wonders about Aemond's child. He wonders about his own; he rubs a hand over his face, and wants to hold his youngest boys, and explain why he can't see them again. He wants to tell Baela she doesn't have to fight if she doesn't want to. Go back to Essos. All of you. Go further and further east, until no one has heard of Westeros at all.
He wants to be holding Aemond's hand again. He doesn't move. ]
I know.
[ An accident, he had said, but Daemon knows even if the murder was not intentional, that everything leading up to it was. Aemond set out to terrorize Lucerys, the whole Baratheon court saw it, and he did it with Vhagar, whose life has only ever been meant for war. She is not Caraxes, who will tease and manipulate in a way a dragon shouldn't be able to— and Aemond's hate was real. You cannot lie to a dragon. ]
It is a miserable lesson, to learn that there is no difference between the consequences of wilful misdeeds, and of mistakes.
[ For all the terror he has wrought, he is only twenty and to see some of that misery alive in a person he cares about is truly wretched. It feels like he is a mirror, shattered on the floor, and was put back together with other hands that never saw his first reflection. He does not even recognise himself, now.
Quiet in the wake of Daemon's grief, his gaze rests on his uncle's hand that he dares not take. ]
I did not intend to kill him. [ Not that it matters; he looks ashamed to have tried excusing himself, but the words want to be said. ] Only ...
[ It was the rivalry of his life, he doesn't know how to explain he wanted to tear Luc apart but always have him there to see his suffering, and to sound sane while speaking of it. It's not. ]
[ Daemon knows that what happened to Aemond that night on Driftmark was ruinous, and that to grow with such a disability has carved him even more distinctly inside than the disfigurement on his face. He also knows that Aemond was sneaking around doing something he shouldn't have, that even at his young age he put his desire for power over behaving respectfully at a funeral; and he knows that what Lucerys did, too, was an accident. He meant to strike, not to maim. Just as Aemond meant to frighten, not to kill.
There is no solution. From their births, they needed to be raised without one parent or the other filling their heads with divisiveness. They needed to see each other as family, and not enemies. Viserys failed as a head of household, Rhaenyra and Alicent failed as mothers, and Daemon failed as a Targaryen.
Someone should have had some fucking control. ]
I believe you.
[ It's not alright, and so Daemon doesn't tell him that it is. He can accept it, and honor Aemond's honesty, but it's not his place to offer forgiveness.
Perhaps sometime in the future — do they have futures, in this place? — he will tell Aemond about the kind of young man Lucerys had become. How he could never completely shed his Targaryen temper when one of his stepsisters or his mother was insulted, but how he began to hate fighting, and neglected his training at every opportunity. Jacaerys grew with an intention to prove his naysayers wrong and do his mother proud, but Lucerys wilted with insecurity. He'd have never fought Aemond only to defend himself.
Not now. It has been some time since Luc's murder, but other losses are still too fresh. Their own most of all.
Daemon doesn't touch him, but he extends his hand again, letting Aemond take it if he wishes to. Showing him that he wants their connection still, offering solace, even while forgiveness is not his to bestow. ]
[ It is more than he deserves so he takes the statement in silence with a nod, only looking up when a hand moves toward him. He takes it, wrapping his fingers around Daemon's to give a supporting squeeze even as Aemond's partially assuaged guilt gives way to curiosity (about their new hosts, this place, their state). They cannot be dead men, they are perfectly alive, and if sorcery brought them back then ... good for the fucking sorcery, he is not a walking corpse and it did its job.
Not wanting to touch upon the business of Alys again in a hurry, or of anything ensuing his own fetidly poisoned path to ruin, he focuses on his uncle. ]
I wish to know more of your pain, if you will share it.
[ Hands link, and squeeze. Daemon is comforted by it— he expected a worse reaction, and is braced for one if it comes when Aemond's memory fully asserts itself. But the fact that his nephew is more relieved to be free of the witch than angry over having been slain speaks to how bad his enslavement was, and it makes Daemon feel ill.
He supposes he deserves to be made to bare some wounds. A lean forward, and he takes Aemond's hand and presses his palm to his own face. He waits like that for a while, as if soaking in his 'survival', and sifting through the things that hurt the worst. ]
Rhaenyra miscarried.
[ Maybe Aemond will like that. Daemon knows he hates his half-sister, thanks to Alicent and Otto. (At least Daemon got to kill him.) But it has ruined Daemon; his brother, then his baby. He never expected to care so much for being a father, and it has shocked him how different war is with his children to think of. He became both more frightened, and more violent. The stakes were so much higher. ]
My little daughter. Visenya.
[ Tired of dead children, he'd told Aemond that night. ]
[ He wouldn't care if Rhaenyra was, say, eaten by a dragon after she took Aegon's throne, but the pain caused to Daemon matters. Aemond doesn't feel like he has a child anywhere, it was more of a living nightmare than a willing union, but he mourns the loss of a child of their blood all the same when Daemon has lost it, threading their fingers as he turns more on the bed to face him. He skims a hand up a neck and cheek, thumb brushing over the height.
He hadn't really understood what Daemon had meant that night in the glade. ]
She would have been the cleverest, most beautiful child. I am sorry for your loss.
[ Aegon's throne. An unfit second-born put there illegally by a Hightower who still would have killed the boy if he'd gotten to him first. Even less legitimate than a bastard. Daemon had been right since the start— the fucking Faith, these disgusting backwater Westerosi, have wanted the end of the Targaryens since they arrived. The moment Viserys married Alicent, their dynasty was over. They'd have suffocated Aegon, then Aemond, working down the line until a child free of their blood at all was crowned. The only chance to avoid annihilation was Rhaenyra ascending uncontested and then putting all who plotted against their blood to the sword.
It wouldn't have mattered if Visenya had lived, if she had grown despite her deformities, and Aemond wished for her after all— they have all been poisoned. Slowly and thoroughly, just like Viserys.
Better that they aren't there anymore. Daemon had felt so at home on Dragonstone, after trying and failing to live in the east. But he should have stayed. He should have stolen her away, or he should have been the mad tyrant they all called him. Who fucking cares about the Iron Throne. They should all just burn. ]
She was. She was beautiful. She was a dragon.
[ A potentially unnerving thing for a Targaryen to say. Rhaenyra had birthed five healthy children already, and they had so many dragons.
Daemon would have loved her, even if she was an abomination. ]
[ That's an awfully literal way to be sentimental, she was a dragon translates ... oddly. Maybe Aemond is addled from his injuries and not hearing the right inflections. He doesn't know what to do to provide much more comfort, it was never expected of him from anyone so he just brushes Daemon's hair behind an ear, sitting back with his uncle's hands in his, thumbs working between his knuckles. ]
I cannot heal any of those wounds. I am here now, I see you clearly. I want to help.
[ Too much that Daemon has touched has decayed. From Laena's death (he didn't even have the spine to ask she be cut open and try to save the boy, she wasn't the love of his life but he still couldn't torture her, and that made him a coward, didn't it) onward; every attempt at being better has led to worse and worse ruin. He should have just been worse from the start, and now it's too late.
He feels like he's mourning all of fucking Old Valyria. It's very surreal.
Comforting touches. His sweet, terrible nephew. So bloodthirsty. If they had fought on the same side, nothing would have stopped them. Why did you do it, brother. Did you hate our own kind so much. ]
You wanted to know.
[ His pain. There's so much more of it, but a baby is the worst and more gutting part; his brother, his daughter, his stepson, one after the other. Of course there was nothing he could do but rage. ]
You can help by healing. Vhagar will need your strength.
[ He's just shit at doing anything other than storing that borrowed sorrow until such a time as he can avenge it, and feels useless in the meantime.
Mention of Vhagar has him pausing, feeling a pull toward her from somewhere in his chest. A hook that has been strengthened (by death?) means he can have his heart beat alongside hers if he concentrates ... although she is very weak, and that is worrying. ]
Where are the dragons? I want to see.
[ He draws the blankets around himself, legs scooting over the edge of the bed. Take him out of this depressing room! ]
[ The exact ease between them during those weeks before Viserys died may never return; obviously there is still immense care, and attraction, but Daemon thinks the shape of it will be different. He, certainly, has been permanently changed by war and by loss and by the heartbreak of his shattered relationship with Rhaenyra.
And poor Aemond, who has been used so thoroughly. There will be more healing needed than just his body, Daemon thinks. A vessel for his mother's resentment (whether he realizes it or not), then the tool of a witch with her own agenda. Maybe in death, he can be only himself.
Such a relief, to have died with their dragons. Daemon isn't sure what he'd do without Caraxes. ]
If you rush too fast you'll risk your head, [ he chides, but doesn't push him back down. Instead Daemon bids him wait with a hand on his knee, and moves to fish out a pair of boots and a robe for him. Both are too big, having been a guess by the healers, but they'll do. ] You have to promise you'll hang onto me if you become unbalanced.
[ Daemon was a mess when he first got out of bed, and he didn't even have his whole skull stabbed through. ]
[ Famous last words as he ignores the hand on his knee and bends to put on the too-big boots, hissing in pain to hastily yank down the waistband of his cotton slacks in surprise to see black-blue lines crisscrossing his hips and thighs.
What ... ? The saddle-chains he fought so hard to escape in terror. Oh.
Well, fuck that. He's not going to make a show of being freaked out, not in front of Daemon, and grunts as he determinedly pulls on the boots and robe, rising with a wobble that he stamps out to gain his balance. See? Fine. Aemond has always been lean but now he looks a shade too thin (or easily blown over by the wind) and he clears his throat now and then when it tickles. So far, his head is holding itself together with the promise of seeing Vhagar there, and he presents himself as ready.
It's interesting to see how his uncle moves, where any of his own sore spots are. ]
But Daemon doesn't hinder him, or advise him to wait (like the sorceress will surely scold him about). It's important that he see Vhagar, even while they're each in such a state. Daemon's presence had not been welcome, and certainly not Caraxes', either. He imagines it'll be a much longer road for rekindling tolerance between their dragons. Perhaps the estrangement will be permanent, after such a battle. He can't guess. ]
Not as such, but our hosts are used to all kinds of arrivals through the fabric of death.
[ He will explain a little as they go. Slowly. Aemond may not want help, but he'll suffer it when needed. They have died, but this is not the afterlife of any faith he knows. Beings here arrive from all manner of strange planes of reality. They are deathless, but there can still be a kind of death which is dangerous and taboo— they will be recycled, and the risk of coming back wrong beyond the ability of magic to correct increases with each turn.
Daemon moves gingerly in places, and his nephew may glance mottled bruising on his forearm and collarbone, when his clothes shift. But it's like more marbling to contrast his burns; even at his age, he takes easily to recovery. Another week or so of rest and a few soaks in healing baths and he'll be good as new. What a prick.
Stairs. Delightful. A woman in a purple robe with strange eye motifs along the hems hounds them about being up, but doesn't seem to want to argue with Daemon about it too harshly. Wary of him, for some reason. She is a healer, but not the sorceress who runs this hospital wing. Perhaps they will be looked in on later. ]
[ More like he fell down a bunch of stairs, although he clearly now remembers their fight above the God's Eye. Pain and terror aside, it was a good way to die with his dragon. He and Vhagar were together in the end, which is exactly how he always wanted it; the twisted way Daemon brought that about was a bit much, but ... Aemond was not so under enchantment he did not know the likelihood of taking on his uncle. Can you blame someone for murdering you when you knew they might be able to do it? Part of Aemond had wanted to die, he suspects, just to escape Rivers.
The inhabitants of the enormous castle are strange as all hells and, with only one eye to take them in, he ends up turning and straining to see them once they pass, the green-skinned folk that look like Children of the Forest drawings in old books he used to read before bedtime, long-eared people who look like Targaryens with their pale hair, people dressed very strangely with little light-up bricks in their hands ... a man-sized dragon in normal clothing gets an open stare when it walks past on its hind legs, sniffing the air then turning to wink at Aemond. He listens intently to what Daemon says, a little stunned by exactly how odd everything is.
He hurries to keep up with his uncle, sticking close no matter how Daemon's injuries affect him; he's the only weapon Aemond has here. The spooky old witch (surely is one, look at her) chides them for being up and Aemond looks away, letting Daemon navigate the utter weirdness. Once alone on their walk again, he asks under his breath, ]
This is not like any place I was taught about.
[ Aegon would be hopping around excitedly (smashed legs healed, assuming) and chasing after every weirdo in sight but Aemond can't find his voice when they pass, wondering if the Seven-headed god will present itself at some point. ]
[ Of course it was a bit much. He was never going to let them go out dully.
Daemon tucks an arm around his nephew, carefully mindful of his injuries, but supportive. They likely paint just as strange a picture to plenty of the others— two very striking men clearly cut of the same cloth, in tandem recovery, intimately connected in some way. Father and son? Lovers? An unnerving thought for some, while others will see it as pedestrian. He slows them while walking by magically-lit windows, looking out at an inner maze portion of the city-like castle. ]
If gods are real, they are merely beings who aren't like us, [ he says, a shrug in his voice. ] Perhaps there are even some here.
[ An eight-foot Norse brawler covered in tattoos sitting in a tavern somewhere, drinking strong ale for hours at a time. A primordial being of unknown origin lurking in the forest, luring in hunters and asking them for trades. Mirre ra morghūlis, all things, not only men, must die.
He keeps Aemond close as they make their way out to a courtyard that's closed off from most foot traffic. A blue-skinned man at the gate recognizes Daemon and lets them pass; it is quiet, with lanterns hanging from a network of high lattices, and a few fires in stone pits. ]
She is not yet well, [ he cautions him quietly. ] It's been easier for Caraxes to heal. I think because I've been awake.
[ Probably also because he's half her size, and his wounds were less immediately fatal— ultimately, the red dragon fell to blood loss, but Queen Visenya's great terror had her throat bitten out. Daemon is proud of Caraxes. A brutal end for them both, but what a trade. No other dragon could have managed it.
Also, uh. ]
I doubt she will tolerate my presence, if she is conscious.
[ He can tell Caraxes is asleep, a warm scaly dragonloaf lurking in one corner of the courtyard, but he knows not if Vhagar's stillness is true sleep, or coma. There is another gate to go through, the larger dragon closer to the surrounding woods; not only is she far more difficult to transport, Daemon advised not housing them together. Just in case they both woke up and thought the fight was not yet finished. ]
[ He wonders if this is one of the seven hells, or somewhere adjacent. If hell is spending forever with Daemon around then ... fair, but also, that's a hilarious misstep if someone thought Aemond was going to be trying to cut his uncle down forever. He goes along obediently at his side, trying to memorise the path before he spots the hulking shadow of his dragon high above the gates. Having to be patient for the sight of Daemon to allow them access makes Aemond anxious, briefly eyeing Caraxes to note the Blood Wyrm's injuries as they pass.
His dragon looks like someone took her by the tail and smashed her into the ground several times over, wings and limbs broken.
Once through the gate he breaks free and runs forward to Vhagar whose head is slumped to one side as her throat (Aemond gags) is healed by some very literal-looking magic at the hands of the anchorites. En route, racing as he is, he coughs up some blood from his raw throat and wipes it away as he stumbles, spreading his arms around her undamaged eye where his weight catches itself and he pants hoarsely. ]
Vhagar! Look at me, Vhagar, look! It's me, it's Aemond. Vhagar, please! Please, wake up. [ Stricken, he rubs under her eye where she used to enjoy being scratched, unable to do it gently with her clumsy big claws. He reaches back for her nostril where he smears some of the blood on his hand, hurrying to her eye. ] Wake up! [ He thumps a fist on her scales, as high as he can reach. ] Vhagar!
[ Whether the distress in his voice does it or the scent of blood from a child she raised into her rider, her eye slowly opens, unfocused. She lives, broken and unmoving, and a low, wet wheezing sound escapes her as she responds. Aemond turns his whole body to her to hide his crying, back jumping as he pets under her eye. ]
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Vhagar. Be calm, rest now. It's me, she's gone. It's just me, it's Aemond. All will be well.
[ It takes strength not to grab after him, especially when he stumbles and coughs up blood. Daemon remains still, one hand flexing at his side before he collects himself, princely pose. And here is another part of his pain, that Aemond wished to hear of: It's me, she's gone.
Vhagar had been so strange that night. Daemon should have called out to her, he should have done something. Anything.
And here in the end, something has been done. Dark Sister straight through Aemond's skull, and his dragon-mother brutalized, the both of them dead before they hit the water. Daemon sometimes dreams of crawling from the lake, dragging up onto the shore, shuddering last bloody breaths— but he doesn't know if those are his own memories, or impressions from Caraxes. He hears screaming so often in his head; the angry cries over Syrax's refusal to leave King's Landing, the anguish of Sheepstealer being sent away. As lonely and heartbroken as Daemon. Now there is no one but Vhagar, who he killed.
He watches Aemond cry, not daring to move past the secondary gate separating the dragons. This is not his connection, it is not his grief. And he won't risk upsetting Vhagar and jeopardizing her recovery. He hears (and feels) stirring, then, and turns to retreat back to Caraxes, who is sluggish but cognizant. His dragon croons metallic concern, and Daemon slips in near his shoulder, allowing the Blood Wyrm to curl his long neck back around, and enclose them together.
Daemon, exhausted, sits leaning in against red scales, and rubs his dragon's nose. He was eleven when Uncle Aemon died and Caraxes had laid beside him in the fields after the funeral; he feels like he did then. Useless in the face of his father's misery, and desperate for someone to understand. Caraxes rumbles his rocky, clicking sound, and Daemon rests his head on the ridge below his eye. ]
[ Ignorant to all but his dragon for a while, he tells Vhagar to calm, to sleep, she must sleep and let the men heal her. All will be well, you are strong. I am here. He doesn't know what else to say, but she does fall into unconsciousness quickly and he holds her for long moments as she grows silent, an ancient power unused to being afraid.
He barks at the anchorites to bring fresh straw to lay by her head, at the very least so she can smell it and remain soothed as they work. Looking up at the ladders that cover her body so the sorcerers can work on her makes him feel ill but there is nothing for it, the one that approaches him to discuss Vhagar's many wounds is deferential to him in his grief but firm about the likelihood of her recovery. She is old, her bones are huge but brittle. To heal her she must be reduced in size, made younger by several decades at the very least. Aemond nods, making a few more demands so he feels like he has any degree of control. The straw near her head and nose, yes, and cover her claws to keep the cold out, she dislikes damp feet when she sleeps and always dries off first. Put a tent over her head to keep the rain off.
He ends up left by the gate as the anchorite bows her retreat. Leaning against the wood, he folds his arms tight and tips his head back, waiting for whenever Daemon will return; he is off near Caraxes but Aemond doesn't stare, doesn't approach them either. Everyone deserves their privacy when it comes to their dragons and Daemon apparently granted him some so he could wipe away his tears. He tries to hate Daemon, angry with himself when he can't. Tries to hate Caraxes, which is even more foolish an endeavour. The truth is, it's Aemond's fault for being so weak that a witch wrapped him around her finger and managed to enslave both him and his dragon, and he hates himself the most.
Aemond wants to go home, childishly wants his mother to hold him. She would tuck his head on her shoulder and promise all will be well in a way he could believe, the way he now tries to reassure Vhagar.
He is so cold, so tired, so unsafe. A sword through the skull would be a mercy. ]
[ It's best to stay apart for this bit; the veneer of Caraxes' personable for a dragon fan dance has worn off, leaving the truth behind the mask, which is, of course, just waiting for you to get in close enough to eat. The troublemaker grin looks far more sinister. He tolerates some of the anchorites who've helped heal him, but the barely restrained sense of violence that once merely lurked now shrouds him distinctly.
Except, of course, around Daemon. Then he's just a big snakelizardcat. Daemon dozes with him and scratches his nose while Aemond is involved with Vhagar, then he manages to get Caraxes to eat, and blow some fire to work his bellows. The dragon is worn out after and so Daemon sits with him until he falls asleep, murmuring quietly in High Valyrian. His dear friend, his partner, his mad warrior. Re-attaching his arm had been nothing short of miraculous and will require serious rehabilitation, but the rest has mended; his belly is tender, regrown where Vhagar gored him, but he's strong. Not quite a century old. Unlike his rider, he's still in his prime.
The chill has set in when Daemon makes his way to Aemond, feeling only a little touched by the fires dotted through the area. He stands at the end of the gate, and regards him, and the adjustments being made to the mountain-sized dragon. ]
[ Every woman in his life, it occurs to him, is a little touched in some way. Mother's fanaticism, Helaena's madness, Alys's evil, Vhagar's fury that only sometimes matched his own; they are always a little off (but he can't talk about mental stability, fine). He wonders about it, looking up when Daemon walks over as heralded by the gravel. He straightens, arms still folded tightly. ]
She is too old and brittle to fix, they have to make her smaller. Younger? I don't know how that is possible, though they said they would not hurt her.
[ It makes him uncomfortable to be so powerless, looking back at Vhagar's hulk. His head drops, taking a steadying breath before he looks up and jerks his chin at Caraxes. ]
[ Daemon frowns, hearing all that. Sympathetic to the turmoil such news must be causing Aemond. Of course Vhagar is old and not as fit as she was fifty years ago, the last being alive from the Conquest, but she has been so active, defying the way time pinned down even Balerion, that it feels almost impossible for her to be hampered by it. ]
Oh, he's alright. [ It's been maddening, but Caraxes is stubborn. Talk of more extreme methods of intervention if the re-attachment doesn't heal right are on a wait and see basis, though now Daemon feels faintly ill about it, hearing what's to be done to Vhagar. ] Very tired and a bit cranky.
[ 'Cranky', 'snapping at anyone he doesn't recognize', whatever.
Daemon sighs, and extends a hand to Aemond, once again offering silently. A squeeze or to hold him, anything. ]
I am glad they have a plan about how to best tend to her.
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[ Soft, earnest. He believes it. He believes, then and now, that Aemond was true. They loved each other, as dangerous as it was. Maybe he still loves Daemon now, despite the war. ]
When you woke, for just a minute, you told me you would rather be slain than be a puppet, but I did not cut you down. I let you go, hoping to find some other way. I failed you in both respects.
[ He allowed Aemond to return to Alys, and to be used more. He did not discover a way to break him out— perhaps he could have, if it were his only focus. But of course it couldn't have been, not with the war and with two dozen other crises happening. He suspects that his nights on the battlefield in Cregan's tent discussing the magic of the old gods is what started rumors about Nettles, even.
Gods and fuck, it's a mess. ]
We met again, and you were still not yourself. We fell because we fought.
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We fell. Not just I fell. Aemond looks at him, solemn and a little scared around the edges for the first time since waking. It's not like he can flee anywhere so he may as well use his words, recollecting everything as it starts to stem from the rage of — ]
Harrenhal.
You were not there, and I was ... angry.
[ Livid, in fact. He wanted to have Vhagar treat it as Balerion once did but was settled by the heads piled three-feet high that he took instead. Staring now at his knees, he speaks the memories as they return, glancing at Daemon in building anxiety. ]
They were punished for harbouring you. Then ... that woman was there. She understood. She knew things, knew me, like — like our own language. [ He doesn't want to use Valyrian for this. ] Alys was always there, after Harrenhal. She flew on Vhagar with me. [ That particularly offends him, shifting in his bed. ] I wanted to torch the riverlands to ensure they would not rise up against Aegon but it — it never ended. There was always more to burn, always more, and then you were there, and then not, and then ... then we were killing each other.
[ Aemond leans back in his bed, sadness permeating any trauma. Calm, mostly, but with signs of his own self there. None of Alys's cold, indifferent warrior-prince. Instead of freaking out he thinks of his old books on philosophy, trying to find reasons for their still being, apparently, living and breathing. ]
If death is a gateway, I am glad to have stepped through it, though I mourn I brought you with me.
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He closes his eyes for a while.
Should have just announced their affair at dinner.
Daemon takes a slow breath, and settles again, shoulders down. Looking at Aemond with clear sadness. There's a part of him that's satisfied with the end — he sealed his pact, he protected his children — but the whole mess of it is a tragedy. ]
I made my choice. It was time for me to be gone from the world, and stop bringing such ruin into it. At least this way, I could ensure you were not alone in the dark.
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[ Death is not what he would have preferred but it is immeasurably preferable to being in half his mind, egged on and encouraged with magic to be a warlord dragon-rider with no clear purpose. He always thought that would be Aegon, who did not study history or philosophy, who knew nothing of the warnings Maegor had left behind.
His temper got the best of him and another took advantage of it. As much of an upheaval as that gutting (humiliating) realisation is, there is more he owes Daemon to speak of and he weighs up whether it's wise.
But if not now, then when? ]
I was myself at Storm's End.
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Daemon wonders about Aemond's child. He wonders about his own; he rubs a hand over his face, and wants to hold his youngest boys, and explain why he can't see them again. He wants to tell Baela she doesn't have to fight if she doesn't want to. Go back to Essos. All of you. Go further and further east, until no one has heard of Westeros at all.
He wants to be holding Aemond's hand again. He doesn't move. ]
I know.
[ An accident, he had said, but Daemon knows even if the murder was not intentional, that everything leading up to it was. Aemond set out to terrorize Lucerys, the whole Baratheon court saw it, and he did it with Vhagar, whose life has only ever been meant for war. She is not Caraxes, who will tease and manipulate in a way a dragon shouldn't be able to— and Aemond's hate was real. You cannot lie to a dragon. ]
It is a miserable lesson, to learn that there is no difference between the consequences of wilful misdeeds, and of mistakes.
[ Lucerys was dead all the same. ]
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Quiet in the wake of Daemon's grief, his gaze rests on his uncle's hand that he dares not take. ]
I did not intend to kill him. [ Not that it matters; he looks ashamed to have tried excusing himself, but the words want to be said. ] Only ...
[ It was the rivalry of his life, he doesn't know how to explain he wanted to tear Luc apart but always have him there to see his suffering, and to sound sane while speaking of it. It's not. ]
I am sorry, uncle.
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There is no solution. From their births, they needed to be raised without one parent or the other filling their heads with divisiveness. They needed to see each other as family, and not enemies. Viserys failed as a head of household, Rhaenyra and Alicent failed as mothers, and Daemon failed as a Targaryen.
Someone should have had some fucking control. ]
I believe you.
[ It's not alright, and so Daemon doesn't tell him that it is. He can accept it, and honor Aemond's honesty, but it's not his place to offer forgiveness.
Perhaps sometime in the future — do they have futures, in this place? — he will tell Aemond about the kind of young man Lucerys had become. How he could never completely shed his Targaryen temper when one of his stepsisters or his mother was insulted, but how he began to hate fighting, and neglected his training at every opportunity. Jacaerys grew with an intention to prove his naysayers wrong and do his mother proud, but Lucerys wilted with insecurity. He'd have never fought Aemond only to defend himself.
Not now. It has been some time since Luc's murder, but other losses are still too fresh. Their own most of all.
Daemon doesn't touch him, but he extends his hand again, letting Aemond take it if he wishes to. Showing him that he wants their connection still, offering solace, even while forgiveness is not his to bestow. ]
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Not wanting to touch upon the business of Alys again in a hurry, or of anything ensuing his own fetidly poisoned path to ruin, he focuses on his uncle. ]
I wish to know more of your pain, if you will share it.
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He supposes he deserves to be made to bare some wounds. A lean forward, and he takes Aemond's hand and presses his palm to his own face. He waits like that for a while, as if soaking in his 'survival', and sifting through the things that hurt the worst. ]
Rhaenyra miscarried.
[ Maybe Aemond will like that. Daemon knows he hates his half-sister, thanks to Alicent and Otto. (At least Daemon got to kill him.) But it has ruined Daemon; his brother, then his baby. He never expected to care so much for being a father, and it has shocked him how different war is with his children to think of. He became both more frightened, and more violent. The stakes were so much higher. ]
My little daughter. Visenya.
[ Tired of dead children, he'd told Aemond that night. ]
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He hadn't really understood what Daemon had meant that night in the glade. ]
She would have been the cleverest, most beautiful child. I am sorry for your loss.
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It wouldn't have mattered if Visenya had lived, if she had grown despite her deformities, and Aemond wished for her after all— they have all been poisoned. Slowly and thoroughly, just like Viserys.
Better that they aren't there anymore. Daemon had felt so at home on Dragonstone, after trying and failing to live in the east. But he should have stayed. He should have stolen her away, or he should have been the mad tyrant they all called him. Who fucking cares about the Iron Throne. They should all just burn. ]
She was. She was beautiful. She was a dragon.
[ A potentially unnerving thing for a Targaryen to say. Rhaenyra had birthed five healthy children already, and they had so many dragons.
Daemon would have loved her, even if she was an abomination. ]
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I cannot heal any of those wounds. I am here now, I see you clearly. I want to help.
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He feels like he's mourning all of fucking Old Valyria. It's very surreal.
Comforting touches. His sweet, terrible nephew. So bloodthirsty. If they had fought on the same side, nothing would have stopped them. Why did you do it, brother. Did you hate our own kind so much. ]
You wanted to know.
[ His pain. There's so much more of it, but a baby is the worst and more gutting part; his brother, his daughter, his stepson, one after the other. Of course there was nothing he could do but rage. ]
You can help by healing. Vhagar will need your strength.
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[ He's just shit at doing anything other than storing that borrowed sorrow until such a time as he can avenge it, and feels useless in the meantime.
Mention of Vhagar has him pausing, feeling a pull toward her from somewhere in his chest. A hook that has been strengthened (by death?) means he can have his heart beat alongside hers if he concentrates ... although she is very weak, and that is worrying. ]
Where are the dragons? I want to see.
[ He draws the blankets around himself, legs scooting over the edge of the bed. Take him out of this depressing room! ]
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And poor Aemond, who has been used so thoroughly. There will be more healing needed than just his body, Daemon thinks. A vessel for his mother's resentment (whether he realizes it or not), then the tool of a witch with her own agenda. Maybe in death, he can be only himself.
Such a relief, to have died with their dragons. Daemon isn't sure what he'd do without Caraxes. ]
If you rush too fast you'll risk your head, [ he chides, but doesn't push him back down. Instead Daemon bids him wait with a hand on his knee, and moves to fish out a pair of boots and a robe for him. Both are too big, having been a guess by the healers, but they'll do. ] You have to promise you'll hang onto me if you become unbalanced.
[ Daemon was a mess when he first got out of bed, and he didn't even have his whole skull stabbed through. ]
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[ Famous last words as he ignores the hand on his knee and bends to put on the too-big boots, hissing in pain to hastily yank down the waistband of his cotton slacks in surprise to see black-blue lines crisscrossing his hips and thighs.
What ... ? The saddle-chains he fought so hard to escape in terror. Oh.
Well, fuck that. He's not going to make a show of being freaked out, not in front of Daemon, and grunts as he determinedly pulls on the boots and robe, rising with a wobble that he stamps out to gain his balance. See? Fine. Aemond has always been lean but now he looks a shade too thin (or easily blown over by the wind) and he clears his throat now and then when it tickles. So far, his head is holding itself together with the promise of seeing Vhagar there, and he presents himself as ready.
It's interesting to see how his uncle moves, where any of his own sore spots are. ]
Is there a Dragonpit here?
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But Daemon doesn't hinder him, or advise him to wait (like the sorceress will surely scold him about). It's important that he see Vhagar, even while they're each in such a state. Daemon's presence had not been welcome, and certainly not Caraxes', either. He imagines it'll be a much longer road for rekindling tolerance between their dragons. Perhaps the estrangement will be permanent, after such a battle. He can't guess. ]
Not as such, but our hosts are used to all kinds of arrivals through the fabric of death.
[ He will explain a little as they go. Slowly. Aemond may not want help, but he'll suffer it when needed. They have died, but this is not the afterlife of any faith he knows. Beings here arrive from all manner of strange planes of reality. They are deathless, but there can still be a kind of death which is dangerous and taboo— they will be recycled, and the risk of coming back wrong beyond the ability of magic to correct increases with each turn.
Daemon moves gingerly in places, and his nephew may glance mottled bruising on his forearm and collarbone, when his clothes shift. But it's like more marbling to contrast his burns; even at his age, he takes easily to recovery. Another week or so of rest and a few soaks in healing baths and he'll be good as new. What a prick.
Stairs. Delightful. A woman in a purple robe with strange eye motifs along the hems hounds them about being up, but doesn't seem to want to argue with Daemon about it too harshly. Wary of him, for some reason. She is a healer, but not the sorceress who runs this hospital wing. Perhaps they will be looked in on later. ]
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[ More like he fell down a bunch of stairs, although he clearly now remembers their fight above the God's Eye. Pain and terror aside, it was a good way to die with his dragon. He and Vhagar were together in the end, which is exactly how he always wanted it; the twisted way Daemon brought that about was a bit much, but ... Aemond was not so under enchantment he did not know the likelihood of taking on his uncle. Can you blame someone for murdering you when you knew they might be able to do it? Part of Aemond had wanted to die, he suspects, just to escape Rivers.
The inhabitants of the enormous castle are strange as all hells and, with only one eye to take them in, he ends up turning and straining to see them once they pass, the green-skinned folk that look like Children of the Forest drawings in old books he used to read before bedtime, long-eared people who look like Targaryens with their pale hair, people dressed very strangely with little light-up bricks in their hands ... a man-sized dragon in normal clothing gets an open stare when it walks past on its hind legs, sniffing the air then turning to wink at Aemond. He listens intently to what Daemon says, a little stunned by exactly how odd everything is.
He hurries to keep up with his uncle, sticking close no matter how Daemon's injuries affect him; he's the only weapon Aemond has here. The spooky old witch (surely is one, look at her) chides them for being up and Aemond looks away, letting Daemon navigate the utter weirdness. Once alone on their walk again, he asks under his breath, ]
This is not like any place I was taught about.
[ Aegon would be hopping around excitedly (smashed legs healed, assuming) and chasing after every weirdo in sight but Aemond can't find his voice when they pass, wondering if the Seven-headed god will present itself at some point. ]
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Daemon tucks an arm around his nephew, carefully mindful of his injuries, but supportive. They likely paint just as strange a picture to plenty of the others— two very striking men clearly cut of the same cloth, in tandem recovery, intimately connected in some way. Father and son? Lovers? An unnerving thought for some, while others will see it as pedestrian. He slows them while walking by magically-lit windows, looking out at an inner maze portion of the city-like castle. ]
If gods are real, they are merely beings who aren't like us, [ he says, a shrug in his voice. ] Perhaps there are even some here.
[ An eight-foot Norse brawler covered in tattoos sitting in a tavern somewhere, drinking strong ale for hours at a time. A primordial being of unknown origin lurking in the forest, luring in hunters and asking them for trades. Mirre ra morghūlis, all things, not only men, must die.
He keeps Aemond close as they make their way out to a courtyard that's closed off from most foot traffic. A blue-skinned man at the gate recognizes Daemon and lets them pass; it is quiet, with lanterns hanging from a network of high lattices, and a few fires in stone pits. ]
She is not yet well, [ he cautions him quietly. ] It's been easier for Caraxes to heal. I think because I've been awake.
[ Probably also because he's half her size, and his wounds were less immediately fatal— ultimately, the red dragon fell to blood loss, but Queen Visenya's great terror had her throat bitten out. Daemon is proud of Caraxes. A brutal end for them both, but what a trade. No other dragon could have managed it.
Also, uh. ]
I doubt she will tolerate my presence, if she is conscious.
[ He can tell Caraxes is asleep, a warm scaly dragonloaf lurking in one corner of the courtyard, but he knows not if Vhagar's stillness is true sleep, or coma. There is another gate to go through, the larger dragon closer to the surrounding woods; not only is she far more difficult to transport, Daemon advised not housing them together. Just in case they both woke up and thought the fight was not yet finished. ]
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His dragon looks like someone took her by the tail and smashed her into the ground several times over, wings and limbs broken.
Once through the gate he breaks free and runs forward to Vhagar whose head is slumped to one side as her throat (Aemond gags) is healed by some very literal-looking magic at the hands of the anchorites. En route, racing as he is, he coughs up some blood from his raw throat and wipes it away as he stumbles, spreading his arms around her undamaged eye where his weight catches itself and he pants hoarsely. ]
Vhagar! Look at me, Vhagar, look! It's me, it's Aemond. Vhagar, please! Please, wake up. [ Stricken, he rubs under her eye where she used to enjoy being scratched, unable to do it gently with her clumsy big claws. He reaches back for her nostril where he smears some of the blood on his hand, hurrying to her eye. ] Wake up! [ He thumps a fist on her scales, as high as he can reach. ] Vhagar!
[ Whether the distress in his voice does it or the scent of blood from a child she raised into her rider, her eye slowly opens, unfocused. She lives, broken and unmoving, and a low, wet wheezing sound escapes her as she responds. Aemond turns his whole body to her to hide his crying, back jumping as he pets under her eye. ]
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Vhagar. Be calm, rest now. It's me, she's gone. It's just me, it's Aemond. All will be well.
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Vhagar had been so strange that night. Daemon should have called out to her, he should have done something. Anything.
And here in the end, something has been done. Dark Sister straight through Aemond's skull, and his dragon-mother brutalized, the both of them dead before they hit the water. Daemon sometimes dreams of crawling from the lake, dragging up onto the shore, shuddering last bloody breaths— but he doesn't know if those are his own memories, or impressions from Caraxes. He hears screaming so often in his head; the angry cries over Syrax's refusal to leave King's Landing, the anguish of Sheepstealer being sent away. As lonely and heartbroken as Daemon. Now there is no one but Vhagar, who he killed.
He watches Aemond cry, not daring to move past the secondary gate separating the dragons. This is not his connection, it is not his grief. And he won't risk upsetting Vhagar and jeopardizing her recovery. He hears (and feels) stirring, then, and turns to retreat back to Caraxes, who is sluggish but cognizant. His dragon croons metallic concern, and Daemon slips in near his shoulder, allowing the Blood Wyrm to curl his long neck back around, and enclose them together.
Daemon, exhausted, sits leaning in against red scales, and rubs his dragon's nose. He was eleven when Uncle Aemon died and Caraxes had laid beside him in the fields after the funeral; he feels like he did then. Useless in the face of his father's misery, and desperate for someone to understand. Caraxes rumbles his rocky, clicking sound, and Daemon rests his head on the ridge below his eye. ]
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He barks at the anchorites to bring fresh straw to lay by her head, at the very least so she can smell it and remain soothed as they work. Looking up at the ladders that cover her body so the sorcerers can work on her makes him feel ill but there is nothing for it, the one that approaches him to discuss Vhagar's many wounds is deferential to him in his grief but firm about the likelihood of her recovery. She is old, her bones are huge but brittle. To heal her she must be reduced in size, made younger by several decades at the very least. Aemond nods, making a few more demands so he feels like he has any degree of control. The straw near her head and nose, yes, and cover her claws to keep the cold out, she dislikes damp feet when she sleeps and always dries off first. Put a tent over her head to keep the rain off.
He ends up left by the gate as the anchorite bows her retreat. Leaning against the wood, he folds his arms tight and tips his head back, waiting for whenever Daemon will return; he is off near Caraxes but Aemond doesn't stare, doesn't approach them either. Everyone deserves their privacy when it comes to their dragons and Daemon apparently granted him some so he could wipe away his tears. He tries to hate Daemon, angry with himself when he can't. Tries to hate Caraxes, which is even more foolish an endeavour. The truth is, it's Aemond's fault for being so weak that a witch wrapped him around her finger and managed to enslave both him and his dragon, and he hates himself the most.
Aemond wants to go home, childishly wants his mother to hold him. She would tuck his head on her shoulder and promise all will be well in a way he could believe, the way he now tries to reassure Vhagar.
He is so cold, so tired, so unsafe. A sword through the skull would be a mercy. ]
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Except, of course, around Daemon. Then he's just a big snakelizardcat. Daemon dozes with him and scratches his nose while Aemond is involved with Vhagar, then he manages to get Caraxes to eat, and blow some fire to work his bellows. The dragon is worn out after and so Daemon sits with him until he falls asleep, murmuring quietly in High Valyrian. His dear friend, his partner, his mad warrior. Re-attaching his arm had been nothing short of miraculous and will require serious rehabilitation, but the rest has mended; his belly is tender, regrown where Vhagar gored him, but he's strong. Not quite a century old. Unlike his rider, he's still in his prime.
The chill has set in when Daemon makes his way to Aemond, feeling only a little touched by the fires dotted through the area. He stands at the end of the gate, and regards him, and the adjustments being made to the mountain-sized dragon. ]
How is she?
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She is too old and brittle to fix, they have to make her smaller. Younger? I don't know how that is possible, though they said they would not hurt her.
[ It makes him uncomfortable to be so powerless, looking back at Vhagar's hulk. His head drops, taking a steadying breath before he looks up and jerks his chin at Caraxes. ]
How is he? Making some noise.
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Oh, he's alright. [ It's been maddening, but Caraxes is stubborn. Talk of more extreme methods of intervention if the re-attachment doesn't heal right are on a wait and see basis, though now Daemon feels faintly ill about it, hearing what's to be done to Vhagar. ] Very tired and a bit cranky.
[ 'Cranky', 'snapping at anyone he doesn't recognize', whatever.
Daemon sighs, and extends a hand to Aemond, once again offering silently. A squeeze or to hold him, anything. ]
I am glad they have a plan about how to best tend to her.
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