[ He doesn't deserve this depth of care from Aemond, who he's hurt so badly, and who needs to rest, not be riled up by his uncle's sadness. And yet to reject it would be ruinous, and only hurt Aemond more. Daemon carefully moves his hand from the back of his head to cradle his face, thumb collecting blood, wiping it away. His own gaze is tired, but not distant. Present, despite the risk of despair.
Daemon closed his eyes in Westeros wanting oblivion. In a way, he feels robbed. ]
It is still sacred to me.
[ Blood, and what they did with it. He remembers very well, and won't betray it, not even now. Nothing dissolves a pact made for the Valyrian gods; no kings or septons, not betrayal, not loathing, not death. Daemon will be glad for it, forever. (He will even be glad for his bond with Rhaenyra. No matter how things turned out. Pain now does not erase joy in the past.) ]
I'll be alright. [ Will he. Daemon isn't actually sure, but he's not going to go walk off a ledge, at least. He has the fortitude to remain, for Aemond's sake, and for Caraxes. ] I'll not leave you alone.
[ Daemon leaving him alone would be terrifying in a way; Aemond has never been alone in his life, not until Alys. He grew up with siblings in a house that loved him, for all its flaws, and he cannot handle the thought of being cast out with strangers again. ]
I won't let you leave me alone.
[ There's a playful grumble somewhere amongst the exhaustion.
His hand covers the one on his face. It might be everything else piling up and making him bold but he sees no point not speaking his mind frankly (what's Daemon going to do, laugh and walk away? They are dead). Then again, Aemond has ever been bold at impulsive moments. ]
You always loved me less than I loved you. I understood why. It did not matter to me, so long as I had a slice of you.
[ He's a second-son who rates second in everything no matter what he does, and it isn't with self-deprecating tones he speaks but rather an awareness of something between Daemon and his wife going south. Rhaenyra was the great love of Daemon's life, true, but Daemon was that for Aemond however brief their pseudo-bonding was. Daemon is Aemond's Rhaenyra. ]
That is still true, I will not push for more or think less of you.
[ Even if he were angry at Aemond, he would be loathe to leave him; this situation is too bizarre, and Daemon's darkest days (before this fucking mess) were being forced to the Vale— a miserable place full of strangers, apart from his family. And he wasn't even fucking dead. Maybe he'll tell him of his first marriage, sometime. It's nowhere near the horrors he faced with Rivers, but it still shaped him so strangely, and he'd felt so alone.
Far from his thoughts, because Aemond says all that.
Daemon's breath catches, but he doesn't argue. It would be insulting to. A brave boy, baring himself like this, and while he's already in so much pain. Something squeezes tight and painful in Daemon's chest.
He strokes his thumb over Aemond's cheekbone, and stares into his eye, which is beautiful and clear. He knows he's still frowning. Cinched with worry and his own pain. ]
I lived for my brother, I burned for my wife. I died for you.
[ Aemond is right, that the kinds and degrees of love Daemon feels are different. He's had many lowers, and many intense connections, and in the records of history he will be defined by the one that he still bears the bonding scar of. He will be remembered as someone conniving and power-hungry, and he is, but he is also someone who feels so fucking much. Too fucking much. His love is corrosive, too hot, consuming, but he has a staggering amount of it.
Aemond is not Rhaenyra. He is only himself. And Daemon loves him as he is. ]
[ Grown taller after the better part of a year spent exercising his dragon across Westeros, Aemond brushes back Daemon's hair and drops a kiss on his cheek, arms wrapping around him to return the favour. He can be leaned on. ]
[ Sweet, vicious boy. A young man now. Daemon always knew he'd grow taller. Coltish frame now settled in, a dragon who's grown into the breadth of his wings.
It feels unfair that Aemond be chained to an old man, but at the same time, Daemon knows no one will love him like blood can. It would be infinitely more unfair if they parted, now.
Daemon noses him gently, then presses a soft kiss to his mouth. Careful, but sincere. They have much healing to do, in many ways.
Speaking of— ]
Come. You must rest. I'll stay with you, if you wish it.
[ The kiss lingers, breaths hot in the chilly evening air. Only their dragons likely run as warm. ]
I do. Please stay.
[ When he starts to move it becomes an exercise in how to walk without the grinding pain in his swollen, bruised hips taking over. He slings an arm around Daemon's shoulders, adopting a limp to keep his weight from settling on either side, which is slow-going but easier. ]
You cannot be all that skilled with a blade, [ hah, death jokes, ] not when my hips hurt worse than my head.
[ Chained to an old man like he was chained to his old dragon, ha ha.
Daemon helps him, a stable force; his own aches and pains trouble him a bit, but not enough to hinder them. ]
Mm. [ A huff of dry laughter. Look, he's very precise. ] I was never too concerned with falling.
[ A remark that sums up a lot of questionable habits, from using leather restraints that he could snip away with a knife in an instant, to flying without any buckled on at all. And of leaping off of Caraxes into the open air. Daemon has always known his dragon would catch him, or that there would no longer be a need to.
When they reach the entrance to the hospital wing, Daemon's sorceress is there, arms folded, stern. She has pale violet-tinted skin like an opal, long red hair, and most strikingly, horns that protrude from her forehead and sweep back over her skull. So distinct they almost distract from the pointed ears. Scolding commences, but her primary goal is to get Aemond back in bed with a warm elixir, so she wastes no time on it. She can lecture and walk, and as they go, she interrogates Aemond about his status in a way that Daemon can tell doubles as her assessing his cognitive presence. ]
Try not to leap off anything else in a hurry, my brain says it does not wish to cushion your fall twice-over.
[ Aemond's playful gallows-humour chills when the horned, opalescent healer starts chiding them, shrinking back into Daemon's side for a moment. He swallows his fears and answers her questions like a quiet model patient as she fusses around him. The elixir is harder to hide a reaction to once he is in his bed, holding it gingerly at best.
He has real trouble raising it, setting it back on his lap as he takes as unobtrusively steadying a breath as he can, uncomfortable taking a potion. It says more than he wants it to in front of Daemon, becoming uncooperative for the first time when the redhead instructs him he must drink it if he wishes to heal and he insists he feels fine after all. ]
[ Heartrending to watch. Daemon had been determined to let her work, and not be underfoot— ]
There is a slower way, [ he says, invading space between patient and healer. He reaches in and wraps long fingers around the opening of the cup and removes it from Aemond's lap, returning it to the sorceress. ] Prince Aemond is exhausted enough without digesting foreign substances. Mightn't you have a bath prepared? You've ordered me into several thus far.
[ Maybe she was just checking him out, with all those soaks in herb-steeped healing baths. The healer gives him a suspicious, hard look, but after a moment of quiet, relents with a nod of her head. Arguing with this guy has proven futile so far, she's apparently not going to even bother. After some discussion of a bath being brought up (someone will come and unfold one from a little magic tin, it's quite novel), she realizes Daemon isn't leaving, and so simply exits, taking the goblet with her.
[ He appreciates it, his hand finding Daemon's at his bedside where his uncle stands like a force of nature gently driving out that of the healer's. Doesn't want to address why the intervention was necessary though, and his breathing is relaxing already. ]
Are you going to watch me bathe?
[ The lighter sniping that speaks of a better mood is back, even as he gives Daemon's hand a grateful squeeze. ]
[ One of the more peaceful defenses of a loved one he's engaged in. Didn't even have to employ a power stance. He raises their linked hands and kisses Aemond's knuckles. He needn't explain. Especially not so immediately. ]
Certainly. Can't have you drowning.
[ Safety first.
Since they may have a minute (she probably has to go and sort out exactly what person-soup will do), Daemon sits on the edge of the bed beside him, and exhales a good-natured, but still exasperated, sigh. What the hell @ this whole thing. ]
You're handling waking up with far more grace than I, you know.
[ Losing his mind in a lustful red haze was all very fun but it is nice, very much so, to be treated like he's precious outside of being nude and splayed open. His stomach gives a flip at the kiss to his knuckles and he runs his thumb over Daemon's fingers, liking the way the bed dips as he sits down. All these little things are new and oddly charming. ]
I always believed there were other realms after death, [ faithful to a degree, thanks mom, ] though this one is stranger than I imagined, but it ... could be worse. Death is like a doorway, I once read. I can't go back home but I have new things ahead.
I also have no reason to fight anyone, not for a crown at least.
[ It's going to be an interesting adjustment. Daemon is keen on possessive, affectionate touches, both in public and private. This place has no taboo on men with men, or women with women; too many disparate worlds connecting to bother. Should he treat Aemond like a woman? Like a wife?
Mysteries to unfold, along with learning about their new home.
Which is free of crowns and fighting. (For now. Targaryens are a questionable omen, wherever they go.) ]
The news, well. [ MmhHmhm. ] I tried to kill our sorceress with the horns, Lanike. I was in a bit of a mood.
[ Woops. ]
I did kill a man who talked of putting Caraxes to public use, and discovered some of the judicial processes of this world. [ He smooths an imaginary fold out of his breeches. ] It was illuminating.
[ Surprising to hear about the attack on Lanike, not so much that he actually murdered someone over Caraxes. The dry humour breaks a laugh free, then a gasp as he quickly holds a hip, laughing because it hurts and hissing. ]
Ah! Ah, fuck. How are you not still being held in a dungeon somewhere?
[ He wouldn't know how to explain it, if asked about the sorceress. He was disoriented, and furious, and some animal part in his brain saw a face with faux-dragon-horns and he could do nothing but rage over being mocked. Fortunately, he got control of himself, and Lanike is an old hand with bad reactions.
Pfft. Daemon reaches out to touch his shoulders, settling him. ]
Newly dead are granted a bit of leeway, [ he tells Aemond primly, ] and the magistrate agreed with me that the man was a cunt.
[ So. You know. Daemon talked his way out of consequences. No one here is aware he's a villain who shouldn't ever be given half an inch. ]
Let's not kill anyone else, if we can help it. Cunts or not.
[ Because it's not just Daemon now, it's the two of them. A team, of sorts. A ... partnership? In any case, he settles back and captures a hand to keep on his middle. All the recent trauma has been overwhelming, he just wants to exist in a bubble where they have stepped outside of the consequences of their actions a while longer.
Slaughtering people kind of hearkens back to that. ]
Tomorrow I want you to show me this place, as much as you know. Is there a library? We should learn about these people, gain any edge there is.
[ Daemon tsks, but it's clear he's just teasing. He, too, sees the benefit of behaving, of course. And conveniently, he's already established a particular reputation; Aemond need not contribute to it. Handled neatly ahead of time. Do not fuck with that one.
He gently rubs his knuckles against Aemond's middle where his hand is held. Petting him, mindful of bruising. ]
You will still be very tired tomorrow, [ Daemon reminds him. ] Your first priority is getting well. But yes, there are libraries. And all manner of other things. Did you ever learn of glass candles?
They use a similar technology. Flat pieces of glass instead of candles, that one may carry along with them. They resonate with a great fire that houses all manner of things. Every book and scroll in all of their libraries has been remembered, and you may call it up through the glass.
[ It's quite Valyrian, in his opinion. The sort of thing that might have existed there, given how old the candles are in Westeros, but lost forever in the Doom. Daemon probably needs to read a book about the internet, or something, but this is how he understands it all at first blush— and all things considered isn't actually that bad of a grasp on things. ]
[ Alright, alright. Daemon gives him another careful touch before he gets up and goes to where he's left a few of his things on the table beside the fireplace. Typical gen-xer, leaving his phone at home. He removes the communicator from it, and returns to Aemond's bedside. ]
There is some process of translating things from the physical world into one of intangible information. [ Sitting down again, he shows him to device, which he flips on with his thumb. Behold, a sleek borderless iPhone of some kind. ] Like thoughts to speech. It is as massless as sound, and travels between them immediately.
[ He's used some basic searching, and there's communications between himself, Lanike, the magistrate. Nothing fancy, but he hasn't been here long, and he's been far more preoccupied with Caraxes, and worrying over Aemond's sleeping form. ]
[ Leaning into Daemon to watch him navigate the controls, his lips part and a hunger is alight in his eye as he tilts his head to see. He has nothing to compare the device to but thinks he understands how to close and open the little symbols, which are like ... tiny books, he supposes, but they have different functions. Little rooms of condensed information set out in varying ways for alternate purposes, that's a better assessment. It's like magic, only the good kind. Practical and efficient. This type of enchantment-come-technology he likes.
[ He hands it over, and settles in to watch Aemond mess with it, anticipating an easier adjustment given his enthusiasm. Daemon himself has found it difficult to connect with much besides anger and sadness, and it feels good to watch his nephew be so curious. ]
When you check in for regular quarters away from the healers, you'll receive one as well.
[ Does Daemon have chambers somewhere he's been avoiding in favor of watching over him and the dragons? Yes. ]
[ Aemond sinks his weight against Daemon, thoroughly distracted by investigating the little screen of possibilities, quickly learning how to scroll, to open and close the apps, investigating inside some of them and Hmmming as he does. He adapts to the nature of the fantasy iPhone so quickly he is, within minutes, discovering Daemon has no profiles on a bunch of things and starts making one. Something to store portraits on. DAEMON T- No. ROGUE PRINCE. Hah. The corners of his lips smirk momentarily, satisfied.
He figures out how to take a photo of his uncle's hand and smiles, pleased with himself as he starts investigating how to add it to the new collection. ]
... Mmm.
[ Typical gen-zer. Who gives a damn about having a bath now? Not Aemond. ]
[ Like a duck to water, of course. Daemon could laugh. Instead he relaxes where he is, and drops a fond kiss to Aemond's temple. Experiencing a second-hand good mood settles him, even though a part of him finds it surreal that the younger prince is so easily slipping into it. Better this way, though. It's good that he's able to compartmentalize himself away from suffering, and get a break from it.
A little while later, there's a knock at the door, and Daemon extricates himself from his nephew to attend to it. A young anchorite has a basket full of non-consumable healing items, including the tin that will unfold into a bath basin. There's talk of how to use things, and an offer of a consultation with a maester from another world— something called an orthopedic doctor. Strange words. Daemon makes note of it, and says Aemond will let them know tomorrow.
So. Basket goes on the table, anchorite goes away. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Daemon closed his eyes in Westeros wanting oblivion. In a way, he feels robbed. ]
It is still sacred to me.
[ Blood, and what they did with it. He remembers very well, and won't betray it, not even now. Nothing dissolves a pact made for the Valyrian gods; no kings or septons, not betrayal, not loathing, not death. Daemon will be glad for it, forever. (He will even be glad for his bond with Rhaenyra. No matter how things turned out. Pain now does not erase joy in the past.) ]
I'll be alright. [ Will he. Daemon isn't actually sure, but he's not going to go walk off a ledge, at least. He has the fortitude to remain, for Aemond's sake, and for Caraxes. ] I'll not leave you alone.
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I won't let you leave me alone.
[ There's a playful grumble somewhere amongst the exhaustion.
His hand covers the one on his face. It might be everything else piling up and making him bold but he sees no point not speaking his mind frankly (what's Daemon going to do, laugh and walk away? They are dead). Then again, Aemond has ever been bold at impulsive moments. ]
You always loved me less than I loved you. I understood why. It did not matter to me, so long as I had a slice of you.
[ He's a second-son who rates second in everything no matter what he does, and it isn't with self-deprecating tones he speaks but rather an awareness of something between Daemon and his wife going south. Rhaenyra was the great love of Daemon's life, true, but Daemon was that for Aemond however brief their pseudo-bonding was. Daemon is Aemond's Rhaenyra. ]
That is still true, I will not push for more or think less of you.
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Far from his thoughts, because Aemond says all that.
Daemon's breath catches, but he doesn't argue. It would be insulting to. A brave boy, baring himself like this, and while he's already in so much pain. Something squeezes tight and painful in Daemon's chest.
He strokes his thumb over Aemond's cheekbone, and stares into his eye, which is beautiful and clear. He knows he's still frowning. Cinched with worry and his own pain. ]
I lived for my brother, I burned for my wife. I died for you.
[ Aemond is right, that the kinds and degrees of love Daemon feels are different. He's had many lowers, and many intense connections, and in the records of history he will be defined by the one that he still bears the bonding scar of. He will be remembered as someone conniving and power-hungry, and he is, but he is also someone who feels so fucking much. Too fucking much. His love is corrosive, too hot, consuming, but he has a staggering amount of it.
Aemond is not Rhaenyra. He is only himself. And Daemon loves him as he is. ]
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I will not abandon you.
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It feels unfair that Aemond be chained to an old man, but at the same time, Daemon knows no one will love him like blood can. It would be infinitely more unfair if they parted, now.
Daemon noses him gently, then presses a soft kiss to his mouth. Careful, but sincere. They have much healing to do, in many ways.
Speaking of— ]
Come. You must rest. I'll stay with you, if you wish it.
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I do. Please stay.
[ When he starts to move it becomes an exercise in how to walk without the grinding pain in his swollen, bruised hips taking over. He slings an arm around Daemon's shoulders, adopting a limp to keep his weight from settling on either side, which is slow-going but easier. ]
You cannot be all that skilled with a blade, [ hah, death jokes, ] not when my hips hurt worse than my head.
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Daemon helps him, a stable force; his own aches and pains trouble him a bit, but not enough to hinder them. ]
Mm. [ A huff of dry laughter. Look, he's very precise. ] I was never too concerned with falling.
[ A remark that sums up a lot of questionable habits, from using leather restraints that he could snip away with a knife in an instant, to flying without any buckled on at all. And of leaping off of Caraxes into the open air. Daemon has always known his dragon would catch him, or that there would no longer be a need to.
When they reach the entrance to the hospital wing, Daemon's sorceress is there, arms folded, stern. She has pale violet-tinted skin like an opal, long red hair, and most strikingly, horns that protrude from her forehead and sweep back over her skull. So distinct they almost distract from the pointed ears. Scolding commences, but her primary goal is to get Aemond back in bed with a warm elixir, so she wastes no time on it. She can lecture and walk, and as they go, she interrogates Aemond about his status in a way that Daemon can tell doubles as her assessing his cognitive presence. ]
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[ Aemond's playful gallows-humour chills when the horned, opalescent healer starts chiding them, shrinking back into Daemon's side for a moment. He swallows his fears and answers her questions like a quiet model patient as she fusses around him. The elixir is harder to hide a reaction to once he is in his bed, holding it gingerly at best.
He has real trouble raising it, setting it back on his lap as he takes as unobtrusively steadying a breath as he can, uncomfortable taking a potion. It says more than he wants it to in front of Daemon, becoming uncooperative for the first time when the redhead instructs him he must drink it if he wishes to heal and he insists he feels fine after all. ]
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There is a slower way, [ he says, invading space between patient and healer. He reaches in and wraps long fingers around the opening of the cup and removes it from Aemond's lap, returning it to the sorceress. ] Prince Aemond is exhausted enough without digesting foreign substances. Mightn't you have a bath prepared? You've ordered me into several thus far.
[ Maybe she was just checking him out, with all those soaks in herb-steeped healing baths. The healer gives him a suspicious, hard look, but after a moment of quiet, relents with a nod of her head. Arguing with this guy has proven futile so far, she's apparently not going to even bother. After some discussion of a bath being brought up (someone will come and unfold one from a little magic tin, it's quite novel), she realizes Daemon isn't leaving, and so simply exits, taking the goblet with her.
They can work up to potions. It's fine. ]
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Are you going to watch me bathe?
[ The lighter sniping that speaks of a better mood is back, even as he gives Daemon's hand a grateful squeeze. ]
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Certainly. Can't have you drowning.
[ Safety first.
Since they may have a minute (she probably has to go and sort out exactly what person-soup will do), Daemon sits on the edge of the bed beside him, and exhales a good-natured, but still exasperated, sigh. What the hell @ this whole thing. ]
You're handling waking up with far more grace than I, you know.
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[ Losing his mind in a lustful red haze was all very fun but it is nice, very much so, to be treated like he's precious outside of being nude and splayed open. His stomach gives a flip at the kiss to his knuckles and he runs his thumb over Daemon's fingers, liking the way the bed dips as he sits down. All these little things are new and oddly charming. ]
I always believed there were other realms after death, [ faithful to a degree, thanks mom, ] though this one is stranger than I imagined, but it ... could be worse. Death is like a doorway, I once read. I can't go back home but I have new things ahead.
I also have no reason to fight anyone, not for a crown at least.
[ He tilts his head, eyeing him. ]
How did you take the news?
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Mysteries to unfold, along with learning about their new home.
Which is free of crowns and fighting. (For now. Targaryens are a questionable omen, wherever they go.) ]
The news, well. [ MmhHmhm. ] I tried to kill our sorceress with the horns, Lanike. I was in a bit of a mood.
[ Woops. ]
I did kill a man who talked of putting Caraxes to public use, and discovered some of the judicial processes of this world. [ He smooths an imaginary fold out of his breeches. ] It was illuminating.
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Ah! Ah, fuck. How are you not still being held in a dungeon somewhere?
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Pfft. Daemon reaches out to touch his shoulders, settling him. ]
Newly dead are granted a bit of leeway, [ he tells Aemond primly, ] and the magistrate agreed with me that the man was a cunt.
[ So. You know. Daemon talked his way out of consequences. No one here is aware he's a villain who shouldn't ever be given half an inch. ]
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[ Because it's not just Daemon now, it's the two of them. A team, of sorts. A ... partnership? In any case, he settles back and captures a hand to keep on his middle. All the recent trauma has been overwhelming, he just wants to exist in a bubble where they have stepped outside of the consequences of their actions a while longer.
Slaughtering people kind of hearkens back to that. ]
Tomorrow I want you to show me this place, as much as you know. Is there a library? We should learn about these people, gain any edge there is.
[ Because. Well, because. ]
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He gently rubs his knuckles against Aemond's middle where his hand is held. Petting him, mindful of bruising. ]
You will still be very tired tomorrow, [ Daemon reminds him. ] Your first priority is getting well. But yes, there are libraries. And all manner of other things. Did you ever learn of glass candles?
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They were brought from Valyria to the Citadel, people see visions in them and can speak across great distances.
[ What a nerd. ]
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They use a similar technology. Flat pieces of glass instead of candles, that one may carry along with them. They resonate with a great fire that houses all manner of things. Every book and scroll in all of their libraries has been remembered, and you may call it up through the glass.
[ It's quite Valyrian, in his opinion. The sort of thing that might have existed there, given how old the candles are in Westeros, but lost forever in the Doom. Daemon probably needs to read a book about the internet, or something, but this is how he understands it all at first blush— and all things considered isn't actually that bad of a grasp on things. ]
I have one, if you would like to see.
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[ Sass rising with his eagerness, he squirms in bed. Ouch, ignore his wince. ]
How is everything fit inside? How do you call it up? What kind of fire could power something like that?
[ Don't leave him hanging! Show and tell! ]
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There is some process of translating things from the physical world into one of intangible information. [ Sitting down again, he shows him to device, which he flips on with his thumb. Behold, a sleek borderless iPhone of some kind. ] Like thoughts to speech. It is as massless as sound, and travels between them immediately.
[ He's used some basic searching, and there's communications between himself, Lanike, the magistrate. Nothing fancy, but he hasn't been here long, and he's been far more preoccupied with Caraxes, and worrying over Aemond's sleeping form. ]
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Aemond touches Daemon's hand. ]
May I?
[ Give it. Please. ]
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[ He hands it over, and settles in to watch Aemond mess with it, anticipating an easier adjustment given his enthusiasm. Daemon himself has found it difficult to connect with much besides anger and sadness, and it feels good to watch his nephew be so curious. ]
When you check in for regular quarters away from the healers, you'll receive one as well.
[ Does Daemon have chambers somewhere he's been avoiding in favor of watching over him and the dragons? Yes. ]
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He figures out how to take a photo of his uncle's hand and smiles, pleased with himself as he starts investigating how to add it to the new collection. ]
... Mmm.
[ Typical gen-zer. Who gives a damn about having a bath now? Not Aemond. ]
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A little while later, there's a knock at the door, and Daemon extricates himself from his nephew to attend to it. A young anchorite has a basket full of non-consumable healing items, including the tin that will unfold into a bath basin. There's talk of how to use things, and an offer of a consultation with a maester from another world— something called an orthopedic doctor. Strange words. Daemon makes note of it, and says Aemond will let them know tomorrow.
So. Basket goes on the table, anchorite goes away. ]
Have I lost you entirely to the glass, nephew?
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