I wish I'd been able to find a way to free you sooner.
[ Daemon has no qualms about killing women — if he'd been able to get close enough, he'd have just slain the witch. But Vhagar made it difficult, and he didn't want to end up dying, or losing Nettles, only for Aemond to remain alive and under a spell with the largest living dragon under unearthly command.
By the time they were together, alone, he knew he was at his own end. He had no more left to give to the war, or to Rhaenyra. The only use left to him was his life itself, and what he might offer to the gods to protect his children.
(Huh. Is that why they're here? Valar dohaeris?) ]
[ Tipping his head back, he turns his smile to plant a kiss on Daemon's cheek in return. ]
On the morrow we will face this realm with a united front. I shall do some reading and you ... should have Dark Sister back.
[ Having it rammed down his eye and spine hasn't made him jumpy around the sword itself and the notion of Daemon wielding it doesn't either. It's a lot more unsettling to know he doesn't have it when he very well might need it, given the look of some of the inhuman inhabitants.
There's also nothing as striking as the sight of Daemon with it, as Aemond knows well. People will remember him better. ]
[ Daemon can't tell if he thinks Aemond's immediate launch into talk of the sword that killed him and how his uncle should have it back is disturbed, or not. He pets him some more, and gives his cheek another kiss. Visenya's dragon, Visenya's sword. Here they are, taking Valyria to another world entirely.
A wide detour from talk of crowns, and his views on it. That's fine. He's not in a hurry to potentially upset his nephew while he's still in the early days of recovery.
Speaking of— ]
You need to be well rested, for Vhagar. [ Since apparently his own benefit is not compelling enough. ] Do you wish to tell people how we're related?
[ Kin is all he's said about Aemond to anyone, thus far, and has unwisely kissed and touched him outside the privacy of this room (grief and loneliness, what brutal intoxicants). Incest is taboo in most places, east and west and surely after death; they have no power here to hide behind, no ability to do the equivalent of ordering the church to give them an exemption. They could stand behind Cultural differences, fuck off, but also it's not really anyone's business, is it. ]
Edited (s key really dying on this keyboard) 2022-12-04 18:56 (UTC)
[ Crashing headlong into the waters of the God's Eye is nothing compared to Aemond's boldness, not when breaking in a new world.
He will rest and eat, not overtax himself. For Vhagar. He will not stay inside this room come morning, though, and the idea of hiding anything about them feels disingenuous on a lot of levels. ]
If they ask I will not lie ... and if they take issue I will cut them down and Vhagar will have meat waiting when she wakes. Their opinions are nothing to me. They are nothing to me.
[ His reign of terror over the riverlands started as his idea, albeit exaggerated by Alys's influence. Still, before that Aemond's temper hewed a three-foot pile of heads from every male inhabitant of Harrenhal and he hacked up the one responsible for hiding Daemon before feeding the pieces to Vhagar. There is a hot, burning viciousness underneath Aemond's calculated bookishness, a thread that snaps whenever his rage gets the better of his rationality, and it has nothing to do with a witch. ]
[ If only Daemon didn't find this sort of thing attractive, they probably wouldn't be in so deep of a mess. He can't help but smile a little, and he curls one arm back up so that he can touch Aemond's chin fondly. Vicious, darling, Targaryen.
There will no doubt be struggles and clashes of opinion and trajectory between them; Aemond is surging renewed into a new existence that will encompass the better part of his (un)life, and Daemon is dealing with having been earnestly suicidal. But right now this feels good, and warm. ]
Very well. [ The chances of them curbing use of uncle and nephew are low, anyway. (Maybe stop using it like you think it's hot, you two.) (Nope.) ] We'll see what you think of where they've put my chambers. I haven't given it much thought.
[ Depressive fuge state, oops. Maybe the area will be suitable, maybe Daemon will lean on Murder Karen reputation and get them both housed somewhere else. ]
[ Anyone who talks shit about Targaryens quickly learns to either be far more circumspect with whom they bitch or to do so without a previously attached bodily appendage, that is entirely how Aemond feels about the situation. Even if Aegon were here, starting drunken fights and being a miserable lout deserving of a beating, Aemond would hurl down anyone who raised a finger to his blood (only their mother gets to do that, after all: super healthy familial mechanics).
He raises a leg in the cooling water, giving a shiver as he leans back into Daemon. His aches are mostly gone (paracetamol bath! yeah!!) and he would rather be in bed (in any way) with Daemon. ]
Show me tomorrow, yes. For now we ought to stay here, otherwise your horned matron may drag us back by our ears.
[ It's their way. Daemon could never be punished, except for by Viserys; only Daemon could insult Viserys' weakness. Gentle, interpersonal microcosms of their own man-made Doom. The only thing that can destroy the Targaryens, is the Targaryens.
Falling together from the sky.
He rubs the base of Aemond's neck, thumb pressing into trapezius muscles, then pats one shoulder, indicating he'll help him out. ]
She does her work well.
[ Best he can ask for. Also she's quite handsome, in a strange, alien way. Daemon stands to let Aemond use him for leverage to escape the bath, towels at hand. He lets him know that he'll feel chalky as he dries, but that it's all a part of the medication in the water. Better to leave it and let it dust off on its own.
The tub implodes on itself once the plug at the bottom of the basin is pulled, leaving the tin again— just wet, now. Daemon leaves it on the hearth, and by some miracle, remembers to take his own compound with a glass of water. Maybe he'll be able to actually sleep a little. ]
[ Swearing under his breath as the tub startles him, he finds the pain greatly lessened when seated in bed and takes advantage of it to cover his head in the towel and rub his hair dry, some of it inevitably having gotten in the water. He combs his fingers through, watching Daemon take his supposed medicine, and tries not to let it spark uneasiness in his gut.
He spots a real comb and bids Daemon ferry it over with a waggle of his fingers. ]
How much pain are you in? You said you've been here longer, did you need much time to recuperate?
[ Gods, he's tired. Stifling a yawn, he fails and slumps where he sits, waiting for his brush. ]
It wasn't as bad as the Stepstones, [ he says, fussing about a bit with the wet ends of his shirt, eventually just peeling it off. Marbled bruising in violets and yellow, faded, almost decorating around the burns. ] But I was more tired than I've ever been.
[ Mmm? Ah.
He obtains the brush, then comes over to the bed and bullies Aemond into making enough room for him to squeeze in. ]
Do you want your hair brushed or do you want to go to sleep?
[ Tired, hah. He's definitely feeling more himself if he can sass Daemon. The way his gaze lingers and hooks on him is not subtle, steady and appreciative. The dying bruises add a nice new dimension to the burns.
He shuffles up a bit, bringing his hair forward with a resigned sigh. ]
It needs brushing. [ No one, no one, understands his suffering. No one has ever had long bone-white, tangle-prone hair before in all of history judging from the way he pouts. ] You could brush it while I sleep, I would not stop you.
[ Daemon is in pain, he's tired, but he could be ten times worse and he'd probably still be shuffling about the same way. It doesn't matter to him. Physical pain is uninteresting, and has never hampered him past what limitations it places on his body at the time. Emotional pain is what cripples him, and he's been contending with the fog of it; if he didn't have Aemond to focus on, he'd probably have done more than kill one man mouthing off about his dragon. Disconnected, unhinged.
But here, he is connected. Sass and all. ]
Tsk, you need to sit up while it's done. Come here. [ Daemon will let him lean forward against him as he does it, practiced, gentle but firm. ] Keep me warm, why don't you.
[ Trade off. He pets his nephew's hair and runs the brush over it, carefully holding a hand against his head when he encounters tangles so that he doesn't feel it pull. Appreciating the way the hot water and steam has made it wavy in places. ]
[ Keep me warm says Daemon, who has been attending Aemond since he woke with soft touches and fond kisses, about to be repaid with the same. Aemond slithers up at his side and drapes a leg between his uncle's, one hand skimming up his back to keep him warm as the other runs up and down his side, passing over his chest and the burns there. He plays nice, only pressuring the bruises once or twice with a chuckle, mostly dedicated to keeping him warm with his body.
While his hair is being brushed he interests himself in the curve of a neck and shoulder, mouth running along cool skin to heat it up. He can't stop the occasional Mmm slipping free, nosing there, but it isn't an overt attempt to rile Daemon up; he just enjoys touching him. ]
I won't let anyone tell me what to think ever again. In this realm I am no one's second-son and what I want, I will take with fire and blood. [ The hinge of Daemon's jaw is fast becoming his favourite place to nuzzle. ] You should do the same.
[ It's pleasant to be touched, even though Daemon doesn't feel pulled towards arousal; not even sure if those systems are operational (will they be? what a thought). Between recovery from death and his mental state, he's not in a hurry to embarrass himself. Fortunately, it seems Aemond is content to leave it as is.
All the tangles get worked out, and Daemon slips the brush from his hairline and back down in long strokes, free hand following after, his touch as protective as it is affectionate. The fire is dying down, but any potential chill from sitting here without a shirt on is chased away by their proximity. Once Aemond's hair is as silky as he's going to get it, Daemon holds his head in his hands, gently rakes his fingernails over his scalp a few times, and then separates his hair for a braid. Good at these, even backwards. Twin girls with curly coils to mind and a traveling household meant he did a staggering amount of plaiting for many years. ]
I've learned my lesson about tempering.
[ That last exile was a rough one. Minding himself, and what did it get? Mmn. He doesn't have a tie for Aemond's hair, so he leaves it, and just rubs a hand up and down his back. He isn't restraining himself. He's just a mess. ]
It is such a relief to me that you are yourself again. If this place gives me nothing else, I'll forever be grateful for that alone.
[ He closes his eyes as the braid is wound into place, slumping against Daemon in the aftermath. A heap of two Targaryens, buried together beneath a blanket in a strange land. This is how it will be between them and others at all times, a barrier there to keep Others out as Aemond prioritises them above the rest of this new world. ]
It means a lot to me, to have you here. The thought of you was ever an anchor.
[ He settles down to sleep, the hand on his back helping keep his thoughts a dazed, happy blitz of nothingness. Once he starts thinking, it will be harder to relax, and for now every bone in his body just wants to rest and be safe. ]
[ Settling down, tangled face to face, Daemon keeps his arms around him after they're tucked in. The pattern from the firelight washed over them is soothing, and his nephew is warm against him, his weight comforting. Feeling him alive and breathing does more to ease his discomfort than any tincture or treatment.
Daemon places a bet with himself, wondering if Aemond actually will get up early, or if his body will force more sleep on him. He nuzzles at him, and gives him a soft kiss. ]
You'd let me wake alone?
[ Wheedling instead of attempting to convince him that rest is more important. He's a strategist. ]
[ Spoiled rotten his entire childhood, brat doesn't even begin to cover it. He nuzzles in at his temple, and tucks his arms closer. Tries to banish the image of that frozen scream on Aemond's slowly reforming corpse. ]
Mm, sounds like you want to go exploring and risk getting us scolded by my horned matron again.
[ Which is fair. It's normal to be curious about this place. Daemon ... sort of is. Feeling is returning slowly. Possibly his mind is cushioning him against shock with a wall of disinterest. ]
Just you shall always be enough. [ But he doesn't actually want to nag him, so— ] Or you and a pastry.
[ Pastry it is, Aemond's first quest post-death: find a fluffy snack for his uncle. Inside he is broiling with pleasure to hear so many reassurances that he is enough, they have been slipped in here and there since he awoke and each one is building up his confidence while lessening his fears. Daemon can't know what that kind of persistent belief in Aemond does to him, nuzzling in anew whenever his awkwardly unspoken affection boils over, not wanting to say anything too heavy while Daemon is recovering from the mental strain of ... their lives, more than anything.
Aemond is mostly angry with the past, it makes for a swifter recovery even after a blade through the skull. ]
[ Cruel fate to link them together so, with all the strife between them. To be so at ease and well-suited, but opposed. It is twisted to only be able to find peace in death. He wonders what their first real argument will be like; he wonders if Aemond will exhaust himself before lunch, or get lost in this sprawling, citystate of a castle.
The only thing that allows him to drift into sleep is his nephew's presence. A wound of loneliness bandaged, and the easing of all the tension he'd held in himself worrying Aemond may never wake, or hate him when he did.
Even so, it isn't deep. Daemon blinks awake more than once, unnerved by dreams he doesn't remember well. He remains where he is and doesn't disturb Aemond, though he does nest in closer. Confirming to himself that this is real. A bitter relief pricks him like a thorn, that being pressed against Aemond doesn't feel like being pressed against Rhaenyra, or Laena. To confuse himself in the liminal space between asleep and awake would be a splintering pain.
He thinks he sees a woman standing in the corner of the room, reaching out to him. The shape of her is familiar, but all her details are shadowed, and indistinct. Visenya?
Daemon returns to sleep before he can make sense of it; perhaps a dream.
[ Aemond does not dream, which is a gift. Exhaustion drags him down into a peaceful blackness where one moment he is settled in against Daemon in the golden firelight and the next blinking at the cool tones of the room as sunlight filters through the thin slit of a window. The embers provide no warmth so for a few minutes he stays where he is, cosy and content, almost surprised to have woken up at all when the first day in this new realm seemed like a dream.
His hips are less trouble today and his head doesn't hurt, so he slips free of his uncle's embrace and investigates the trunk in the corner of the room that seemed unimportant yesterday: clothes are now a priority, and he is very pleased to find some that fit. Soft black leather pants, a snug tunic that molds to his shape and ends just below his ass, faux-scales littering his arms and chest. He pulls on boots and a cloak and feels far more himself, somewhat a caricature of a Targaryen with all the scales but suitably dressed to present himself to ... court? The city-castle? He needs food to think more clearly.
A pastry, too.
Aemond sits on the edge of the bed and drops a kiss on his uncle's cheek, pulling the sheets higher around him in his absence. ]
I am going to find breakfast, uncle, do not stir yourself. It is early.
[ Aemond looks a vision, and Daemon is a dragon still holed up in a den, white hair and pale skin sticking out of a blanket. He's been awake, sleeping to light to not have been roused already, but he's not interfered. One hand snakes out when his nephew sits beside him, though, tucking over his knee to give him a squeeze.
Hazy deep garnet eyes blink up at him. Only slightly cranky at being conscious after getting suck poor sleep. (He's not not a morning person, but all those with long histories of bad hangovers dislike waking, no matter the hour.) ]
Come back with all your same pieces and no further injury, please.
[ A stray strand of hair is flicked free from Daemon's forehead, replaced with a kiss. He pats the hand on his knee, intending to reassure. ]
I will be back before you know it, sleep in for me.
[ Before he is tempted to stay, Aemond leaves his uncle to his dozing and heads outside, shivering as the temperature plummets yet further. Could have done with a fur cloak. He warms up en route to their dragons, peeking a look at Caraxes to see the Blood Wyrm eating his roasted morning goats and quietly letting Vhagar (still hardly able to move her head) know she is doing well and he is proud of her, that she must rest and sleep for him.
He's only slightly emotional by the time he routs out a dining hall with four long tables, food already set by a fleet of servants who pale in comparison to the denizens. He draws some attention and whispers as he finds a seat and is shortly hounded by a group of his peers who ask if he is one of the dragon-riders, subsumed into their collective without really trying when they decide he is (with his dragon, sapphire eye, and "Rachel hair!" whatever that is) cool. They are a strange bunch, human but less familiar than anyone back home, and all have those light-up bricks. Still, they are useful and let him know what some of the dishes are, and after eating his fill he builds up Daemon's plate (chocolate croissants and a vanilla coffee, after some suggestions for "a man abed with a sweet tooth penchant for his mornmeal") to some inexplicable giggles. It's the way he talks? Of course. Everything about him seems a rare novelty and not just because he's a Targaryen. It's a bit overwhelming, making his head hurt, knowing they aren't making fun but unable to follow the flow of their jokes.
He leaves in as subtle a hurry as he can, taking the plate with him down the long corridors back to his room. Daemon gets three raps on the door and then Aemond is letting himself in, flustered. ]
[ He gives dozing again a try, but it doesn't take; he's awake, and that's that. Daemon braves the chill in the air to drag his shirt on and start the fire up again, visit the washroom, and stare out the window and contemplating existence for a while. He imagines that the scar on his palm itches, though it can't; it is thin and fine, sliced shallow with dragonglass, and barely raised enough to feel.
Daemon tells himself that he won't be sitting on the bed with his elbows on his knees and brooding while looking into the fire when Aemond returns, but he loses track of time, and that's what happens. At least he's gotten dressed and done his hair, so he doesn't just look insane.
[ There's a lot to take in out there, a little too much to do more than dip a toe in now and again. He has a minor rant on the tip of his tongue about the oddness of the other inhabitants but it dies at the sight of Daemon waiting patiently on Aemond's bed, concern and a pleased little flip of his stomach blending in one go.
The plate is set nearby on the bed, then he sinks down before him on a knee to put himself at the same height, hands sliding into his uncle's if he will let them. ]
I went to see Caraxes and Vhagar. Your boy is eating heartily, he seems to be doing well.
[ Daemon lets Aemond have his hands, and he squeezes them. Silent reassurance. Still here, not fading away, despite how off he seems. Good that he went to see the dragons; their recoveries are linked, he knows. He stops in on Caraxes every day at least once, and has fallen asleep out there before, tucked away with him. ]
Do I seem so troubled?
[ Aemond may be practiced at keeping his face neutral to avoid irritating his nerves, but Daemon can still tell he's concerned.
He knows the answer is yes, anyway. Self-aware enough. Daemon gives him another smile, which is wry but honest. See, I'm fine. ]
Vhagar will be on the mend soon. You're already so strong for her.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ Daemon has no qualms about killing women — if he'd been able to get close enough, he'd have just slain the witch. But Vhagar made it difficult, and he didn't want to end up dying, or losing Nettles, only for Aemond to remain alive and under a spell with the largest living dragon under unearthly command.
By the time they were together, alone, he knew he was at his own end. He had no more left to give to the war, or to Rhaenyra. The only use left to him was his life itself, and what he might offer to the gods to protect his children.
(Huh. Is that why they're here? Valar dohaeris?) ]
I was lost. I've found my way here through you.
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On the morrow we will face this realm with a united front. I shall do some reading and you ... should have Dark Sister back.
[ Having it rammed down his eye and spine hasn't made him jumpy around the sword itself and the notion of Daemon wielding it doesn't either. It's a lot more unsettling to know he doesn't have it when he very well might need it, given the look of some of the inhuman inhabitants.
There's also nothing as striking as the sight of Daemon with it, as Aemond knows well. People will remember him better. ]
I'll tell them to return it.
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A wide detour from talk of crowns, and his views on it. That's fine. He's not in a hurry to potentially upset his nephew while he's still in the early days of recovery.
Speaking of— ]
You need to be well rested, for Vhagar. [ Since apparently his own benefit is not compelling enough. ] Do you wish to tell people how we're related?
[ Kin is all he's said about Aemond to anyone, thus far, and has unwisely kissed and touched him outside the privacy of this room (grief and loneliness, what brutal intoxicants). Incest is taboo in most places, east and west and surely after death; they have no power here to hide behind, no ability to do the equivalent of ordering the church to give them an exemption. They could stand behind Cultural differences, fuck off, but also it's not really anyone's business, is it. ]
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He will rest and eat, not overtax himself. For Vhagar. He will not stay inside this room come morning, though, and the idea of hiding anything about them feels disingenuous on a lot of levels. ]
If they ask I will not lie ... and if they take issue I will cut them down and Vhagar will have meat waiting when she wakes. Their opinions are nothing to me. They are nothing to me.
[ His reign of terror over the riverlands started as his idea, albeit exaggerated by Alys's influence. Still, before that Aemond's temper hewed a three-foot pile of heads from every male inhabitant of Harrenhal and he hacked up the one responsible for hiding Daemon before feeding the pieces to Vhagar. There is a hot, burning viciousness underneath Aemond's calculated bookishness, a thread that snaps whenever his rage gets the better of his rationality, and it has nothing to do with a witch. ]
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There will no doubt be struggles and clashes of opinion and trajectory between them; Aemond is surging renewed into a new existence that will encompass the better part of his (un)life, and Daemon is dealing with having been earnestly suicidal. But right now this feels good, and warm. ]
Very well. [ The chances of them curbing use of uncle and nephew are low, anyway. (Maybe stop using it like you think it's hot, you two.) (Nope.) ] We'll see what you think of where they've put my chambers. I haven't given it much thought.
[ Depressive fuge state, oops. Maybe the area will be suitable, maybe Daemon will lean on Murder Karen reputation and get them both housed somewhere else. ]
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He raises a leg in the cooling water, giving a shiver as he leans back into Daemon. His aches are mostly gone (paracetamol bath! yeah!!) and he would rather be in bed (in any way) with Daemon. ]
Show me tomorrow, yes. For now we ought to stay here, otherwise your horned matron may drag us back by our ears.
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Falling together from the sky.
He rubs the base of Aemond's neck, thumb pressing into trapezius muscles, then pats one shoulder, indicating he'll help him out. ]
She does her work well.
[ Best he can ask for. Also she's quite handsome, in a strange, alien way. Daemon stands to let Aemond use him for leverage to escape the bath, towels at hand. He lets him know that he'll feel chalky as he dries, but that it's all a part of the medication in the water. Better to leave it and let it dust off on its own.
The tub implodes on itself once the plug at the bottom of the basin is pulled, leaving the tin again— just wet, now. Daemon leaves it on the hearth, and by some miracle, remembers to take his own compound with a glass of water. Maybe he'll be able to actually sleep a little. ]
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He spots a real comb and bids Daemon ferry it over with a waggle of his fingers. ]
How much pain are you in? You said you've been here longer, did you need much time to recuperate?
[ Gods, he's tired. Stifling a yawn, he fails and slumps where he sits, waiting for his brush. ]
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[ Mmm? Ah.
He obtains the brush, then comes over to the bed and bullies Aemond into making enough room for him to squeeze in. ]
Do you want your hair brushed or do you want to go to sleep?
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[ Tired, hah. He's definitely feeling more himself if he can sass Daemon. The way his gaze lingers and hooks on him is not subtle, steady and appreciative. The dying bruises add a nice new dimension to the burns.
He shuffles up a bit, bringing his hair forward with a resigned sigh. ]
It needs brushing. [ No one, no one, understands his suffering. No one has ever had long bone-white, tangle-prone hair before in all of history judging from the way he pouts. ] You could brush it while I sleep, I would not stop you.
[ Temper this cheeky brat. ]
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But here, he is connected. Sass and all. ]
Tsk, you need to sit up while it's done. Come here. [ Daemon will let him lean forward against him as he does it, practiced, gentle but firm. ] Keep me warm, why don't you.
[ Trade off. He pets his nephew's hair and runs the brush over it, carefully holding a hand against his head when he encounters tangles so that he doesn't feel it pull. Appreciating the way the hot water and steam has made it wavy in places. ]
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While his hair is being brushed he interests himself in the curve of a neck and shoulder, mouth running along cool skin to heat it up. He can't stop the occasional Mmm slipping free, nosing there, but it isn't an overt attempt to rile Daemon up; he just enjoys touching him. ]
I won't let anyone tell me what to think ever again. In this realm I am no one's second-son and what I want, I will take with fire and blood. [ The hinge of Daemon's jaw is fast becoming his favourite place to nuzzle. ] You should do the same.
No tempering of your fire, like you said.
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All the tangles get worked out, and Daemon slips the brush from his hairline and back down in long strokes, free hand following after, his touch as protective as it is affectionate. The fire is dying down, but any potential chill from sitting here without a shirt on is chased away by their proximity. Once Aemond's hair is as silky as he's going to get it, Daemon holds his head in his hands, gently rakes his fingernails over his scalp a few times, and then separates his hair for a braid. Good at these, even backwards. Twin girls with curly coils to mind and a traveling household meant he did a staggering amount of plaiting for many years. ]
I've learned my lesson about tempering.
[ That last exile was a rough one. Minding himself, and what did it get? Mmn. He doesn't have a tie for Aemond's hair, so he leaves it, and just rubs a hand up and down his back. He isn't restraining himself. He's just a mess. ]
It is such a relief to me that you are yourself again. If this place gives me nothing else, I'll forever be grateful for that alone.
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It means a lot to me, to have you here. The thought of you was ever an anchor.
[ He settles down to sleep, the hand on his back helping keep his thoughts a dazed, happy blitz of nothingness. Once he starts thinking, it will be harder to relax, and for now every bone in his body just wants to rest and be safe. ]
I aim to wake early, ignore any noise I make.
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Daemon places a bet with himself, wondering if Aemond actually will get up early, or if his body will force more sleep on him. He nuzzles at him, and gives him a soft kiss. ]
You'd let me wake alone?
[ Wheedling instead of attempting to convince him that rest is more important. He's a strategist. ]
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I would return with breakfast, no need to look so forlorn. Would you rather wake to just me, or me and bacon?
[ Raising a brow! ]
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Mm, sounds like you want to go exploring and risk getting us scolded by my horned matron again.
[ Which is fair. It's normal to be curious about this place. Daemon ... sort of is. Feeling is returning slowly. Possibly his mind is cushioning him against shock with a wall of disinterest. ]
Just you shall always be enough. [ But he doesn't actually want to nag him, so— ] Or you and a pastry.
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[ Pastry it is, Aemond's first quest post-death: find a fluffy snack for his uncle. Inside he is broiling with pleasure to hear so many reassurances that he is enough, they have been slipped in here and there since he awoke and each one is building up his confidence while lessening his fears. Daemon can't know what that kind of persistent belief in Aemond does to him, nuzzling in anew whenever his awkwardly unspoken affection boils over, not wanting to say anything too heavy while Daemon is recovering from the mental strain of ... their lives, more than anything.
Aemond is mostly angry with the past, it makes for a swifter recovery even after a blade through the skull. ]
I am yours, old dragon. Rest now.
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The only thing that allows him to drift into sleep is his nephew's presence. A wound of loneliness bandaged, and the easing of all the tension he'd held in himself worrying Aemond may never wake, or hate him when he did.
Even so, it isn't deep. Daemon blinks awake more than once, unnerved by dreams he doesn't remember well. He remains where he is and doesn't disturb Aemond, though he does nest in closer. Confirming to himself that this is real. A bitter relief pricks him like a thorn, that being pressed against Aemond doesn't feel like being pressed against Rhaenyra, or Laena. To confuse himself in the liminal space between asleep and awake would be a splintering pain.
He thinks he sees a woman standing in the corner of the room, reaching out to him. The shape of her is familiar, but all her details are shadowed, and indistinct. Visenya?
Daemon returns to sleep before he can make sense of it; perhaps a dream.
In the morning, the fire is mostly embers. ]
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His hips are less trouble today and his head doesn't hurt, so he slips free of his uncle's embrace and investigates the trunk in the corner of the room that seemed unimportant yesterday: clothes are now a priority, and he is very pleased to find some that fit. Soft black leather pants, a snug tunic that molds to his shape and ends just below his ass, faux-scales littering his arms and chest. He pulls on boots and a cloak and feels far more himself, somewhat a caricature of a Targaryen with all the scales but suitably dressed to present himself to ... court? The city-castle? He needs food to think more clearly.
A pastry, too.
Aemond sits on the edge of the bed and drops a kiss on his uncle's cheek, pulling the sheets higher around him in his absence. ]
I am going to find breakfast, uncle, do not stir yourself. It is early.
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Hazy deep garnet eyes blink up at him. Only slightly cranky at being conscious after getting suck poor sleep. (He's not not a morning person, but all those with long histories of bad hangovers dislike waking, no matter the hour.) ]
Come back with all your same pieces and no further injury, please.
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I will be back before you know it, sleep in for me.
[ Before he is tempted to stay, Aemond leaves his uncle to his dozing and heads outside, shivering as the temperature plummets yet further. Could have done with a fur cloak. He warms up en route to their dragons, peeking a look at Caraxes to see the Blood Wyrm eating his roasted morning goats and quietly letting Vhagar (still hardly able to move her head) know she is doing well and he is proud of her, that she must rest and sleep for him.
He's only slightly emotional by the time he routs out a dining hall with four long tables, food already set by a fleet of servants who pale in comparison to the denizens. He draws some attention and whispers as he finds a seat and is shortly hounded by a group of his peers who ask if he is one of the dragon-riders, subsumed into their collective without really trying when they decide he is (with his dragon, sapphire eye, and "Rachel hair!" whatever that is) cool. They are a strange bunch, human but less familiar than anyone back home, and all have those light-up bricks. Still, they are useful and let him know what some of the dishes are, and after eating his fill he builds up Daemon's plate (chocolate croissants and a vanilla coffee, after some suggestions for "a man abed with a sweet tooth penchant for his mornmeal") to some inexplicable giggles. It's the way he talks? Of course. Everything about him seems a rare novelty and not just because he's a Targaryen. It's a bit overwhelming, making his head hurt, knowing they aren't making fun but unable to follow the flow of their jokes.
He leaves in as subtle a hurry as he can, taking the plate with him down the long corridors back to his room. Daemon gets three raps on the door and then Aemond is letting himself in, flustered. ]
Bloody big castle, it is.
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Daemon tells himself that he won't be sitting on the bed with his elbows on his knees and brooding while looking into the fire when Aemond returns, but he loses track of time, and that's what happens. At least he's gotten dressed and done his hair, so he doesn't just look insane.
A small smile for his nephew. ]
It is.
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The plate is set nearby on the bed, then he sinks down before him on a knee to put himself at the same height, hands sliding into his uncle's if he will let them. ]
I went to see Caraxes and Vhagar. Your boy is eating heartily, he seems to be doing well.
[ Better than Daemon, in fact. ]
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Do I seem so troubled?
[ Aemond may be practiced at keeping his face neutral to avoid irritating his nerves, but Daemon can still tell he's concerned.
He knows the answer is yes, anyway. Self-aware enough. Daemon gives him another smile, which is wry but honest. See, I'm fine. ]
Vhagar will be on the mend soon. You're already so strong for her.
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