dohaeras | open post/cont. threads etc

[ As long as no one shoots flames at her rider to try and cook him, everything will be fine. No one will do that tonight, at least! Good times. Aemond pouts when Daemon won't come closer (mildly proud of that as he is) and he gives Vhagar's nose a scratch where she can never reach between her nostrils. ]

I will see you when you are saddled, when we will win the race.

[ Vhagar retreats, knowing where to find the Dragonkeepers, and Aemond sashays confidently back over to his uncle where he leans in for a kiss. ]

Everyone in the room has good taste then, don't they?

[ He wants to fly, restless and keen for it. Eager still for the taste of Daemon again before the wind scours it from his mouth. ]

[ Indeed, Caraxes knows much better than a scared juvenile. He learned warring from Vhagar, and much like Daemon, isn't frightened of her a whit. It would be a challenge to battle her, and one the red dragon would relish— though of course, that's an empty thought. ]

Yes, I believe we do.

[ Daemon gives him that kiss, and skims hands along his upper arms, affectionate, before he turns to gather the torch. ]

Would you like to meet Caraxes?

[ —Assuming the answer to that is yes, because Aemond is as much of a dragon nerd as his uncle, they'll quickly find him, lurking with his nightmare grin, head swiveling on his long snake's neck. A very different kind of threatening than Vhagar, Caraxes with his too-smart gaze always carries the potential for mayhem, tangible in the air around him.

Also, despite his head waiting to observe Daemon and his guest, his body is inched as far to the exit as it'll go, eager to be out of this blasted place. Daemon clicks his tongue at him in a scolding way, but there's no heat in it, and so his dragon relents and oils his way closer. ]

[ If he was ordered to war in the moment, arms around Daemon and lips under his, Vhagar would be Daemon's to sway through Aemond. But, this is a nightly jaunt, nothing serious is being asked of either of them (even if the kiss is true and devoted).

He absolutely wants to see Caraxes, following along as a shadow while Daemon cools off the snake-necked beast. The Blood Wyrm is beautiful in his own way although unnervingly swift with the movements of his head, as unpredictable as his rider. Aemond sticks close by Daemon by contrast to their audience with Vhagar, visions of Caraxes looping around his rider to snap at him seeming very real possibilities when before the dragon himself. ]

Greetings, Caraxes.

This is Prince Aemond, Vhagar's new ward.

[ Wise, to stay close to Daemon— Caraxes is more personable, as far as dragons go, but there's a sharp sense that he's only 'friendly' for the sake of getting into the fatal strike zone. His head sways to them, going directly to Aemond first, scouring him with gold eyes and smelling him deeply. ]

Don't be so nosy, [ Daemon teases him, aware that his dragon is smelling Daemon on Aemond, as well as Vhagar. He reaches over to rub his snout and Caraxes shakes his head like a horse before pressing forward, catching more contact with his rider's hand, and stealing another deep inhale of Aemond's scent.

The exhale of warm, rancid dragon-breath feels like a laugh. ]

You can touch him— alright, alright. [ Waylaid by Caraxes shoving his head into Daemon's chest then twisting, demanding more pets. He gets them, and Daemon chatters away at him, calling him handsome, and for a moment it's like he's the twenty year old.

But this night won't last forever, and so it's not long before Daemon tells him See you out there, and Caraxes at once withdraws and slips out, long body moving like streaks of paint. ]

[ Cleaving close to Daemon as Caraxes sniffs out his essence all over Aemond, he dares (when bidden) to run his hand over the red scales at the same moment. His attention is divided though, between the magnificent beast and how light-hearted Daemon is with him, a violet eye taking in the rare sight of the most dangerous man in King's Landing cooing handsome over his dragon. That's awfully cute.

(He relaxes significantly once Caraxes retreats, however.)

Aemond's gaze rests on Daemon with a stifled smile, eye dancing with mirth after seeing him so emotive and honestly happy. ]

We're going to leave you eating our clouds, you know. Fair warning. [ Was it a race? It is now. He can't tamp down on his competitiveness, nudging Daemon as he moves by him. ] Go fetch yourself a warm cloak, old man, I wouldn't want you saying I won because your bones seized up from the night's frost.

[ He is absolutely going to try and trot out of Daemon's way after that, a laugh buckling in his chest. ]

Edited 2022-10-25 11:56 (UTC)

[ This old man is still quick enough when he wants to be, and Aemond gets a smack to his behind before they part to find their appropriate exits.

Calling after him, he lays it on thick with the tedious father voice— ]

Don't forget your gloves!

[ Caraxes is halfway tacked up by the time Daemon reaches the stable, and if any of the keepers have heard anything they shouldn't have, they're not risking so much as a nervous glance— it is frankly egotistical of Daemon to think they'd care, though, instead of simply wanting to throw rocks at his head for making them prepare Caraxes and Vhagar in the middle of the fucking night.

He double checks all the fixtures himself, used to having little aid in his travels, and Caraxes is practically leaping up and away before he's properly seated. Eager to beat Vhagar to the skies. ]

[ The hand that waves off that patronising tone is all Daemon gets; Aemond waits to rub his backside better once around the corner.

Vhagar, when he finds her across the yard, is watching Caraxes take off and gives a huff of annoyance as Aemond strolls out dressed in far thicker clothes than she last saw him (all jokes aside, he has no intention of catching a cold for Aegon to laugh at later) and a protective eye-patch. With a skin of spice-wine buckled to his belt to starve off the cold (always prepared!) he apologises for making her wait and climbs up to strap in, Caraxes already a dot against the sky. ]

Let's go scare those cocky boys, girl.

[ Vhagar takes off like a mountain lifting from the earth and barrels up toward the others, scenting them in the dark. Thankfully Aemond's seat on her is bowed forward, needing to stretch out for the most part when riding her, so his ass isn't subject to too much of a bumpy ride along the way.

She bellows to Caraxes, lashing her way higher, and Aemond laughs as the downdraft from her wings beats toward his uncle. ]

Oops, sorry!

[ The wind carries his laughter. ]

[ Daemon will never get tired of taking flight— he thinks it will be the only thing he never outgrows, no matter the state of him; the years may press on and desire for sex and drink and a fight may leave him, but never this. Caraxes is stable and smooth beneath him, and the lightheaded feeling of soaring faster and higher than a human should is an old, intimately familiar thing that just makes him smile to himself.

Wings get to stretch in peace for a short while, and the beautiful dark of the night is crammed with stars, fires from the city, and glinting reflections off the sea. A cloudless night, like a black diamond.

They can tell when Vhagar is approaching; stealth is not one of her many strengths. But Caraxes holds fast, elongating his form to keep stable while she passes, and then twists to catch the draft in her wake, propelling him sideways and up in a wide spiral. Daemon feels more than hears the deep sounds emanating from his dragon's chest, and knows these noises, along with body language and changes in hormone shedding, are how they speak to each other. He cannot translate, only guess, and he wonders what they could be talking about after so many generations shared and traded between them.

And with how silly their humans are being, right now.

Caraxes speeds up and after Vhagar, knowing just where to keep himself to not be knocked back by the concussion of her wings on the wind. ]

[ He chances a glance back at Daemon to check he's still there (oh, thank fuck, mild moment of What If) then grins and tells Vhagar to fly higher toward the clouds and night sky. She croons her approval and Aemond flattens himself in the saddle to help their ascent, the evening's thrill still burning hot in his blood as he chases the moon. ]

Drakarys, Vhagar!

[ The fireball she spits out briefly turns the night into day and Aemond's delightedly mad laughter echoes on her tailwind as they fly straight through it, too fast for the flames to take hold. ]

[ Well, they definitely saw that at the Keep.

Daemon laughs at the recklessness, and the bittersweet pang of nostalgia that briefly flinches behind his ribcage. Caraxes slices through the fire like a knife, Daemon well aware when to close his eyes for a heartbeat or two. His dragon twists in the air, a move that looks as easy and nothing as a shrug, given his strange physique, but if Aemond happens to have watched, he might catch on that Daemon was just corkscrewed in mid-air and hasn't fallen off or passed out.

Caraxes is in a great mood, and Daemon is a daredevil— they surge up, skimming just over Aemond's sighted shoulder (Daemon will not let his dragon spook his nephew on his blind side), and he whistles at him, teasing. ]

[ Vhagar notices first and Aemond looks when she tilts her head, snorting at the sight of the whistling show-offs. It looks like awful fun, being that fast and nimble, and he's reminded of all the texts concerning his uncle excelling in dragon-riding. There were a lot, even when he was a boy.

Vhagar crests the clouds and then there's nothing but open sky above, chilly but peaceful away from the golden smear of the city. She levels out, wings locking in a relieved soar, and Aemond takes out his wineskin to drink deeply of, looking around for Daemon to gesture if he wants to play catch and have any. ]

[ Caraxes is no Meleys, but he's plenty quick enough to be getting on with, and he's the perfect partner in crime for all the stupid shit Daemon's ever wanted to try miles up above solid ground. He'd have never been content with a dragon raised from an egg in his cradle— he suspects Aemond wouldn't have been, either.

They need this, the power, the connection to the deeper, older world. Caraxes glides in formation besides Vhagar, cruising elegantly in a position he's taken many times before. Here they are, second sons, the only ones with any spine, with Visenya's sword, and Visenya's dragon. Daemon takes a moment to tip his head back and simply enjoy the wind, cutting cold over him, clean and bracing. (He did put a cloak on, don't worry, nephew.)

When Aemond gets his attention, he laughs and holds a hand up. Alright, boy, see if you can make a shot over. ]

[ He finds his attention snagged on Daemon more than the surrounding starscape, unmoved by the beauty of the heavens when he can observe his uncle flying. No one else gets to see this (and live, usually).

Twisting about in his seat to avoid unsettling the four chains keeping him safe, he judges the distance as best he can and sits up to hurl the wineskin Daemon's way, aiming to try and let it drop down on him from above or land near the joint of a wing. ]

Catch!

[ Hopefully no one in Flea Bottom is about to have their skull crushed. ]

[ Several people in Flea Bottom are about to have their skulls crushed, but only because it's Flea Bottom and full of murderers and drunks, not because Daemon fumbles a wineskin.

He leans, and so does Caraxes, the dragon dipping down at an angle so that Daemon can lean out and snag it out of the air as it sails over and back, pushed by their speed. His connection with his mount is uncanny— he rarely gives the dragon any verbal commands, and yet Caraxes moves as if he's in Daemon's head.

Caught! Caraxes rights himself and Daemon raises the wine in a toast before he takes a pull.

Very silly. If Aemond can't hold his cups, this war is going to be kicked off in a much different and more disastrous way. Daemon, having spent many years in his youth practically pickled with it, won't end up in the same neighborhood as buzzed. But it's nice this way, and strangely romantic. ]

[ Slighter in frame and running on a handful of apple slices and grapes after an intensely tiring tryst, Aemond is flying close to tipsy but has sense enough not to do anything too foolish (crossing from his dragon to Caraxes would be insane, of course, no one would ever do that). He shakes his head to get rid of fanciful ideas and leans back on Vhagar, enjoying the wind streaming through his hair. The sky is silent and all he can hear are the dragons breathing, the occasional thump of a wing.

He is not sober however, by any means, as his voice calls over the wind. ]

You should stay here, Dragonstone will last another month without you.

[ Pfft, who would think to jump from one dragon to another? Certainly not this guy, with his two dragon-rider wives he's spent years out in the skies with, and his habit of flying without locking himself in. Madness.

Huh. Well, hes not tossing the wine back over, with that suggestion. Kid's half in the bag, isn't he? It makes Daemon want to laugh, despite the unhinged danger of it— he trusts Vhagar to look after her rider, and Caraxes to safely keep formation even if someone startles. ]

But I would not last a month without Dragonstone, [ he says, not unkindly. They have to raise their voices to be heard over the air rushing past them at this speed, but enough still carries. He does not say: I love my brother too much to see him this way, I cannot leave my dear Rhaenyra in her pregnancy, I will not stay and deny myself killing Otto Hightower, but those things are all true. ] You've never been, have you?

[ Dragonstone or the people on it. His mislike of Rhaenyra in immovable but Aemond is not, leanly laying back in his saddle to watch the stars. ]

No. I was not permitted to seek out my own dragon.

[ He did so abysmally in the Dragonpit at home for so many years, no one thought it prudent to put Aemond on an island dedicated to the beasts (wisely, perhaps, he might have sought out wild dragons like the Cannibal or Sheepstealer and lost more than an eye). In any case, Rhaenyra wanted none of her half-siblings close at hand on her land. ]

The closest I've been is Driftmark.

[ Daemon and Rhaenyra, prowling around each other for so many years; he held their ancestral home, and then she did, and now they do, together. (For now.) There are blind spots in his coverage of the island in which the royal children may have visited, but apparently not. It means, in turn, that Viserys has not been perhaps since they were boys, and something about that saddens Daemon, though now is not the time to inspect that feeling. ]

It is a place you should see. Things make sense, when you're there.

[ A wild land, volcanic, full of roaming monsters. Daemon feels like one of them, half the time, and is at peace when he does. ]

This tension will not last forever.

[ He's right, though not because it will ease, unfortunately. But up here, floating, the both of them decorated with stars, he feels free enough to imagine a world where things are simply fine. It worked out on this visit, after all. Vaemond was silenced, and Viserys supported his daughter. Rhaenyra and Alicent are reaching for each other again. Perhaps in ten years or so, there will be more squabbling, but Daemon and Rhaenyra have trueborn sons shot through with pure Targaryen blood to barter with, and Aegon has a want of anywhere else.

In that world, Aemond would visit Dragonstone, and Jace and Luke would bristle about it, but never in front of their stepfather. ]

[ The tension will last, he thinks, and he will be alone to fend through it because Aegon is a dolt and Helaena is too soft and mad to be anything. Alicent and Otto are not capable of understanding him, though he knows they love him (mother far more, certainly). Perhaps he can ask Oldtown or the Starry Sept to import more books on philosophy to keep him busy, the castle library is wanting. ]

Did you ever hear about Princess Aerea who took Balerion to Old Valyria? She returned as a house for monsters. I found the old maesters scrolls that they tried to hide. Balerion was grievously wounded by giant claw marks ...

I could never subject Vhagar to that.

[ But sometimes, like now as he stares at nothing but the heavens, he wants to be anywhere but on the ground in the Red Keep. ]

I would fly farther afield than Dragonstone, if it were my choice.

I remember the very scars on Balerion. Our father would tell Viserys and I frightening stories about what would happen to us if we flew without really knowing our dragons, and that was one of the best.

[ 'Best', okay Daemon.

Hearing such sincerity in Aemond's voice, he decides not to (yet speak into rp canon whether or not he and Laena visited Valyria as rumored) mention any ill-advised sight-seeing, for the moment. (Not that they'd have dismounted even if they had flown over— Daemon's already been exposed to greyscale, he doesn't need dark magic fire worms.) ]

Where would you go?

[ He wishes he had seen Balerion alive. It was a very difference experience when he was eight to crawl inside the Dread's skull and build a camp there with his books and some of the nearby candles, not nearly as thrilling (until his mother found him on a hunch and shrieked about all the dirty diseases he was probably catching, ordering two septas to fetch him out: then it was quite fun, albeit for five minutes).

Aemond sits up, mulling over his new imaginary destination. ]

Essos. All the remaining colonies of the Valyrian Freehold, then onto Yi Ti and Asshai.

[ He looks over at Daemon, eye fixed upon him curiously. ]

If you could fly anywhere in the world, without fear of not returning, where would you go?

[ Balerion was a true god among mortal beings, massive and ancient, immensely impressive, but also definitely responsible for Daemon's disinterest in ever vying for Vhagar's favor. Watching the Conqueror's beast fly slowly in a circle over the city, unable to even make it back to Dragonstone so he wouldn't be alone in death, left a hell of an impression.

Viserys had been so kind to the old warrior, for the hours they had. As is his way, eternally.

Aemond will look over to find Daemon watching him fondly. Thinking of him in Essos, and how much he'd enjoy it; he has quite a collection of texts brought over from Pentos. Maybe he will have to send one to Aemond.

We could go. (They couldn't. He has already granted one man's wish of freedom from this tangle; he and Aemond are not so lucky.) ]

... Somewhere no man has ever set eyes on before.

[ Smirking, he shakes his head and leans forward over the handles of his saddle. The only place left, really, is ... ]

West then, past the Summer Isles?

[ It's wonderfully blank on all the maps. His tone lilts, teasing. Flirting. ]

You've already achieved enough, you know. It's annoyingly difficult to live up to without you having actually captured the sun.

[ Daemon just smiles. Maybe he has an idea already of some secret in need of exploring, far more tantalizing than west. (He doesn't, he's just being playful.) ]

We're second sons, Aemond. We could live for ourselves, if we wished it.

[ But here they are, entrenched. Beautiful to know that despite it, Aemond thinks of him as achieving, while most view his life as a series of disastrous fires he's survived chiefly by looking stylish during them. ]

Maybe I won't capture it. You were going to race me for it, weren't you?

Edited 2022-10-25 23:55 (UTC)

[ Softer, ] I cannot leave Aegon, he is my brother.

[ As much as Aegon chafes at him with his lack of dutifulness and wants some sense smacked into him, no matter how much better a king he thinks he would make Aemond is no deserter (or usurper). He is meant to keep Aegon safe and ensure his rule, so he does. It is right.

... Not tonight for a few scant hours, though.

When it comes to racing he pauses a moment as he straightens (oop, the morning will be dire when it comes for his wine-soaked brain) and unravels the reins to have Vhagar come to attention. ]

Last one to pull up has to be at the breakfast table first tomorrow.

[ With a loud bark of a command, Vhagar beats her wings and turns her head to the ground in a nosedive, flapping to gain speed. ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject