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.) ]
[ 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.) ]
[ 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?
[ 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. ]
[ Terrible, the things they will do for their brothers. Daemon loves Viserys, possibly more than he'll ever love anyone, driven to lash out to try and command his attention since they were boys. He's convinced himself he can see it in him, the Targaryen fire lurking in Viserys' heart that beats the blood of the dragon as thick as Daemon's, and has spent his whole life trying to get him to show it, and then he would understand Daemon, and they could be the family they should be.
Viserys has not wanted to burn. Aegon has not wanted to rule.
Good thing they have their little brothers to fucking make them.
Fools, the both of them—
Currently mostly for this, though. Daemon's laugh is threaded through the blowback of Vhagar's dive, and Caraxes is quick to go after her. The red dragon goes with his wings tapered back like an arrow, keeping nose to nose with the bigger animal— at a distance of course, knowing just where the right range is to be playing a game and not being a threat. Vhagar is heavier and stronger, able to propel herself with greater power, but Caraxes can slip through the air with so much less resistance. Down, down, through the clouds, back into view of the city. ]
[ Diving at a city on a giant dragon is not the cleverest idea he has ever had, it's true. Safe to say though, the folks in King's Landing ought to be well-used to dragons soaring over their heads by now and in the middle of the night who will see? Beggars and harlots? Let them soil themselves, it would entirely understandable.
Vhagar judges the distance as much as her rider and as her wings start to adjust with an anxious warning Aemond consents to pull up hard with a downward draft so powerful it rips the tiles from a few streets' worth of houses, dirt kicked up in great clouds. They hurtle along and for the second time tonight it feels like he is exactly where he ought to be.
Pulse thundering in his ears, he looks around for Daemon a moment after Vhagar clears the lowest rooftops. ]
[ It will not be a legendary spectacle of high noon, but King's Landing is not a sleepy city and it will be seen by many, and talked about by more— an urban legend, of the night the two princes danced; it will be remembered as on the eve of war, and the eve of King Viserys' death, and both be wrong.
Daemon sees it in his mind's eye: a twist, a push, and he can cut past Vhagar into a wide thoroughfare, almost touching the ground. Caraxes is slender and agile enough to do it without harming himself outside the strain of a vigorous workout, and this part of town is housing nothing terrible important. (Just civilians! Eeyy.) He takes a breath. He feels Caraxes do the same, energized by his quickly forming intent.
They do not thread the needle. Caraxes banks wide, curling like an eel, shrieking as he passes in front of Vhagar when she begins her rebound ascent. It's the sort of near-suicidal move that dragons do in the wild, or just in off-hours without their riders, to pester each other and flex their pride. Teasing her and giving her the win all at once. ]
[ Caraxes and Daemon are a beautiful team to watch, even when shrieking a taunt as they swoop by like they're doing Vhagar a favour. Aemond suspects that wasn't as much of an effort as the twirling pair would like anyone to believe, yet Vhagar is mollified by the smaller dragon keeping a respectful distance and she feels to be in a good humour as both beasts bank around. She heads for the castle and Aemond isn't about to stop her (she will sleep well into the day and so might he), also seeking his own bed for the night with the wind from the dive finally cutting through his clothes.
Going home means a very fun night is coming to an end. He intends to get a hold of himself and see it out with some degree of dignity, which is why he leads a straight path back to the Dragonpit. Vhagar, once landed, almost walks over the keepers in her effort to return to the warm sheltered walls, amusing Aemond as he lets her find her own way and hangs back for his uncle. ]
[ It's entirely possible that Daemon could have tried the daring move and eaten shit. Wouldn't be the first time— he doesn't nail every trick immediately, no matter his intuition for riding. The Rogue Prince has ended up ass over teakettle off his dragon a great number of times, fucking around with dangerous moves.
Not tonight. Not this morning, with dawn's first slips coloring the distant horizon, raising the sky's gradient to deep gray and navy. It means showing up to breakfast, theoretically, but gods only know if he'll actually be let into the queen's enclave at such inappropriate hours.
Speaking of. As he dismounts off Caraxes on the rampart's ledges (letting him stay out for a while, unwilling to force him into the pit even though he'd accept the direction), he's sure he spies some spiritually green-hued white cloaks lingering near the gates to the stables, almost certainly come to investigate whether or not Daemon and Aemond are actually in a fight.
He makes his way down, smile on his face. ]
You win, nephew.
Edited (@ self pls just type correctly ) 2022-10-26 02:09 (UTC)
[ The chill of the morning air has Aemond buried in his cloak as he meets up with Daemon, his eye already having clocked the conspicuous white-cloaks floating around the stables where they very much usually don't; he might skip the Family Breakfast(TM) altogether, it's up in the air. Best to give them something to chew over and let his mother's dogs feel like they rooted out information for themselves, so as they pass he raises his voice a little. ]
You could have made that dive during the day, without question. I'm grateful for the lesson, uncle.
[ How many hours until breakfast? Four? May as well stay up and pull an all-nighter. The cloaks disperse behind them, and he adds on in an undertone, ]
I'll see you in a short while, I suppose. Don't get your nose bitten off in the meantime.
[ A touch of cold blood, Daemon wonders; too bad he can't reach out and pull Aemond close, ensure he's warm. He's undone the clasps around the throat of his own cloak and tunic, the snap of cold air better to keep him awake. He'd opted out of the micronap, and now between sex and the post-adrenaline lull, he's ready to go annoy his wife and doze beside her for a few hours. Uninterested in returning to his own chambers without dragging his nephew along.
A quiet huff of amusement. Lesson, indeed. One of the guards turns slower than the rest, but still finds nothing of note— which may end up being even more suspicious, to those they'll go and report to, but ah, well.
Daemon tosses Aemond the empty wine pouch. Catch. ]
Another race, for the right words.
[ Which one of them will end up with the best excuse for breakfast? Is there a best one, or just varying levels of slow-moving disaster?
They'll find out soon. ]
casually pretending viserys has another few days in him shh
[ At the corridor bisecting their paths through the castle, he stays as impassive as he can with wine his main meal in the last few hours and every limb (pleasantly, for the most part) aching as he turns to say a brief goodbye, only letting a brief glance up and down lend anything flirtatious. It's subtle, as he prefers it, and to any spying eyes might just resemble a nod of respect as he takes the pouch. ]
Save me something to eat.
[ Before he can linger unnecessarily, Aemond turns on his heel to escape with a swish of his cloak.
Having a hot bath at five in the morning is a terrible idea yet he refuses to go to bed smelling of Vhagar (love her, but even he has standards) and covered in various bodily fluids from himself and Daemon. He nearly falls asleep in the tub, rousing only to dry his hair and take a nap in bed, which goes so quickly until he hears his manservant enter that he thinks he blinked and missed the intervening hours. He pays for the exertions of the night before with a headache and a sore body, mild shadows under his eyes that he can at least half cover up, letting a servant pick out his clothes for once as he lies in bed and stares at the ceiling.
... Annoying, that he wants to see Daemon again. It's a little pathetic; he kicks the blankets off and sits down to let someone start combing his wild puff of bath-damp hair into submission. The theme of family dining is still prevalent this week and he slinks in without meeting anyone's eyes to take the remaining seat by Aegon, which is his only choice and first mistake.
"You look like utter shit," his brother cheerfully declares, thumping him on the back. "Everyone knows you went flying last night but did you happen to fall off?"
Aemond gives him a flat glare, which only encourages Aegon. If his brother applied half his devotion to gossip to his actual training and books, Aegon would have been a genius, as it is he looks between Aemond and his uncle for any secrets he could unearth. Thankfully, he's an idiot.
Jacerys and Lucerys really are eating well today.
"Was is a ruse to help him meet his true love, uncle? Aemond, you know I could recommend a number of girls on the Street of Silk if you're so desperate at that time of night — ow, fuck!"
"Blind side, sorry."
"No it isn't!" Aegon rubs his knife-jabbed hand.
Alicent barks at them to quieten down and Aemond is forced to share a silent conversation of looks with his brother that continually amount to 'shut up' and 'no'. He really thinks he should have stayed abed because nothing is worth this torture. ]
eyy we're significantly owed for all the timeskips
[ Gone are the days when Prince Daemon would literally stumble throughout the Keep, hungover and disheveled and picking fights. More knights than Cole remember incidents of bodily dragging him into the throne room, or having to fetch him out of a brothel. But time does wonders. Daemon, probably infuriatingly, is sitting across from Aemond without a single silver hair out of place, squeaky clean and smelling faintly of Rhaenyra's perfume, for all the world looking like he may have gotten a sensible six and a half hours of rest.
He doesn't dignify any of Aegon's nonsense with engagement, though he does slide his gaze up towards Alicent when she intervenes. She remains staunchly opposed to his existence, and he to hers, but there is a temporary cease-fire this morning; since Rhaenyra has pledged to linger an extra day once her household shuffles back to Dragonstone, the two women have been making an effort, sincere but halting.
Turns out, nobody had to make an excuse for breakfast at all. How convenient.
No passive-aggressive remarks on her parenting, to have produced this. (What is Helaena doing? Eating worms? Well, alright.) Alicent, in turn, does not begin having a breakdown about Daemon spending time with her son or reach for a paring knife.
Almost like progress.
Rhaenyra and Alicent speak quietly, and Daemon's children and step-children continue find excuses not to have to say very much, under strict orders to simply get out of Aegon and Aemond's way and allow them to embarrass themselves with no assistance. Still, something near a smile tugs at his mouth watching them bicker. Aemond seems so much younger in the day, though Daemon knows that he and Viserys might still have a go at each other at their ages now, if the king could manage it.
Daemon swallows some juice, and presses the side of his boot to Aemond's ankle. ]
[ His head is starting to throb from all the meaningful yet incredibly unsubtle looks Aegon is trying to bat his way, focusing on eating what's on his plate (ravenous, a good excuse not to have to speak) when he feels a press on his ankle. He swallows and takes a sip of wine, glancing over the table to find Daemon watching —
It's not a smile he sends back but his frown eases and he stretches out more of his leg as he slouches in his chair, resting his knee inside his uncle's.
"Aemond," his mother says, and when he flicks his attention to her it becomes apparent she interrupted her discussion with his half-sister to speak to him. The two have been making strained conversation and evidently he's been roped into it, as the topic of the hour. "Did you enjoy your night-flight?"
He raises his chin, violet eye wide and doe-like as he demures, "I'm sorry we stayed out so late but it was safer for the dragons with fewer distractions. Uncle Daemon showed me some new moves I hadn't tried before and it proved very educational."
Alicent beams at him for being her mender of bridges, the weight of eyes on him sloughing away (even though Aegon is squinting).
He keeps his gaze down, calf pressing to the weight at its side. ]
[ The smaller table in this more intimate family settling allows for the barest shifts to make contact, half those seated here having bumped elbows and crossed hands reaching for sweetbread and fruit already. Easy to tangle long legs together and go entirely unnoticed; the pressure Daemon briefly exerts on Aemond's knee is like an affection squeeze of his arm.
Reassurance and fortitude. They will survive this comically awkward theater yet. ]
It's good that you've maintained such keen interest in her, [ Daemon says, amidst varying conversations happening about the table. ] Wouldn't do to have a lady like that dismissed only to the keepers. You don't agree, Aegon? [ Noticing all these looks, yes, hello. ] I haven't seen Sunfyre in years, it feels like.
[ Doesn't just feel like that, Daemon has perhaps never seen Sunfyre except for glimpses in the Dragonpit.
Most of his children are pointedly ignoring the topic, aware of the potential for a trap about old fights over Vhagar and Daemon's disapproval of carrying on about it, but Baela is looking with open curiosity. She has her mother's affinity for riding and her father's spirit, the best with dragons among his children, and in some other world perhaps he could have given her to Aemond— but here and now, while they're illicitly touching beneath the table, it's just ordinary talk amongst people with the same very unusual hobby. ]
[ Aemond feels the invisible weight of being the unspoken favourite and enjoys it as Aegon mutters about not having the time to take Sunfyre out (Helaena adds "Gold cracks easily" somewhat vacantly but happily). He sips his wine and says, "I could take Sunfyre out, probably," to which Aegon snaps, "You can't have every dragon in the pit," and Aemond arches a careless brow that infuriates his brother further.
He has to straighten out a smile by taking a bite of his breakfast and chances a glance at Daemon, knee swaying.
"Can we please not discuss dragons over breakfast," says Alicent, less a request than a statement, and Aemond takes the opportunity to be the better son again. Also, by chance, noting his location. ]
I expect to be in the library if you need me today, mother. [ But he can't resist looking at Aegon to shift the focus at the table, the twinkle in his eye mismatched to his even tone. ] Where will you be, I wonder?
[ Aegon's answer is less warmly received and nobody cares about Aemond quietly not making any bother for the rest of the day, already forgotten. ]
[ Breakfast consumed, peace kept, and a little ammunition tucked away— the Targ-Vel(-Strong, oops) gaggle will remember Aegon's further incompetency, rewarded in self-satisfying pettiness for not starting shit before noon. Departing is done casually and at staggered paces, duty or leisure to attend in turns, and if Daemon is drinking an awful lot of water, it's probably just because the cooking in the Keep has become terribly salt-heavy.
(Rhaenyra's eyes find Aemond's, somewhere in the mix, quiet and clear like shining glass, her mood difficult to discern but something in it is, for a heartbeat, unnervingly aware; easy to forget, with how cozy and comfortable she is with her husband now, that she was once a young girl helplessly infatuated with her uncle, too. But she moves on, and perhaps she was only thinking of the scar on her arm, made in recompense for the one on her half-brother's face.)
Aegon can be cut loose to his whores and slaves, Lucerys to hours of silent internal panic as usual, Jacaerys to whatever it is relatively normal-minded people do (can't relate), and all else to the four corners—
The library, which Daemon hasn't been inside in years even prior to his self-imposed exile from King's Landing. Several bells have passed since breakfast, and the castle is quiet and distracted now, lulled into midday rest with the sun at its brightest peak. He hears the occasional flip of crisp pages being turned, can intuit a maester or two lurking about, and avoids them.
[ The look he shares with Rhaenyra is steady and unwitting on his part, blinking at her with a small smile at the end as though mildly confused by the attention but polite enough not to question it. So very strange.
He forces himself to calmly finish his plate before rising.
The library is vast enough that Aemond can vanish into it and know he will not be sought after ... usually. When he wants to make himself scarce it's easily done, knowing the tightest corners and narrowest stacks where he can find respite from nosy maesters, yet today he keeps to the stacks themselves and wanders through now and again, restless (seeking the perfect book, surely): it pays off when he hears what he's been waiting for, footsteps too loud to be a maester's, quiet though they still are. He follows immediately.
Leaning against the end of a row some way behind Daemon, he keeps his voice low. ]
If you're still thirsty I know a thrilling recipe book that might help.
[ Long fingers are tracing the spine of an ancient tome about— what is it? Gardening, or some damn thing, Daemon is here in the low traffic area of the labyrinth, free of prying eyes (though he knows well the danger of ears). At least their status grants them freedom from supervision of the librarians.
He turns his head, and gives his nephew a wry look. I didn't get any sleep, you little brat, if I'm going to end up on some other wild tangle with you, I don't want to develop a headache. ]
And what might you prepare for me, from it?
[ Equally quiet, his soft voice like the relaxed hiss of a dragon. Valyrian is not strictly safe in here, with all the learned men shuffling about in their long robes and clinking chains, so he doesn't bother code switching. They will just have to play at coyly pretending to not be doing what they're doing, for now. ]
[ He listens a lot more, these days. It saves him having to turn his head too far and look foolish, knowing whether or not it's worth tracking someone, so when he pauses to hear the silence around them for a wide berth it's only to make sure they are (for all intents and purposes) alone before wandering closer, hands clasped behind his back. ]
Ice-water. [ Moving into Daemon's personal space, he drops his gaze to the shelf beside them and reaches out a hand to tilt a book toward the edge as if browsing, his words innocently whimsical. ] A simple solution that works, once and for all.
[ Not looking at Daemon for the sake of his aloof ruse is dangerous but, unless he loses something else irreplaceable, he's willing to risk it for the temper he wants to unearth. Aemond is tired too, yet he wasn't the forty-something knocking back goblets of water this morning. ]
[ Daemon stays where he is, allowing the younger prince to sidle up near him, and the undercurrent of his voice is as much teasing as it is warning. Testing, to see what Aemond's after— Daemon is no stranger to applying authority where it aches best, but also he is not above the self-satisfaction of being the sadist to smile and whisper No to the masochist. ]
[ He rolls his eye back to Daemon, his own arrogance making him reckless for the sake of wit. ]
You are trawling a library. [ With batted lashes that don't look away, he walks two fingers up Daemon's tunic and affects the same blithe tone with which he simpered to Alicent. ] What other help might you be expecting to find here, uncle?
[ It would hold some weight if he had any control over the hungry way he stares, already filled with memories of a naked body beneath him and the way Daemon's feverishly hot skin had felt under his hands. ]
[ That sharp tongue, all the while looking so starving; Daemon holds back his smile, instead opting to lean one shoulder against the heavy shelf of the aisle they're cloistered in and give him an arch, unimpressed look. ]
I am enjoying the ambiance of intellectual mysteries.
[ —a trait of their house, to deliver all kinds of bullshit with impeccable smoothness.
Daemon was never studious in his youth, not like Aemond is. He had no need of it, living history as he was, in a time that now feels like the last dregs of an era passing into obscurity, to his increasing frustration. Playing like this with Aemond is both satisfying for his libido and his sense of Targaryen cultural supremacy. Even in the gardening section of the library. ]
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[ '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?
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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?
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[ 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. ]
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Viserys has not wanted to burn. Aegon has not wanted to rule.
Good thing they have their little brothers to fucking make them.
Fools, the both of them—
Currently mostly for this, though. Daemon's laugh is threaded through the blowback of Vhagar's dive, and Caraxes is quick to go after her. The red dragon goes with his wings tapered back like an arrow, keeping nose to nose with the bigger animal— at a distance of course, knowing just where the right range is to be playing a game and not being a threat. Vhagar is heavier and stronger, able to propel herself with greater power, but Caraxes can slip through the air with so much less resistance. Down, down, through the clouds, back into view of the city. ]
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Vhagar judges the distance as much as her rider and as her wings start to adjust with an anxious warning Aemond consents to pull up hard with a downward draft so powerful it rips the tiles from a few streets' worth of houses, dirt kicked up in great clouds. They hurtle along and for the second time tonight it feels like he is exactly where he ought to be.
Pulse thundering in his ears, he looks around for Daemon a moment after Vhagar clears the lowest rooftops. ]
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Daemon sees it in his mind's eye: a twist, a push, and he can cut past Vhagar into a wide thoroughfare, almost touching the ground. Caraxes is slender and agile enough to do it without harming himself outside the strain of a vigorous workout, and this part of town is housing nothing terrible important. (Just civilians! Eeyy.) He takes a breath. He feels Caraxes do the same, energized by his quickly forming intent.
They do not thread the needle. Caraxes banks wide, curling like an eel, shrieking as he passes in front of Vhagar when she begins her rebound ascent. It's the sort of near-suicidal move that dragons do in the wild, or just in off-hours without their riders, to pester each other and flex their pride. Teasing her and giving her the win all at once. ]
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Going home means a very fun night is coming to an end. He intends to get a hold of himself and see it out with some degree of dignity, which is why he leads a straight path back to the Dragonpit. Vhagar, once landed, almost walks over the keepers in her effort to return to the warm sheltered walls, amusing Aemond as he lets her find her own way and hangs back for his uncle. ]
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Not tonight. Not this morning, with dawn's first slips coloring the distant horizon, raising the sky's gradient to deep gray and navy. It means showing up to breakfast, theoretically, but gods only know if he'll actually be let into the queen's enclave at such inappropriate hours.
Speaking of. As he dismounts off Caraxes on the rampart's ledges (letting him stay out for a while, unwilling to force him into the pit even though he'd accept the direction), he's sure he spies some spiritually green-hued white cloaks lingering near the gates to the stables, almost certainly come to investigate whether or not Daemon and Aemond are actually in a fight.
He makes his way down, smile on his face. ]
You win, nephew.
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You could have made that dive during the day, without question. I'm grateful for the lesson, uncle.
[ How many hours until breakfast? Four? May as well stay up and pull an all-nighter. The cloaks disperse behind them, and he adds on in an undertone, ]
I'll see you in a short while, I suppose. Don't get your nose bitten off in the meantime.
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A quiet huff of amusement. Lesson, indeed. One of the guards turns slower than the rest, but still finds nothing of note— which may end up being even more suspicious, to those they'll go and report to, but ah, well.
Daemon tosses Aemond the empty wine pouch. Catch. ]
Another race, for the right words.
[ Which one of them will end up with the best excuse for breakfast? Is there a best one, or just varying levels of slow-moving disaster?
They'll find out soon. ]
casually pretending viserys has another few days in him shh
Save me something to eat.
[ Before he can linger unnecessarily, Aemond turns on his heel to escape with a swish of his cloak.
Having a hot bath at five in the morning is a terrible idea yet he refuses to go to bed smelling of Vhagar (love her, but even he has standards) and covered in various bodily fluids from himself and Daemon. He nearly falls asleep in the tub, rousing only to dry his hair and take a nap in bed, which goes so quickly until he hears his manservant enter that he thinks he blinked and missed the intervening hours. He pays for the exertions of the night before with a headache and a sore body, mild shadows under his eyes that he can at least half cover up, letting a servant pick out his clothes for once as he lies in bed and stares at the ceiling.
... Annoying, that he wants to see Daemon again. It's a little pathetic; he kicks the blankets off and sits down to let someone start combing his wild puff of bath-damp hair into submission. The theme of family dining is still prevalent this week and he slinks in without meeting anyone's eyes to take the remaining seat by Aegon, which is his only choice and first mistake.
"You look like utter shit," his brother cheerfully declares, thumping him on the back. "Everyone knows you went flying last night but did you happen to fall off?"
Aemond gives him a flat glare, which only encourages Aegon. If his brother applied half his devotion to gossip to his actual training and books, Aegon would have been a genius, as it is he looks between Aemond and his uncle for any secrets he could unearth. Thankfully, he's an idiot.
Jacerys and Lucerys really are eating well today.
"Was is a ruse to help him meet his true love, uncle? Aemond, you know I could recommend a number of girls on the Street of Silk if you're so desperate at that time of night — ow, fuck!"
"Blind side, sorry."
"No it isn't!" Aegon rubs his knife-jabbed hand.
Alicent barks at them to quieten down and Aemond is forced to share a silent conversation of looks with his brother that continually amount to 'shut up' and 'no'. He really thinks he should have stayed abed because nothing is worth this torture. ]
eyy we're significantly owed for all the timeskips
He doesn't dignify any of Aegon's nonsense with engagement, though he does slide his gaze up towards Alicent when she intervenes. She remains staunchly opposed to his existence, and he to hers, but there is a temporary cease-fire this morning; since Rhaenyra has pledged to linger an extra day once her household shuffles back to Dragonstone, the two women have been making an effort, sincere but halting.
Turns out, nobody had to make an excuse for breakfast at all. How convenient.
No passive-aggressive remarks on her parenting, to have produced this. (What is Helaena doing? Eating worms? Well, alright.) Alicent, in turn, does not begin having a breakdown about Daemon spending time with her son or reach for a paring knife.
Almost like progress.
Rhaenyra and Alicent speak quietly, and Daemon's children and step-children continue find excuses not to have to say very much, under strict orders to simply get out of Aegon and Aemond's way and allow them to embarrass themselves with no assistance. Still, something near a smile tugs at his mouth watching them bicker. Aemond seems so much younger in the day, though Daemon knows that he and Viserys might still have a go at each other at their ages now, if the king could manage it.
Daemon swallows some juice, and presses the side of his boot to Aemond's ankle. ]
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It's not a smile he sends back but his frown eases and he stretches out more of his leg as he slouches in his chair, resting his knee inside his uncle's.
"Aemond," his mother says, and when he flicks his attention to her it becomes apparent she interrupted her discussion with his half-sister to speak to him. The two have been making strained conversation and evidently he's been roped into it, as the topic of the hour. "Did you enjoy your night-flight?"
He raises his chin, violet eye wide and doe-like as he demures, "I'm sorry we stayed out so late but it was safer for the dragons with fewer distractions. Uncle Daemon showed me some new moves I hadn't tried before and it proved very educational."
Alicent beams at him for being her mender of bridges, the weight of eyes on him sloughing away (even though Aegon is squinting).
He keeps his gaze down, calf pressing to the weight at its side. ]
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Reassurance and fortitude. They will survive this comically awkward theater yet. ]
It's good that you've maintained such keen interest in her, [ Daemon says, amidst varying conversations happening about the table. ] Wouldn't do to have a lady like that dismissed only to the keepers. You don't agree, Aegon? [ Noticing all these looks, yes, hello. ] I haven't seen Sunfyre in years, it feels like.
[ Doesn't just feel like that, Daemon has perhaps never seen Sunfyre except for glimpses in the Dragonpit.
Most of his children are pointedly ignoring the topic, aware of the potential for a trap about old fights over Vhagar and Daemon's disapproval of carrying on about it, but Baela is looking with open curiosity. She has her mother's affinity for riding and her father's spirit, the best with dragons among his children, and in some other world perhaps he could have given her to Aemond— but here and now, while they're illicitly touching beneath the table, it's just ordinary talk amongst people with the same very unusual hobby. ]
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He has to straighten out a smile by taking a bite of his breakfast and chances a glance at Daemon, knee swaying.
"Can we please not discuss dragons over breakfast," says Alicent, less a request than a statement, and Aemond takes the opportunity to be the better son again. Also, by chance, noting his location. ]
I expect to be in the library if you need me today, mother. [ But he can't resist looking at Aegon to shift the focus at the table, the twinkle in his eye mismatched to his even tone. ] Where will you be, I wonder?
[ Aegon's answer is less warmly received and nobody cares about Aemond quietly not making any bother for the rest of the day, already forgotten. ]
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(Rhaenyra's eyes find Aemond's, somewhere in the mix, quiet and clear like shining glass, her mood difficult to discern but something in it is, for a heartbeat, unnervingly aware; easy to forget, with how cozy and comfortable she is with her husband now, that she was once a young girl helplessly infatuated with her uncle, too. But she moves on, and perhaps she was only thinking of the scar on her arm, made in recompense for the one on her half-brother's face.)
Aegon can be cut loose to his whores and slaves, Lucerys to hours of silent internal panic as usual, Jacaerys to whatever it is relatively normal-minded people do (can't relate), and all else to the four corners—
The library, which Daemon hasn't been inside in years even prior to his self-imposed exile from King's Landing. Several bells have passed since breakfast, and the castle is quiet and distracted now, lulled into midday rest with the sun at its brightest peak. He hears the occasional flip of crisp pages being turned, can intuit a maester or two lurking about, and avoids them.
Maybe he's just looking for a book. ]
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He forces himself to calmly finish his plate before rising.
The library is vast enough that Aemond can vanish into it and know he will not be sought after ... usually. When he wants to make himself scarce it's easily done, knowing the tightest corners and narrowest stacks where he can find respite from nosy maesters, yet today he keeps to the stacks themselves and wanders through now and again, restless (seeking the perfect book, surely): it pays off when he hears what he's been waiting for, footsteps too loud to be a maester's, quiet though they still are. He follows immediately.
Leaning against the end of a row some way behind Daemon, he keeps his voice low. ]
If you're still thirsty I know a thrilling recipe book that might help.
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He turns his head, and gives his nephew a wry look. I didn't get any sleep, you little brat, if I'm going to end up on some other wild tangle with you, I don't want to develop a headache. ]
And what might you prepare for me, from it?
[ Equally quiet, his soft voice like the relaxed hiss of a dragon. Valyrian is not strictly safe in here, with all the learned men shuffling about in their long robes and clinking chains, so he doesn't bother code switching. They will just have to play at coyly pretending to not be doing what they're doing, for now. ]
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Ice-water. [ Moving into Daemon's personal space, he drops his gaze to the shelf beside them and reaches out a hand to tilt a book toward the edge as if browsing, his words innocently whimsical. ] A simple solution that works, once and for all.
[ Not looking at Daemon for the sake of his aloof ruse is dangerous but, unless he loses something else irreplaceable, he's willing to risk it for the temper he wants to unearth. Aemond is tired too, yet he wasn't the forty-something knocking back goblets of water this morning. ]
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[ Daemon stays where he is, allowing the younger prince to sidle up near him, and the undercurrent of his voice is as much teasing as it is warning. Testing, to see what Aemond's after— Daemon is no stranger to applying authority where it aches best, but also he is not above the self-satisfaction of being the sadist to smile and whisper No to the masochist. ]
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You are trawling a library. [ With batted lashes that don't look away, he walks two fingers up Daemon's tunic and affects the same blithe tone with which he simpered to Alicent. ] What other help might you be expecting to find here, uncle?
[ It would hold some weight if he had any control over the hungry way he stares, already filled with memories of a naked body beneath him and the way Daemon's feverishly hot skin had felt under his hands. ]
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I am enjoying the ambiance of intellectual mysteries.
[ —a trait of their house, to deliver all kinds of bullshit with impeccable smoothness.
Daemon was never studious in his youth, not like Aemond is. He had no need of it, living history as he was, in a time that now feels like the last dregs of an era passing into obscurity, to his increasing frustration. Playing like this with Aemond is both satisfying for his libido and his sense of Targaryen cultural supremacy. Even in the gardening section of the library. ]
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dreamwidth pls
dw let the dragon nerds kiss
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