[ 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. ]
[ It's the same sort of feeling he had when first telling Vhagar Serve me, waiting to see if she would bank her fire and listen, the same damnably exciting anticipation. He can be smooth and subtle, for the most part. The problem arises when he can't just dismiss the person toying with him for getting on his nerves (nor wants to) and a lack of inexperience seeps through the mask as he navigates new skies. Aegon gets flustered easily, loses his temper, then calms down; Aemond steadily loses his temper and never wants to return to calm, so he swallows a sting to his pride when Daemon looks bored and tries not to have flashbacks to being tongue-tied on the doorstep of a whore. ]
The real mystery is which pursuits you're following when an intellectual book hasn't touched your lap the whole time you've been visiting.
[ He knows, he's been watching.
It's a bit pithy, edging on mean with the way he looks away and browses the shelves, rather less impressively haughty than sulking, but then flirting with your cool married uncle hours after washing his come out of your backside is a uniquely awkward position (haha) to be in. ]
Is perhaps the subject of what has touched my lap, [ his voice is even quieter now, silk-soft, almost to the point of Aemond needing to strain to hear it, ] noble enough for your esteemed approval?
[ Daemon does not warm, but he focuses out of his feigned disinterest, the weight of his attention fixed squarely on his nephew, and despite his at-ease body language and the low, private volume, it feels too big and too dangerous for this quiet wing of the Keep.
He stays nearly inaudible like that, trapping them together so close without raising a finger: ]
I hadn't yet become interested in reading and studying when I was your age. It took me until later to appreciate it, and in that appreciation, I see the products of your dedication. It is admirable, your own pursuits, and your passion for them.
If you were to recommend me a subject, Prince Aemond, what would it be?
[ The reluctant smile he can't quite bury is Daemon's reward for the tease, though Aemond holds his tongue so as not to dignify him with an answer to begin with. He does look up when he listens attentively and then (staring at Daemon distractedly) has the horrible experience of having suddenly never read a book in his life when asked for a topic to offer up. He has, of course, but he can't remember the title of a single one. It's daytime in place of night, the stacks smell of scrolls not dragons, and it's not going to be acceptable to shove Daemon up against the shelves. Not as fiercely as he wants to anyway, after being smothered in such a high compliment so unexpectedly.
His lips part, licked and bitten in thought a moment later. The cogs are almost visible behind his eyes when his lip falls from between his teeth. ]
I — ah ...
[ Not one title, not while Daemon is close enough that the warmth from his body can almost be felt, as well as the pink rising in his own cheeks. Fuck. ]
[ Aemond deserves to be flattered - for not being his brother, for being so competent, for having the nerve to conquer Vhagar (here and now while Daemon still admires it, before the tragedy of him having no experienced rider to learn from consistently leads to catastrophe) - and Daemon enjoys doing it. He very much enjoys getting to this point, with paramours, overwhelming them with little more than words and implications; the flush on Aemond's skin now is a prelude to what it looks like when they're fucking, and it's sinful, and delightful, to behold.
He wonders if Aemond will lose his nerve, or if he'll take it badly. What will it take to push him to find his words, or drag Daemon to a reading room? And will it be before a maester drifts their way?
Daemon inclines his head, moving closer, but only barely. ]
Would it be a history text? Mm, no, such would be a retread for the both of us. [ What might Aemond pick, either as a jest or sincerely? He puts real consideration into trying to guess, even while he's softly, deliberately provoking him. ] Not fiction, though I suspect you read some. I imagine you think I would judge it unfairly. Songs of Old Valyria, perhaps?
[ Aemond's hesitation to trust anyone melts away once he can read Daemon's interest more clearly, leaning in as he listens to him muse where he might be led and what Aemond might want to show him: it flies dangerously close to sweet. His expression changes as he reasons with an idea, working out the likelihood of them getting to where he wants to go, hmmm ... and then his touch drops to Daemon's hand to give it a tug, taking charge. ]
Come with me, and be quiet.
[ He gives him a warning look that skims his words along Daemon's jaw, and then Aemond is off through the stacks on a mission.
The library can be stuffy at noon when sunshine pours in through the tall windows with nowhere for the heat to go but there are still some overly dedicated maesters loitering about. It's a game Aemond is well-versed in, listening intently, holding an arm out to stop his partner-in-crime at the last minute, peeking around corners and trotting silently from one aisle to another, finally taking a calculated risk jogging past a wide expanse of empty desks in long rows to disappear behind the biggest books shelved on the other side, all so they can pick up speed with a shortcut. There's a small horizontal book the exact colour of those in their correct place which he slips out to peek through with a perfect view of a door; not a reading room, but the maesters' office. Slotting the book back (this library is very much his territory and shenanigans have definitely happened in the past, Daemon would be right about that) he whispers. ]
Wait for me to wave you over.
[ He holds back his hair to peek around the last aisle, then swiftly and soundlessly makes his way across to the door, brushing aside the huge red curtain half-obscuring it. No one raises an alarm when he ducks inside, so he holds it open for Daemon with a hurried nod. While princes of the realm it is still a private space purely for the maesters and, generally, a certain degree of respect would keep anyone else out. Clearly, that has never applied to Aemond, who moves through the library and knows all the best hiding spots like the map of a battlefield. ]
[ The ghost of an almost-laugh follows Aemond when he begins his stealth mission. It's obvious he knows the library better than Daemon ever has— his own special knowledge of the Red Keep is mostly confined to secret passageways, some of which he can't even fit into now, as a man grown.
He waits. He observes. And when bid, he slips across to the discreetly shielded office.
Is there a window in here, or are they lighting candles—? ]
I must admit, a maester's notebook was not to be one of my guesses.
[ Daemon keeps his voice demure, even after the door is closed (and locked, thanks) behind them. More handy abuses of power; if they're interrupted, it's simple to say that the princes required privacy to discuss matters relating to the crown. Still, worth it to be discreet. Getting busted twice in as many days would be suspicious. ]
[ His sigh slants a look at Daemon, abandoning him to the murky candlelight (there is a window but apparently sunlight is an anathema to crusty old men taking tea and scones) in a bid to open a cabinet. Pretending not to hear that lock click, he digs around elbow-deep in scrolls, rooting through. ]
These are their notes for the historical tomes of the future, minor chronicles of behaviour so each event has a named source close to the time.
[ Smirking, he pulls out a scroll and leans against the shelf as he reads, ankles crossing. ]
"Daemon Targaryen is a hot-tempered and quarrelsome young man of twenty" ... Oh, dear.
[ Oh, these creeps. Daemon hums something skeptical-amused, prowling slowly around the office, inspecting this and that in the low light and stuffy air.
He tsks his tongue— ]
At twenty I was four years knighted and a married man.
[ How very dare they.
Daemon was loved by his grandfather, and received several gifts in that time before the passing of the old guard; Dark Sister, which he adores, and Rhea Royce, somewhat less so. ]
Hm, but that was around the time I refused to stay at the Vale any longer.
[ The way Aemond waits for Daemon to absolutely not prove himself quarrelsome is patient beyond his years. The scroll is stuffed back and he brushes his hand through their edges, meandering around a little table to put himself at Daemon's side (instead of his back since he's flirting, not suicidal) and rests his chin against his uncle's shoulder, lips murmuring against fabric. ]
[ Daemon is a damn good liar, when he wants to be, but attempting to disprove that he is hot-tempered and quarrelsome seems like a monumental waste of his time. It is plainly evident, and likely eternal: he has a temper, and he likes a fight. Still does, even though Viserys was right, and fatherhood has settled him somewhat.
Probably not as much as Viserys would have liked, but still, somewhat. It's likely that his brother imagined Daemon finally returning north to make it work with the woman their grandparents chose for him, and not running away to Essos with his cousin after murdering her fiance, only returning to slither into the caverns of Dragonmont to nick dragon eggs for his daughters. ]
Oh? Keen on making your mark on history in more than one fashion?
[ He tips his head to brush a light touch with his jaw against Aemond's hair. ]
[ 100% convinced Daemon took out his first wife and, honestly? It's kind of hot. You do you, uncle. ]
We could always write our own scroll and push it to the very back where it won't be found until we're both dead and gone.
[ In the privacy of the maester's office he nudges back into every touch, looping his arms around Daemon's middle as he mmms and enjoys the respite from prying eyes. ]
I can think of a few things I would say about you.
[ Please, he was in King's Landing the whole time, recovering from the Stepstones and making peace with Viserys. And so was Caraxes.
They swear!
Daemon turns halfway into his nephew, and brushes his hand against his bicep in lieu of touching his chin, since he knows Aemond doesn't like it overmuch, and now is not the time to push boundaries just to get a reaction— this is sweet, touched with whimsy. It's not worth risking a genuinely bad reaction to play around too hard. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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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The real mystery is which pursuits you're following when an intellectual book hasn't touched your lap the whole time you've been visiting.
[ He knows, he's been watching.
It's a bit pithy, edging on mean with the way he looks away and browses the shelves, rather less impressively haughty than sulking, but then flirting with your cool married uncle hours after washing his come out of your backside is a uniquely awkward position (haha) to be in. ]
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[ Daemon does not warm, but he focuses out of his feigned disinterest, the weight of his attention fixed squarely on his nephew, and despite his at-ease body language and the low, private volume, it feels too big and too dangerous for this quiet wing of the Keep.
He stays nearly inaudible like that, trapping them together so close without raising a finger: ]
I hadn't yet become interested in reading and studying when I was your age. It took me until later to appreciate it, and in that appreciation, I see the products of your dedication. It is admirable, your own pursuits, and your passion for them.
If you were to recommend me a subject, Prince Aemond, what would it be?
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His lips part, licked and bitten in thought a moment later. The cogs are almost visible behind his eyes when his lip falls from between his teeth. ]
I — ah ...
[ Not one title, not while Daemon is close enough that the warmth from his body can almost be felt, as well as the pink rising in his own cheeks. Fuck. ]
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He wonders if Aemond will lose his nerve, or if he'll take it badly. What will it take to push him to find his words, or drag Daemon to a reading room? And will it be before a maester drifts their way?
Daemon inclines his head, moving closer, but only barely. ]
Would it be a history text? Mm, no, such would be a retread for the both of us. [ What might Aemond pick, either as a jest or sincerely? He puts real consideration into trying to guess, even while he's softly, deliberately provoking him. ] Not fiction, though I suspect you read some. I imagine you think I would judge it unfairly. Songs of Old Valyria, perhaps?
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Come with me, and be quiet.
[ He gives him a warning look that skims his words along Daemon's jaw, and then Aemond is off through the stacks on a mission.
The library can be stuffy at noon when sunshine pours in through the tall windows with nowhere for the heat to go but there are still some overly dedicated maesters loitering about. It's a game Aemond is well-versed in, listening intently, holding an arm out to stop his partner-in-crime at the last minute, peeking around corners and trotting silently from one aisle to another, finally taking a calculated risk jogging past a wide expanse of empty desks in long rows to disappear behind the biggest books shelved on the other side, all so they can pick up speed with a shortcut. There's a small horizontal book the exact colour of those in their correct place which he slips out to peek through with a perfect view of a door; not a reading room, but the maesters' office. Slotting the book back (this library is very much his territory and shenanigans have definitely happened in the past, Daemon would be right about that) he whispers. ]
Wait for me to wave you over.
[ He holds back his hair to peek around the last aisle, then swiftly and soundlessly makes his way across to the door, brushing aside the huge red curtain half-obscuring it. No one raises an alarm when he ducks inside, so he holds it open for Daemon with a hurried nod. While princes of the realm it is still a private space purely for the maesters and, generally, a certain degree of respect would keep anyone else out. Clearly, that has never applied to Aemond, who moves through the library and knows all the best hiding spots like the map of a battlefield. ]
dreamwidth pls
He waits. He observes. And when bid, he slips across to the discreetly shielded office.
Is there a window in here, or are they lighting candles—? ]
I must admit, a maester's notebook was not to be one of my guesses.
[ Daemon keeps his voice demure, even after the door is closed (and locked, thanks) behind them. More handy abuses of power; if they're interrupted, it's simple to say that the princes required privacy to discuss matters relating to the crown. Still, worth it to be discreet. Getting busted twice in as many days would be suspicious. ]
dw let the dragon nerds kiss
These are their notes for the historical tomes of the future, minor chronicles of behaviour so each event has a named source close to the time.
[ Smirking, he pulls out a scroll and leans against the shelf as he reads, ankles crossing. ]
"Daemon Targaryen is a hot-tempered and quarrelsome young man of twenty" ... Oh, dear.
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He tsks his tongue— ]
At twenty I was four years knighted and a married man.
[ How very dare they.
Daemon was loved by his grandfather, and received several gifts in that time before the passing of the old guard; Dark Sister, which he adores, and Rhea Royce, somewhat less so. ]
Hm, but that was around the time I refused to stay at the Vale any longer.
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We could annotate their notes ...
[ Burning them would be too obvious. ]
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Probably not as much as Viserys would have liked, but still, somewhat. It's likely that his brother imagined Daemon finally returning north to make it work with the woman their grandparents chose for him, and not running away to Essos with his cousin after murdering her fiance, only returning to slither into the caverns of Dragonmont to nick dragon eggs for his daughters. ]
Oh? Keen on making your mark on history in more than one fashion?
[ He tips his head to brush a light touch with his jaw against Aemond's hair. ]
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We could always write our own scroll and push it to the very back where it won't be found until we're both dead and gone.
[ In the privacy of the maester's office he nudges back into every touch, looping his arms around Daemon's middle as he mmms and enjoys the respite from prying eyes. ]
I can think of a few things I would say about you.
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They swear!
Daemon turns halfway into his nephew, and brushes his hand against his bicep in lieu of touching his chin, since he knows Aemond doesn't like it overmuch, and now is not the time to push boundaries just to get a reaction— this is sweet, touched with whimsy. It's not worth risking a genuinely bad reaction to play around too hard. ]
What would you write? About dragons, or fucking?
[ Sweet and touched with whimsy, as noted. ]
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We could write about fucking on dragons but even if we signed it, I don't think the maesters would give it much credit.
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