dohaeras | open post/cont. threads etc

[ People would tell him growing up that he was the image of young Prince Daemon, especially once his hair grew long. It was somehow a compliment and after he read up more on his uncle he was rather pleased by the comparison, but it's starting to feel embarrassing how closely everything aligns; he didn't choose his rooms, after all. ]

Baelon's chambers, my brother is at the end of the wing.

[ The princes' corridor, as it's been known to him, with Aemond in the traditional second-son's rooms. Doubtless Daemon will be very familiar.

Although he enjoys being groped and pawed at there's a moment where he looks around for his eye-patch then gets sidetracked by how messy his hair is. He drops a dutiful kiss on a cheek and steps back with languid movements to try combing his long, tangled silver mane into submission, finally able to stand without support, and while his breeches feel disgusting the leather blessedly lets no one know what's happened within. If Extremely Ruffled and Ravished were a look ...

His gaze remains on Daemon. ]

You had best leave here first, it won't be such of a surprise if they catch me.

[ Whereas a lot of wtfing and snooping might happen if Daemon is seen in such a place. He gives him a shrug as if to imply No offence. Also, ]

Someone will be missing you soon.

[ It's not like people question where Aemond is, his presence isn't that overbearingly obvious when absent, whereas when his uncle isn't around everyone acts like they took their eye off the Balerion in the room. ]

[ Huh, he really should have figured it'd be his old quarters. That is funny, though at least it means Daemon knows just how to get there without being noticed. He sees to his own hair, not as badly in disarray as Aemond's but still the victim of some desperate clutching, and has the audacity to look fine— though maybe it's just an illusion, because people so often expect Daemon to look disheveled or blood-soaked anyway. Regardless, he finishes up and takes a moment just to look at him.

Whatever he searches for (or finds?) he doesn't say. ]

Until next time.

[ An escape—

And a day, in which Daemon hasn't yet been missed openly, but only because everyone knows how busy he has the potential to be, in King's Landing, and cross-checking his current position out of simple curiosity would be a pain. There are a hundred moving parts to his daily life on Dragonstone, and a hundred more here. He sees his wife, and he sees the commander of the City Watch, and he attends a meeting with the dragonkeepers who are agitated that Caraxes' unconstrained presence is riling up the younger dragons still kept in chains day to day, he visits his brother.

Ruinous, still. Daemon made the choice to stay with Rhaenyra, committing to their children and supporting her refusal to return to the Red Keep because she had no one else to support her. He understood— she was besieged and loathed, was attacked by the queen in full view of the traveling court, and there is no doubt that she, and her children, would not have been safe there, even with Viserys' support, increasingly weak as it's been. Yet there's always been a part of him that's burned about it; he wants to be here to protect his brother, even though he can plainly see he'd be so waylaid by these people he wouldn't have been able to.

It is heartbreaking enough that he spends much of the late afternoon with his youngest children; Aegon and Viserys, silver-haired and barely aware of what's going on, and Joffrey, who is young enough to have known no other father besides Daemon. The servants are used to his presence, close household as they are, and it's possible for anyone passing by through the courtyard below the guest wing to hear Daemon sing old fairy-stories as he paces by the windows, son named for his brother in his arms.

And then, perhaps, is sneaking time. ]

[ Once Daemon leaves, Aemond puts his head in his hands and lets out a stifled noise of frustration at himself. He determines not to waste his day pining after his very married uncle and strides out of the maester's office alone as if he had every right to be in there.

The rest of his afternoon is spent in the training yard testing new squires, the atmosphere jovial and focused when Ser Cole turns up and teaches them a counter to a new move. Swords clashing for so long draws the wandering gang of Aegon and his cronies who, while laughing at everyone, start cheering on Aemond at his brother's direction, leading to a shout of "For the Red Keep, Aemond!" from Aegon (and everyone hears For me, for the rightful heir, the firstborn son). He wins his bout to whistles and is in a good enough humour to be absorbed into Aegon's gaggle as they make their way to a parlour for the evening, the pat on his back from his pleased brother meaning more than he lets show.

Away from the adults, the twenty-somethings have their own little dinner party on informal couches and floor-cushions, with Aemond reading quietly as he puts his feet up and half-watches the variation of knucklebones that Aegon is trying to win. Oddly spiced pasties are brought for everyone to taste (both princes gag), the girls are instructed to dance by Aegon and the other boys so their pretty skirts swirl, and everyone gets a little too merry on wine.

Aemond leaves early as exhaustion from the night before takes hold at last, leaving his book balanced on his brother's face where Aegon is calling him boring.

It's overwhelmingly quiet in his own rooms. The main antechamber's table is still covered in various philosophy and history books, quills stuffed in the mouth of a statue of Balerion paperweight atop inky sketches of saddles; no one has touched this area. The servants would not dare. Beyond the curtains, in his bedchamber, the fireplace has been lit and its simmering glow illuminates the stone figurines above the hearth (carved by his father's masons, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre with Vhagar in the middle) as well as a stray fang lost when Vhagar was eating a bull that sits in the middle of Aemond's bedside table amidst other eye-patches and a pile of scrawled notes from Aegon sent at all hours by harried servants.

He calls for a bath, stews awhile. By the time he's dry and wearing fresh cotton breeches for bed, he barely reads half a chapter of his book — The Purpose of Theology and Individuation — before he falls asleep with it still in his hand.

Entirely, and accidentally, forgetting Daemon and the invitation from earlier. ]

[ Aemond's now, Daemon's before, and Baelon's before that— a direct line to instill the tradition, as before that, Aenys had too many children and no order to any of it. Some of the best and most discreet hidden passages can be slipped through to these chambers, and he remembers them— larger in his mind. Gods, how time moves.

Does he even make it, or is he pulled away by duty, by guilt, by disinterest? Is nostalgia enough, through ornate lattice panels, to satisfy his curiosity from afar?

Hard to say. There's no proof one way or the other, but Aemond has been losing sleep because of Daemon for a while, and he does paint a pretty picture there. Perhaps if he looked hard enough he'd find fingerprints on his books and notes (saying what about his wife, you little pricks?), and perhaps his dressing gown over the screen near the false wall was on the other side when he left that morning, but there's nothing conclusive.

Aemond is a man and a boy at once. Someone has to make decisions about his health.

In the morning, there's talk of Prince Jacaerys and Lady Baela being escorted outside the keep by their father— not in any of the deep dark places that Prince Daemon used to frequent, but a respectable, if humble tavern, to eat and watch the bards, and everyone finds it very romantic (and very responsible, and there's no talk of the young lovers being busted by dad on an escape). Everyone takes breakfast in a hall nearer the kitchens, and Daemon has young Viserys again, sitting with him on a bench and playing a game with him and his nurses. ]

[ Aemond wakes and washes, the fog of sleep carrying him half-into his clothes before he remembers, and oh fuck. Shit. Hurriedly shrugging on a shirt to go and check the hidden (of course Daemon would have known them) passageways into his chambers, he searches for any sign of a note and wanders back in confused, turning full-circle for a sight of a scrap of paper — anything.

A servant walks in after knocking ... all is as it should be.

A sinking feeling lodges in his throat, then his gut, a stone that won't be dislodged as he considers the alarming reality that his uncle has lost interest just like that. That's ... not fair. Anger builds on a bedrock of offence and he asks the help whether anyone called on him last night after he retired, told No, my prince, which only sours his mood even further. No one is there to see the pink cloud his neck and cheeks but he feels like a fool of the highest order. Gods be good, it galls to know Aegon has more damnable experience with this sort of thing and would be able to advise him if it were not Daemon and Aemond were actually capable of even hiding that fact, were he to seek his brother out, but he's too hot-tempered and, anyway, it's all crystal clear (it's all Rhaenyra, the centre of everyone's world, so why bother?). He fell asleep, yes, but still. Still. Not a single fucking note? What was he supposed to do, he stresses as he paces his room, read the man's bloody mind and know exactly what he wanted in that office? Furious, snapping at the bewildered servants as he hauls on his armour for the training yard and stalks through the corridors to ... the wrong breakfast room, he feels his patience thin even further.

By the time he's redirected to whatever picturesque hall everyone agreed upon without him, he looks grim enough that even Aegon doesn't comment and simply pulls an Uh oh face as he leans around him to snag some bacon and an apple. Aemond doesn't waste a glance on the table (on him, sitting there with his preferred family) before cutting off Alicent with, "I'll be in the yard."

"Aemond, are you well? Did you not sleep —?"

"I said I'll be in the yard!"

On his heels, he hears Aegon mutter, "Anyone want to take bets on how many kneecaps will be getting sent to the maesters today?"

Aemond goes exactly where he said he would, barks for someone to spar with in lieu of Cole, and take his anger out on some very alarmed squires. Half an hour in he has broken a nose and slit a young man's thigh to the bone, spitting bland apologies as they are carted off and new opponents are found for a thunder-faced prince prowling for new faces he can actually afford to hit. ]

[ Perhaps, if Daemon were someone else, and Aegon wasn't a menace to all things living, the elder Hightower abomination might say, Why would he leave a note, if there was a chance I might find it instead of you?

Rhaenyra finds it in herself to wrench her focus away from being fondly exasperated at her husband's babytalk antics to commiserate with Alicent about boys and their moods, and even Helaena finds herself nervously (does she have any other way?) charmed by Prince Daemon, who agrees to allow his boys spend time playing with Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, even though she leans over and tells him, No witches, not yet.

On the balcony looking over the yard, there's a flash of white and blue— Rhaenys, but only for a moment, coming out then back again, ushering Rhaena away from observing too much unseemly bloodshed; what a horrible sport for a young lady to be so indifferent to, what in seven hells does Daemon expose her to on that rock? (Well.) She is replaced, then, by a figure that gives up leaning back on the balcony wall, moving instead to rest his forearms on the parapet and stare openly at Prince Aemond and the puddles of blood his paid actors are leaving behind.

They aren't actually allowed to hit the prince that hard. Daemon remembers well; it's this sort of training that left him so easily turned on his arse by Criston Cole at tourney. Simpler times. He deserved the embarrassment, then.

Like a gargoyle, or perhaps one of the many carved dragons at Dragonstone, Daemon silently watches, expression unreadable. ]

[ He catches sight of Rhaena and ignores her, only glancing back over when the blonde hair is swapped for another's — which he definitely didn't see, no, the balcony is cursed. His next opponent provides some sport but Aemond doesn't play fair and once he side-steps a swinging blade he brings the pommel of his sword down hard between the lad's shoulders, eliciting a shriek of raw pain as a body hits the floor. Cole, finally having had his fill of Aemond's bad mood, barks that's enough and for the prince to leave until he can control his temper.

He has to cross the yard and walk by Daemon up the stairs in order to get back in the castle. It's done with Aemond's gaze fixed on the ground and a swift step, hair streaming behind in a hurry as his skin crawls with anger. ]

[ (Someday, soon—

Rhaena will remember flashes of white straight hair and blood, and think, agonized, Of course it was that one.)

If Aemond moves too fast, he'll miss the opportunity to get a kick out of Ser Criston who, with the most seething, smug politeness Daemon has ever had the pleasure of hearing, asks him if he'd like to come down and practice, for he's heard no one at Dragonstone has had the opportunity to participate in any tournaments back on the continent since the Princess has been installed there, and it's a terrible shame. Funny, as usual. Daemon appreciates a lowborn cunt with a spine, and he almost hopes the man's fucking Alicent— the alternatives are too embarrassing to contemplate, even second-hand.

The yard's remaining inhabitants scuttle about, and Daemon watches until he doesn't, looking over his shoulder sidelong. Watching the psychic shattering left by Aemond's fury.

Daemon was right. It really is beautiful. ]

Breathing fire indoors, [ he observes, sing-song, in High Valyrian. ]

[ He slows and hates himself for it when he hears that voice. When he turns, his hands are behind his back gripping each other and he keeps his expression stony, albeit polite as he simmers. It's the same face he gives Alicent most of the time. ]

Can I help you with something, uncle?

[ Just to nettle his point, he uses the more formal version of uncle in High Valyrian. ]

Apparently not.

[ If Aemond is going to be a drama queen about it, Daemon isn't going to get in a fight with him about it out here. But he's going to let him burn, because they're dragons, and that's the only way to go about any of it.

And so— ]

I'll be at the pit later, if you think of anything.

[ Well, fuck. ]

I was going there later anyway.

[ "Not for you" is implied. He snorts and turns away, a slip of insolence taking over as he turns his back. ]

[ Daemon doesn't follow him, but his smile does.

He watches the yard for a while longer, and allows the belief that this is about Rhaenyra and her sons to fester; Cole is too self-righteous to be bothered by any observations even as he turns tail and leaves, but Daemon is petty enough to try and intimidate him, probably. The knight's ego will be bolstered by the thought of the king's brother being annoyed, but Daemon doesn't give a shit about him, honestly. He doesn't understand Rhaenyra's attraction, youthful though it was— but he does understand being possessed by her, in return.

In the Dragonpit:

The keepers are interested in hearing about the weather patterns on Dragonstone and if it seems to do anything for or against scale mildew, which is always a thing to be battled against in the pit. Daemon thinks it has to do with how mucking out is handled, and the lack of heat from an active volcano.

He's looking at eggshells and fallen scales, talking away in bastard Valyrian, when Aemond arrives; Caraxes is sunning himself on the great dome. ]

[ Aemond gathers himself in the hours preceding the Dragonpit. His anger is still burning but having vented the initial scorching fury he is left with red-hot coals in his breast, jealous and vengeful ... so, he makes different plans to simply turning up and taking off on Vhagar.

When he enters the main gates he paints a different picture to the flustered, frazzled fighter from the yard. His long hair has been braided over a shoulder and a rough jerkin has been exchanged for a soft black tunic of velvet shot through with vertical green lines, thin glimmers that make him look even slimmer, tall boots that reach above the knee. He also has company in a handsome, broad-shouldered young lord's son who carries the prince's scrolls, dark of hair and wide of smile as they enter the inner courtyard.

A flash of pale hair is determinedly ignored in Aemond's peripheral vision.

He leads them to an unoccupied table, hitching a hip on it to perch there as his guest starts opening up the scrolls. All the while he keeps the conversation flowing and a pleasant smile in place that sets the fellow at ease, gazes lingering. ]

[ Oh, that is another level of anger indeed, isn't it. But perhaps Aemond doesn't understand something fundamental about Daemon: this is fun. More than that, it's a treat to see the kind of young man that his nephew otherwise trifles with, as he gets to inspect his taste, and also observe the way the dark-haired lord's son posterior looks in his breeches. Aemond should be having a good time fucking whoever he'd like to fuck, enjoying it, reveling in the mutual release of it (mutual, Aegon, mutual!!).

If there's anything that gets under his fingernails, it's the green details. A shame; Aemond does a disservice to himself to court the thought that he only looks Targaryen. To flaunt it makes him seem no better than a bastard who lucked out on his hair.

Aemond is on a date, but he is not Daemon's son, and so unlike with Jacaerys and Baela, he doesn't interrupt. He looks, now and again, though mostly at the other boy, who doesn't know what to do with himself having the elder prince's attention for a few moments. But he allows the lion's share of his attention to remain with the keepers, and their legitimate business with him. Further derailed from any more fun of poking the little dragon, he ends up having to go see a literal little dragon, hefting a torch and going with the men who work the pit into the catacombs. They are somewhat vexed with him, having correctly intuited that it's under his orders that the keepers on Dragonstone correspond so little with them here at King's Landing, but Daemon isn't interested in aiding his potential enemies. Faced with actual, living dragons, however, is another thing, and his heart is a bit soft about them.

It's the chains, is the thing. Daemon knows this, instinctively; dragons are growing smaller by each generation, not just due to their interference by housing them this way. The chains have influenced them somehow, made them pass on a will in their eggs to remain small so that they might not be forced into bondage while alive. It leaves them so much more likely to be sickly and weak as hatchlings.

It repulses him.

When Daemon returns he seems pensive, though perhaps Aemond is gone by now. He has to get out of this dank hole, either way. High above, he can hear Caraxes make a restless sound, sensing him. ]

[ For all that his attention is geared away from Daemon, it's very much not. It's easy to be charming when his lordling is thrilled to be in his favour at the slightest curl of a lip, much harder than there's no point in doing it without his desired audience. He listens to the baseborn Valyrian spoken in bits and pieces by the keepers, something about the prince going to look at eggs, and it's annoying that he can't follow.

Or, that he makes an excuse to. "Come, meet Vhagar. Let's see if she finds you as handsome as all the rest of my brother's court."

Aemond's sneaking is less effective by far. He keeps his eye open for any sign of his uncle as he leads his date down into the depths and his lack of success makes his meaner side sharpen on the closest available target: Vhagar snarls her dislike at the boy led into her chamber, who promptly (oh, well) pisses himself and stumbles over his feet to rush out with a startled yell, knocking into keepers and an elder prince (!!) alike. Caraxes can also be heard rattling around above the dome; that probably won't help the sorry bastard's state any.

Aemond follows up out of the pit with his arms crossed, his gait measured and slow as he looks past his uncle at his failed, fleeing, half-real date with a lack of surprise more than anything. Though he is mad at Daemon, the situation is too darkly funny to resist commenting on. ]

That went well.

[ Cloying thoughts of a slow death lurking for the last dregs of Targaryen culture are disrupted, between being shouldered into by a piss-smelling lordling and Aemond's arrival nearby. He laughs it off to the keepers, who for an anxious moment seem to be waiting for the other to have the young man dragged back in to be used as dragon food - his brief tenure in charge of the City Watch is still popular to this day is because crime went down, you pussies, stop looking at him like that - but it's fine. It's rare, that anyone without blood or training can handle so much as the presence of a dragon.

He finally looks over at Aemond, gaze muddled with amusement. He's got to get himself a bad bitch; Mysaria didn't flinch, and flew all the way to Dragonstone and back.

A lean back on the table still littered with scrolls and bits of samples from the hatchery, body language relaxed. No attendants here, since everyone's got a job to do, and the princes are politely given space. ]

At least he didn't fall asleep.

[ The gentlest of teasing that Aemond, if he doesn't fly off the handle, is free to see as a self-depreciating joke more than anything else. Couldn't keep you awake after all, eh? What a shame for this old man.

(Also, hey, yeah he did show up, you angry dweeb.) ]

[ The milder looks he wears thins, hardening at that pointed jape. Coals simmer, igniting with a hot burn across his pride. ]

At least he tried to stand by me longer than a dragon's breath.

[ Pacing around the table to the one he was using nearby, he starts re-rolling his own scrolls. Drawings of new saddles. ]

I appreciated the effort.

[ If Daemon had a coin for every time one of his brother's children was furious at him for not fucking them—

He does not sigh. Being patronizing won't help. ]

You might less appreciate being observed.

[ Maybe a keeper or two can put together enough of High Valyrian, opposed to the fractured and reconstructed language born in Essos, to understand them. But it'll be easy to interpret it as gentle correction over swanning around with a male lover in relative public. If they're to really speak freely, they'll have to go somewhere else. ]

[ As long as no bastards are born (looking at some nephews) he's comfortable being seen fraternising with men. He's been with women too, and he might as well have fun at his age. They grow out of it, he has heard spoken. And this is his home.

His temper hikes, held in check as he clenches his jaw and takes a steadying breath. He already wounded enough people today that his pride should be sated (isn't) and he's smart enough to know the keepers can hobble together the more complex High Valyrian (some all but speak it fluently, he's sure) so he closes his eyes for a moment as he walks around to stand by Daemon, tapping him lightly on the chest with a scroll as he lowers his voice. A friendly, private conversation, and even if someone overhears he ensures it's nothing damning. ]

You have a dragon. It's very impressive, though not to my tastes. [ Rhaenyra, his eye says, while his soft tone banks over smarting pride. ] You cannot come in here, seek another, then leave it to consume itself. I think you know that would be cruel, even if the dragon was a silly hatchling you had no real interest in to begin with.

[ He steps back, moving away to the other end of the table. ]

[ Fair play to Aemond: for the first time, it dawns on Daemon that his nephew isn't only angry, he's hurt.

Daemon is not adept at experiencing guilt or regret over his actions, but there is a faint pang of it, now, even though he did the sensible thing last night. He would still not choose to do anything different, but he does feel for Aemond that he's taken it so badly, and made him spiral into the bruising of their situation. He's young, and he hasn't had the time to watch the fracture of this family grow from a hairline crack; Daemon is bitter about it, too, but he came to King's Landing expecting nothing else. For Aemond, this is the first time he's had them all together, experiencing the hostility and the call at once.

He does sigh, this time, but it's quiet.

Oh, little dragon.

After a spell— ]

Will you walk with me?

[ Up on the balconies and ramparts at the edge of the dome; access for repairs and maintenance, a bit dangerous, with so few parapets, but scenic. ]

[ He didn't expect to get through his uncle's thick, uncaring skull. Keeping his surprise veiled, he gives a small nod and heads for the nearest of the stone staircases. The wind feels good on his face and neck when they ascend to the narrow balcony that rings the main rooftop and he looks around for Caraxes, hanging back out of caution to let Daemon up top first (he's wounded but not so much he's about to dramatically fling himself into a dragon's mouth for lunch). ]

[ At seven-and-forty, Daemon should know to be gentler with young lovers; Aemond did not grow up with him at hand to grow an immunity to his brand of playfulness like Rhaenyra had, though there is still something of her in Aemond's restrained admonishment, and he thinks so clearly of Take me to Dragonstone and make me your wife.

Up he goes, and it's wise to be just a smidge wary, as an ordinary dragon would be hampered by trying to move on the slope of the dome, but for Caraxes it'd be an easy thing to lean his long neck over and snap a man clean in half for a snack. But Daemon clicks his tongue at him, hearing the low roar of his hiss; some smoke billows down, but no flame.

Peace. The Blood Wyrm is just enjoying his afternoon. ]

I thought you were merely baiting me, [ he begins without preamble, once they're up a ways. ] It is a difficult thing to wish to pour water over your fire when you look so good aflame, but I should have tended to you better.

[ Caraxes needs to be less creepy, realtalk.

It's like flying, up one moment on a compliment and plummeting the next. He's not sure how his uncle got his reputation for being a master seducer when he's a bit terrible at it (generational differences, Aegon would sagely say). The apology-that-isn't is appreciated, however.

Turning away to look out over the hill and city below, he's quiet as he chooses his words carefully. ]

You have existed for my entire life, I have existed for two weeks in yours. Give or take the claiming of a dragon. [ Aemond looks over, asking somewhere between being rhetorical and needing an answer. ] If I did not burn you would not see me at all. How high must a flame be? I have no wish to be ash in your wake.

[ Caraxes will do no such thing.

(Is he really a bit terrible at it, with Aemond spending all day having a tantrum that he's not getting it again right now??)

Daemon listens, and considers. He's not thinking about how he feels— he knows what that's about, plainly. He has to measure sense and safety, and do as he said, and tend to his nephew better. It doesn't matter that the inevitable forward march of time will see them at odds one way or another (gods, he doesn't know how badly), Aemond is still his brother's son, his own blood, a Targaryen worth his care and respect.

And someone he likes, besides. ]

This entanglement is honest of me, [ he says - admits - after a while. ] But it is dangerous. It is safer for a dozen reasons, all of which you know, if we pretend it's less than what it is. If I tell you what I want, will you be able to forgive me for letting you hear it?

[ It's not going to be pleasant to hear, he assumes. Even so, he nods. ]

Tell me.

[ However he feels afterward is immeasurably preferable to guesswork. ]

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