[ 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. ]
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. ]
[ 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.
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. ]
[ 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.) ]
[ 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.
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.
(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?
[ A shadow falls across them and then slips away; Caraxes stretching his wings high overhead. ]
You're a man grown and a second son, you have no need to chain yourself to this stinking keep. You need to make peace with Lucerys and you need to learn the old ways of being bound to Vhagar.
[ Just getting the part he knows is likely to make Aemond scream over with first, there. ]
Viserys won't deny you. Your mother and her father, [ never grandsire, that cunt doesn't deserve it ] will rage against it, and tell you that you'll be going to your grave, but you're not weak enough for that. I'd let you bring staff and companions to insulate you. Come to Dragonstone.
[ Lips thinning as he holds his tongue when Lucerys comes into play, he listens to the rest. Looks away again, moving a little closer to touch Daemon's hand where no one can see with the parapets covering them from any onlookers below. If allowed to, he turns it over and runs a thumb over the callouses there. He could be thinking about the offer, wistful and sombre. ]
Now you must promise not to rage when I speak my truth to you, if you will hear it.
[ Wryly. Daemon's made him rage enough, today, his nephew should get an opportunity to strike something.
—if their positions were reversed, he'd say it's not fair to put the pressure of choice on Aemond; he knows it, and he dislikes the situation being so. One more reason why voicing this desire is problematic. ]
If I go with you to Dragonstone I am betraying my brother, who is the firstborn son of the king. Leaving would imply I think my sister's claim is greater all because my father decided to spite you a lifetime ago, and I don't. It was a kind gesture on his part toward her, but I have never heard nor read an account that it was done because he had any other choice.
She would also have me killed on Dragonstone in between the time it took to have you blink, if she knew about us.
[ It'd be easier, probably, if Daemon did get angry. Certainly he would have a decade ago or more, when his reputation for an uncontrollable hot-head was at its peak, but these days it is quiet and simmering and patient; he waited the whole time from Laena's funeral to last week to punish Vaemond for his dedicated insolence, and allowed himself but a heartbeat of indulgence.
(Until he finds out his wife has betrayed him, at the worst possible time, and then he will be a child again, lashing out.)
Daemon accepts this from his nephew, and what little there is to read in his expression is just regretful. ]
There are things you have read, [ he says in common, which is perhaps more of an insult than simply dismissing him, ] and there are things that have happened.
[ The rift between him and his brother is not worth mentioning, for all anyone understands about it; too, unremarkable, is the idea of Viserys' firstborn son being worth anything— he's long past majority age, if he was going to be declared, he'd have been by now, it's not happening any more than it was happening for Daemon. Viserys has only ever wanted his daughter to succeed him, just like he only ever wanted to be married to Aemma. Aemond would be making his father happy to do this.
Incredible, really, that they can all think so lowly of Rhaenyra and her love life, to cling so viciously to the idea of her sons being bastards, and also believe her bloodthirsty enough to deny Daemon a Targaryen lover to such an extent. Which is it? ]
I owe you an apology and you have it. Furthermore for putting you into a position like this. But I know where those words were born.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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Can I help you with something, uncle?
[ Just to nettle his point, he uses the more formal version of uncle in High Valyrian. ]
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[ 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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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.) ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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.
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(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?
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Tell me.
[ However he feels afterward is immeasurably preferable to guesswork. ]
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You're a man grown and a second son, you have no need to chain yourself to this stinking keep. You need to make peace with Lucerys and you need to learn the old ways of being bound to Vhagar.
[ Just getting the part he knows is likely to make Aemond scream over with first, there. ]
Viserys won't deny you. Your mother and her father, [ never grandsire, that cunt doesn't deserve it ] will rage against it, and tell you that you'll be going to your grave, but you're not weak enough for that. I'd let you bring staff and companions to insulate you. Come to Dragonstone.
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Now you must promise not to rage when I speak my truth to you, if you will hear it.
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[ Wryly. Daemon's made him rage enough, today, his nephew should get an opportunity to strike something.
—if their positions were reversed, he'd say it's not fair to put the pressure of choice on Aemond; he knows it, and he dislikes the situation being so. One more reason why voicing this desire is problematic. ]
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If I go with you to Dragonstone I am betraying my brother, who is the firstborn son of the king. Leaving would imply I think my sister's claim is greater all because my father decided to spite you a lifetime ago, and I don't. It was a kind gesture on his part toward her, but I have never heard nor read an account that it was done because he had any other choice.
She would also have me killed on Dragonstone in between the time it took to have you blink, if she knew about us.
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(Until he finds out his wife has betrayed him, at the worst possible time, and then he will be a child again, lashing out.)
Daemon accepts this from his nephew, and what little there is to read in his expression is just regretful. ]
There are things you have read, [ he says in common, which is perhaps more of an insult than simply dismissing him, ] and there are things that have happened.
[ The rift between him and his brother is not worth mentioning, for all anyone understands about it; too, unremarkable, is the idea of Viserys' firstborn son being worth anything— he's long past majority age, if he was going to be declared, he'd have been by now, it's not happening any more than it was happening for Daemon. Viserys has only ever wanted his daughter to succeed him, just like he only ever wanted to be married to Aemma. Aemond would be making his father happy to do this.
Incredible, really, that they can all think so lowly of Rhaenyra and her love life, to cling so viciously to the idea of her sons being bastards, and also believe her bloodthirsty enough to deny Daemon a Targaryen lover to such an extent. Which is it? ]
I owe you an apology and you have it. Furthermore for putting you into a position like this. But I know where those words were born.
[ Hightower. ]
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