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ππ―π¦π°π’ π«π¬π΄ πΆπ’ πππ―π«π¦π°π₯π’π‘ πΆπ’ π‘π’ππ‘ π΄π₯π¬ πΆπ’π± π©π¦π³π’
βif you and i are both still alive and miserable,
i propose we begin to hunt each other for sportβ
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Instead, they must hunt like men who are no better than wolves. Ahead lies the point on the map the prince had in mind, the one he'd mulled over the night before until the dawn. This morning's play had run its course already, all the different ways it could go wrong and what was needed for it to go right.
The splinter of magic draws his eye, a souring omen that signals an interference in how he wants this to go. With a sneer, his eye pans the morning mist over the flank of his uncle's horse. The chill of the dawn had felt livening when they'd started, but his shallow well of patience had long scraped itself dry. A warrior should accept his fate, like Aemond had never fought against his own for a single moment.
"Hold steady." Aemond pulls back on his reins, turning his horse sharply to pivot towards the commotion to draw them out. The mare lets out an annoyed whinny, breaking off with a plan in mind. Forcing this to an early end might help no one, but his time in the Land's Between have not made him any less reckless. Possibly more.
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Sooner or later the horses are going to give up. No knowing if their quarry's mount has better stamina than their own. Daemon watches as his nephew shears away, and considers. He'll probably do something silly, as he is prone to do. Understandableβ Daemon has lived most of his years prone to rash behavior as well. But sometimes cutting through a problem is the best way to handle it.
If he could reach this current problem he'd absolutely cut through it. Hold still, you miserable magic cunt.
Butβ
As soon as Aemond engages with the easterly whatever-it-is, he might notice his uncle horse. A riderless bolt across the terrain, quicker for not being weighed down, spooked. Did Daemon really become unhorsed like some idiot slipping on a banana peel? The Tarnished ahead seems to think: maybe, turning his steed to keep Aemond triangulated, hedging, beginning to map out a potential assault in mind. Easier to pincer one than wait for both to regroup.
Layers of observation. Daemon moves, unseen.
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That's not what he'd call holding steady.
But Daemon has always been rogue, even in this long death they share. Too stubborn to die, let alone die stupidly. At some points in Aemond's life, he'd found it a trait worth admiration. At others, it became a thorn in his heel. The now is unclear, barely a note of concern crossing his mind, as he collects the attention of their mark and further unwelcome companyβ poachers with no stake in either side, likely to descend upon the wounded victor as vultures for gold.
Another chime of magic, he flags his horse the wrong way as a deterring bolt lashes near one of the mare's ankles. The startled noise she lets out triggers the Tarnished to move in to take the bait. Aemond tightens his grip on the reins, wrangling his mount to steady and aim towards the passage. Looking outmatched and unready, he throws another glance around the area for signs of his kin. Underestimating him is good, underestimating them both is better. If there's still a both to be accounted for (he's convinced he'd feel it otherwise.)
A golden seal tucked into his glove burns against his palm. As a final taunt, he volleys a glob of fire over at his opponent. Don't look there, look here. Into the bottleneck, they go.
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The Tarnished follows Aemond, and the vultures follow along the both of them, circling wide at first from Aemond's approach, but now moving in. One moves towards the riderless horse, brandishing a spear. Easier to slay it and sell the tack, dig whatever treasures are tucked into saddlebags, than try to acclimate it to a different rider. The horse rears up then backs away, drawing the lancer with her, and thenβ quick, effortless, in range for Daemon to slip into view and jam a blade up beneath the man's helmet. It sinks in, crunching through windpipe to spine, it rips out, the man falls. Daemon grabs the spear, flips it over in his hand, and hurls it.
Sailing through the air slower than magic, but still effective where it lands, clipping one back leg of the Tarnished's steed and lodging itself into the earth beneath its hooves. The animal shrieks and dives to one side, not falling completely but stumbling badly and putting the Tarnished into a hedge of wildly growing shrubs before he must veer away from the rock wallβ
Daemon nearly laughs. It's been a while since he's had to use anything he learned for tourneys.
Alright, alright, let's be serious. He draws his sword and whistles more of that tune, sharp and ear-splitting, already a heartbeat away from clashing steel to steel with one of the vultures. Their numbers scatter, some making a run for the Tarnished, one trying to bolt past Aemond to the other side of the bottleneck.
Chaos! Daemon slices his opponent's hand off. Fucking finally. Let's have some fun.
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With Daemon bringing up the rear and him at the front, they're just picking at sheep in a pen. Another down. Who's next?
Ahead, the Tarnished's mount grows increasingly frazzled by the outbreak of the fight. The warrior on its back attempts to placate its nerves, but it's too much to bear. Tumbling back into the bushes he goes as Aemond taunts him with another fireball. Between the clashing of swords and the dismayed cries of horses, he barely picks up the crumpled chime of a bell β nothing more than a charm or a loose buckle on their belt, perhaps. The prince surges forward, bullying his opponent back into the open before their swords parry one another. Strikes swift and eager to keep his mark from getting into anything that might gain him the vantage.
(If only he saw the silvery form taking shape in the brush behind his back.)
No, he's too busy winning. Lady Tanith only has one reward for her contract, and he intends to claim it. Dark Sister cuts through most armor like butter, even those forged down in the hells. He smells wet iron and earth, tastes it in his mouth. Little things that remind him he's alive.
A streak of blue flashes in the reflection of his blade as a second Tarnished comes into play, but it's his uncle that it has its sights on. Cheatβ there's a reason why his name ended up on a card. Then again, this hunt was intended to be a one-man job.
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No regrets. He sacrificed that connection when he plunged the blade into his nephew's skull, something that simply had to be done. The sword was made for Visenya, and she has served him well, but now he looks for something made for him alone. His current weapon β its design, in any event β is in the 'maybe' category. Half his height, slightly curved. Quick, perhaps not sturdy enough with the forging. He wants a better blacksmith. He wants a dragon to melt the metal.
Ah, well. It takes enchantments pleasantly, as though yearning for it.
He doesn't use any yet. Wets the blade instead, blood from a bandit, and another as he puts the man between him and the silvery, ghostlike combatant. Daemon pokes the bandit in the thigh, makes him stumble, and he makes a very odd, startled scream when he's trampled by the mimic. A quick swipe that would have decapitated a flesh and blood person, and blades clash, though Daemon keeps half an eye (since he has plenty to spare) on what Aemond is up to. No point in getting pinched in reverse.
Magic slips off of his sword like firelight being directed by polished plates. Fool, this Tarnished. Daemon has heard of this magic. He will have to have cut away part of himself to summon it. For what? Daemon keeps it too close to cast anything else, relentless so it has no time to recover, until the thing is doing nothing but scrambling backwards. Only an imitation, and their prey is more mage than fighter in the first place.
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He's not picky about method now. Mages need their distance, their gimmicks, and their potions. They're better to overwhelm instead of wait out to make a penetrable move. Another shame, he loves punishing others for their mistakes. Whatever, he'll make do. He always does.
There's less ground before wall than the Tarnished anticipates and he panics. By then it's done in two flicks of the sword β one separates the hand that raises the staff. The spell fires off anyway, weaker in the immediate separation from its wielder, Aemond's long hair avoids the singe of bright light that soars past his ear as he bobs away. His sword snaps back with him, separating head from neck before it can think to scream.
For all this realm has to offer, he still thinks a family sword serves him fine. It's got nothing to do with his desire to prove something, not slightly.
Speaking of β Aemond whirls his attention back around to Daemon and what's left of the carnage around him. No notes? Gold star for his achievement? Kiss on the forehead? Is his nuncle still alive, or did the mercurial slime have its way with him? Priorities. The last of which remains the pain radiating off the side of his head. No losses, just a bit of glintstone burn. It leaves a metallic taste in the back of his molars. Magic's a hoary old bitch, but she's got bite.
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Hardly matters. The mimic fades, magic slips past Aemond and dematerializes before it can reach his uncle, and the elder prince flips his sword idly in his hand while looking over for the last, now-retreating bandit.
He knows better than to find this boring. Tempts fate. Something horrendous will drop on them out of the grey skies if he so much as laments internally about the ease; particularly after such an irritating, drawn-out pursuit. But: a somewhat anticlimactic finish in the form of at last utilizing a bit of spellwork in the form of a sickly yellow beam that leaves the curved point of his sword with the correct flourish. It zips through the air (Daemon has wondered at the speed of magic, if it is like light, if it is like momentum) and strikes the bandit. The man stumbles then seizes, twisting this way and that, arms flailing out to try and claw at his own back where he's been touched by the awful energy.
Daemon walks over to him, in no hurry. The bandit attempts to mount a defense when he realizes he's been approached, but it's too late. Daemon knocks the blade out of his hand and runs his own through the man's face. Twists to send it horizontal, shatters teeth and splits his mouth the wrong way, yanks it sideways and sends a chunk of his jaw sailing. Gurgling unpleasantly, the bandit collapses, and Daemon turns to go and meet up with his nephew.
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Show off.It all becomes an odd thing if Aemond thinks too hard about it. As though the bright gleaming tree haunting the backdrop isn't any indication of the absurdity of their situation. Here he is, traversing a foreign land with his uncle hunting down men like a pair of robber knights. Is it more a fever dream or a fall from grace? What are dragonlords without their dragons, is this it?
Aemond stands poised amongst the carnage, blood simmering down from the action. His sword tip sits in the mud, fingers tapping along the pommel as he tracks a tooth tumbling through the grass. Here, he spends time dissecting the way Daemon's form adapts to the sword he wields. Uncertain if he likes this blade for him, as though he's allowed to have any opinion in the matter. When their eyes meet, the young prince's almost immediately bounces away. Whatever thought he's been caught in is brushed aside as easily as that rogue tooth.
It's a strange place to be. There's a boy version of himself that still finds awe in watching his uncle fight. It knocks heads with the version that remembers the taste of his steel. Carelessly, he thinks of the taste of other things. A smile pulling at the corner of his mouth turns into a twinge as his head turns back towards the motionless tarnished crumpled beside his helmet. The unpleasant throbbing burn persists. Wizardly cunt.
He shakes it off, drawing his blade up to clean along the corner of his coat for sheathing.
"More are bound to show, if you're still sporting for it." A joke. These bandits are chum in a place where you can fist fight a god. Stay or go, they're not in the most advantageous of places to linger long. Best to see what inalienable power they can pluck from this knight's carcass and move on.
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Daemon is beside him in short order, moving quickly with the lingering heat of a fight. Any action is still action, even if it was boring, and sweat feels better than inactivity. Dark violet eyes tick over the impression of something, and perhaps Aemond can feel the scrutiny, a phantom hand ghosting over the side of his face. Get tagged, nerd?
Mm, well.
"Perhaps if they were at all likely to draw out anything interesting. But this is a barren hole."
Strip mining their victim and moving on it is. Daemon is a less motivated towards rewards and upward momentum than Aemond is, and so he lets him comb through the man first, observing pilfered trinkets, and most importantly, the identification of any runes.
"Where'd he get that, I wonder."
A deep color burned in a swirled pattern on his chest. Impossible to tell from this vantage point if it's one or several unique soul-impressions. Daemon leans over the body that's already beginning to try and dematerialize away to the tree, sword shoved into the ground, peering. Looks nasty. Looks interesting.
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Daemon can smirk all he likes about it. If Aemond doesn't acknowledge it, can anyone say he got hit?
The longer time spent on the ground only reminds Aemond how vulnerable he is. What a stupid, nagging, and aching thought. From what dragons he has learned of here: they often have too many pairs of limbs and their blood does not resonate the same. Theirs sings song he doesn't know the melody to. Even if he could claim one, he's uncertain if it would fill the void where his soul has been severed. Magic and trinkets are a salve to an incurable woe, a leg up to higher ground than he was before.
"A brand or a scar, you think?" Aemond's attention lifts from a token in his hand to study the grave impression. Knowing this place it can be either or both. Does it matter?
He's devoured as much knowledge he can get his hands on here knowing that there is much already lost to a Doom of its own making. If there's recognition in the pattern, he keeps it to himself. He and Daemon don't always share the same agenda. The prince's observation would seem to gather they are salving their shared woe in different ways as much as they have in the same ways. Together for now, but it doesn't stop him from wondering how long.
"Mayhaps it's why his name ended up in a letter." Maybe not. Who the fuck knows?
The body before them is taken deeper into the earth, leaving them with golden fragments of runes and whatever fodder pulled out of pockets beforehand. Aemond's share comes away with a talisman that looks a bit like an eye and a pocketbook that appears a promising read. As curious as he is, he doesn't linger to see what Daemon takes. What happened to their horses?
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Lazy bait, if Aemond's in the mood to take it. As far as what Daemon takes, it is a mystery (a bell perhaps?), though he does notice something. Like his nephew, he keeps any discoveries to himself. He has his own priorities, his own avenues of investigation, and he is not yet assured of the younger prince's suitability for being a constant companion. Capable of being reliable, technically, but would he be, for Daemon?
He has no certain answer. Perhaps his head is still ringing from that one book attack.
Daemon straightens again, pocketing this and that and a bit more (shimmer, spiral). The horses have only gone as far as they needed to, a bit worn-out from the demand of traveling all night, but he doesn't see any snapped legs. A few bandit horses are about, too, among glittering remains already fading, or a few corpses that seem to have run out of luck for now. Not for the first time, he wonders if those on a slower rotation will revive to find themselves half-rotten.
(Would Viserys?)
"Horse meat for breakfast, brave a town, or would you be rid of me at this juncture."
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What happens when one of them collects enough trinkets and devours enough power? Will their name end up in someone's letter? Will they one day hunt each other? As always, he's getting ahead of himself. All the while Daemon looms behind him, cooled and menacing as his mirror. He mislikes that, too. How easily he can needle his way in.
Aemond stops midway among muddied corpses and turns to look his uncle in the eye. "Why is it you are so convinced that at any turn I may decide to abandon you or kill you?"
A fool's take, by his attitude. Not the bait gauntlet that was tossed down, but it's the one that's taken. It's not as though Aemond's never done anything in his life to suggest that he should feel that way. Kinslayer who? Bookslayer when? He doesn't think Daemon has worried himself much with either possibility. It sounded to him he's merely trying to plan his day on whether or not his nuisance nephew will be there to thorn his side.
"Pick a horse."
He wasn't going to leave but now he's staying out of spite.
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(Ask stupid questions.)
"To eat?"
Sometimes Aemond is so exhausting. The elder prince follows him, and there's no obvious tell before he shiftsβ one movement he's just idly following along, and the next it's quick, almost no transition between, crowded up in his personal space with one hand snaking out to grab his jaw and look at the not-quite-burn left on his nephew's face.
Maybe they can get into a fight, since there isn't anything interesting over here. Probably just some of those flattened-out frogs that spew disease, or something.
If Daemon doesn't immediately get decked in the face or stabbed and sent to the godsdamned tree (leaving himself open, for fun), he will say, too close for comfort, low and warm: "I wonder why, nephew-mine. Let me put salve on this fucking thing."
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As easy as it would be to stick a knife in his uncle's ribs, the sudden invasion evokes a flinch at most — if only uncertain as to where this was going. A flash in his eye cries offense, breath seething in protest as he stills under Daemon's manhandling.
As irritating as he finds it, his anger isn't placed in his uncle. They could fight, it would be more thrilling than the one they just emerged from. Would it be satisfying? Mayhaps. Aemond touches the back of his wrist against Daemon's arm. Not yet pressing to shove him away, it diffuses to a tentative warning as he feels his warm breath dancing across his skin.
The prince's jaw tightens. Not repulsion, embarrassment. This is coming from the boy who lost an eye. Who sat in a room day after day with a league of maesters that put him through all sorts of agonies. Taking stitches out, putting stitches in, routine disinfection, mangled eyeball retrieval. Not a single moment was his father at his side to see it through, but it's nothing new that Daemon has given him more attention in death than his sire might have his entire life. But gritting through it is what he knows.
He doesn't know this. A part of him wants to read it for a taunt. By looking Daemon in the eye, he can't discern the truth either. Hmph, fine.
"It can wait." His hand doesn't push him away, but instead slides to curl lightly over his uncle's arm; a gentler way of dismissing. Let him butcher a horse first.
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Aemond squirms in that stiff way of his, and Daemon holds them still. Watching his face, the way he tenses, as though he can see the thoughts rolling around in his nephew's head. (Maybe he can. Maybe the missing eye's made a hole all the way through, and he's just reading.) Daemon's deep violet gaze is unflinching, and there's always something sardonic about him, but there's no mocking. Little shit's better than most men with both eyes, but he's still got to have compromised depth perceptionβ if they're going to travel and fight together more times than not, Daemon has a responsibility to look after him, which includes bullying him about mending.
And they're blood.
And they've fucked.
Another moment, and Daemon rolls his eyes away, withdraws his hand with the movement, and rounds to look at their horse options. In the end, he spares the ones they've been using, choosing instead the most skittish of the remaining bandit mounts. Quick about it, not wanting to spook the rest of them into poor behavior later. Quicker, then, to winch it up against a tree, before anything spoils internally. They don't have to take their time with this, just harvest enough for now and some to pack away in leftover salt for the next meal or two. Carrion creatures can have the rest.
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He thinks wine and poppy to be similar sorts of poisons too, but that never stopped him from sinking himself into those either. He's dead, he can fuck his uncle as a treat.
The pause in Aemond lifts with a gentle exhale as the elder prince releases him and turns about his business. The crankiness in him now diffused, oddly enough. He resists the temptation to touch at the burn and joins in on the necessary slaughter.
The valley they're in will be swarmed by nightfall by those horrendous giant singing bats, drawn to the copious amount of blood that's soaked into the earth beneath their feet. This world can feel so quiet and empty. A gentle breeze brushing through the trees is the only company that greets them. The sun has yet to reach its peak, but plenty of other things could come sniffing around before then.
Aemond abandons his peripheral watch to help carve out their rations. Horse meat isn't his favorite thing in the entire world but there are much worse meals. It smells decent once they get it over a fire, stirring the hunger in his belly as he rummages for the salve in his pack to make due against reticence for aid.
"Returning to the manor will be swifter if we find a site of grace." Breaking his silence with more shop talk. Their hunt is done, where else would either of them press forward?
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Dry.
Daemon sits down beside the fire, and tries not to think of anything in particular. He turns his knife over in his hands, black leather hiding horse blood, as it will hide horse grease and strings of horse muscle fiber; better to ruin an accessory than pick it out of his nails on the walk back to the manor (or to the little fair fire pit, whatever those fucking graces truly are). What was the last creature he butchered to eat, at home, in life? Daemon finds he can't remember. Some unimportant detail burned away by the all-consuming storm of grief and anger.
He misses hunting with Caraxes. Scaring and herding game, deciding between careful bolts or the overkill of dragon jaws. Canny deer and boar and the occasional bear in Westeros, warped basilisks and enormous, agile felines in Essos. A small whale, once, and Daemon had almost drowned laughing from the absurdity of being unceremoniously dunked to accomplish it.
"I suppose it was too much to ask that the lost cult of dragon worshipers were headquartered in the volcano."
Big snakes and the freaks who want to eat them. Close and leagues away at once.
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It reminds him of Aegon's mulishness at times. He's certain his uncle would adore such comparisons.
The elder prince isn't wrong, but it's not the first thing that goes awry to reason within this world. Dragons which do not associate themselves with fire, but the heat of their lightning seems to burn just as brightly. The wyrm that guards the mont is not seen as dragon at all despite its wings, it prefers to crawl around on its belly. The whole place is blasphemous, as they seem to take pride in.
"A seat can be flipped," the young prince notes casually as he fishes out the correct tin. Another joke, or is it another idea to gently float by, mayhaps even one Daemon could be less caustic towards. His words are just as dry, if not more.
His violet eye draws up to where Daemon sits as he sinks an elbow to his knee. The tin turns slowly between his fingers; is he going to help or will Aemond be forced to ask for what's already been offered?
"It's not as though you haven't done it before."
Only Aemond would hold the audacity of pitching the idea to overthrow the great blasphemous praetor and his depraved snake god, but are they not descended from a conqueror? What else do they have to fucking do here?
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Mildly offered. Daemon could have stayed, when he and Laena brought the girls to court when they were small. It would not have been all that difficult to press a takeover, seeing how ill Viserys already was in those years. He had enough support, and a capable blade waiting to meet Otto's neck, and the excuse of only being regent while Rhaenyra settled into her role. And of course he would have never abdicated, because of course she couldn't have been heir with her brown-haired children, and what might have become of Alicent's children, then.
In retrospect it's foolish. Daemon never actually wanted to be Maegor. He should have been. (What, did Aemond think he was going to rise to bait about being an usurper? Dickhead.)
Too late now. He turns the knife over some more.
"Come here."
Maybe he'll poke the other eye out, maybe he'll put the salve on.
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After a scrutinous squint that relays confusion, Aemond's eye rolls as he shuffles to push himself back onto his feet. If this ends anywhere other than him receiving aid, he will certainly be trying to roll his elder into the embers and leave a mark that would put both their brothers' to shame.
"You took Harrenhal, did you not?" He corrects, sinking into a seat beside him. Because he has to be right, if there is one thing Daemon is right about him is that he is still a little shit. The tin remains aloft between them for the taking.
"Not that it was a particularly harrowing undertaking, I gathered. Merely harassing an old stout man onto his knees. I suppose it should not rightfully make a fair comparison."
Now that was a needling.
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At Harrenhal.
No comment on his own actions. Still mild. Not much of a needle, from his end. If he didn't have to fight, he didn't, because it was a waste of time; that's half the point of the dragon. A deterrent. And he doesn't have a fucking deterrent here. If he wanted to go and claim the weird old manor for himself, he'd have to personally murder everyone in there, and then go hunting for whatever's in the pit beneath it, because something is going on there. He can feel it like an agitated nerve beneath his feet. The volcano rolls and roils, and whispers of strange magic.
Anyway. He thought Aemond meant King's Landing, on account of how all he did at Harrenhal was bully an old stout man.
Daemon sets the knife aside and pulls his gloves off, before taking the tin. He pops it open, and begins to work a bit of ointment through his fingers, aiming to strip at least some lurking bacteria off before he goes and sticks them into his nephew's face.
"That place is sinking. Into madness, and into the fucking ground." Aemond's seen it. Half the village below the manor's keep has been consumed by rising lava. "If anything, best to strip it for parts."
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A dull grunt gravely acknowledges what's implied and abstains from dragging them into something truly unpleasant. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth to stop it wagging too deeply over sore wounds. Is there much room for righteousness these days? With a dead man's horse roasting on a spit before them and a pocket full of trinkets and runes peeled from another.
As Daemon works the ointment, they young prince draws his hair out of the way. It's grown, which is a strange revelation to find in death. It should probably be braided to protect it. Constant exposure to the salty wet air has left it looking worn and curling towards his nape. He doesn't want to chop it off, but one of these days it will slow him down.
Daemons answer is exhaustingly rational.
"You could apply that to anywhere in this moldering realm," he argues and works loose the first couple clasps of his leathers to give access to his neck where the irritation has spread. The worst is a beating red mark that spreads out behind his ear. The burned from the "vitality of stars", of all things. If he hadn't pivoted, it'd have reopened the hole his uncle left him with.
"...how bad is it?"
Not like he's concerned or anything. He's merely not in the market to keep losing pieces of himself.
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Sometimes they remind him of Valyria. Not the Freehold in dreams, but the ruins. The edges of which he should never have touched (but was always going to).
What should he say? I don't want to settle here. It's admitting defeat to find a home.
As if there's any fucking way back. The dead, if they do not simply stay dead, do not return to where they left. They are never going back to Westeros, or any other place in that world. Daemon will never know which of his children survived, if any. Aemond will never know if his siblings can fill Vhagar's void with their dragons, crippled and untested.
Daemon scrapes his hands as clean as they're going to get, collects a bit more of the balm, and reaches out to attend to his nephews face. Cradling his jaw with one hand to stabilize him, poking around with the other. Magical injuries are still baffling, to himβ but it must burn, especially since it's still squirming, and it makes sense enough that potions and such, supernatural in kind, can soothe them.
"It seems half-alive, still," he muses, and carefully slides fingers along it. Pauses, to see if it's actually helping. His skin feels overwarm, like a burn.
"Do you wish for a home, here?"
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Is it what he wants? Home doesn't feel like an appropriate word that can be applied to any corner of this place. Nothing here can replace what they've lost and it would be foolish to seek it. He can corner the feeling in his heart and press his thumb to its pulse to try and understand what it is, but he cannot begin to know how to describe it.
Free falling is one of the last things he remembers. It's a bit like that. Beyond the God's Eye in the Riverlands; houseless and desperately trying to find a means of carving around his fate. No matter what he'd done, Daemon was still waiting for him. He couldn't escape it. He couldn't get his wind back beneath him to spare them from hitting the water. Perhaps it's the lack of control and stability that disturbs him so. He has no order of purpose to cling to here and rejects the one he's been given. Perhaps in the end, he will be driven towards it.
A few beats of silence as he thinks. The tensing and relaxing of his jaw within his uncle's hand is the only indication of the pain as new territory is paved by medicine. He can't tell if it's cooling the mark or numbing it, but it's doing something.
"I wish to not live on the ground like a horselord or roam the country like a sellsword." There's a tinge of bitterness, knowing there is little to his circumstances that can be changed. No amount of ambition will raise him to what he thinks he deserves here. It doesn't exist.
"Does such a way of life content you?" It's not one meant for their kind, Aemond thinks. They are lords, they are dragons. "Don't you think you deserve better?"