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βif you and i are both still alive and miserable,
i propose we begin to hunt each other for sportβ
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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?"