The cave on the edge of the battlefield is quiet, secluded, and deceptively safe. Corpses of men and a myriad of strange creatures litter the beach with its bloodletting sand, slowly consumed by the tide, and by scavengers— few animals. Instead, people comb the shore, searching for trinkets (selling), good boots (wearing), intact organs (witchcraft).
Daemon returns smelling of dragon-char and blood, carrying with him a well-cooked little thing. Only men and dragons cook their meat. It's useful, hunting. A shadow passes over the mouth of the cave even as he walks, and Caraxes settles in, deep red scales casting a brief bloody glow inside as the sun catches them.
Songs of old say Daemon Targaryen's voice was as deep as the ocean, a dragon's growl; instead he is soft-spoken and middle-ranged, and yet, it matches the crackle-shriek of his deformed monster. They say he took his niece to wife and died for her, his dragon queen; they say he survived the battle over Gods-Eye and left with his dragon-riding mistress. He himself has not said. He has kept quiet about himself, outside the obviousness of his identity— too Targaryen, with his pale hair and strange eyes, Queen Visenya's sword, and the Blood Wyrm. He has kept quiet, too, about the things he's dreamed of his companion. They've been made to see much, in dreams. Sharing each other's minds.
He wonders what Jaime Lannister has seen of his own dreams. Will he find himself faced with another Mad King, or with a beloved prince?
His footsteps are light, but audible. Fingers hook into meat.
"Am I conscious," Jaime echoes petulantly, sounding more like a green squire barely cresting over the horizon of his teenage years than a seasoned knight of four and thirty.
He'd been lying on his back, feigning disinterest and weakness, relying heavily upon the uncovered stumped remains of his right arm to make him look far more feeble than he actually is. In another world, his golden curls and cat-green eyes would have given him away, but not here. It was almost easier to be hated and loathed (and feared), to have people turned off to the mere idea of conversing with you due to your name, reputation, and standing. Having to actually talk to people — really talk — shows those thirty-four years for what they actually are.
A complete and utter waste.
His adolescent years written over before they'd already begun by a knighthood given far too early and a position on the Kingsguard that should have never been given to a teenager. A very talented, eager boy of five and ten infatuated with Ser Arthur Dayne the fabled honor of knights and the glory one found in the battlefield that he had only just tasted against Kingswood Brotherhood. A fairytale he ended up living until reality came crashing down upon him. Until a king consumed by his delusions tried to burn the innocents and in a panic, he acted, saving the lives of all the dwelt within the city and damning himself in the process for breaking his vows.
Oh, how he hates that his silver-haired companion likely knows the truth of that matter. That he wasn't some smirking Lannister schemer standing proudly over the dead body of a frail old man and instead a terrified teenager who fell to his knees and vomited beside the Iron Throne once the deed was done, who was too stunned by his own actions and the series of events that led up to him putting his sword through his king's back to leave or speak to Ned Stark when he stumbled upon the scene.
"Unfortunately for the both of us," he grouses as he sits up, peering over the other man's shoulder at the dragon that shadows him. "I am still very much among the realm of the waking and living."
"If you tire of your condition," critical deep violet eyes observe him, stepping closer, "Caraxes wouldn't mind something less spoiled."
His dragon has feasted aplenty on corpses, economical and practical, but something fresh would be a nice treat. Daemon drops the bird-adjacent thing he's brought on a plank beside the campfire, and though it's just one more burned smell, it's at least not sour. Edible. The crossing between the battlefront and the command tents has been smashed, no hope of supplies for a week at least. When the weather clears, he will take Caraxes and assess the situation. For now, he waits.
Seven-and-forty, the Targaryen is well-preserved, especially considering his history of warring. Perhaps the wicked rumor that he drained his brother's life is true— King Viserys rots to ruin, losing fingers and toes and eyes, while Prince Daemon is hardly troubled by the passing of time, still flying, fighting, and siring children.
Speaking of children. Ser Jaime's tone reminds him of a teenager, which tempts both the desire to snap back, and contrary paternal patience. Having dominion over seven human children and five biting hatchlings, Daemon has learned unearthly patience despite his own tendency towards temper. (Has the Lannister seen his children? His daughters, his stepstons, his youngest? Has he seen Daemon himself as a child, forced into a marriage and emasculated for his inability to commit rape? Seen him weeping to be taken from his last living family? The Rogue Prince, a lonely boy.)
"Until then we must endure. If it's any consolation, it does appear we've won this battle."
Jaime's green eyes meet the prince's before flicking quickly over to the dragon.
He knows what dragons that can and cannot fly can do, what fire can do. The smell of burnt human flesh as it cooked against the bones of men who were still alive and howling in pain is forever seared into his memory, and the mere thought of it threatens to bring bile rising in the back of his throat. Sometimes his recollections are so vivid that he can almost feel Ser Arthur's fingers clutching the gilded metal of his bevor, twisting into the gorget around his neck to keep him in place.
The vividness of it all had sent him spiraling when Drogon annihilated his army, the sounds of men screaming and flesh cooking in the present mixing with the past to the point that Jaime became panicked and desperate enough to jump on a horse and grab a spear in attempt to impale the beast. As if that would have done anything to stop him, as if impaling Daenerys instead would have served any purpose but to anger the dragon more.
Had Bronn not tackled him into the water, Jaime would not be sitting here today.
Would not be staring at the roasted bird, torn between hurling insults and using what he'd glimpsed of Daemon's memories as fodder or actually being (openly) grateful for once.
Spending his formative years in the Kingsguard did nothing for him in terms of teaching him how to interact with people. More often than not, his stunted social skills make him come off as rude and flaunting some sort of superiority complex. Jaime defaults to acting in line with the best worst interpretation of his honorless self when he doesn't know how to react, relying on the low opinion most have of him to end the interaction as swiftly as possible.
He does not quite know how to be grateful when there's no formality or tactical reason attached to it.
But he tries, because he doesn't want to be fed to a dragon.
Tries with a touch of brattiness, because he cannot help himself.
Jaime is right to be wary of the dragon. Though the creature would never breathe fire into the cave while his rider is present, they are not out of reach of this particular one's jaws; the Blood Wyrm boasts deformities, his long body and snakelike neck giving him the unique ability to, should he wish it, reach in and pluck the younger knight from where he's sat with ease. And who knows. He may. The defect of his mouth makes Caraxes look as if he's ever-smiling, a nightmare grin split too wide on his face, depicting false pleasantness— in truth, he is vicious, violent, and very protective. Caraxes' former rider was slain while he was absent, and in the shadows of grief, raised a human boy as his own.
A boy who is now an old man crouching down and quirking one pale eyebrow. He removes a knife from his boot, a small one meant for food and other fiddly tasks. (If he wanted to stab Jaime, he's got a proper dagger, and a very scary sword. Dark Sister is ominous.)
"You sound like a Volantene whore pretending to be educated with that accent," Daemon tells him. His voice is half a notch deeper, speaking Valyrian, and smooth as silk. It betrays just how much of the common tongue is secondary for him; when he was a boy, his family was still a large web, and he was insulated with them and their close household and dragon-keepers in the Pit. He didn't start speaking common regularly until he started slipping out of the Keep and into the city, and then after, he was forced to as his world was lessened. Beloved relatives pared down one by one as if the Doom has been slowly but steadily reaching for loose ends.
Possibly, he sounds odd. Two hundred years is a significant gap.
"Which isn't all that bad. My favorite aunt is a Volantene whore."
Caraxes looks so pleasant, and allows it to lure people into devouring distance. Daemon sounds so amiable despite his aristocratic reserve, and yet surely, he has considered the reality of kingslayer.
A man who has been called Kingslayer (and worse) for the majority of his existence barely blinks at being called a whore. Perhaps that's what he was, at least for the time he was keeping his sister's bed warm. While he abused the privileges granted to him by the white cloak clasped to his shoulders to sneak in and out of his sister's rooms, never for lingering for long enough than was needed to complete the deed. Perhaps he'd been a whore then; the Queen's whore. The delusional brother who foolishly thought his sister loved him and bought into the tales she spun of being two halves of one whole, blind for too long to reality of being used as a stallion to breed pureblood Lannisters that would be hers and only hers. Chess pieces to place on the board that only her house could move, that no others could claim.
What a fool he'd been.
He wasn't proud of that, but he was proud of his kingslaying — but not for the reasons anyone knew of. Daemon might know the truth, they haven't talked much about what they've seen, but it's one he has kept silent about. It was easier to let people hate him, to loathe him, to look upon him like he was something vile than it was to correct an assumption that had been the truth in people's minds for over a decade. But Jaime was proud of saving King's Landing, of preventing the innocent citizens that dwelled within it's walls from being burned to death by cashes of wildfire they had no idea had been stashed below their feet. He prevented a massacre, it was his most selfless deed to date, but one immediately labeled dishonorable thanks to his vows.
The vows that allowed him to be close to Aerys and learn of his plans to burn the city to the ground damned him.
Would Daemon damn him, too?
"I'm a Westerlander," he reminds the prince, as if his golden features and jewel green eyes don't give that away. "I'm as Andal as they come." With his fair complexion, lean build, and tall stature, he could very well be one of the Andals of old, straight out of the Age of Heroes. He'd be the perfect picturesque image of a knight from poems and songs if not for his distinct lack of a right hand.
"Prince Rhaegar never complained about my accent."
Daemon would say that's a disproportionate amount of internal agonizing for one jape. He likes whores.
As it is, he just settles in, and reaches to take the bird and begin dividing the spoils. There are some pinfeathers left, scorched little bits of keratin, but he hardly minds them as he pragmatically does the job; used to hard living. He may have been a spoiled child, but he has ever chosen the difficult path. Exile, banishment, war, adventure. The type of have cut off his own nose to spite his face, and indeed, has lived as a coinless wanderer to spite his brother. (Granted, the dragon helped.)
"Ser Jaime the Andal."
A better title, perhaps.
The meat's a bit gamey. They'll live.
Violet eyes tick up to green ones— Daemon's, if they're jewel-like, are purple garnet, hewing more towards blood than lilac flowers. Prince Rhaegar was surely not the wretched figure he saw in a dream, filthy and hunched and overgrown, a collapsed puddle of flesh amongst blood and vomit. A different kind of decrepit than Viserys, who despite his disease, allowed his staff (and sometimes Daemon, careful hands pulling at leeches, smoothing down tunics) to maintain him.
Were Jaime aware that the Essosi called Ser Jorah by something similar, he would be instantly offended by the unintended comparison.
The quality of the meat doesn't bother him; he eats questionable portions without qualm, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he cannot successfully pick at his portions until they're pristine with only one hand at his disposal. His time as a prisoner of war where he was fed contaminated and rotten food by Robb Stark's men changed his relationship to food drastically, and not necessarily for the better.
"About Prince Rhaegar?" Rhaegar is one of the few Targaryens he served that he still speaks of with respect, whose title he insists on using. Queen Rhaella would be paid the same respect, as would Rhaegar's wife and children. But not the others. "What do you want to know?"
Luckily, Daemon doesn't know who Jorah is. We do have fun here.
He thinks of his brother, who wore a stuffed glove over the ruins of his hand, all five fingers missing, pretending that the hammer-like way he cut his food was the temper of a Targaryen king. Parts too proud, and parts without compassionate aid; scheming Westerosi vultures watching him with hungry eyes, offering no help and claiming it was out of respect. Daemon once returned from Pentos to present his daughters at court and diced Viserys' dinner for him in his chambers, chatting about this and that, thinking nothing of it until he saw how he bore it all alone later, his lords and his second wife and his half-breed children all pretending not to see him struggle, letting him languish in it so they could stew in smug pity.
Viserys wanted Daemon to stay. Viserys' small council forbid it. Daemon did not stay.
(He was not dismissed from his positions as Master of Laws, Master of Coin, or the City Watch because he was bad at those positions. He was dismissed for applying the law equally to the high-born, for paying people well, and for punishing rapers and thieves. Another kind of dangerous man entirely.)
He's not about to delicately plate anything up for the Lannister.
Jaime used to wear a hand made of gold over the stumped remains of his wrist, but had pulled it off and dropped it at his feet when he made the decision to leave King's Landing. To abandon Cersei for good, sickened by what she did in order to secure the Iron Throne for herself. Both to rid himself of all vestiges of her (as it was his sweet sister who insisted he needed the false appendage in the first place) and to tell her that he'd been there.
He'd seen.
He knew.
Cersei blowing up the sept and causing Tommen to become so distraught he stepped out a window to his death had been the last straw. Jaime had turned a blind eye (and sometimes lent a helping hand) to her power-grabbing schemes for too long, often for the sake of the children he worried for.
But now his children were all dead. There had been no reason to stay.
Jaime had intended to go north, to see the one one vow he'd managed to keep via Brienne's stubborn, impossible diligence — Sansa Stark, alive and returned to Winterfell — but he'd found himself here instead.
Here, speaking with a childhood hero wearing a sword that was lost to time with his dragon looming menacingly in the background. Being asked about a man nobody ever thought to ask Jaime about. A man he had hero worshipped in person, until he could no longer.
"Prince Rhaegar was... good," he says in High Valyrian, but switches to Westerosi. He can speak the old tongue decently enough, but it's been over a decade since he's had to exercise that skill and he simply does not have the vocabulary.
"And he wanted things to be good — for the realm. He cared about the people, didn't want them to keep living in fear. He wanted to change things for the better, but he never got the chance."
What a thing, to have a sister — a twin, no less — and find a way to turn love sour and rotten. Daemon has been driven half-mad for lack of a sister his entire life. His parents were siblings, and so were his grandparents, and in both sets were love stories that defined his upbringing and both soothed and riled the way his blood has always been so susceptible to the sorcerous pulls that define their house.
Strange that there might be something more dire to speak of than murdering a Targaryen king. Daemon would have done anything for a sister-wife. He would have been one, gladly. If he had been born a girl, if he had married Viserys instead of their frail cousin or that Hightower cunt—
(He will restart this line of narrative thought.)
What a thing, to hear a Westerlander call a Targaryen good.
"Westeros flows against change like a river flows downhill," he muses. "Constant and drowning."
Two hundred years, and it sounds much of the same, but with fewer dragons. (Oops.) There is a bird-bone between his fingers and he twists it between long fingers, contemplative, absent. It does not splinter.
For a time, Jaime truly believed he had a love story. One for the ages, like the Targaryens that ruled in the centuries before the Mad King. That one didn't necessarily need to be of the blood of Old Valyria to spend their lives devoted to their sibling, but he had been mistaken. Perhaps there was a time when the affection was mutual, but in the end the love had been one-sided and while he had been devoted and faithful, she'd looked elsewhere. Bedded their cousin, other knights, her ladies in waiting. Used him to further her own agenda until she did the unthinkable.
"Preaching to the choir," he remarks bitterly. "And no, Robert was not better. He was infinitely worse. Prince Rhaegar should have been king. It should have been him."
To this day, Jaime doesn't understand how Robert of all people managed to defeat a man as talented as Rhaegar. But of course, he's missing pieces of that story. Doesn't know that the prince's mind was likely on his secret second wife dealing with a difficult pregnancy, hidden away in a tower to keep her safe from all who threatened him and his family.
He tips his head, at that bitterness. Interesting. Daemon does not have a history of championing change or revolution— perhaps if he did, the world would be very different. When the question of succession came to council after his father's death, he supported his brother. The eldest male, the traditional choice, even though his beloved grandmother was already seething that Baelon had been made heir over Aemon's daughter in the first place.
Had Viserys not wanted the throne, had he instead supported their cousin Rhaenys, then Daemon would have thrown his support and the threat of his army behind her. But his brother is his brother, and the world turned on, until supporting his brother became untenable; to love Viserys is to be rejected by him, his self-hate is so strong. So Daemon supports his brother's daughter, and through her, has come to learn the depths of how strange people are about, of all things, cunts.
Westeros, unchanging. It'd be admirable if it wasn't such a vile place.
"Some say to want the Iron Throne is to want madness." Wryly amused. Did Daemon want it? History seems to think so. Repeated assertions that everything he did was to shore up his claim, and yet, curiously, every opportunity he had to take it went untended. "There's a reason no Westerosi had managed to unite the continent before the Conqueror, I think."
Too monumental a task, and too difficult to maintain. The Seven Kingdoms are not the Freehold— they cannot be trusted to behave. They do not produce leaders with the force of will necessary to keep the world in line. Even when mixed with Targaryen blood, their barbarian ways bleed through. Just look at Viserys' awful Hightower children. And, apparently, the king Jaime slew. Daemon knows well he and his brother are the last full-blooded Valyrians. It's over. For their line to survive 200 years, the blood of the dragon will have been split a dozen times.
(Was Maegor really so bad? Awful to his wives, granted, but the worst he did to the realm was try and destroy the Faith of the Seven. Daemon wishes he'd have succeeded.)
"You were fond of your prince," he observes. "As a person."
( scene opens to some vague, nondescript jamjar setting??? )
A dragon roars in the distance, the sound reverberating off the rocky terrain its rider transverses on foot. With striking, dark Northern features that practically scream Stark, Jon is likely anything but the picturesque image of what a dragonrider should be. And yet, no one questioned it.
Not a single soul.
Not even the dragon's 'mother' who, in light of the truths Sam and Bran had shared with him shortly before his arrival, really ought to have looked more closely at. (He's glad she didn't. All his life he's wanted nothing more than to be a trueborn Stark. Turns out, he's a lost Targaryen prince; Rhaegar's son, not Ned Stark's.)
Daenerys let him ride her winged 'son' and seemed to approve of allying with the North even more after Rhaegal took a shining to him. Why she didn't question it is beyond him, though in truth he hadn't thought too hard about it until the truth came out, either. Hadn't seen the correlation between dragonriders and Targaryens. Could only they do it? Was it because of his Valyrian lineage or was it more something to do with the warging talents he inherited from his Stark mother that had allowed him to see through Ghost's eyes? That allows him to see through Rhaegal's now?
When the dragon spots someone else, it's almost as if another being other than the green-scaled beast is peering out of those eyes. Eyes that stare and stare until the dragon snaps out of its trance-like state, does a u-turn and flies back the way it came.
Back to its Northern-bred, secret Targaryen rider: Jon Snow, the 'bastard' King in the North.
It's not an unusual sight in itself. Daemon lives on Dragonstone, an island with wild dragons— the shy Ghost, the savage Cannibal, and wayward souls like Vermithor. He doesn't recognize the green dragon that soars by his campsite, but it has a familiar enough shape; the picture of a classic Valyrian creature, a proud line maintained dutifully by Dreamfyre's clutches. No telling who the sire was, as her genetics are wont to browbeat any donor into compliance. (Now, if he saw the black dragon, he'd surely know.)
He packs up. He checks in, head tilting to listen to the not-so-far-off hissing and clicking of his bloody guardian angel. Strange, that the visiting dragon didn't seem to notice Caraxes. Though hidden, he should have been able to sense him. And so red scales stay discreet for now. Watchful, curious, ready to strike.
Away he goes on foot, in the wake of the mystery dragon. If it's wild, Daemon knows what he's doing with it. If it's not, well, it's something he must learn anyway. Especially here, in a strange land.
The Rogue Prince cuts a graceful figure over uneven terrain, looking ill at odds with the setting despite being appropriately outfitted. There's something unbearably aristocratic in his posture no matter what he's doing, and the bone-white hair marks him as either too old to be at this, or someone with a high chance of being mad.
dull response is dull as i try to kick my brain into gear after a very grueling school year 😵
Perhaps if the very much not wild dragon had been in control of its own movements, it would have noticed the Blood Wyrm, but the man peering through its eyes had been looking for other signs of life in the form of people, not dragons. Nevermind that to his (very limited, often corrupted by the passage of time) knowledge, there were only three dragons left in existence and Rhaegal's brothers were not present.
Just like their mother wasn't present, and there's no reason for Jon to think that the regal stature and white hair should automatically mark this man as a Targaryen. After all, there are only two of them left and unlike Daenerys, he was far too Northern. His dark, almost black eyes might have a faint, violet sheen to them in direct sunlight and according to Bran, the texture of his hair and the sharpness of his jawline were reminiscent of the biological father he never knew, but how would anyone be able to pinpoint any of that?
Unfortunately for him, the dragon that looms nearby as the other man makes his approach is one hell of a sign that doesn't necessarily need Valyrian features to accompany it.
"Something tells me we are both a long way from home."
"My, what an observation." His tone is dry, but light. Unable to wear an ill-fitting mask of total harmlessness, but not meaning anything bad by it. (Yet.) "This is no one's home."
Well spotted, if noticing the horizon is especially skillful.
The violet cast over Daemon's eyes is more prominent, deep enough and sparking with refractions in the light to sometimes appear hazel. His leather armor is patterned after scales, and there are small silver dragons holding latches together. Worn-in, lived-in gear, said scales are supple by now, and said silver dragons are dull. Not gaudy, but certainly not subtle. Perhaps the most telling thing is the same tell as the other man's: Daemon shows no fear of the green dragon.
"You sound awfully northern to be a dragonkeeper."
Sus.
i did! kudos to me for surviving the worst school year since my first year of teaching 🫠
As a former brother of the Night's Watch, Jon is no longer unsettled by variations of the 'I-could-easily-make-myself-a-threat' vibe. It was incredibly jarring at first for a sheltered boy who, while a bastard, was acknowledged and loved by his father. To go to the Wall because of his illegitimate birth and lack of a proper place for him at Winterfell had been a stark (ha) contrast to all the thieves, slavers, and rapists that had been sent there as an alternative to having their heads removed from their bodies. Not all the brothers committed acts so vile, but he learned not to let the unnerving air of their presence get to him a long time ago.
"I would certainly hope the King in the North sounds Northern," he quips, glancing over his shoulder at Rhaegal, who is staring intently at the silver-haired man. "He's fond of me, is all."
Is it, though? Jon never examined that too closely; but to his credit, nor did Daenerys or anyone else around them.
Perhaps that and the man's attire ought to be looked at more carefully, but Jon isn't paying it much mind. He's too concerned about what's happening back home without him, wondering if Winter has arrived and if the Night King's armies are rushing southward with the frigid winds that were beginning to settle over the lands.
Not condescending, just a short burst, hah, and the lopsided slash of his mouth is amused. Genuinely so without a hint of sarcasm. Just some blunt northman declaring himself king, leading around a dragon like a dog. It's absurd, and yet completely believable, for all the things he knows of northmen and the tide of inevitability. (Baela had been furious to hear rumors of her intended with some bastard girl, though Daemon wondered privately if Cregan hadn't taken the boy under his wing himself and let an imaginary woman shoulder the blame. Fire wants a chill to chase away. One after the other.)
By now the green dragon, whoever he is, has surely picked up Caraxes' scent— and Daemon's own, as close to a full-blooded Valyrian as any outside the Freehold, the magic in it concentrated, without generations of dilution from intermarriage (in addition to just plain stinking like his big, red menace, currently still lurking quietly from a stealth vantage point). Though bonded, he has always found it within his ability to command other dragons, with varying degrees of ease; unlikely from any special, Mother of Dragons gift, but the luck of his blood and years of experience. There was a span of years where he was wrangling seven human children and five hatchlings, in addition to tending to the grown dragons both claimed and wild on the island.
So.
He can tell these two are bonded, of a sort. Which is very interesting.
"Did Cregan Stark get his princess after all?" In High Valyrian, deeply curious to hear it with that accent, assuming the King (!) will be appropriately fluent. Did they raise him up in the snow, or did they force him to endure southron sensibilities? Curious. His gaze drifts to the dragon's, fixing on big, reptile eyes.
"Dreamfyre's brood. But which one?" He raises a hand, palm up, enticing. Not moving closer, but charming. "What's your name, I wonder. He has her look entirely."
Jon is a most reluctant king. It’s a title he never wanted, a title that should’ve gone to one of Robb’s true siblings who instead of a cousin masquerading as a bastard sibling. But the people declared him king and they need his expertise and leadership when it comes to dealing with the horrors from the Lands if Always Winter, so he hasn’t contested it — yet.
He’d contest being the princely title he was born with and the fact that he’s heir to the Iron Throne if people knew about it. All his life he wanted to be someone and now after dying and seeing the worst that both the living and dead have to offer, he would give anything to just be plain Jon Snow again. A montherless bastard with no set destiny before him.
The people need him to be the King in the North; he hopes to the Old Gods that they won’t need him to be King of Westeros, too. He prays that Daenerys will take the throne without the truth ever coming out.
“My apologies, but I don’t speak Valyrian. I only know a couple of words and they’re all commands that Rhaegal understands.”
Ones that Daenerys made sure he knew: fly, land, stop, back, and of course, fire.
What in the fuck. (Internal sigh. Some godsdamned people.)
When Daemon has regained from his pause, perhaps of shock, he moves closer, giving this northern 'King' (suspicious now) a close look. His body language will not radiate any kind of threat to Rhaegal, though in the distance, there's an odd sound of— trees branches snapping?
"You are a Targaryen."
A confident, low-voiced assertion. Daemon has seen the result of unblooded men claiming dragons (death, disaster), and he has seen the spark in dragonseeds. This is the latter, and no Velaryon or Celtigar. Dragonfire burns plainly, no matter how distant. And while it could just be Daemon's biases speaking, there's also the matter of the fucking dragon.
"How do you commune with our gods? How do you bond closer with your mount? They hear the language of Valyria in their bones."
What flitters across Jon's face is at first, surprise at the immediate (correct) assumption; no questions, no demands, just a (very correct) statement. Alarm and panic soon follow, causing Rhaegal to make a nervous chirping sort of sound as he shifts from one foot to the other, feeding off of his rider's sudden burst of anxiety.
Something, perhaps an unseeing magic that coats this foreign landscape, prevents Jon from outright lying. He wants to deny it, but he can't. He's never had to deny it. No one's had reason to assume. He's always just been Ned Stark's bastard son, why would anyone stop and consider the possibility that he was actually Rhaegar's legitimate son?
"I grew up in Winterfell," he says — more like snaps — instead. "Why would I commune with any gods but the Old Gods of stream, forest, and stone?"
Magic, or the dreaded internal compulsion to comply with male authority figures who incidentally represent paternal longing? A mystery.
Daemon gives him a flat look. Winterfell indeed, what a bitey wolf.
"The Old Gods have no dominion over the blood of the dragon."
He isn't nearly as disrespectful about the gods of the northmen as he is about the Faith of the Seven; he has no interest in their spirits, but he respects the instinct towards tradition. Their old ways and steadiness have served them well, and they've not weaponized it. No septs or faith militant for the gods of stream, forest, or stone. And yet even with all these points in their favor, the Old Gods are still not in a position of power over a Targaryen. Dragonlords inhabit a space between gods and men, and cannot be expected to scrape and bow and shuffle about like other mortals.
Rhaegal's shifting does not go unnoticed, and Daemon regards him with a calm gaze. Lykiri, lykiri. A juvenile still, and it's difficult to tell how much time, if any, it's spent chained up. Fairly domesticated, by his body language, so perhaps some. But not until he had grown past the size that the keepers at the Pit would have started weighting him, the prince suspects. After a long moment, his violet gaze ticks back to the dragonseed.
"Maybe not the blood of the dragon, but I am as much a Stark as I am a Targaryen," tumbles out before he can stop it. (A true Stark. Lyanna's legitimate son, not Ned's bastard.)
Saying it aloud, although terrifying, feels utterly freeing in a way he hadn't expected. Jon has been sitting on the knowledge of his true paternity for some time now, having sworn both Bran and Sam to secrecy. No one knows. He doesn't dare speak of it; it's not the time to dredge up such revelations when there are far more important things to focus on, especially when he has absolutely no interest in ascending to a higher throne than the one he's presently seated upon.
(Which is more like a bench at a fancy picnic table that sits the front of the Great Hall than it is a throne... #Northerners)
Jon knows that both Rhaegal and Viserion were chained up for a time beneath the Great Pyramid of Meereen, but he doesn't know for how long. As for how domesticated the beast is... That is purely the result of Daenerys raising her dragons as if they were her own sons. Mother of Dragons is an apt title in many ways.
"Jon Snow," he answers easily, but since the truth is already out there and there's something else he hasn't dared say aloud since the day he repeated it after Bran told him what it was— "is who I am known as, but the name you are likely looking for is Aerion Targaryen."
A Stark called Snow, whose Targaryen name is tacked on as the last of all of them.
"Your whole upbringing must have been an abysmal arse-ache," is what Daemon says eventually.
In both of these threads: behold, Daemon taking nothing at all about the Song of Ice and Fire (for which his entire bloodline is boiled down to) seriously. Perhaps this will go over better with good lad Jon than with Ser Jaime the Andal, being northern. Or perhaps Daemon will bat 0/2 and he'll be a stick in the mud.
"Jon you shall be, Aerion, if that's what you're known as. And you'll now know me as Daemon."
That's all, no king-consort, no prince, no protector of the realm as the queen's sword. The air of a man who's heard that jinx about calling oneself a king. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, then, indicating a slippery-suspicious-sliding rock sound a heartbeat before it happens. Despite this, nothing appears; the terrain stays as it is.
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hieroglyphics2023-02-02 11:18 pm
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Daemon returns smelling of dragon-char and blood, carrying with him a well-cooked little thing. Only men and dragons cook their meat. It's useful, hunting. A shadow passes over the mouth of the cave even as he walks, and Caraxes settles in, deep red scales casting a brief bloody glow inside as the sun catches them.
Songs of old say Daemon Targaryen's voice was as deep as the ocean, a dragon's growl; instead he is soft-spoken and middle-ranged, and yet, it matches the crackle-shriek of his deformed monster. They say he took his niece to wife and died for her, his dragon queen; they say he survived the battle over Gods-Eye and left with his dragon-riding mistress. He himself has not said. He has kept quiet about himself, outside the obviousness of his identity— too Targaryen, with his pale hair and strange eyes, Queen Visenya's sword, and the Blood Wyrm. He has kept quiet, too, about the things he's dreamed of his companion. They've been made to see much, in dreams. Sharing each other's minds.
He wonders what Jaime Lannister has seen of his own dreams. Will he find himself faced with another Mad King, or with a beloved prince?
His footsteps are light, but audible. Fingers hook into meat.
"You are conscious?"
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"Am I conscious," Jaime echoes petulantly, sounding more like a green squire barely cresting over the horizon of his teenage years than a seasoned knight of four and thirty.
He'd been lying on his back, feigning disinterest and weakness, relying heavily upon the uncovered stumped remains of his right arm to make him look far more feeble than he actually is. In another world, his golden curls and cat-green eyes would have given him away, but not here. It was almost easier to be hated and loathed (and feared), to have people turned off to the mere idea of conversing with you due to your name, reputation, and standing. Having to actually talk to people — really talk — shows those thirty-four years for what they actually are.
A complete and utter waste.
His adolescent years written over before they'd already begun by a knighthood given far too early and a position on the Kingsguard that should have never been given to a teenager. A very talented, eager boy of five and ten infatuated with
Ser Arthur Daynethe fabled honor of knights and the glory one found in the battlefield that he had only just tasted against Kingswood Brotherhood. A fairytale he ended up living until reality came crashing down upon him. Until a king consumed by his delusions tried to burn the innocents and in a panic, he acted, saving the lives of all the dwelt within the city and damning himself in the process for breaking his vows.Oh, how he hates that his silver-haired companion likely knows the truth of that matter. That he wasn't some smirking Lannister schemer standing proudly over the dead body of a frail old man and instead a terrified teenager who fell to his knees and vomited beside the Iron Throne once the deed was done, who was too stunned by his own actions and the series of events that led up to him putting his sword through his king's back to leave or speak to Ned Stark when he stumbled upon the scene.
"Unfortunately for the both of us," he grouses as he sits up, peering over the other man's shoulder at the dragon that shadows him. "I am still very much among the realm of the waking and living."
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His dragon has feasted aplenty on corpses, economical and practical, but something fresh would be a nice treat. Daemon drops the bird-adjacent thing he's brought on a plank beside the campfire, and though it's just one more burned smell, it's at least not sour. Edible. The crossing between the battlefront and the command tents has been smashed, no hope of supplies for a week at least. When the weather clears, he will take Caraxes and assess the situation. For now, he waits.
Seven-and-forty, the Targaryen is well-preserved, especially considering his history of warring. Perhaps the wicked rumor that he drained his brother's life is true— King Viserys rots to ruin, losing fingers and toes and eyes, while Prince Daemon is hardly troubled by the passing of time, still flying, fighting, and siring children.
Speaking of children. Ser Jaime's tone reminds him of a teenager, which tempts both the desire to snap back, and contrary paternal patience. Having dominion over seven human children and five biting hatchlings, Daemon has learned unearthly patience despite his own tendency towards temper. (Has the Lannister seen his children? His daughters, his stepstons, his youngest? Has he seen Daemon himself as a child, forced into a marriage and emasculated for his inability to commit rape? Seen him weeping to be taken from his last living family? The Rogue Prince, a lonely boy.)
"Until then we must endure. If it's any consolation, it does appear we've won this battle."
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He knows what dragons that can and cannot fly can do, what fire can do. The smell of burnt human flesh as it cooked against the bones of men who were still alive and howling in pain is forever seared into his memory, and the mere thought of it threatens to bring bile rising in the back of his throat. Sometimes his recollections are so vivid that he can almost feel Ser Arthur's fingers clutching the gilded metal of his bevor, twisting into the gorget around his neck to keep him in place.
The vividness of it all had sent him spiraling when Drogon annihilated his army, the sounds of men screaming and flesh cooking in the present mixing with the past to the point that Jaime became panicked and desperate enough to jump on a horse and grab a spear in attempt to impale the beast. As if that would have done anything to stop him, as if impaling Daenerys instead would have served any purpose but to anger the dragon more.
Had Bronn not tackled him into the water, Jaime would not be sitting here today.
Would not be staring at the roasted bird, torn between hurling insults and using what he'd glimpsed of Daemon's memories as fodder or actually being (openly) grateful for once.
Spending his formative years in the Kingsguard did nothing for him in terms of teaching him how to interact with people. More often than not, his stunted social skills make him come off as rude and flaunting some sort of superiority complex. Jaime defaults to acting in line with the best worst interpretation of his honorless self when he doesn't know how to react, relying on the low opinion most have of him to end the interaction as swiftly as possible.
He does not quite know how to be grateful when there's no formality or tactical reason attached to it.
But he tries, because he doesn't want to be fed to a dragon.
Tries with a touch of brattiness, because he cannot help himself.
Reaching for the fowl with his lone hand, Jaime holds it up by the wing. "Isse se brōzi hen īlva ērinnon."
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A boy who is now an old man crouching down and quirking one pale eyebrow. He removes a knife from his boot, a small one meant for food and other fiddly tasks. (If he wanted to stab Jaime, he's got a proper dagger, and a very scary sword. Dark Sister is ominous.)
"You sound like a Volantene whore pretending to be educated with that accent," Daemon tells him. His voice is half a notch deeper, speaking Valyrian, and smooth as silk. It betrays just how much of the common tongue is secondary for him; when he was a boy, his family was still a large web, and he was insulated with them and their close household and dragon-keepers in the Pit. He didn't start speaking common regularly until he started slipping out of the Keep and into the city, and then after, he was forced to as his world was lessened. Beloved relatives pared down one by one as if the Doom has been slowly but steadily reaching for loose ends.
Possibly, he sounds odd. Two hundred years is a significant gap.
"Which isn't all that bad. My favorite aunt is a Volantene whore."
Caraxes looks so pleasant, and allows it to lure people into devouring distance. Daemon sounds so amiable despite his aristocratic reserve, and yet surely, he has considered the reality of kingslayer.
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What a fool he'd been.
He wasn't proud of that, but he was proud of his kingslaying — but not for the reasons anyone knew of. Daemon might know the truth, they haven't talked much about what they've seen, but it's one he has kept silent about. It was easier to let people hate him, to loathe him, to look upon him like he was something vile than it was to correct an assumption that had been the truth in people's minds for over a decade. But Jaime was proud of saving King's Landing, of preventing the innocent citizens that dwelled within it's walls from being burned to death by cashes of wildfire they had no idea had been stashed below their feet. He prevented a massacre, it was his most selfless deed to date, but one immediately labeled dishonorable thanks to his vows.
The vows that allowed him to be close to Aerys and learn of his plans to burn the city to the ground damned him.
Would Daemon damn him, too?
"I'm a Westerlander," he reminds the prince, as if his golden features and jewel green eyes don't give that away. "I'm as Andal as they come." With his fair complexion, lean build, and tall stature, he could very well be one of the Andals of old, straight out of the Age of Heroes. He'd be the perfect picturesque image of a knight from poems and songs if not for his distinct lack of a right hand.
"Prince Rhaegar never complained about my accent."
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As it is, he just settles in, and reaches to take the bird and begin dividing the spoils. There are some pinfeathers left, scorched little bits of keratin, but he hardly minds them as he pragmatically does the job; used to hard living. He may have been a spoiled child, but he has ever chosen the difficult path. Exile, banishment, war, adventure. The type of have cut off his own nose to spite his face, and indeed, has lived as a coinless wanderer to spite his brother. (Granted, the dragon helped.)
"Ser Jaime the Andal."
A better title, perhaps.
The meat's a bit gamey. They'll live.
Violet eyes tick up to green ones— Daemon's, if they're jewel-like, are purple garnet, hewing more towards blood than lilac flowers. Prince Rhaegar was surely not the wretched figure he saw in a dream, filthy and hunched and overgrown, a collapsed puddle of flesh amongst blood and vomit. A different kind of decrepit than Viserys, who despite his disease, allowed his staff (and sometimes Daemon, careful hands pulling at leeches, smoothing down tunics) to maintain him.
What have you done?
Instead,
"Tell me about him."
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The quality of the meat doesn't bother him; he eats questionable portions without qualm, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he cannot successfully pick at his portions until they're pristine with only one hand at his disposal. His time as a prisoner of war where he was fed contaminated and rotten food by Robb Stark's men changed his relationship to food drastically, and not necessarily for the better.
"About Prince Rhaegar?" Rhaegar is one of the few Targaryens he served that he still speaks of with respect, whose title he insists on using. Queen Rhaella would be paid the same respect, as would Rhaegar's wife and children. But not the others. "What do you want to know?"
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He thinks of his brother, who wore a stuffed glove over the ruins of his hand, all five fingers missing, pretending that the hammer-like way he cut his food was the temper of a Targaryen king. Parts too proud, and parts without compassionate aid; scheming Westerosi vultures watching him with hungry eyes, offering no help and claiming it was out of respect. Daemon once returned from Pentos to present his daughters at court and diced Viserys' dinner for him in his chambers, chatting about this and that, thinking nothing of it until he saw how he bore it all alone later, his lords and his second wife and his half-breed children all pretending not to see him struggle, letting him languish in it so they could stew in smug pity.
Viserys wanted Daemon to stay. Viserys' small council forbid it. Daemon did not stay.
(He was not dismissed from his positions as Master of Laws, Master of Coin, or the City Watch because he was bad at those positions. He was dismissed for applying the law equally to the high-born, for paying people well, and for punishing rapers and thieves. Another kind of dangerous man entirely.)
He's not about to delicately plate anything up for the Lannister.
"Just speak, boy."
What else does Jaime want him to ask about?
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He'd seen.
He knew.
Cersei blowing up the sept and causing Tommen to become so distraught he stepped out a window to his death had been the last straw. Jaime had turned a blind eye (and sometimes lent a helping hand) to her power-grabbing schemes for too long, often for the sake of the children he worried for.
But now his children were all dead. There had been no reason to stay.
Jaime had intended to go north, to see the one one vow he'd managed to keep via Brienne's stubborn, impossible diligence — Sansa Stark, alive and returned to Winterfell — but he'd found himself here instead.
Here, speaking with a childhood hero wearing a sword that was lost to time with his dragon looming menacingly in the background. Being asked about a man nobody ever thought to ask Jaime about. A man he had hero worshipped in person, until he could no longer.
"Prince Rhaegar was... good," he says in High Valyrian, but switches to Westerosi. He can speak the old tongue decently enough, but it's been over a decade since he's had to exercise that skill and he simply does not have the vocabulary.
"And he wanted things to be good — for the realm. He cared about the people, didn't want them to keep living in fear. He wanted to change things for the better, but he never got the chance."
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Strange that there might be something more dire to speak of than murdering a Targaryen king. Daemon would have done anything for a sister-wife. He would have been one, gladly. If he had been born a girl, if he had married Viserys instead of their frail cousin or that Hightower cunt—
(He will restart this line of narrative thought.)
What a thing, to hear a Westerlander call a Targaryen good.
"Westeros flows against change like a river flows downhill," he muses. "Constant and drowning."
Two hundred years, and it sounds much of the same, but with fewer dragons. (Oops.) There is a bird-bone between his fingers and he twists it between long fingers, contemplative, absent. It does not splinter.
"Was the usurper better than Rhaegar?"
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"Preaching to the choir," he remarks bitterly. "And no, Robert was not better. He was infinitely worse. Prince Rhaegar should have been king. It should have been him."
To this day, Jaime doesn't understand how Robert of all people managed to defeat a man as talented as Rhaegar. But of course, he's missing pieces of that story. Doesn't know that the prince's mind was likely on his secret second wife dealing with a difficult pregnancy, hidden away in a tower to keep her safe from all who threatened him and his family.
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Had Viserys not wanted the throne, had he instead supported their cousin Rhaenys, then Daemon would have thrown his support and the threat of his army behind her. But his brother is his brother, and the world turned on, until supporting his brother became untenable; to love Viserys is to be rejected by him, his self-hate is so strong. So Daemon supports his brother's daughter, and through her, has come to learn the depths of how strange people are about, of all things, cunts.
Westeros, unchanging. It'd be admirable if it wasn't such a vile place.
"Some say to want the Iron Throne is to want madness." Wryly amused. Did Daemon want it? History seems to think so. Repeated assertions that everything he did was to shore up his claim, and yet, curiously, every opportunity he had to take it went untended. "There's a reason no Westerosi had managed to unite the continent before the Conqueror, I think."
Too monumental a task, and too difficult to maintain. The Seven Kingdoms are not the Freehold— they cannot be trusted to behave. They do not produce leaders with the force of will necessary to keep the world in line. Even when mixed with Targaryen blood, their barbarian ways bleed through. Just look at Viserys' awful Hightower children. And, apparently, the king Jaime slew. Daemon knows well he and his brother are the last full-blooded Valyrians. It's over. For their line to survive 200 years, the blood of the dragon will have been split a dozen times.
(Was Maegor really so bad? Awful to his wives, granted, but the worst he did to the realm was try and destroy the Faith of the Seven. Daemon wishes he'd have succeeded.)
"You were fond of your prince," he observes. "As a person."
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switching to using this journal bc i can, keeping with my show/tv mashup characterization tho
the prettiest
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A dragon roars in the distance, the sound reverberating off the rocky terrain its rider transverses on foot. With striking, dark Northern features that practically scream Stark, Jon is likely anything but the picturesque image of what a dragonrider should be. And yet, no one questioned it.
Not a single soul.
Not even the dragon's 'mother' who, in light of the truths Sam and Bran had shared with him shortly before his arrival, really ought to have looked more closely at. (He's glad she didn't. All his life he's wanted nothing more than to be a trueborn Stark. Turns out, he's a lost Targaryen prince; Rhaegar's son, not Ned Stark's.)
Daenerys let him ride her winged 'son' and seemed to approve of allying with the North even more after Rhaegal took a shining to him. Why she didn't question it is beyond him, though in truth he hadn't thought too hard about it until the truth came out, either. Hadn't seen the correlation between dragonriders and Targaryens. Could only they do it? Was it because of his Valyrian lineage or was it more something to do with the warging talents he inherited from his Stark mother that had allowed him to see through Ghost's eyes? That allows him to see through Rhaegal's now?
When the dragon spots someone else, it's almost as if another being other than the green-scaled beast is peering out of those eyes. Eyes that stare and stare until the dragon snaps out of its trance-like state, does a u-turn and flies back the way it came.
Back to its Northern-bred, secret Targaryen rider: Jon Snow, the 'bastard' King in the North.
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He packs up. He checks in, head tilting to listen to the not-so-far-off hissing and clicking of his bloody guardian angel. Strange, that the visiting dragon didn't seem to notice Caraxes. Though hidden, he should have been able to sense him. And so red scales stay discreet for now. Watchful, curious, ready to strike.
Away he goes on foot, in the wake of the mystery dragon. If it's wild, Daemon knows what he's doing with it. If it's not, well, it's something he must learn anyway. Especially here, in a strange land.
The Rogue Prince cuts a graceful figure over uneven terrain, looking ill at odds with the setting despite being appropriately outfitted. There's something unbearably aristocratic in his posture no matter what he's doing, and the bone-white hair marks him as either too old to be at this, or someone with a high chance of being mad.
dull response is dull as i try to kick my brain into gear after a very grueling school year 😵
Just like their mother wasn't present, and there's no reason for Jon to think that the regal stature and white hair should automatically mark this man as a Targaryen. After all, there are only two of them left and unlike Daenerys, he was far too Northern. His dark, almost black eyes might have a faint, violet sheen to them in direct sunlight and according to Bran, the texture of his hair and the sharpness of his jawline were reminiscent of the biological father he never knew, but how would anyone be able to pinpoint any of that?
Unfortunately for him, the dragon that looms nearby as the other man makes his approach is one hell of a sign that doesn't necessarily need Valyrian features to accompany it.
"Something tells me we are both a long way from home."
you lived 🎉🎉🎉 !!!!
Well spotted, if noticing the horizon is especially skillful.
The violet cast over Daemon's eyes is more prominent, deep enough and sparking with refractions in the light to sometimes appear hazel. His leather armor is patterned after scales, and there are small silver dragons holding latches together. Worn-in, lived-in gear, said scales are supple by now, and said silver dragons are dull. Not gaudy, but certainly not subtle. Perhaps the most telling thing is the same tell as the other man's: Daemon shows no fear of the green dragon.
"You sound awfully northern to be a dragonkeeper."
Sus.
i did! kudos to me for surviving the worst school year since my first year of teaching 🫠
"I would certainly hope the King in the North sounds Northern," he quips, glancing over his shoulder at Rhaegal, who is staring intently at the silver-haired man. "He's fond of me, is all."
Is it, though? Jon never examined that too closely; but to his credit, nor did Daenerys or anyone else around them.
Perhaps that and the man's attire ought to be looked at more carefully, but Jon isn't paying it much mind. He's too concerned about what's happening back home without him, wondering if Winter has arrived and if the Night King's armies are rushing southward with the frigid winds that were beginning to settle over the lands.
🎂
Daemon laughs.
Not condescending, just a short burst, hah, and the lopsided slash of his mouth is amused. Genuinely so without a hint of sarcasm. Just some blunt northman declaring himself king, leading around a dragon like a dog. It's absurd, and yet completely believable, for all the things he knows of northmen and the tide of inevitability. (Baela had been furious to hear rumors of her intended with some bastard girl, though Daemon wondered privately if Cregan hadn't taken the boy under his wing himself and let an imaginary woman shoulder the blame. Fire wants a chill to chase away. One after the other.)
By now the green dragon, whoever he is, has surely picked up Caraxes' scent— and Daemon's own, as close to a full-blooded Valyrian as any outside the Freehold, the magic in it concentrated, without generations of dilution from intermarriage (in addition to just plain stinking like his big, red menace, currently still lurking quietly from a stealth vantage point). Though bonded, he has always found it within his ability to command other dragons, with varying degrees of ease; unlikely from any special, Mother of Dragons gift, but the luck of his blood and years of experience. There was a span of years where he was wrangling seven human children and five hatchlings, in addition to tending to the grown dragons both claimed and wild on the island.
So.
He can tell these two are bonded, of a sort. Which is very interesting.
"Did Cregan Stark get his princess after all?" In High Valyrian, deeply curious to hear it with that accent, assuming the King (!) will be appropriately fluent. Did they raise him up in the snow, or did they force him to endure southron sensibilities? Curious. His gaze drifts to the dragon's, fixing on big, reptile eyes.
"Dreamfyre's brood. But which one?" He raises a hand, palm up, enticing. Not moving closer, but charming. "What's your name, I wonder. He has her look entirely."
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He’d contest being the princely title he was born with and the fact that he’s heir to the Iron Throne if people knew about it. All his life he wanted to be someone and now after dying and seeing the worst that both the living and dead have to offer, he would give anything to just be plain Jon Snow again. A montherless bastard with no set destiny before him.
The people need him to be the King in the North; he hopes to the Old Gods that they won’t need him to be King of Westeros, too. He prays that Daenerys will take the throne without the truth ever coming out.
“My apologies, but I don’t speak Valyrian. I only know a couple of words and they’re all commands that Rhaegal understands.”
Ones that Daenerys made sure he knew: fly, land, stop, back, and of course, fire.
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What in the fuck. (Internal sigh. Some godsdamned people.)
When Daemon has regained from his pause, perhaps of shock, he moves closer, giving this northern 'King' (suspicious now) a close look. His body language will not radiate any kind of threat to Rhaegal, though in the distance, there's an odd sound of— trees branches snapping?
"You are a Targaryen."
A confident, low-voiced assertion. Daemon has seen the result of unblooded men claiming dragons (death, disaster), and he has seen the spark in dragonseeds. This is the latter, and no Velaryon or Celtigar. Dragonfire burns plainly, no matter how distant. And while it could just be Daemon's biases speaking, there's also the matter of the fucking dragon.
"How do you commune with our gods? How do you bond closer with your mount? They hear the language of Valyria in their bones."
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Something, perhaps an unseeing magic that coats this foreign landscape, prevents Jon from outright lying. He wants to deny it, but he can't. He's never had to deny it. No one's had reason to assume. He's always just been Ned Stark's bastard son, why would anyone stop and consider the possibility that he was actually Rhaegar's legitimate son?
"I grew up in Winterfell," he says — more like snaps — instead. "Why would I commune with any gods but the Old Gods of stream, forest, and stone?"
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Daemon gives him a flat look. Winterfell indeed, what a bitey wolf.
"The Old Gods have no dominion over the blood of the dragon."
He isn't nearly as disrespectful about the gods of the northmen as he is about the Faith of the Seven; he has no interest in their spirits, but he respects the instinct towards tradition. Their old ways and steadiness have served them well, and they've not weaponized it. No septs or faith militant for the gods of stream, forest, or stone. And yet even with all these points in their favor, the Old Gods are still not in a position of power over a Targaryen. Dragonlords inhabit a space between gods and men, and cannot be expected to scrape and bow and shuffle about like other mortals.
Rhaegal's shifting does not go unnoticed, and Daemon regards him with a calm gaze. Lykiri, lykiri. A juvenile still, and it's difficult to tell how much time, if any, it's spent chained up. Fairly domesticated, by his body language, so perhaps some. But not until he had grown past the size that the keepers at the Pit would have started weighting him, the prince suspects. After a long moment, his violet gaze ticks back to the dragonseed.
"What's your name, King-in-the-North?"
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Saying it aloud, although terrifying, feels utterly freeing in a way he hadn't expected. Jon has been sitting on the knowledge of his true paternity for some time now, having sworn both Bran and Sam to secrecy. No one knows. He doesn't dare speak of it; it's not the time to dredge up such revelations when there are far more important things to focus on, especially when he has absolutely no interest in ascending to a higher throne than the one he's presently seated upon.
(Which is more like a bench at a fancy picnic table that sits the front of the Great Hall than it is a throne... #Northerners)
Jon knows that both Rhaegal and Viserion were chained up for a time beneath the Great Pyramid of Meereen, but he doesn't know for how long. As for how domesticated the beast is... That is purely the result of Daenerys raising her dragons as if they were her own sons. Mother of Dragons is an apt title in many ways.
"Jon Snow," he answers easily, but since the truth is already out there and there's something else he hasn't dared say aloud since the day he repeated it after Bran told him what it was— "is who I am known as, but the name you are likely looking for is Aerion Targaryen."
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"Your whole upbringing must have been an abysmal arse-ache," is what Daemon says eventually.
In both of these threads: behold, Daemon taking nothing at all about the Song of Ice and Fire (for which his entire bloodline is boiled down to) seriously. Perhaps this will go over better with good lad Jon than with Ser Jaime the Andal, being northern. Or perhaps Daemon will bat 0/2 and he'll be a stick in the mud.
"Jon you shall be, Aerion, if that's what you're known as. And you'll now know me as Daemon."
That's all, no king-consort, no prince, no protector of the realm as the queen's sword. The air of a man who's heard that jinx about calling oneself a king. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, then, indicating a slippery-suspicious-sliding rock sound a heartbeat before it happens. Despite this, nothing appears; the terrain stays as it is.
"And that is Caraxes."
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rewrote this tag for better wording at an hour not 3AM
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