He speaks of his blood with affection and investment in the continuation of his bloodline for more than the sake of power and prestige. It's incongruent, crashing up against the image of the Targaryens that he grew up with. Rhaegar was supposed to be the odd one out, the one who cared in ways that his father and recent predecessors hadn't, not the one who best resembled his pureblood Valyrian ancestors.
It makes Jaime's head spin.
"Her name is Daenerys," he supplies Daemon with, sounding almost bored. "She is the last of your direct line, whisked away to Essos as a newborn when Robert took the throne. I don't know the names of her dragons, but she has three of them and I've only seen one. All black with red wings — not nearly as large as your... friend, but still massive."
Caraxes didn't unsettle him so much as what he was capable of. In truth, he knew little about dragons as they simply were not talked about after Robert took power and Rhaegar always spoke of them in generic and whimsical made up sounding terms, like the more accurate terminology had been lost to time along with them. It wasn't the beast that got to him so much as his own traumatic relationship to fire and the horrific memories of Rickard Stark being cooked alive in his armor.
"The North." A scoff, a roll of his too bright green eyes as he pulls back on the layers of bullshit he wears like armor. (People tell you you're awful enough and eventually you'll begin to believe. It becomes easier to just fall in line with assumption than to fight it.) "They loathe me in the North, and yet I was headed there anyway. To see an oath through, to help with whatever it is that's supposedly coming for us from the Lands of Always Winter."
no subject
It makes Jaime's head spin.
"Her name is Daenerys," he supplies Daemon with, sounding almost bored. "She is the last of your direct line, whisked away to Essos as a newborn when Robert took the throne. I don't know the names of her dragons, but she has three of them and I've only seen one. All black with red wings — not nearly as large as your... friend, but still massive."
Caraxes didn't unsettle him so much as what he was capable of. In truth, he knew little about dragons as they simply were not talked about after Robert took power and Rhaegar always spoke of them in generic and whimsical made up sounding terms, like the more accurate terminology had been lost to time along with them. It wasn't the beast that got to him so much as his own traumatic relationship to fire and the horrific memories of Rickard Stark being cooked alive in his armor.
"The North." A scoff, a roll of his too bright green eyes as he pulls back on the layers of bullshit he wears like armor. (People tell you you're awful enough and eventually you'll begin to believe. It becomes easier to just fall in line with assumption than to fight it.) "They loathe me in the North, and yet I was headed there anyway. To see an oath through, to help with whatever it is that's supposedly coming for us from the Lands of Always Winter."