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."
🎂
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."