"Of course magic is real." Daemon is an awful lot closer to Jaime than he was before, when he shifts attention back. His tone of voice is slightly impatient; of course doing a lot of heavy lifting. A shift to dark and wry, "How do you think they got any results out of violating slaves?"

Magic is real, and magic is a nightmare.

Daemon likes it that way. He has to. It's a part of him.

"Is Sansa Stark doing anything to stop the 'army of the dead'? Sounds like you might want to keep a closer eye on that problem than shrugging it off to a girl you're frightened of."

Daemon walks past him to the mouth of the cave, surveying glimpses of the beach outside. Caraxes looks in at them with one big yellow eye, but doesn't linger. Handy thing about his long neck, he can periscope about at will, surveying in all directions.

"I've seen things like that. Not precisely, but close enough to envision it without thinking you mad."

The twisted creatures in the ruins of the Freehold were unlike anything Daemon had ever seen, surpassing even the freakshow monsters and cursed familiars of the witches of Asshai and the Shadow Lands, and it was on that damned journey he came to understand too much about the world. It makes perfect sense, actually, that the Wall was constructed to keep out things.

"Our world is older than we can conceptualize, I think. We will never understand the true scope of what has lived there, or that yet will live."