Caraxes heaves his long body off the sand and shifts forward, crawling with wing-knuckles, the dragon equivalent of stretching his legs. Daemon walks out after him, and raises both hands in a not-very-polite gesture, obscure and yet impactful. Ohhh, I'm presuming, look at me presume, ooohh, the Others.

Kind of a cunt, Daemon Targaryen.

He doesn't disbelieve Jaime. He doesn't even think he's being all that contrary, because the man's clearly traumatized, and it's hard to pitch oneself when you're having a breakdown. He understands. It's just, and this is the crux of all of his reactions, Daemon doesn't care very much about the fate of Westeros. In fact, he'd probably sleep fine at night if he knew for certain that the whole thing was fated to sink into the waters of the world, swallowed up and forgotten. It's a massive, putrid island, full of ignorant fools who worship false gods and cling to ancient uselessness. House Targaryen should have gone anywhere else to escape the Doom, or they should have exterminated everyone they could during the Conquest.

A plague of wights is what the accursed place needs. Fuck it, fuck all of them. If that lost princess is returning, it should only be to burn down the entire continent.

(Though Jaime should still go and kneel to her.)

“Come, Jaime the Andal. The weather is clearing and I tire of this cave. You're not afraid of heights, are you?”