He does make sure Jaime is up and on, straddling the leather expanse of the saddle, which asks for a kneeling position. It can feel dodgy for a first-timer, as a dragon's idle shifting and breathing cause far more movement than a horse's, and it's a much longer way down. With his feet planted in the rope net, Daemon leans against dragon scales and Jaime himself, ensuring he's settled in properly and reaching across him to slide a little-used harness around his hips and buckle him in.
Caraxes makes a low sound, tangible through his great body, and Daemon pats him. A firm touch— the dragon wouldn't feel much of it otherwise.
"Sit still for a minute," in High Valyrian, when the Blood Wyrm's head swivels back to take a look at what the hell his rider is doing. Big yellow eyes regarding Jaime, awful dragon breath sweeping over them. His nightmare grin looks mocking. But he relents, settling back and continuing to wait. Maybe he was just hazing the blond man.
When he's satisfied that Jaime is seated correctly, Daemon hoists himself up, as easy about this as he was about fighting, his years rolling off of him like water from a duck, and tucks himself in behind the other man. By necessity, there's an awful lot of full body contact. Daemon sweeps Jaime's hair around and out of his face, pushing it all over one shoulder to take stock of.
"You won't fall out." FYI. Daemon settles himself and then sees to the waterfall of gold curls without asking permission, gathering it up and preparing to braid it. "And you won't lose any hair. But I'll need to be able to see."
Fortunately for Jaime, Daemon's a deft hand with it. Nothing at all like his second wife's hair, and their daughters; he has a wealth of experience with coils and curls and not pulling on any tangles. He braids well, too. Nothing lumpy or misshapen, he decides on a medium-tension plait for the spun gold strands, and merely hums something unconcerned when Caraxes shifts impatiently.
no subject
He does make sure Jaime is up and on, straddling the leather expanse of the saddle, which asks for a kneeling position. It can feel dodgy for a first-timer, as a dragon's idle shifting and breathing cause far more movement than a horse's, and it's a much longer way down. With his feet planted in the rope net, Daemon leans against dragon scales and Jaime himself, ensuring he's settled in properly and reaching across him to slide a little-used harness around his hips and buckle him in.
Caraxes makes a low sound, tangible through his great body, and Daemon pats him. A firm touch— the dragon wouldn't feel much of it otherwise.
"Sit still for a minute," in High Valyrian, when the Blood Wyrm's head swivels back to take a look at what the hell his rider is doing. Big yellow eyes regarding Jaime, awful dragon breath sweeping over them. His nightmare grin looks mocking. But he relents, settling back and continuing to wait. Maybe he was just hazing the blond man.
When he's satisfied that Jaime is seated correctly, Daemon hoists himself up, as easy about this as he was about fighting, his years rolling off of him like water from a duck, and tucks himself in behind the other man. By necessity, there's an awful lot of full body contact. Daemon sweeps Jaime's hair around and out of his face, pushing it all over one shoulder to take stock of.
"You won't fall out." FYI. Daemon settles himself and then sees to the waterfall of gold curls without asking permission, gathering it up and preparing to braid it. "And you won't lose any hair. But I'll need to be able to see."
Fortunately for Jaime, Daemon's a deft hand with it. Nothing at all like his second wife's hair, and their daughters; he has a wealth of experience with coils and curls and not pulling on any tangles. He braids well, too. Nothing lumpy or misshapen, he decides on a medium-tension plait for the spun gold strands, and merely hums something unconcerned when Caraxes shifts impatiently.