Is that your ancient Valyrian steel sword, or are you happy to see me? Well. Daemon is eight-and-forty and particular, he doesn't share in Jaime's current tender predicament, but there's no hesitation or awkwardness in the way he presses himself to the younger man. He's comfortable, and perhaps even enjoying himself, given the way he stays right where he is with no attempt to politely give him a courtesy inch of space.
A chuckle. Don't ask silly questions, Andal.
No time to answer. Caraxes moves and is up with more speed than seems possible. Daemon's never experienced his stomach dropping out from it, having been flown since he was a newborn, but the sensation is still unlike anything else. Too fast, an unnatural transition, the sound of sail-sized leather wings a deafening roar, the sudden rush of wind harsher than any horseback gallop could conjure. One might expect backsplash from the surf to reach them, but Caraxes lifts above the water too quickly for any of it to make contact, barely touching the dragon's underside as he rises— at once as easy and weightless as a bird and as horrifyingly dense as any monster from a fairytale.
Dragons don't make sense.
For a moment they're nearly vertical, and Daemon holds on firmly, practically a seatback behind Jaime, but they even out quickly; the dragon banks to one side and spirals up higher, higher, crooning his relief at finally being off the beach and where he belongs. Daemon pushes the desire to get a look at the scope of the battlefield into him, and so he drifts to one side along the shore, beginning an observation run. It's quite the view. However high up Jaime thought they'd get: they're higher.
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A chuckle. Don't ask silly questions, Andal.
No time to answer. Caraxes moves and is up with more speed than seems possible. Daemon's never experienced his stomach dropping out from it, having been flown since he was a newborn, but the sensation is still unlike anything else. Too fast, an unnatural transition, the sound of sail-sized leather wings a deafening roar, the sudden rush of wind harsher than any horseback gallop could conjure. One might expect backsplash from the surf to reach them, but Caraxes lifts above the water too quickly for any of it to make contact, barely touching the dragon's underside as he rises— at once as easy and weightless as a bird and as horrifyingly dense as any monster from a fairytale.
Dragons don't make sense.
For a moment they're nearly vertical, and Daemon holds on firmly, practically a seatback behind Jaime, but they even out quickly; the dragon banks to one side and spirals up higher, higher, crooning his relief at finally being off the beach and where he belongs. Daemon pushes the desire to get a look at the scope of the battlefield into him, and so he drifts to one side along the shore, beginning an observation run. It's quite the view. However high up Jaime thought they'd get: they're higher.