At least the Targaryens never demanded control of anyone's mind, Daemon might say. Being devoured by a dragon is a less terrifying fate than staying awake to watch yourself walk off a cliff. He files the name away. Something to preemptively deal with if he ever hears it, here.

Jon will probably have to lay back. Daemon's hands are warm, dry; he runs hotter than a normal person, but not by much. Slightly more than messianic princesses— Daenerys may be immune, and magic, but her blood is still far less concentrated than Daemon's.

"Mm."

That, he doesn't doubt. But that one syllable still sounds like he's laughing.

"So you mean to say, before the dragon, not really."