Most people wouldn't have to clarify that familial physical contact isn't sexual, but Targaryens are not most people. The pools are different. And while Daemon thinks Jon might do with the release of getting off, he doesn't think he's the right one to facilitate it. Too much.

He smooths Jon's hair back, sorting out dark waves, getting any strays out of his face and feeling gently along the lines of the seams of his skull. This goes on for a minute or so before he starts to sweep patterns over his forehead and temples, pausing sometimes to press small circles into spots between his eyes or at the corners of them. The girl who did this for him became one of his regular favorites, and they hardly ever fucked; she would explain in a soft voice what she was doing, and why, patient in the face of his murmured questions. Those years after his father died and when Viserys began to pull away were brutal ones, for Daemon. Shut out of the remnants of his family, loathed by his wife, he found comfort where he could.

"There's a nerve that runs here," he says quietly as he carefully tugs at one of Jon's eyebrows, as though lifting it away from his skull. "It's why you get headaches when you frown."

Probably not. But it still feels good to have it manipulated. Relaxing.