"Maybe not." What the hell is Daemon even talking about. Vibes, maybe. Not quite a blood call, but Jaime is interesting, in how unafraid he is. That, too, reminds him of Mysaria, the paramour who managed to hold him the longest, despite not being a relative— but she was from Lys, and they wore their Valyrian heritage with pride.
"But I think you've felt it, anyway."
Something in his soul that wants to peel away from everything he knows.
Caraxes flies, flies, flies, and the military outpost that serves as the gateway to the kingdom that they must all now call home looks like one of Viserys' models below them. It would have taken half the day to walk back. Daemon leans forward, pressed against Jaime, holding onto the pommel again as shifts in his body language and a psychic tie tell his dragon what to do— the Blood Wyrm peels northward, out over nothingness to have a little fun cutting shapes in the sky.
Sure, let's go with that. Very dangerous vibes that have Jaime feeling the almost alien pull of attraction towards a man he ought to want nothing to do with. Especially in that regard. And yet—
He has felt it. Is feeling it. Cannot ignore it, whatever this is. It's amplified now that they're pressed together, far more potent than it had been when they were taking shelter in that sorry excuse for a cave. Not just the attraction but the urge to say 'fuck it all' and give up on everything to start anew and do things for himself for a change.
They called him selfish, but that was far from the truth. He was selfless to a fault, always giving and doing for others, whether it be the innocents of King's Landing or his overly ambitious family. He can't even remember the last time he did anything for himself was.
Jaime sucks in a sharp breath, curling his stumped arm as best he can around the edge of Daemon's right thigh in a bid to keep himself from sliding around as Caraxes shows off his aerial acrobatic skills.
Jaime won't go anywhere. Tight in the saddle, belted in, and Daemon caging him. (Even if Daemon gets flung, Jaime will still be there, though probably very confused.)
Deafening air rushes past them, the only sound audible over it the powerful beating of Caraxes' wings. Easy to see why Targaryens consider themselves above mortal men— easy to see why droves of people might worship a girl who drew three of these creatures from a fire as their mother. There's no training a dragon like a horse. Daemon's bond with him is somehow both magical and biological for how easy and intrinsic it is, guiding him without shouted commands or whips.
And then there's Jaime Lannister, who's supposed to be scared shitless because he nearly got eaten by the Dread reborn.
Underneath the sweat and stale blood and salt, Daemon thinks his hair smells nice. That's something interesting, too. They'll fly until Caraxes has (literally) had his fill of stretching his wings, and then begin to wind down, following the line of the train tracks to the capital city.
Dimly, somewhere in a corner of his mind that isn't presently being overpowered by the rush of flight and the (lustful?) haze that's blanketed most of his thoughts, Jaime thinks that his stomach ought to be doing somersaults. That anyone who wasn't literally born to ride a dragon should find themselves plagued with a sickness similar to that caused by turbulent waves when sitting on the back of one. And yet, he isn't. He finds it thrilling more than anything else. Why is that?
Questions that go mostly unnoticed and very unvoiced.
"What now?" He asks instead once the dragon has slowed and the wind has stopped roaring in his ears.
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hieroglyphics2023-02-02 11:18 pm
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"But I think you've felt it, anyway."
Something in his soul that wants to peel away from everything he knows.
Caraxes flies, flies, flies, and the military outpost that serves as the gateway to the kingdom that they must all now call home looks like one of Viserys' models below them. It would have taken half the day to walk back. Daemon leans forward, pressed against Jaime, holding onto the pommel again as shifts in his body language and a psychic tie tell his dragon what to do— the Blood Wyrm peels northward, out over nothingness to have a little fun cutting shapes in the sky.
no subject
Sure, let's go with that. Very dangerous vibes that have Jaime feeling the almost alien pull of attraction towards a man he ought to want nothing to do with. Especially in that regard. And yet—
He has felt it. Is feeling it. Cannot ignore it, whatever this is. It's amplified now that they're pressed together, far more potent than it had been when they were taking shelter in that sorry excuse for a cave. Not just the attraction but the urge to say 'fuck it all' and give up on everything to start anew and do things for himself for a change.
They called him selfish, but that was far from the truth. He was selfless to a fault, always giving and doing for others, whether it be the innocents of King's Landing or his overly ambitious family. He can't even remember the last time he did anything for himself was.
Jaime sucks in a sharp breath, curling his stumped arm as best he can around the edge of Daemon's right thigh in a bid to keep himself from sliding around as Caraxes shows off his aerial acrobatic skills.
no subject
Deafening air rushes past them, the only sound audible over it the powerful beating of Caraxes' wings. Easy to see why Targaryens consider themselves above mortal men— easy to see why droves of people might worship a girl who drew three of these creatures from a fire as their mother. There's no training a dragon like a horse. Daemon's bond with him is somehow both magical and biological for how easy and intrinsic it is, guiding him without shouted commands or whips.
And then there's Jaime Lannister, who's supposed to be scared shitless because he nearly got eaten by the Dread reborn.
Underneath the sweat and stale blood and salt, Daemon thinks his hair smells nice. That's something interesting, too. They'll fly until Caraxes has (literally) had his fill of stretching his wings, and then begin to wind down, following the line of the train tracks to the capital city.
no subject
Questions that go mostly unnoticed and very unvoiced.
"What now?" He asks instead once the dragon has slowed and the wind has stopped roaring in his ears.