(It doesn't take much for Aegon to twist Aemond's arm when it comes to breakfast and he watches as his younger brother moves away to begin plating up, laughing quietly to himself as he turns back to the bar. With Aemond being so agreeable it would lend credence to the day being an auspicious one, even with the sensation of invisible hands trying to crush his head between them.
The hangover pain oddly didn't feel relevant to the alcohol Aegon remembered drinking, but there's little room to consider it too much when the younger of the pair returns with food, some familiar and some as foreign as many things already that morning. A moment of silence falls between them as blue eyes look from the plate to Aemond, Aegon finally relenting and taking the plate to carry it himself. Fine.
There's barely enough time to pour himself another full glass of wine before a hand takes his elbow. On a good day there'd be an argument, a reminder of who was king and who was not, a brotherly jab or two in some variety. Aemond is spared by virtue of new environs and a lack of energy or ability to care too hard as the young king opts to leave the carafe and be led to a seat.)
What? (Even if the sunlight isn't in his face, Aegon still squints, his nose starting to wrinkle in the tell tale sign of a Targaryen grimace. His head is pounding and there's already regret at getting out of bed that morning, new place be damned.) What strange question is that?
(The plate of food is idly studied as Aegon lets the question linger in the air, the bacon popper spied and swiftly picked up to be eaten in two bites, any discomfort at the spice blending in with the already pained expression on his face.. A low rumble can be heard as Aegon's stomach protests the food, but even the king knows that food is the fastest way to fixing the pain; after another drink that is.)
no subject
The hangover pain oddly didn't feel relevant to the alcohol Aegon remembered drinking, but there's little room to consider it too much when the younger of the pair returns with food, some familiar and some as foreign as many things already that morning. A moment of silence falls between them as blue eyes look from the plate to Aemond, Aegon finally relenting and taking the plate to carry it himself. Fine.
There's barely enough time to pour himself another full glass of wine before a hand takes his elbow. On a good day there'd be an argument, a reminder of who was king and who was not, a brotherly jab or two in some variety. Aemond is spared by virtue of new environs and a lack of energy or ability to care too hard as the young king opts to leave the carafe and be led to a seat.)
What? (Even if the sunlight isn't in his face, Aegon still squints, his nose starting to wrinkle in the tell tale sign of a Targaryen grimace. His head is pounding and there's already regret at getting out of bed that morning, new place be damned.) What strange question is that?
(The plate of food is idly studied as Aegon lets the question linger in the air, the bacon popper spied and swiftly picked up to be eaten in two bites, any discomfort at the spice blending in with the already pained expression on his face.. A low rumble can be heard as Aegon's stomach protests the food, but even the king knows that food is the fastest way to fixing the pain; after another drink that is.)
Flying to Rook's Rest.