When those eyes met his again, Aemond felt another stirring in the pit of his chest. Sparks flew threw him, and he inhaled sharply, clutching the cloak all the tighter. Perhaps, even if he was ultimately engulfed in flame, his scent would linger on the fabric, a final reminder of his life. It wasn't a bad legacy, really. Many dragonriders would have relished the chance to die by flame, especially when so few in recent memory were given the opportunity. It was honorable.

So he tipped his chin up and breathed out, accepting whatever judgment this dragon was about to render. But when he disappeared entirely, Aemond stood blinking, half-expecting to feel a gust of wind followed by a flurry of wings. The last thing he imagined was finding a human man standing before him.

Gaping, he stared for a moment or two, before striding forward quickly to drape the cape around his shoulders. He was careful not to touch his skin, uncertain whether such a thing would be welcome or not. The dragon — the man? — seemed distressed, and Aemond could only imagine what he was feeling in that moment. "Valyrian," he answered as he fasted the material around him with a brooch he'd kept, stepping back to a respectful distance once he was finished. "The language of my ancestors. It is how we commune with dragons." One of the ways, at least. Explaining their blood bond might be a bit much for a first meeting.

He studied him through a slightly narrowed eye. "I'm Aemond," he offered, trying to seem like he wasn't vibrating with curiosity. "What is your name?"