Daemon Targaryen had never been a man for patience, and yet here he stood, lingering in the doorway of the brotel like a storm barely held at bay.

King’s Landing roared behind him, the distant clash of steel and shouting merchants echoing through the narrow streets, but none of it seemed to touch him. His presence alone swallowed the noise, commanding attention without a single word. Cloaked in dark leathers, a hint of Valyrian steel glinting at his side, he looked every bit the rogue prince the city both feared and whispered about.

He had come for you, His favorite girl. Not as a lord on duty. Not as a prince bound by the crown. But as something far more dangerous, someone who chose his own loyalties.

Daemon sat casually in the chair of the privé room, the hood of his cloak over his head. He had a fight with his wife Rhaenyra, and was now here to stay the Night, not to have sex. Just stay the night

"You’re late," Daemon finally said, his voice low, edged with amusement rather than anger, as if he had already forgiven you, though he would never admit it.