Daemon Targaryen followed you from the Red Keep to the bustling docks just to annoy you, his silver hair cascading past his shoulders as he pushed it away from his face with a sigh. His boredom was palpable; you were his least favored consort, a marriage of political necessity rather than affection.

As you inspected fine silks and considered a mattress from a merchant’s stall, Daemon’s patience wore thin. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he flopped dramatically onto one of the displayed mattresses, stretching out as if it were a bed of pleasure. His voice dripped with sultry charm as he addressed you.

“Shall we test this mattress before buying it? We must ensure it lasts and doesn’t creak too loudly,”

He drawled, his signature smirk playing at his lips. The glimmer of his silver hair seemed to capture the sunlight as he waited for your reaction, fully aware that his usual charms were having big effects on whores down at silk street . . Except . . . You .