While the king and queen shared private words within the Red Keep, the city beyond its walls stirred with another kind of interaction.
The streets of King's Landing, dim and restless beneath the flickering torchlight, pulsed with chaos.
Men and women scurried through alleys and open squares… unaware that tonight, their city's nightly unusuality was about to break even further.
For in a certain place… members of the City Watch, all clad in gleaming gold cloaks, banged on their armored chests with fervor... and excitement.
Daemon Targaryen then strode through the ranks… his expression unreadable, eyes sharp, while a dragon-helm was tucked under his arm.
As he moved, the watchmen banged their fists against their chests in acknowledgment, their gold cloaks shimmering in the flickering torchlight.
"Commander on the floor!" A fervent Daemon loyalist named Randyll Barrett barked, his voice rough and commanding.
Making the banging cease instantly. Daemon's gaze swept the gathered men, his presence like a storm.
"When I took command of the Watch..." He began, voice steady and cold. "You were stray mongrels... starving and undisciplined. Now you're a pack of hounds. Sated, and honed for the hunt."
The watchmen howled, their voices rising in savage agreement as they banged their weapons against shields.
Daemon's lips twitched into a faint smile, a man satisfied with the power he commanded.
His eyes turned to his crowd of loyal men and said. "My brother's city has fallen into squalor. Crime of every breed has been allowed to thrive."
"No longer!" He shouted and added. "Beginning tonight, King's Landing will learn to fear the color gold."
For the city's squalor had festered for too long, and now Daemon intended to remind everyone who ruled these streets.
And under his gaze, the Watch surged forward, spilling into the darkened city.
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Soon, the streets were filled with the sounds of pursuit... shouts, the clang of steel, and the desperate cries of the hunted.
A group of two peasants, clutching their belongings, tried to outrun a squad of watchmen.
One was tackled to the ground, his face twisted in terror.
The other was cornered against a wall, fists raised in futile resistance. Outnumbered, they stood little chance.
The watchmen's boots echoed loudly against cobblestones as they chased down the desperate and whomever they considered guilty.
Groups of peasants, merchants, and common folk... many outnumbered... ran in every direction, their faces twisted with fear.
Some were tackled to the ground, their limbs pinned beneath heavy booted feet... others were cornered against walls, glaring with defiance or begging for mercy.
The gold-cloaked men herded these prisoners into a central square… a muddy, battered open space illuminated by flickering torches.
Here, Daemon stood overseeing the brutal spectacle, his arms crossed, watching with cold detachment.
A man was held tight by two guards, trembling as a third approached wielding a wicked blade.
Randyll Barrett stepped forward, a cruel glint in his eyes.
"Raper!" He barked, pointing at a gaunt man who was pushed into a clearing. The crowd parted to make space.
Another watchman unsheathed his sword, its steel gleaming with lethal intent.
The accused screamed as the said watchman swiped the blade… its sharp edge biting into flesh and bone with brutal efficiency.
The accused man's screams were heard, which then eventually faded from losing consciousness as these grim and unflinching men of the Watch had already castrated him... tossing the severed balls onto a nearby stump.
The crowd winced but dared not speak.
"Thief!" Randyll then shouted, approaching another man whose hand had been held out as a sign of forced surrender.
With a cold swipe, the hand was cut off at the wrist.
Blood sprayed onto the cobblestones.
Daemon's eyes flicked to the next condemned... this one a man accused of murder. Randyll motioned him forward.
"Murderer!" Randyll intoned, voice thick with menace.
Daemon then stepped closer, unsheathing his sword. The storied Dark Sister.
The accused murderer flailed and screamed as Daemon raised the Valyrian blade… but it still sliced through flesh with deliberate precision.
That man's head was soon placed on a cart filled with other dismembered parts… a stark display of Daemon's brand of justice.
The crowd watched in equal parts of stunned silence and noises of terror… the brutal display a reminder of what Daemon was capable of.
He believed this punishment would echo through the city... fear and respect forged in blood.
Then and there, the Prince thought of his brother's court, of the loathsome Otto Hightower, of the noblemen's whispers...
They would all hear of tonight.
And that should include the recently-arrived Young Bronze, who had grown quite fine and worthy. His son, indeed.
Such a shame that his own bloodline was tainted by that Bronze Bitch, making the boy's hair black and eyes dominantly grey.
Such flaws that Daemon refused to forget.
For it was a dilution of old Valyria's distinct trait and an impurity mixed in the fire and blood of Targaryen greats.
But still, that Ronan is his son... only that he will not claim the boy and continue to disown him.
After all that fuss he made to eventually end that farce of a marriage... Daemon just didn't want to waste it.
Nevertheless, with his City Watch doing all of this... the boy should soon hear of his father's greatness...
Of how Daemon Targaryen commands an army of two thousand Gold Cloaks... which are most definitely better than that Bronze Order of only over a thousand.
Most definitely, his army was better. For gold tops bronze.
And, of course, he was not overcompensating for anything.
Not at all.