Meanwhile, in a dimly lit establishment somewhere in the city, Daemon Targaryen stood by an open window.
The sounds of onlooker laughter and music filled the open room he was in, but none of it seemed to reach him.
Especially as he looked out at said window, with jaw tight.
Frustrated that he wasn't to get a release once again, and no doubt it was because of all that has happened as of late.
His lover-whore, Mysaria, most probably frustrated as well for not achieving satisfaction, draped her naked self in silk.
Then she approached him slowly. "What troubles you again, my prince?"
Daemon didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the dark beyond the window.
She watched him for a moment before moving closer.
"You know I could bring in another." She whispered with intentions to please. "Perhaps a maiden. Or several more. I could even find one with silver hair, if that pleases you."
Alas, the troubled prince did not respond, so she could only close in. Her voice made smooth as if coaxing. "You are Daemon Targaryen... rider of Caraxes, wielder of Dark Sister. The King cannot replace you..."
Daemon didn't turn, though the tightness in his shoulders eased just a little. Even when this whore was far off from the mark.
Still, he exhaled some of his trouble, but the weight of his thoughts remained heavy.
It is for the best to not be spoken aloud.
Still, he hated this feeling.
For he feels as though the realm were laughing at him. Making a mockery of him.
That every street corner and tavern was so close to talking of the son he disowned and the wife he wronged... about how near they are to blaming him for being at fault with the truth.
Fortunately, it would seem that the fruits of his deception remained strong... with Viserys none the wiser.
Even with what his brother intoned during that Small Council he intruded upon.
And to think that Daemon believed it was only Otto's criticism of his Gold Cloaks that would trouble him for the day.
Just recently did he know of the murmurs that threatened his years of denial...
About how word spread that the boy was actually the very image of himself when at that age. Barring the hair and eyes, apparently...
Such rumors were clearly exaggerations. And maybe manipulations.
For even Daemon himself barely remembered how he'd looked at that age... and was quite confident that nobody would shine such a light on his lies.
Alas, it has all come to this... with everything almost coming back to bite him.
Fortunately, it didn't reach that point.
As his sacrifices could have been undone.
How he tainted his own reputation. Making himself out to be a cuckolded prince.
With the only consolation being the fact that he was the one who cuckolded himself.
And maybe that added consolation that the Bronze Bitch would be the one suffering for all of it.
Suddenly... Mysaria's arms slid around him, pulling him away from the window.
Eager for another round, perhaps. With their blatant onlookers waiting to watch again.