[ It's not Westeros Daemon misses. He can do without the elaborate court dancing, in and out of the great hall. When he thinks of it, he thinks not places, nor the food, or the superior drink. He thinks of his family when it was grand in the golden hours of his grandsire's reign. The grandness of their house blooming into something great after the decades of rot eating away at their numbers. He thinks of his brother, mostly when he was still handsome as well as proud. He thinks of Rhaenyra and how much of himself he sees in her. How much of Alyssa he thinks he sees in her.]
Oh, the penniless mummers could put on a far more convincing show than this.
[ His remark comes from another sad sip of his cup before he abandons it tableside to round the end over towards her. His eyes on Laena — the true miracle of the night is how tactful she remains throughout this whole affair. Even from here, Daemon can tell she is bordering plastered. That sort of liquid grace comes from muscle memory. He thinks she might need to be put to bed soon. Before she gets it in her head to try and mount Vhagar for a victory round.
They've got time to spare before that. As noted by the very casual taking of her hand as he winds around her to lead her towards the center floor. Obviously, they must. He once left her hanging in the middle of dance, had he not?]
Now, if Reggio had done his part and dressed as Viserys to berate me over something baseless and trivial. [ Philandering with his daughter, perhaps. ] Perhaps, it might have done the trick.
[ Nothing says 'welcome home' like brotherly disappointment. ]
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Oh, the penniless mummers could put on a far more convincing show than this.
[ His remark comes from another sad sip of his cup before he abandons it tableside to round the end over towards her. His eyes on Laena — the true miracle of the night is how tactful she remains throughout this whole affair. Even from here, Daemon can tell she is bordering plastered. That sort of liquid grace comes from muscle memory. He thinks she might need to be put to bed soon. Before she gets it in her head to try and mount Vhagar for a victory round.
They've got time to spare before that. As noted by the very casual taking of her hand as he winds around her to lead her towards the center floor. Obviously, they must. He once left her hanging in the middle of dance, had he not?]
Now, if Reggio had done his part and dressed as Viserys to berate me over something baseless and trivial. [ Philandering with his daughter, perhaps. ] Perhaps, it might have done the trick.
[ Nothing says 'welcome home' like brotherly disappointment. ]