Terms of Endearment │Part I: The Princess and the Rogue

Chapter 11: Delight

THE ROGUE

"Three cheers for the Prince!"

"Hear, hear!"

"Cheers!"

"And let his return bring coppers and silvers aplenty to the streets of Flea Bottom!"

"Aye!"

Daemon smirks obligingly at the congregated carousers as they lift their tankards in honour of him, ale-soused faces grinning haplessly throughout the dilapidated tavern. The Maiden's Teats had once been a favourite of his in his youth, ramshackle and poorly lit and smelling always of piss as it did. And still does, he thinks distastefully. Looking around, he finds it peculiar that he'd had such an affinity for the place. There's no accounting for the tastes of a young man. But no longer could he abide remaining in such close quarters with the source of his turmoil. What—or who—that is, he cannot say.

"Let us begin right now!" he yells over the din, standing on the wooden frame affixing the stool's legs together. It bows ominously under his weight, but he supposes the fall would be a trifling matter if it should break. "Ale for every man here! A gift from your Prince to mark the occasion."

Loud shouts and praises ring through the space as he passes a pouch of coin across to the alewife. He notes from the corner of his eye that she tugs her tunic down to expose her tits just a little more—any further and they'll pop free of the neckline entirely—though he has no interest in fucking the innkeeper's wife. Too much trouble.

A hand claps against his back, jolting him into the present. "My Prince! Welcome back!"

Daemon laughs. "Arric Dargood! Still infesting this city with your filth, are you?"

"You know me!" Dargood says, dragging him to a quieter corner as he speaks. "When there's cheap ale and cheaper whores, you can't get rid of me!"

Ah, good old Dargood. The third son of an already insignificant House, the man hadn't much by way of prospects. In some ways, Daemon could commiserate—they had both turned to the sword to distinguish themselves from the rabble, becoming formidable in combat irrespective of their noble names. What luck it was to have been appointed to the City Watch at the same time! As one of the captains under his control, Dargood had rather quickly become one of his most esteemed companions. A rare sight it was to see Daemon Targaryen roaming the slums of King's Landing without Dargood in his circle of cronies. And yet, while he might profess himself to have matured somewhat over the years, it seems the same cannot be said of Dargood.

Settling down upon the seat to which he is ushered, he partakes in the gaiety of his fellow libertines, an assemblage of persons known and unknown. Some faces are familiar, like the gold cloaks still in uniform that he recalls from his own days as their Commander; and some are fresh, from youths newly raised to notoriety to older men with a certain savagery to their disposition no doubt its own invitation to the table. Conversation flows as easily as the drink does, the men gathered sharing tales of just how little has changed in his absence.

"We even use the same route on patrols!" Steffon Hollard giggles madly. It is clear the ale has overtaken his faculties more than most present. "Ten bloody years, an' nuffin's changed thereabouts!"

"Why tamper with excellence?" Daemon smiles smugly as the words set off a new round of boisterous approval.

In truth, he is disheartened. For so little to be different, he'd expect to feel as though he'd never left. And yet, nothing is the same. How can that be? he wonders. He thinks of you. You least of all have remained untampered by time—he'd be hard-pressed to connect his recollections of his tiny little doll-girl with the temptress you've become.