TO LOVE A KING || Maegor II Targaryen [SLOW UPDATES]

053▪️ A BROTHER'S BETRAYAL

Rain drummed steadily against the red-tiled rooftops of King's Landing, turning gutters into rivers and soaking the cobbled alleys that wound through the city's filth and fire.

But in the Street of Silk, the rain meant little. Here, pleasure thrived in the dark, and Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City and Commander of the City Watch, had no intention of returning to the Red Keep.

Not tonight.

The Rogue Prince had spent himself inside Mysaria not long before - but his rage remained. So he did what he always did: he fed it.

Now, within the golden glow of a pleasure house thick with smoke, sweat, and perfume, he hosted a feast for his gold cloaks, drinking deep from his bitterness and his wine.

The hour of the owl had drawn close, and the night pressed heavier, darker. On the open dancing stage near the brothel's hearth, two Lysene men - bare-chested, oiled, and lithe - tangled with a blue-haired Tyroshi courtesan in a wordless performance of sex and spectacle.

The crowd howled with delight as the trio writhed to the rhythm of lute and drum, limbs and mouths moving in an ancient choreography meant to distract men from their small lives and smaller fates.

Daemon sat in the center of it all, flanked by captains and common guards alike - his City Watch, loyal to him alone, drinking, laughing, and letting whores straddle their laps with abandon.

Ale splashed onto the floor. Bones from roasted lamb littered the table. Naked limbs and perfumed hair tangled with gold and steel.

Captain Randyll Barret, a man of sweat and scars, leaned back as a prostitute bent between his legs beneath the table, her cheeks hollowing as she pleasured him with dutiful focus. He grunted with approval, his hand tightening in her hair, dragging her slower, deeper, as if pacing a horse.

Daemon said nothing. His violet eyes were distant, unreadable, as he leaned against the polished wood of the bar. He wore his City Watch leathers - black and gold, buckled with pride - yet he looked every inch the prince, even in this den of sin.

A half-smile tugged at his lips, not from joy, but from recognition: this was his court. These drunkards, these whores, these fools-his.

Randyll's moans grew louder. Emboldened by Daemon's silence, the captain laughed as he spilled wine onto his chest. "Ain't a better night in all the realm than when our prince buys the girls and the drink!"

The others followed suit, their laughter swelling, crude jokes cutting through the din. They cheered and jeered, filling the brothel with the hollow merriment of men trying to forget they were not kings.

Daemon's smile was thin. There was power in this room. His power. These men obeyed him without question. He raised his cup, swirled the wine, and took a long, slow drink. But the taste was dull.

Through the crowd, Mysaria emerged like a shadow given flesh - pale, ethereal, barefoot. She moved like smoke, silent and sensual, her silks clinging to damp skin. She plucked a flagon of wine from a serving boy's tray and approached Daemon with a glimmer in her eyes.