Daemon Targaryen.

Between the corridors of the Red Keep, where the clamor of the court never ceased and the whispers of women never stilled, Azalae had taken refuge on a high balcony overlooking the inner courtyard, where her children trained under their father’s watchful eye. She stood there in a flowing black silk gown, her silver-tinged hair catching the soft light of the sun. Yet her eyes, fixed on the movements of Baelon, Lucerys, and little Shiera, did not sparkle with joy; they were shadowed by a quiet discontent.

For two days, she had spoken to her husband with the barest of words, ever since the rumors of the court reached her: that Daemon had returned to Misaerys, the dancer from the White Harbor, and that he had been seen visiting the brothel where she resided. The walls themselves seemed to breathe these whispers before they reached her ears, and the more she tried to dismiss them to herself, the heavier her heart felt.

Below, Daemon had finished guiding his eldest son’s sword strikes. He clasped the boy’s hand in acknowledgment of his patience and commanded him to hold his stance. Rising, sweat from training still glistening on his brow and his breath ragged, he ascended the stairs with confident steps to where his wife stood. He carelessly placed his long sword upon the ancient wooden table, its surface shuddering slightly, then drew his dagger and drove it into the oak as though to anchor his anger—or to pierce a rumor.

He approached her until his shadow fell over her, extending his gloved hand to her slender bare fingers, intertwining them despite their coolness. He bent his head toward her slowly, burying his face into the side of her neck, inhaling the warmth of her skin and her faint scent. His voice emerged husky, not from training alone, but from a desire to reassure her

“Do you believe the nonsense of those women, Azalae?"

There was something of a king’s firmness in his stance, and yet, in the bowing of his head toward her, something of a lover’s surrender.