So Daemon did not head straight for the high table. He surveyed the room from the doorway, then strode forward with an easy, unhurried gait, as though he were walking through his own courtyard in the Red Keep.
As he passed down the aisle, the guests parted before him. The hem of his black robe drifted behind him, its dark red lining occasionally flashing crimson in the candlelight.
The guests turned to look. Most had heard the many rumors surrounding the Rogue Prince, and some had witnessed his miserable predicament from afar that afternoon, when Cannibal had clamped down on Caraxes's right wing. Yet as he entered the banquet hall now, none could read any trace of defeat or embarrassment on his face.
Then Daemon plopped down in the only empty seat beside Lyonel Strong at the high table. He draped one hand over the back of his chair, casually picked up an untouched wine cup with the other, and took a sip before giving Lyonel a languid smile. "Lord Strong. Four years, and still so little hair."
Lyonel's hand paused around his cup of ale, and a vein on his bald head gave a faint twitch.
He took a deep breath and decided not to stoop to the level of his dear friend's good-for-nothing younger brother.
Daemon clearly had no intention of continuing the conversation with Lyonel. Once seated, his attention was immediately drawn to the figure sitting opposite him, between two Velaryon women.
Aegon was peeking across the table between Laena and Rhaenys-whom Daemon had classified as a Velaryon-with his violet eyes fixed unblinkingly on him.
Daemon immediately felt a little better.
See? My nephew still cares about his uncle. Those eyes haven't left me since I walked through the door.
*He must be worried that what happened