But this left Daemon Targaryen sorely disappointed. He had just been praising his eldest nephew Aegon's handiwork and had even been ready to join in, his face alight with excitement-until he saw the state Harlan was in.
And so, before Harlan could formally beg for mercy, an undisguised sigh came from the other side of the high table.
Daemon leaned back in his chair and set his wine cup on the table, his face full of bored dissatisfaction, as though he had just been told the finest bout of the tourney had been canceled.
He had watched his eldest nephew lead a group in surrounding and beating that wastrel, and the sight had set his blood pumping. He had very nearly slapped the table and joined in-
He had even risen to his feet, his hand already resting on Dark Sister's hilt.
But the moment Laena said, "Enough," his eldest nephew stopped, without even letting his uncle enjoy the spectacle a little longer.
At that thought, Daemon turned all his pent-up irritation on the wastrel still trembling on the floor.
"Where did all that courage go?" he asked, the disappointment in his voice more hurtful than any accusation. "Weren't you so brave? I was planning to join in, and then you just went down."
He paused, as though it had occurred to him that the man might misunderstand, then pointed at his "eldest nephew," Aegon, and hastily added, "Of course, don't get the wrong idea. I certainly wouldn't have been on your side."
Harlan lay sprawled on the floor, unable to hold back his tears any longer.
What had he traveled all the way from Essos to this godforsaken place for?
Being snubbed despite all his eager efforts was one thing. Being beaten by six people in front of everyone