the sound of the prince’s stifled laugh and his murmured comment barely gives the poor bard any warning before daemon turns, claps his shoulder, and loudly begins speaking about how he’d been looking for miłosz. “wait, wait-” he panics, shaking his head frantically and watching the greyjoy perk up and head their way. “you-” he starts, only to be cut off by the prince throwing his arm around his shoulders and leading him away, almost stumbling with the mental whiplash he’d just experienced. “you ass,” he hisses, cheeks flushing with embarrassment and residual panic. “you could have just stood there and let him pass, but no, you just had to draw more attention to me.” normally, miłosz was what some would call a whore for attention, but that was reserved for when he was not being chased down by a drunken greyjoy to sing a drunkenly made-up song. “now i have to write a song for your sister, because you know i don’t have one, and then your father will kill me if i don’t have a song written for you as well, and everyone will be expecting me to perform them both tonight, and i swear your song will be all about how you are a giant, toe-headed plank and have the personality of a lobster,” he rants, before shutting his mouth with an audible click and stepping forward to turn and face daemon. his cheeks are still flushed, and his lips are pursed a little, but he does bow his head. “thank you for rescuing me from the horrors of a drunken greyjoy, your grace,” he grumbles. stupid daemon targaryen. stupid, assholish daemon targaryen. stupid, assholish, attractive daemon targaryen.
As soon as the Greyjoy starts towards them, Daemon is hustling Miłosz in the opposite direction, his body language making it very clear that the bard was now his and was unavailable for any other tasks. He briefly hears a drunken grumble and something that might be a very rude name, but he chooses to ignore it for now. The ironborn knew nothing of manners, and starting a row with one over their basic lack of education was (as Daemon had been told many many times) a pointless endeavor.
In the meantime, he now had a very chatty songbird to deal with. “My, my. Such a barbed tongue,” he chuckles as he steers Miłosz around a corner, coincidentally towards a shortcut to the godswood. “You ought to be more careful with it, Miłoszlaw. I find it charming, but others might not.” His tone makes his amusement abundantly clear, and he even gives the bard a little squeeze with his arm. “I’ve heard you compose twenty-stanza songs on the spot, so I have every confidence you’ll manage something.” Though the thought of another song for himself is very tempting—there’s already at least two in circulation that inflate his ego to a positively unhealthy size—he shakes his head. “I will simply tell my father that I specifically asked you not to write about me. He will have a hard time believing it, it’s true, but then the blame shall be mine and he will ignore you.”
They come to a stop, and Daemon lifts an eyebrow as Miłosz thanks him. “My pleasure, songbird,” he answers, tilting the bard’s face back up towards him with a knuckle. “No one deserves the company of drunken Greyjoys, except maybe the Dornish.”