No matter how many times they laid out these frilly, ridiculous clothes, there was no way Daemon was going to wear any of them. So he dug about in the wardrobe until he located his own comfortable garments; white tunic and brown breeches, and his customary boots. He did comb his hair - with his fingers - and was just sitting down with a tankard of ale when his fiancé entered the small parlor, and his own Baratheon-blue eyes lit when he saw her indeed in that lovely blue dress.

"My lady." For once, it wasn't a tease. "Come, sit." Daemon held out a chair, and then resumed his own. "Aye, me too. I don't see the point of all the utensils. If I could, I'd eat with my own dagger, and never worry which fork goes with what dish. Ridiculous, really."

He poured her a small glass of wine with his own hands; he wasn't a damned invalid that needed waiting on hand and foot, and sat back with his own stein. "Are you hungry? I'm starving, myself."