[ Daemon is particularly unimpressed at waking up in a new place, especially with his experiences in his most recent choice to sleep away from his marital bed. He's doubly unimpressed at the fact that his sword appears to be missing, and he's on edge as he makes his way out of the bed and begins to venture out into the mansion itself, creeping down the corridors in case a stranger leaps out of nowhere.

His anger is obvious if he runs into anyone, his expression tight and his hands shifting to grab at a weapon that isn't there. Daemon is still good with his fists, however, so those lift, on the defensive as he glares, eyes narrowing. ]

What is this place?

[ Said in a tone that is very, very accustomed to being obeyed. ]

[ The pool party doesn't interest Daemon all that much, though there is something about the lack of clothing and the general whoring that does capture his attention. While he might have been less than faithful in his previous marriages, there is a little sense of duty when it comes to his wifing of Rhaenyra, so he is quick to make his way through, though his wandering eye can't be ignored. He is, after all, still only a man, and a man accustomed to walking through whore houses and taking what he wishes.

It's the gardens that capture his attention, one of the staff foisting a purple wristband on him as he settles in the quiet of the evening light. It's pleasant enough, to be able to linger here without the threat of whispers and nightmares to haunt his step, and thus Daemon lets himself settle in a place that might grant him some measure of peace, despite the urge to storm through the mansion and cut his way out. He has yet to see anyone he recognises here, and that grates on him just as much.

Later, drink in hand, wine colouring his lips, he watches the fireworks with raised brows and something like amusement, turning to the person beside him with a low voice. ]

A little much for an event of no purpose.

[ Not that Daemon ususally needs an excuse, but he's been trying to win a war of late, so... ]

[ The harvest is more Daemon's fare, letting himself fill his plate as he settles at a table, lifting his legs up to cross his feet over it, a glass of wine in his hand despite the early nature of the hour. He seems lax, at peace, completely comfortable with his own lack of manners and the way his eyes gaze around the room, as if memorising all the people he sees.

He does not venture into the maze. He's content to drink, and watch, and gaze at people over the rim of his glass, as if it's all beneath him - and, truthfully, he would rather be elsewhere, doing something else, but it seems as if choice is lacking in this place. ]

( Feel free to find Daemon elsewhere or hit me up for something and we can make it work! )