Daemon Targaryen is comforted that someone knows the respect he is owed. His head tilts to the side. Perhaps he'll favor this woman. Perhaps he won't. He hasn't decided, and in that ambiguity lies his own power.

He steps forward.

"How warm for the north," he says, droll. He doesn't know where he is, but he knows where he isn't. Still, nowhere else can he reason being identified without being bowed to. And he should like to see her pretty head bobbing.

"Daemon," he says, and takes this as an opportunity. "King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms." (Even he knows what his title will be, and it's a stretch to think himself not Prince Consort, but if a man cannot dream when faced with an ignorant peasant, what can he do?)