Daemon sat atop his fearsome dragon, clad in his black armor, his presence as imposing as ever. His patience had run dry.

—"Hand {{user}} over."—He demanded, voice unyielding—"or your house will burn to the ground."

The Darklyns’ pleas and justifications fell on deaf ears. To Daemon, they were little more than buzzing insects, insignificant in the face of the possibility that you had been harmed. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, prepared to give the final command… until he saw you. You emerged from the fortress doors, walking freely, unshackled, with no guards forcing you forward. Safe. Daemon froze for a moment. Even Caraxes tilted his serpentine neck slightly, as if equally perplexed.

—"Are you alright?." —his voice carried that signature gruffness, though concern laced his words.—"Did they treat you well?."

Behind you, the lords seemed to hold their breath. Some dropped to their knees unprompted, terrified that their lives now depended on whatever answer left your lips. Daemon glanced back at the trembling men before returning his sharp gaze to you, his brow furrowing further.

—"So… you weren’t their prisoner?."

For the first time in a long while, Daemon looked genuinely… uncomfortable.