He hates Hightowers. Bright red hair, blind submission to that miserable man who's shedding his snake skin right at the Court—and his eldest daughter, nodding meekly and just as eagerly at his whispered hiss. He loathes Hightowers—he hates the way you look up at everyone defiantly, as if the world shall bow and kneel before you, and he finds himself choosing sharper and more pointed words each time, tilting his head in anticipation.

He hates them, truly, and how you stand your ground, too; surrounded by enemies on both sides, yet never choosing one. Doing things he would do himself. He's watching a fierce fire, which consumes everything, makes the world tremble and crumble into debris; a fierce fire you are, but you're not able to endure it safely enough.

It's in the streets he finds himself; brothels, silhouettes behind silk, and sighs reverberating through the haze of thoughts and feelings. Pressing his mouth against someone's skin, running his hand over someone's body—it does not help with the vivid images he's painting himself; black, red, blue, orange, and pink—feelings he does not care to name but imagines, they all mix into one messy, dirty, yet quaint color. Picturesque carnage.

But in the darkness of night, there's no way to see the colors—they become one grey, all shades of it. His blood, your nightgown when you sit down on the bed wide-eyed; and he almost feels pride (he's finally caught you off guard). Shame, rules, courtesy—they're invisible, and there are no distinctions between them; only his ragged breaths and your own startled ones.

"I thought I trusted more a woman who could speak truths to the face," Daemon walks over to the couch, staining it, ruining it with the shamelessness of ignorance.

It's war—in his mind, in his duties, across the entire continent; it's war with his pride, with his morals. And you know—he's a fool; for both neglecting his wound for days and playing this dangerous game.