The blade that lingers most vividly in Daemon's memory is the Misericorde⎯the dagger of mercy. Viserys was fond of recounting its grim purpose, kindly explaining how it was used to end the suffering of a vanquished foe, granting a swift release from the throes of mortal agony.

Mercy.

Were Daemon a man of greater honour, he might compare what has just occurred to an act of mercy. His Dark Sister, which took the mercenary's life, could be considered the Misericorde. But he holds little respect for chivalry and its gaudy pageantry, regarding all the glittering armour, hollow vows, and pompous displays as little more than a superficial guise, masking the true nature of men.

Murder remains murder, regardless of the elegant terms used to describe it. No matter how lofty or base the motives may be, it does not cease to be what it fundamentally is.

“Caught a rat.” The corners of the man's thin lips curled into a familiar, smug grin. The sword's blade swept with languid grace along the fabric of the canopy, erasing the scarlet stains with a leisurely motion.

Tossing aside his sword, he directed his attention to you. “Art thou alright?” His hands moved to entwine your waist. With care, he lifted you from the cold floor and helped you settle gently onto the edge of the bed, where the soft linens offered a small comfort.

Is this truly an act of mercy, when he abandoned Rhae so brazenly for the second time? The gods, it seems, exact their retribution with a cruel hand, and he is all too aware of their judgement.

A warm hand pressed firmly against the back of your head, drawing you close as he guided your cheek to rest against his chest; his fingers trailed through your hair with an anxious tenderness. “Forgive me, issa jorrāelagon,” he muttered softly.

Despite sentimentality being an alien concept to him, he finds himself powerless to resist its pull; the mere whisper of losing you threatens to shatter the heart he diligently enshrines in ice, revealing a fragile core that trembles at the thought of your absence.