Power for power's sake is an empty pit. It's not strength, or authority, or influence. Just violence. Daemon knows well— and he doesn't always find the pursuit of it worthless. An empty pit still has its uses. But all it does is consume, and to think it ever does anything else is to fall down inside of it.

For a time, he's silent.

"Jaime."

A gentle warning so that he's not sneaked up on; on his feet, now, Daemon extends a hand to his shoulder, bracing. His grip is solid, long-fingered hands still strong despite age. No apology for his twisted humor or flippancy, because he's not the sort to apologize (hates it, is bad at it, sounds insincere, is not actually sorry most of the time), but he is quiet out of respect for that brutal confession.

It matters. His children matter.

Even if it's only mattered.