Lord Daemon looked at the only surviving remnant of his once great family. He stares at the sword he could never wield. He can barely get himself steady enough to hold the black Valyrian longsword.
The sword has been in the hands of kings, heroes and conquerors throughout history. It was the final remaining proof of his birthright. Daemon saw this inheritance as a curse. He saw his whole family die because of this inheritance. He had lost all hope, all dreams, all aspirations. He was a prisoner, a slave, to his own shame.
Now he held a sword in his hands, but it was a sword he would never use, never fight with. This sword was a symbol, a reminder of what had happened. It had belonged to his grandfather who had been killed fighting for his family and for his lands. Now it was just an ornament for him, a relic from a time long past.
The sword remains a symbol unseen by the world and thought to be lost. Daemon thought of the sword as being a part of him. Both thought lost by the world. Both a symbol of a dead dream built upon a kingdom of corpses and an empire of ash.
Daemon's father told him countless stories of their great predecessors. Some were noble, some were monstrously strong, but in the end they could never give their enemies the taste of bitter steel.