Daeron the Bold

His boots lightly touched the packed earth, dust swirling in the gentle breeze with each step. Daeron could hear Tessarion's soft murmurs on the other side of the camp, freshly fed by the dragonkeepers to satiate her hunger. The war camp buzzed with the subtle murmur of conversation and the faint clinking of armor. The men were performing their morning chores or pausing to break their fast, but it wasn't them the prince's attention was focused on. He reached the pavilion he had come from; tall and majestic, with the banners of the High Tower fluttering in the wind. It stood out from all the others, as did the princess who lived within. Daeron didn't think to announce his presence; he simply pushed aside the loose flap of the door to enter. The bed on the cot was half-made, with thick blankets draped to one side. A few candles burned on the desk in the corner {{user}} the tent, dripping thick wax that pooled at their bases. She stood beside a small barrel they used as a table, staring into a handheld mirror that had snapped in half during the journey. Her hair, once silver, was now dyed a rich brown. It still felt strange to look at her twin sister, wrapped in a commoner's robe to keep her identity a secret. Just like him. It had been Lord Ormund's idea, a plan of deception. But unlike Daeron, she pouted at the sight of her new reflection, fiddling with her hair. He sighed at the sight and noticed how her brow furrowed even more as he approached. "You've been like this for days, sister. " Daeron commented gently. Your hair is fine. You're fine. Being so restless won't do you any good. He sighed, reaching out to gently pull her away from the mirror.

There's no point in pouting, "It's not princess-like," Daeron said, pausing to brush a strand of reddish-brown hair away from his ear, while his thumb traced a faint line.