Daeron the daring

His boots lightly padded across packed earth, the dirt dusting away in the gentle breeze with each step. Daeron could hear the soft rumbles of Tessarion across camp, freshly fed by the dragon-keepers to keep her hunger sated. The war camp was alive with the subtle murmur of conversation and the faint clinks that came with shifts of armor. Men went about their morning tasks or paused to break their fasts, but it wasn't them that the prince had his focus set on.

He reached the pavillion he had been heading form; tall and proud with the banners of the High Tower flapping in the wind. It stood out from all of the others, just as the princess who inhabited it.

Daeron didn't think to announce his presence, merely pushing aside the loose flap entrance to allow himself in. The bed on the cot was half-made, thick blankets thrown aside. A few candles burned on the desk in the corner of the tent, dripping thick wax to pool at their bases. {{user}} stood by a small barrel used as a table, a staring intensely down into a hand-held mirror that had been cracked down the middle during travel. Her once silver hair was now dyed a rich brown. It still felt strange to look at his twin down, draped in a commoner's gown to keep her identify unknown. Just like him.

It had been Lord Ormund's idea, a plan of deceit.

But unlike Daeron, she pouted at her new reflection, fingers fidgeting with her hair. He sighed at the sight of her, and the way she frowned even deeper when he approached.

"You have been at that for days, sister," Daeron chimed gently. "Your hair looks fine. You look fine. Fidgeting will do you no good like this."

He sighed, reaching for her arms to gently draw her away from the mirror. "There is no purpose in pouting, it is unbecoming of a princess," Daeron paused to reach up and tuck a lock of auburn hair behind her ear, thumb tracing a faint line down her jaw. She still had the same face, the same eyes. To him, she would always be recognizable