@knightcrowned continued from here
It had been an unbearably long day, and all Daemon wished for was the sanctuary of his tent, his bed, and a few blessed hours of dreamless sleep. According to his brother, victory was drawing ever closer with each passing battle. The realm was fracturing exactly as they had hoped and Aegor seemed utterly convinced that before the year’s end, Daemon I Blackfyre would sit the Iron Throne itself. The thought pleased him in some kind of way. It was enough to keep him fighting at least, to silence the doubts that sometimes crept in during the quiet, lonely hours of the night, but it did little to ease the exhaustion buried deep within his bones. War hollowed the best of men out and even dragons themselves needed rest.
His armor still felt heavy upon his shoulders as he pushed aside the flap of his tent, already reaching to unfasten the leather at his throat before freezing right in place. The last thing Daemon expected to find waiting for him was Baelor. His nephew — his enemy now, by all rights — lying stretched across his cot in a state of near undress, dark curls spilling across the furs. As though he had not spent the better part of this war fighting for the other side and presenting himself half-naked in Daemon’s private tent like some common camp follower was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. His grip tightened instinctively around Blackfyre’s hilt, wary of what his true intentions were.
“Baelor!? What in the Seven Hells are you doing?”
The candlelight flickered between them, throwing long shadows across the tent as Daemon’s mind melted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Gods, the man had always been impossible beautiful. Infuriatingly so, despite his Dornish looks, with a mop of dark curls and mismatched eyes to boot, but this? This felt less like a family reunion and more like a trap laid by the Stranger himself.
“And how,” he continued slowly, eyes narrowing, “did you even get in here without Aegor or Ser Quentyn trying to put a spear through your throat?”
