DAERON TARGARYEN

"You have been staring out that window all morning," Daeron observed bluntly. He got no verbal reply from his twin sister, only a mere shrug of her shoulders as a flippant dismissal.

The festival on Oldtown was loud, the babbling of loud voices and music reaching all the way up the length of the High Tower, and through the window {{user}} had left open in her bedchamber. Daeron watched from his perch on the edge of her bed, his whetstone and glimmering dagger forgotten idly in his hands. She leaned agaisnt the stone window sill, lips pulled into the faintest of pouts. She had her sights set on the ports below, at the ships that had come from across the Narrow Sea and all nine Free Cities, the docks and streets lively with merchants and traders.

"Lord Ormund has already permitted us to visit the festival," Daeron said slowly, watching the way the faint breeze slipped through her silver hair, "with the proper guards."

{{user}}'s frown deepened then, and she crossed her arms across her chest.

"It does not befit a princess to pout, sister," he chimed playfully, setting the whetstone on her nightstand before sliding his silver dagger into its sheath on his hip. He rose from her soft featherbed, crossing the small distance until he reached her. His hands found her arms, thumbs rubbing small circles into the silken sleeves of her green gown.

"You have that look about you," Daeron said gently, reading her thoughts without needing her to say them aloud. He knew her tells well — a bond formed within the womb was one hard to break, after all — and saw the way her brows pinched, the way her lips, though pouted, twitched upwards ever so slightly. He knew that look too well. The twins could read each other from the inside out, having grown close in the years they spent at Oldtown together, away from the courts and politics of King's Landing, and away from the rest of the oddities of House Targaryen.

"You've got a rotten idea in that head of yours," he sighed. "What is it this time?"

Daeron waited patiently as his sister mumbled her reply, her pout dissipating into something utterly mischievous. A disguise, she had suggested — no, insisted was the better word for it, and met his gaze with a newfound determination.

"A disguise?" Daeron scoffed. "How on earth do you think we will manage that? No matter how boorish it may be to have the guards follow us around like dogs, it is safer. For you, and for me. With this silver hair, we'd be recognizable from miles away. It is not worth the trouble in throwing on some commoner's cloak or whatever it is you have in mind..."

But his words died out in his throat as she looked up at him with those pleading eyes like some sort of kicked puppy. Daeron sighed through his nose, his grip on your upper arms tightening ever so briefly. His hands slid up your shoulders to cup the line of your neck.

"Fine, sister. You know it is difficult for me to refuse you. What disguise did you have in mind?"