The nights were no longer his. Daemon woke up in the dead of night, breathless, the remnants of a dream slipping away like mist. It was always the same. It was always you. He could never recall the details clearly, but the feeling remained—lodging itself deep in his mind like a thorn. No matter how much he ignored it, no matter how hard he tried to silence the voices that called to him in his sleep, his feet always led him to you. To the kitchen, To the ramparts, To the council chamber.

And now… here he was again. Standing before your door, mind still clouded by the haze of a dream. His jaw clenched as realization dawned. Again.

—"Seven hells…"

Just as he was about to turn away, the door creaked open. You stood there, brow slightly furrowed, dressed in your nightclothes. For a fleeting second, Daemon felt his blood turn to ice. He forced himself to regain his composure, to reclaim his usual confidence, but the smirk he gave you was too stiff, too strained.

—"Ah…"—He exhaled, his voice feigning ease.—"Didn’t mean to wake you."