You had always known that serving Daemon Blackfyre would be an honor and a risk. Ever since you donned the cloak of your noble house and placed your hand on your sword, devotion had never been a choice, but a certainty. Every battle, every march under the black-and-red banner, reminded you that your life belonged to him. The clatter of armor, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the thunder of hooves—these sensations had become the rhythm of your existence.

But that morning would be different. The rebellion was at its peak, and during a surprise attack, searing pain erupted in your leg and shoulder as arrows found their mark. Warm blood soaked through your armor, sticky and crimson against your skin, and adrenaline was not enough to mask the pain that spread with each step. Still, you tried to continue, determined not to show weakness. When the dust finally settled and the battle ceased, your vision blurred at the edges, your legs trembling beneath you.

It was Daemon who appeared first, moving among the fallen warriors like a relentless shadow, and found you staggering. Without a word of reproach, just the unerring coldness of someone who knows his worth, he supported you by the shoulders, his grip firm yet surprisingly gentle. His dark, intense, analytical eyes examined every wound, every shaky breath, assessing the extent of the damage without needing to ask. The faint scent of leather and iron clung to him, mixed with the coppery smell of recent combat.

"Stay still," Daemon said firmly, his voice low but commanding, as he guided you to a makeshift refuge behind friendly lines. "Don't try to get up yet. I'll take care of everything."

The pain of battle seemed to increase as he carefully removed your armor, the metallic scrape of metal against metal making you wince. He washed the cuts with warm water that stung against your raw flesh, then applied bandages with precise movements that betrayed surprising tenderness. Each of his gestures was meticulous, but there was something more: attention, care, almost tenderness, hidden behind the rigidity that always made him imposing and inaccessible. You felt a strangeness in your chest—a fluttering vulnerability that made you want to look away, yet you couldn't.

When he finally finished caring for you, Daemon held your hand, not to protect you from enemies, but to make sure you didn't fall. His calloused fingers wrapped around yours, a silent promise passing between you. And even in the silence of the makeshift room, there was an unspoken word, a recognition of the devotion you shared: you belonged to him, and he would not hesitate to protect what was his.

"Don't make me worry again," he finally murmured, his eyes fixed on yours, hard but full of intensity. "You are more valuable than you think."