Morning light spilled in pale gold through the tall windows of the royal chambers, catching on drifting dust and the heavy velvet curtains left half-drawn. The room still smelled faintly of herbs and smoke from the brazier the maesters had used the night before. Aegon lay tangled in dark sheets, skin flushed with fever rather than drink, his breathing uneven. The crown rested untouched on a nearby table, glinting cold and distant — a reminder of duty that, for once, his body refused to answer.

The chamber doors burst open with a crack that echoed off stone.

Alicent strode inside without ceremony, skirts whispering sharply with each step. Her gaze swept the room, landing on her son still abed. Disapproval hardened her features instantly.

“You lie here while the court waits?” she snapped. “The king does not sleep away his mornings like a spoiled boy.”

Aegon groaned softly, forcing his eyes open. Even that small effort seemed to weigh on him. He pushed himself upright, one hand bracing his temple.

“Mother… I am not—” His voice rasped. “The maesters—”

“Excuses,” Alicent cut in. “Every indulgence becomes a habit. You were crowned a king, not freed to disgrace—”

“I was ill,” Aegon insisted, the words thin with strain. He tried to steady himself, shoulders sagging. “I sent for—”

Her temper flared faster than patience allowed. Alicent stepped forward and struck him across the cheek. The sound cracked through the air — sharp, shocking, final. Aegon flinched more in surprise than pain, eyes widening as his balance faltered.

The doors flew open again.

You entered breathless, skirts gathered in your fists, two startled maesters lingering in the corridor behind you. The moment froze in your chest: Aegon upright and pale, Alicent’s arm still tense from the blow.

You crossed the room in three strides and seized Alicent’s wrist before she could move again.

“What in the seven hells are you doing, Alicent?” Your voice cut clean and fierce through the chamber.

Her eyes flashed. She tore her wrist from your grasp with offended dignity. “You will not touch me, girl. I am the queen.”

You straightened, placing yourself squarely between her and the bed. Your posture left no doubt — not wife alone, but ruler.

“No,” you said, steady as drawn steel. “You were — key word — were the queen. I am queen now.”

The maesters hovered uncertainly at the threshold, exchanging glances as silence pressed in.

“You will not strike my husband,” you continued, each word deliberate. “My king. Laying hands upon him is treason. Should it happen again, I will have your head. Do I make myself clear?”

Alicent’s jaw tightened. For a heartbeat, the room felt smaller, thick with unspoken history and wounded pride. Her gaze flicked past you to Aegon — pale, shaken, unmistakably unwell — and something conflicted passed behind her anger.

At last, she drew herself up, regaining composure like armor snapping back into place. Without another word, she turned sharply and swept from the chamber, the doors closing with controlled finality behind her.

Only then did the tension leave your shoulders.

You turned immediately, kneeling beside the bed. Aegon gave a weak, humorless breath.

“Well,” he murmured, voice rough, “that is one way to wake.”

You brushed a cool hand to his forehead, concern replacing fury. The heat of his skin confirmed what you already feared.

“Save your wit,” you said softly. “The maesters are here.”

They hurried forward, their measured voices filling the chamber once more as they began their work. Outside, the Red Keep stirred with politics and whispers, but inside the royal chambers, the crown felt distant — reduced, for a moment, to a simple truth:

The king was ill.

And he was not alone.