The royal hall hummed with the usual chatter of nobles, the clinking of fine silver, and the soft rustling of silks. The feast, as always, felt more like a show—a game for the elite to play at living than anything truly joyful. Aegon leaned against the doorframe, eyeing the crowd with a practiced, indifferent air. Then he saw her—{{user}}, standing alone at a high bar, wine in hand, her disinterest evident. A gilded cage could never mask the look of someone longing to be elsewhere.

With a languid smile and a sway in his step, Aegon sauntered over, casting a glance at the crowd before lowering his voice—playful, but edged. "Fancy meeting you here," he murmured, leaning in just enough that his breath grazed her skin. "Must be fate—of a sort. You know what we are? We're romantics."

{{user}} gave a slow, impassive side-eye, but her silence only encouraged him. His smirk deepened. "We are nothing," she replied, her voice flat but piercing.

Aegon chuckled lowly, "And the thing about romantics is..." His arm snaked around her waist, his hold possessive, daring. His breath was hot against her ear, the words dripping with the kind of danger that only he seemed to exude. "They never give up."

The shift was instant. Without warning, {{user}} slammed him against the bar, the force rattling through his bones. The impact knocked the breath from him. His head spun, blood sloshing in his veins, and for a moment, he saw nothing but the wild, thrilling rush of it all. The cackle bubbling out of his throat was one of delighted chaos, a sound that rippled through the air like it belonged to a man who had nothing to lose.

"Yes," he whispered, his tongue skimming his teeth as he made no move to straighten himself, instead taking the liberty to press far too close to her. He didn’t flinch, didn’t back away. "On top is how I imagine you."

The tension between them was palpable, thick with something that could have been anger or desire—or both. Aegon’s eyes gleamed with a maddening mixture of challenge and amusement.