The chambers reek of spilled wine and faded laughter, the remnants of last night’s revelry still lingering in the air. Sunlight creeps through the heavy curtains, spilling golden light across the tangled sheets. Beneath them, Aegon groans, shifting closer to you, burying his face in the curve of your shoulder like a man seeking refuge.

“If I die today,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep and the unmistakable ache of a hangover, “tell them I died happy.”

You sigh, fingers brushing through the mess of his silver hair, damp with sweat and the scent of ale. “You say that every time you drink yourself into oblivion,” you murmur, amused despite yourself.

Aegon hums, his lips ghosting over your bare shoulder. “And yet, here I am. A miracle.”

“You’re a disaster,” you correct, shifting beneath him, but his arm tightens around your waist, keeping you in place. His body is heavy with warmth, his breath slow against your skin.

“Shh,” he drawls lazily. “The king commands you to be quiet.”

“The king,” you echo, rolling your eyes. “The king is going to be late for council.”

Aegon groans louder this time, as if physically pained by the mention of responsibility. “Seven hells, let them rule without me.” He tilts his head, cracking one eye open to look at you. “They’d probably enjoy it.”

You huff a laugh, running your hand down his back, feeling the tension there despite his teasing. “And you’d enjoy it too much. Now get up, your Grace.”

Aegon grins at the title, though it’s laced with sarcasm. He rolls onto his back with a dramatic sigh, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Fine, fine,” he concedes. Then, peeking at you from beneath his arm, he smirks. “But only if you help me dress.”

You shove a pillow into his face.