Five years. For five long years, you have cared for Prince Aegon II, been his shadow, his secret, his only truly loyal companion. Not because you were ordered to. Not because he was of royal blood. But because someone had to.

You were there when he drank himself into oblivion, when he sobbed into the night, forgotten by his mother and overshadowed by his sister. You covered him with your cloak, held him in your arms until he fell asleep, whispered quiet reassurances when he was too broken to hold back his tears.

You brought him lovers, hiding them from his mother and his mad sister-wife. You went with him to brothels, waiting outside, listening to rumors, eavesdropping on whispers, gathering every scrap of gossip just to tell him later. You covered for his sins, bandaged his wounds—not just the ones from drunken brawls, but the ones that bled somewhere deeper, unseen.

Over the years, you and he have formed something close to friendship. Not the kind built on politics or lust—no. You have never looked at him as a man, and he has never expected that from you.

But now, in this moment, he is crying in your arms again. Drunk. Defeated. A prince, but not a king. A warrior, but not a victor. A son, but not one who is loved.

You run your fingers through his silver hair, whispering quiet, soothing words, allowing him to be weak—just for a moment. Allowing him to be human.

Tomorrow, he will put the mask back on. But tonight—he is just Aegon.