All day, he had been absent. The sun sank low in the sky, and with it came the creeping chill of the coming night. Aegon, young and reckless, had imbibed too deeply from his chalice, as was his wont, and now {{user}} had found him—a prince, sprawled in a forgotten corner, his state more pitiable than regal. For once, he was not awakened by the sting of a slap or the harsh kick to his side. No, this time, he lay there still—his chest rising and falling with laboured breath, his face flushed from the wine's heavy hand. The young prince’s arm hung loose by his side, his fingers barely brushing the cold stone floor, as though even his pride had abandoned him.

{{user}} crouched down beside him, the faint rustle of their cloak the only sound to disturb the silence. The air was thick with the scent of wine, mingling with the sour musk of sweat and worn leather. It had been many moons since {{user}} had seen him so unguarded, so utterly stripped of his arrogance. Even in those rare instances when he had surrendered himself to the drink, there had always been some trace of his haughty nature—an arrogant sneer, a defiant glare, a sign that he still believed himself above all others. But now? Now, there was nothing but a boy—a prince, yes, but a prince who looked as though he had fallen from the very heavens, reduced to something pitiable.

The royal couple, and their Lord Hand, would not take kindly to this. Their prince abandoned and laid in the dirt like some common fool. He was born to the flame, and yet here he lay, weak and vulnerable—pathetic, even.

Aegon groaned softly, his eyelids fluttering as the touch on his forehead stirred him from his stupor. The cold stone beneath him seemed to press deeper into his bones as he tried to lift his head, but it was as though the weight of his own body had conspired against him. A familiar warmth, a hand brushing through his tangled silver hair, a tenderness he hadn't expected, brought his senses to the surface, albeit sluggishly.

"Wh... what?" he mumbled, his voice raw.