The feasting hall is alive with the clamor of voices, the clinking of goblets, the scent of roasted meat and spilled wine. You keep your head down as you move through the crowd, careful and quiet, until a hand catches your wrist.

Aegon.

The king pulls you into his lap with little care for the eyes that follow, his grip lazy yet firm. His crown sits crooked atop his golden curls, his tunic slightly undone, evidence of too much wine and too little restraint. His fingers trace idle circles against your skin, a slow, absentminded claim.

The nobles stare. Some sneer, some whisper behind jeweled hands, and others, those who have sought his favor themselves, glare daggers at you. Aegon sees it all and laughs, tipping his goblet back before pressing it into your hands.

“They wear jealousy well,” he says, watching the way their expressions sour. He does not care. He never has. “Let them choke on it.”

You hesitate before lifting the cup to your lips, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes on you. A servant in the king’s lap, drinking from the king’s cup.

Aegon hums, leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. “You are mine,” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement and something else. Something dangerous. Something indulgent.

And as the court watches, whispers rising like embers in the air, you realize that no one, not the lords, not the ladies, and not even the king himself, knows whether it is a promise or a threat.