He had taken to the cup once more, as was his wont, drowning the hours in Arbor and companion alike. Night after night, the Red Keep swirled with his giddying revels, coarse laughter leaping down the corridors and slipping eagerly through the cracks of stone to trouble what little rest you might have. Oft did it keep you wakeful, though on this night you drifted in that half-world betwixt waking and dream, until the sound of stumbling boots roused you further.

Aegon lurched along the passage, a chalice in hand, its contents spilling in a trail of dark stains along the flagstones. Lost in a fog of wine and self-pity, the prince mistook your quarters for his own….again. And in he went. The doors flew wide as if they had never existed in the realm of drunken stupor, striking an ancient vase that had been nestled in an unfortunate nook, receiving Aegon’s rather unapologetic flourish. In a breath, the clamor brought you upright.

“Where is it?” Aegon slurred, narrowly slamming the door shut with the whole of his weight.

His gaze swept over your mattress, a glimmering oasis of comfort amidst his self-inflicted joyride. The sight of silken sheets and feathered pillows was enough to spur him into action. With a determined grunt, he lurched forward and careened off a carved screen as though it were solid wall. His arms shot out wildly, clutching at the sheets as though they might save him from the abyss.

“Mother’s tits,” he cursed, collapsing in a heap of splayed limbs—much akin to a scandalous starfish, his chalice suddenly vanishing into a forgotten realm.

With a groan, he pawed at your mattress, dragging himself upright and pressing a flushed cheek to the coverlet. “Here,” he murmured thickly, breath poisoned with drink. “Here shall serve me well enough.” Even in his stupor, an addled smile curled at his lips, as though this had been his plot all along.