As Aegon laid on the lavish bed in one of the many brothel rooms, he let out a tired groan, his bare body shuffling under the sheets. His eyes met yours, the eyes of a wench. However, that’s not what he saw. He saw his comfort, he saw the woman he came to for more than just the passion you provided him.

He never told anyone that, of course. In his mind, it made him weak. Yet, every night, he came to you. Madam Sylvie had always offered the young King new wenches, advertising the best of the best. He declined every time.

Aegon never loved his sister-wife, not romantically anyway. Helaena didn't seem to mind, she didn’t yearn for his love. She much preferred to stay in her lane.

Aegon found himself thinking about one of the old kings, Aegon the Conqueror. He had two wives, didn’t he? What was stopping Aegon from having two wives? He wanted you in the castle. In his room. In his bed. Wearing his sigil.

No more other customers, only him.

He reached out to you, his fingers clumsily caressing your cheek. He’s clearly still drunk, judging his movements.

“Marry me.” He mumbled tiredly, a lazy grin spreading across his face.