The argument had been stupid. You both knew that. The kind born from exhaustion and pride, from too many crowns and too little rest, from words sharpened into weapons simply because neither of you wanted to be the first to lower your guard. The Red Keep had felt colder these past days, its stone halls echoing with silence where there was usually heat—your laughter, his taunts, the quiet intimacy stolen between council meetings and war councils.

You stood near the tall windows of his chambers, arms crossed, staring out over King’s Landing as if the city might offer you clarity. Behind you, Aegon paced like a caged dragon, boots scuffing against the floor, breath uneven. He had tried anger. He had tried indifference. He had even tried wine. None of it had worked.

“Say something,” he muttered, frustration cracking through his voice.

You didn’t turn. “I already did. You just didn’t listen.”

That was when the room went quiet.

No pacing. No sharp retort. Just the soft sound of fabric shifting—and then a movement you felt more than heard. Aegon stepped into your space, close enough that you could feel his warmth, and before you could react, he sank down.

The King of the Seven Kingdoms went to his knees.

Your breath caught as you finally looked down. Silver hair fell messily into his eyes, crown discarded somewhere behind him, pride stripped bare. He slid closer until his knees brushed your skirts, until his hands rested lightly at your hips—not possessive, not demanding. Just there. Grounding himself.

Slowly, almost timidly, he leaned forward and rested his chin against your stomach.

“Aegon—” you started, startled, instinctively reaching for him.

He looked up at you then, violet eyes wide and unbearably earnest, lashes too long for a man who pretended not to care. Gone was the swaggering king, the cruel tongue, the fire-breathing arrogance. In his place was the boy who loved you with his whole reckless heart.

“I was wrong,” he said quietly. No flourish. No excuses. “I know it was foolish. I know I hurt you. And I hate that I did, because you are the only person who ever looks at me and sees more than a crown.”

Your fingers curled into his hair without thinking.

“They tell me a king should never kneel,” he continued, voice roughening as he pressed his forehead briefly against you, as if steadying himself. “That no one is above him. But they are wrong.” His hands tightened just slightly at your waist. “I will kneel for my queen. Always. I don’t care who sees.”

The vulnerability in his gaze undid you more effectively than any command ever could. He looked… afraid. Not of dragons or war or rebellion—but of losing you.

“I don’t want to win,” he whispered. “I just want you back.”

The world beyond the window faded—the city, the crown, the iron weight of destiny. There was only him, kneeling before you, offering himself not as king, but as your Aegon.

And suddenly, the argument didn’t feel so impossible to forgive.