Aegon had not long awoke from his night in the streets of Kings Landing, having indulged in wine and ale far too much. As he woke, he was met with a pounding head that elicited a groan from his lips and made him curl up slightly beneath the covers. He felt awful — a sniffling nose, a sore throat. And, Gods, how can one feel hot and cold at the same time?

The sound of his chambers door opening made him look up slightly, noticing you entering. “Thank the gods…” he whispered, his tone whiny and stuffy. “This is it, the gods have condemned me to death…” he whimpers, his head flopping back onto the pillows.

He hears you chuckle, your footsteps growing closer to his bedside. “Calm yourself, Aegon. You won’t die on my watch.” You promised, tenderly feeling his forehead.