The night wasn’t over yet — but for her, it had long since fallen apart.

Through the dim corridors of the Red Keep crept a figure in a velvet cloak that had once been deep green, now soaked with wine and foreign hands. The hem was twisted, one shoe slipping off, the other foot completely bare. Her hair was a mess, tangled with flower petals, feathers, or gods knew what. She smelled of wine, incense, cheap oils, and other people’s skin.

Aegon clung to the walls — shoulder brushing a tapestry, fingers grasping a bronze bust in an alcove. Every step echoed in her skull. Somewhere behind her, a door slammed, a whisper trailed off.

“Bloody stairs,” she muttered, stumbling. “Who built them so... judgmental?”