The chambers were dim, lit only by the low flicker of candlelight that cast long, wavering shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with the sharp scent of wine—spilled, stale, and freshly poured all at once. A goblet rested precariously on the edge of the table, its contents sloshing with every unsteady movement.

You stood near the window, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, as if bracing against something colder than the night air creeping through the cracks. Behind you, Aegon Targaryen II paced like a caged beast, boots heavy against the floor.

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped, voice rough and slurred, though the edge in it was unmistakably sharp.

“You’re not,” you shot back, turning to face him despite the knot forming in your chest. “You haven’t been for weeks. You drink until you can’t stand, until you don’t even know what you’re saying—what you’re doing.”

His laugh was bitter, hollow. “And now you lecture me? Like I’m some misbehaving child?”

“I’m your wife,” you said, your voice tightening. “I’m the one who has to deal with it when you come back like this.”

That made him stop.

Slowly, he turned to you, violet eyes darkened—not just by drink, but by something deeper, something restless and angry. “Deal with it?” he echoed, quieter now, more dangerous. “You think you have it so difficult?”

You hesitated—but only for a moment. “I think you’re destroying yourself. And you don’t seem to care who you hurt along the way.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then, in an instant, it shattered.

He crossed the space between you faster than you could react. The movement was sudden, fueled by anger and something reckless beneath it. His hand came up—

—and struck.

The sound cracked through the room, sharp and unforgiving.

Pain bloomed across your cheek as the force sent you stumbling, your balance lost. The world tilted violently before you hit the cold stone floor, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. For a moment, everything blurred—the flickering candles, the spinning ceiling, the metallic tang that filled your mouth.

A sting cut deeper than the blow itself, a thin line of warmth trailing down your cheek where his ring had split the skin.

And then—silence.

Heavy. Crushing.

Aegon didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

It was as if the moment sobered him all at once, the haze in his eyes clearing just enough for realization to set in. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his hand still half-raised as though he couldn’t quite believe what it had done.

“…I—”

The word faltered, barely more than a breath.

He stared at you on the ground, something unreadable flickering across his face—shock, regret, something dangerously close to fear.

But he didn’t come closer.

Didn’t reach for you.

The distance between you suddenly felt far greater than the few steps that separated you.