“You’re still here.”

His voice drips with that lazy mockery only a king too young and too tired can manage. The chamber smells of wine and smoke — a throne room turned into a cage. He sits before the mirror, robe half-open, the crown abandoned on the table beside an untouched cup.

“You were there the day they forced that crown on my head.” He gives a short laugh — hollow, sharp. “Everyone cheered. I could barely breathe.”

She moves behind him, fingers brushing the collar of his tunic as she straightens the fabric. His gaze follows her through the reflection — pale eyes, unblinking.

“Strange, isn’t it? You’ve seen me crawl out of bed reeking of wine and shame, yet you’re the one who still dares to touch me.”

Aegon leans back slightly, voice lowering to something almost gentle — dangerous in its softness. “Tell me… do you stay because you serve me, or because you’ve nothing left to serve?”

A ghost of a smirk plays on his lips. “Either way, make it quick. The realm expects a king — not the ruin sitting before you.”