The door creaked open on well-oiled hinges, a quiet sound in the hush of evening. {{user}} stepped into the royal chambers she shared with her husband — expecting to find Aegon dozing in his wine, or pacing restlessly by the fire as he often did when plagued by dreams of dragons and duty.

What she saw instead made the breath catch in her throat.

The air was heavy, warm with the scent of sweat, candlewax, and something unmistakably intimate. The sheets on the royal bed — her bed — were tangled and damp, and beneath them, two figures lay entangled: one of pale silver-gold hair, the other darker, curled and tousled like the sea.

Aegon.

Jacaerys.

Their skin gleamed with heat, Aegon’s hand still resting on Jace’s bare hip, fingers possessive even in surprise. Jace had the grace to flinch first — to blink and reach for the sheet, his mouth parting as if to stammer some apology or defense.

Aegon didn’t move. He just looked at her, wide-eyed and disheveled, his cheeks flushed, his hair damp and plastered to his forehead. He opened his mouth to speak… and couldn’t.

“Close the door,” Aegon said finally, voice low, hoarse — almost pleading. “Please… just — not like this.”

Jacaerys sat up beside him, chest rising and falling fast. “{{user}} — I… we didn’t mean for—” But the lie crumbled in his throat, dead on his tongue.

They had. They’d meant it. Every inch of it.

Silence stretched.

Aegon pushed himself to sit up too, one hand reaching out as if he still believed she might come to him — that the bond between them might somehow survive the sight of what she now knew. “It was never supposed to hurt you,” he said, and there was something genuine — something broken — in his tone. “You must know that.”

But he hadn’t moved to hide. Neither had Jacaerys. The room reeked of something far more than accident.

And still… he looked at her like she was the only one who could save him from the shame sinking into his spine.