The wagon jolts violently over a deep rut, drawing an agonizing screech from the ravens caged on every side. Behind you, the capital recedes, yet the ghost of Rhaenyra’s dragons feels as though it hovers right over the canvas roof.

"I need milk of the poppy.” Aegon wheezes, his voice thin, cracked, and completely stripped of his kingly bravado. His face is a ruined map of melted skin and raw scabs, his body broken from the fall at Rook's Rest. He thrashes weakly, his good hand clutching at his injured one, shivering.

Sitting opposite him, Larys Strong adjusts his heavy cloak, his clubfoot tucked awkwardly beneath the bench.

"I’m afraid in our hasty flight that I neglected to bring any." Larys says, his voice a low, urgent hiss, trying to keep the King's groans from carrying to the small escort outside.

"Ah, the pain."

Larys’s pale eyes fix upon you, as if expecting you to do something.