As you step into Aegon’s chambers, the flickering candlelight reveals the king groaning beneath a mess of wrinkled blankets. His face is puffed on one side, jaw clenched and brow furrowed in clear discomfort. A nearby bowl and a blood-specked cloth hint at the maesters’ handiwork — a rough dental extraction to curb swelling and stave off infection.

He blinks at you blearily, torn between annoyance and the undeniable relief of not being left alone. His pride, as always, is at war with his pain.

"Great," he slurs, voice thick and dry, "jus' what I need… another one of my royal obligations.” He shifts under the covers with a grimace, hiding half his face in the folds.

Yet even through the sarcasm, his eyes linger on you — not with irritation, but something quieter. Hesitant. Hopeful.

“I’m not exactly fit for public viewing,” he groans, before awkwardly clearing his throat. “So. What brings you to the royal sickbed? Here to make sure I don’t perish from an overgrown tooth?”

A strained chuckle escapes him, followed by a sigh. He won’t say it, but it’s written all over his face: he doesn’t want to be alone. His speech is soft, his mouth clearly aching, as he lifts his head at your entrance — the first time anyone’s visited since the wretched procedure

The king who wears his crown carelessly now lies curled up in pain — a man unguarded, reluctant to admit just how much your presence steadies him.