It had been his design, and the prince knew it to be true. His gaze clung to the flagstones, blurred with wine, his hands clasped behind his back, and his chin tucked low beneath the weight of guilt and reckless ambition.

“I should have you stripped of name and title both,” King Viserys bellowed from the Iron Throne, “cast forth into the streets for the shame you bring upon this House.” His grip on the arm of the throne was so fierce that the jagged steel bit deep, crimson welling betwixt his wedges. The wince that crossed his withered face he sought to hide, drawing his hand back into his lap. The king had grown too frail for such tempests.

The matter itself was petty enough, no more than another night’s folly—Aegon carousing through the Street of Silk, dragging you at his side for sport, laughter, and scandal. Yet the jest had now soured, and a price was to be paid. The warm torchlight danced across faces, while the Kingsguard stood mute and stiff, their eyes averted in the guise of modesty, though the shame was plain for all to see.

Viserys struggled upright, his cane quivering beneath the weight of his fury. “Shame! That is all I see when I look upon you. My own blood, deaf to my words, blind to the withered old man who would see you rise. I will not live forever. I had hoped to see you content, to see you happy, even.”

Aegon dared a glance toward you, a faint smirk dead on his lips before waning under his father’s ire. “And this is how you repay me?” Viserys spat. “Parading through the city with who—” His breath failed him, and he sank back onto the throne, clutching his brow as though it might split in two.

“It was an accident, father,” Aegon muttered, the words half-hearted, as though by rote.

“An accident?” Viserys parroted, hoarse and bitter. “An accident?”

Aegon’s reluctant nod was answer enough.

“Then let accident answer accident,” the king said. “You will strike your companion’s cheek, and bear that mark upon your soul, else you shall bear the Dragon’s name no more; stripped of blood, title, and name—no more a son of mine, nor shelter or warmth at my court.”

At that, Aegon’s head snapped upward, wine-dulled eyes wide, a flicker of disbelief and fear cracking through. His gaze shifted between you and the weary king, caught like a boy on a hook, uncertain which fate would prove all the more cruel.