| risk of targcest

Becoming King didn’t seem to change Aegon’s habits. If anything, they were certainly more public—he had never hidden the fact he would drown himself in a cup of Dornish wine before anything else, drinking and drinking until he could barely walk in a straight line. Now, he drank his weight in wine in the throne room, sprawled carelessly on the Iron Throne while his friends of the Kingsguard—Martyn, Leon and Eddard—lounged at his feet, the words of drunken men echoing through the halls of the Red Keep.

It was always the same thing, and Aegon didn’t mind.

It was how he felt better. How he felt good. Drinking and joking, enjoying life as a King should. His ancestors were far too serious about what this small and ugly sword-built chair represented, surely, there was no need to be so solemn about—

Oh. Wait.

Aegon’s gaze shifted from the floor—he had been staring at it, apparently, before he registered footsteps—to {{user}}, his sibling walking past the open throne room with the usual bounce to their step.

“{{user}} !” The King managed to stammer out, and he couldn't help the dizzy sensation that warmed his chest as his sibling stopped in their tracks. “Come here, come on, indulge your King, {{user}}.”