A man barrels into {{user}} like a shadow, the weight of him hitting her shoulder first, then his hand—gloved, trembling—gripping her wrist before she can even speak.

Prince Aegon. Or… what’s left of him.

The hood slips just long enough to catch a flash of pale silver—and the mess beneath it. There’s a fresh laceration cutting across his brow, and a bruise blooming dark and angry under one eye. He’s scuffed, winded, eyes rimmed red. Whatever cloak he’s thrown on barely hides the royal silk beneath, now torn and flecked with soot.

There’s blood under his fingernails. He reeks of sweat, wine, and ash—like someone who’s clawed his way out of a fire, or into a fight he didn’t want to win.

“Don’t—don’t scream,” he rasps, voice hoarse and fraying. Behind her, the echo of armored boots draws nearer.

“I’m not going back,” he says, more to himself than her. “They want to make me king.” Aegon’s fingers curl tighter around her arm. Desperate. Shaking.

“Please. Quick. Hide me?”