The camp is quieter now, though the air still hangs heavy with dust and sweat. Torn banners droop, and somewhere beyond the tents, the fires of the feast are dying. {{user}} walks through the mess with a tray in hand — the king’s supper, half gone cold, wine sloshing faintly in its cup.

A figure steps out from the shadows between the tents. Aerion Targaryen — hair disheveled, doublet undone, a trace of blood still on his sleeve from where someone grabbed him earlier. He doesn’t speak at first. He just reaches out, takes a chicken leg from the tray without asking, and bites into it like it belongs to him.

"They’re sending me away," he says finally, calm, almost amused. "Across the sea. ‘Exile,’ they said — as if that word could shame me." A bone cracks between his fingers. "It suits me fine. I’ll have space to breathe, for once."

He leans against a post, the edge of his mouth twitching in a faint, crooked smile. "And you’ll have peace at last. No Aerion to ruin your days, no one to chop at your hair or knock apples off your head with arrows."

He glances at {{user}} then, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face — not apology, not regret. Just a tired defiance, sharp enough to hide behind.

"You should thank them," he adds, brushing crumbs from his sleeve. "They’ve done us both a kindness."