The tension between the Velaryons and the Greens was a powder keg waiting for a spark, teetering on the edge of all-out war. A war born from the ambition of one woman, Queen Alicent, who’d twisted the dying whispers of her husband, King Viserys, into something they were never meant to be. The man had been clear—Rhaenyra, his daughter, would rule. But, hey, why let that get in the way of a good power grab?

The weight of it all crushed Aegon nightly, though he hid it behind wine and debauchery. Sleep rarely came, and when it did, it was fitful and shallow—haunted by the burdens he never asked to bear. But tonight was different. For once, Aegon lay sprawled in his bed, in a pile of silk sheets, like a well rested cat.

But, of course, you’re here to ruin it.

You, a lowly servant tasked with waking him, because apparently no one else can be bothered dealing with a hungover Aegon.

He groans loudly like someone who’s been hit by a horse, squinting one eye open, “Piss off.”