The fortress kitchen was quieter than usual. It was too early for the servants, too late for the guards. You had woken up hungry and, without calling anyone, walked down the cold corridors of Dragonstone with a blanket thrown over your shoulders, your bare feet making almost no sound on the stone floor.

As you entered the room, you smelled bread being reheated and saw a tall figure with his back to you, stirring a kettle over the brazier.

Aegon.

He was wearing a simple, dark tunic, his hair tied in a careless knot, also barefoot. He didn't even turn when he said:

"I figured you'd come."

You smiled, walking up to him. "I thought I was the one with strange habits."

"You wake up hungry. I wake up with back pain," he replied dryly, but with a slight tone of irony.

He handed you a piece of warm bread, then poured two cups of the infusion he had prepared. You sat together at the small wooden table in the corner of the kitchen, where the light from the torches barely reached, a place too hidden for a king and queen, and therefore perfect.

Aegon took a sip, rested his elbow on the table, and watched you in silence. For a moment, you thought he was going to say something serious, or perhaps comment on some matter of counsel.

But all he said was:

"You should wear your hair down like this more often."