The heavy wooden doors of Aegon’s chambers had barely finished closing before he had you pressed against them, all impatience and heat, like he’d been holding back the entire walk down the corridor.

His crown was gone, discarded somewhere behind him, and the silver strands of his hair fell loose around his face as he leaned in again, stealing another kiss like he couldn’t quite get enough. The room smelled faintly of wine and smoke, but you could barely think past the way his hands had already found your waist, steady and firm, pulling you closer as if you might slip away.

“Aegon—” you started, though it came out softer than you intended, swallowed by the next kiss he pressed to your lips.

He didn’t listen. Of course he didn’t.

He guided you backward toward the bed, slow at first, then with growing confidence, until the backs of your knees brushed the edge and you sank down onto the mattress. He followed immediately, bracing himself over you, his hands still fixed at your waist like they’d been anchored there.

It was almost amusing, really.

You let it go on for a moment longer—just long enough to feel the rhythm of it, the way he melted into it despite all his usual arrogance—before you pulled back, just enough to break the kiss.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Aegon blinked at you, breath uneven, clearly caught off guard by the interruption. “What do you mean?”

You tilted your head, glancing pointedly downward. “I mean your hands.”

He followed your gaze, as if he hadn’t the faintest idea what you were talking about, then looked back at you with genuine confusion. “They’re on your waist.”

“I know,” you said, arching a brow. “What am I? A nun?”

The words seemed to stall him for a second, his expression shifting as realization slowly crept in. It was almost comical—this prince, this king, who faced councils and courtiers without hesitation, suddenly unsure.

“Put them somewhere more useful,” you added, your voice quieter now, but edged with a challenge he couldn’t possibly ignore.

For a heartbeat, he just stared at you.

Then something in his expression changed—confidence snapping back into place, sharper this time, laced with a hint of mischief. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “You may regret giving me instructions.”

“I doubt it,” you shot back, though there was a flicker of anticipation beneath your tone.

That was all the invitation he needed.

His hands shifted—no longer idle, no longer uncertain—as he leaned down again, capturing your lips with renewed intent. This time, there was no hesitation in him, no pause, as if he’d decided to take your challenge and turn it into something entirely his own.

The world beyond the chamber seemed to disappear—the politics, the expectations, the weight of titles—leaving only the quiet crackle of the hearth and the soft rustle of fabric as he moved.

For once, Aegon Targaryen wasn’t thinking like a king.

And you weren’t about to remind him.