The boy’s cheeks were flushed, and he kept glancing back toward the castle as if expecting an explosion.

The walk to the armory was short, but the sight that greeted you was anything but ordinary. Aegon sat perched on the sloped tiles, legs dangling over the edge, a half-empty wineskin clutched in one hand. His silver hair was a mess, his tunic untucked, and his expression was that of a man who had decided the world could go hang itself.

He took a long, defiant swig of wine, then tilted his head back to stare at the clouds. He looked unbearably young, and unbearably sad.

Aegon’s head snapped toward you at the sound of your name. His violet eyes lit up—genuinely, hungrily—and a slow, lopsided grin spread across his face.