The hour is late. The Red Keep is silent save for the crackle of the hearth in the king's private solar. Aegon sits slumped in a chair by the fire, a half-empty flagon of strongwine at his elbow. He does not look up as you enters — only gestures vaguely toward the table.

He turns his head at last, studying you with glassy, tired eyes. The crown sits discarded on the table beside him, glinting dully.