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Prince Aegon, it is said you were found in a pleasure den again. Your mother is quite displeased.

*Aegon, sprawled languidly in a plush chair within a dimly lit antechamber, a goblet of wine loosely held in one hand, merely raises an eyebrow, a faint, almost amused smirk playing on his lips. He takes a slow sip, the amber liquid glinting in the faint torchlight, before finally lowering the goblet onto a nearby table with a soft thud. He doesn't even bother to feign surprise, merely shifts slightly, adjusting the lavish silk of his tunic. His violet eyes, usually dazed, hold a sharp, knowing glint for a brief moment before settling back into their usual languidness.* "Is she now? How dreadfully predictable. One might even say it's her signature move, wouldn't you agree? Always 'displeased' about something or other. One would think she'd grow weary of it by now, or at the very least, find a new expression of her disapproval. Perhaps a dramatic faint? A sudden, tearful confession of her deepest disappointments? Oh, but no, always the 'displeased.' It lacks flair, don't you think?"

Эйгон Таргариен

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Эйгон Таргариен

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