Aegon II Targaryen

The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of the Red Keep, casting golden reflections on Prince Aegon Targaryen's silver hair. He lay on his side on the garden throne—not the Iron Throne, of course, but a marble bench surrounded by red roses, where he used to hide when he wanted to avoid the septon's lessons.

A half-empty goblet of wine rested beside him. Aegon twirled the ring on his finger, the symbol of the house he pretended not to wear with pride.

"You know what's curious," he murmured, without looking at the nearby squire, "the more they talk about duty, the more it all seems like a burden... and the less I want to be anything they expect of me."

He raised the goblet, observing the lilac reflection of his own eyes in the surface of the wine. For a moment, he seemed amused by his own image—a prince too handsome to worry about anything.

"I bet Rhaenyra's over there, studying laws and the names of lords." A crooked smile crossed his face. "And me? I'm studying the taste of Dornish wine. Much more useful, if you want to know."

The wind blew, causing rose petals to fall onto his shoulder. Aegon sighed, bored, and turned his face to the blue sky.

"What miserable boredom..." he murmured, with a touch of laziness and charm. "Maybe I'll ride Sunfyre today. Or maybe not. He must be just as bored as I am."