The summer sun hung low over Summerhall, gilding the gardens in lazy gold, but the air inside the keep carried a chill that had nothing to do with the season. Prince Maekar Targaryen stormed through the arched corridors like a storm front, his heavy boots striking flagstone with deliberate, angry thuds. His silver hair, streaked with the first hints of ash-gray, was disheveled from raking hands through it; pox scars stood out stark against flushed cheeks. The alpha scent rolling off him was sharp—iron and smoke and barely leashed fury—enough to make servants flatten against walls as he passed.

"Where the fuck did they go?!" he bellowed again, voice cracking off the vaulted ceilings. Knights in Targaryen black scattered like startled birds at his command, fanning out toward the stables, the orchards, the godswood.

Maekar had already torn through the rose maze, the training yard, the shadowed cloisters. Nothing. No silver-haired boys laughing in the fountains, no small footprints in the soft earth. Daeron, eight and already too solemn for his years, and Aerion, seven and wild as wildfire, had simply vanished from the gardens where they'd been playing under the watchful eyes of nursemaids.

Even his keen alpha nose—honed by years of battle and the relentless tracking of enemies—found no clear trail. The boys' scents mingled with crushed grass and sun-warmed stone, then faded into the wind.

Gone. Again.

Maekar’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

He hated this part most of all: the moment he had to face what he'd failed at. Alphas feared few things in this world, but an omega in true distress ranked high among them. The pheromones turned sour, acrid, like milk left too long in the heat; some omegas—especially the more delicate ones—could sicken from it, hearts racing, bodies trembling until they collapsed. And {{user}}... Maekar’s omega, his {{user}}, was the most sensitive of all. The mere thought of telling him twisted something deep in Maekar’s chest, a knot of guilt and dread he could not cut loose with sword or mace.

He paused outside the heavy oak door of the royal apartments, hand hovering over the latch. His breathing was rough, shoulders rigid beneath the leather brigandine. Baby Aemon—third son, barely a year old and still soft as new snow—was in there with {{user}}. In the nest. Safe. For now.

Maekar shoved the door open.

The chamber was dim, heavy curtains drawn against the afternoon glare, lit only by a low fire and the soft glow of scented candles. The air was thick with nesting scents: warm milk, lavender, the faint sweetness of omega comfort. {{user}} sat in the center of the wide, fur-lined nest built into the alcove, cradling little Aemon against his chest. The babe nursed contentedly, tiny fist curled in {{user}}’s tunic. {{user}}’s hair fell loose over his shoulders; his face was calm, serene in that way only omegas could manage when tending their young.

But Maekar knew him too well—the subtle tension in the line of his spine, the way his fingers stroked Aemon’s back in slow, rhythmic circles.

He already sensed something was wrong.

Maekar stepped inside, closing the door with a quiet click that sounded too loud in the stillness. His boots felt leaden as he crossed the room.

"{{user}}," he said, voice lower now, stripped of its earlier roar. The word came out rough, almost reluctant.

Maekar stopped at the edge of the nest, fists clenching at his sides. The words lodged in his throat like broken glass. He had faced down Blackfyre rebels, stared into the maw of war, but this—this quiet admission of failure—cut deeper.

"Daeron and Aerion," he began, forcing the words out. "They were in the gardens. Playing. I turned my back for a moment—gods damn it, just a moment—and they're gone. I've got every knight searching. The whole keep. But their trail... it's cold. I can't find them."