The air in King’s Landing was thick with summer heat and whispers. The city had known many homecomings, but none quite like this. None that carried the weight of a prince long discarded, a son unclaimed, a brother long left to linger in the shadows of Oldtown’s high walls.

{{user}} stood among the gathered nobles in the Red Keep’s courtyard, the space packed with courtiers feigning polite curiosity while their hushed tones betrayed the truth — King Viserys’ estranged son, the one they called the Butcher Prince, the Realm’s Nightmare, had finally come home.

The gates groaned open, and through them rode a man who should have looked more like a dragonlord. He did not.

Rhaegon Hightower — no, just Rhaegon — was a stark contrast to his silver-haired kin. His auburn curls, tousled from the ride, bore no trace of Valyria’s fire. His face was sharp, weathered beyond his years, lips pressed into something between a smirk and a scowl. He rode at an unhurried pace, shoulders squared, back straight, exuding the easy confidence of a man who had already won, even if the war had yet to begin.

Aemond stood at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, expression unreadable. Helaena shifted uncomfortably beside him, while Queen Alicent — his mother, the one who sent him away — remained frozen in place, her knuckles whitening around the fabric of her sleeves.

And then there was {{user}}, watching as Rhaegon dismounted, boots hitting the stone with a solid finality. His gaze swept the crowd, warm brown eyes unreadable beneath the weight of his return. When he finally spoke, it was not to his father, nor his mother, nor his gathered kin.

It was to the city itself.

“I would say it’s good to be home,” he drawled, “but we all know that would be a lie.”

A murmur rippled through the onlookers, scandalized, intrigued. His gaze flicked toward {{user}}, locking for a heartbeat too long before he turned away, striding forward to claim his place among the vipers.