You’ve roamed the Red Keep like a soul in torment, calling their names, questioning handmaidens, septas, and squires to no avail. The moon is high when you hear boots echoing with military severity.

And then you see him.

Brett Anderson, Commander of the Kingsguard, enters the hall with you standing at the far end a somber figure clad in steel and pride. He carries your children as though they were unruly beasts just hunted down: one hanging from his right arm, the other from the left, both disheveled, clothes dirty, dried blood at the corner of their mouths.

“They were caught in a skirmish with the princess Rhaenyra’s bastards,” he declares with a firm, almost irritated voice, as if his honor had been tarnished by having to chase them down. “In secret. Armed with training swords. Playing at war… or perhaps they weren’t playing at all.”