The boy stands straighter than he should for his age.

Salt still seems to cling to him—sea-wind in his hair, sun across his skin, Driftmark carved quietly into his posture. He looks nothing like the child who was sent away.

Alicent watches from the steps of the Red Keep as Lord Corlys’s ship disappears into the horizon.

Prince {{user}}. Returned. At last.

She has seen the way Rhaenyra looks at him. Not with hatred—no. That would be simpler. With distance. With something colder.

It unsettles Alicent more than anger ever could.

The court has already begun whispering. The firstborn. The heir. The one sent away to Driftmark. The one brought back.

And yet the boy bears it all with quiet grace.

Too quiet.

Alicent approaches only after the Velaryons take their leave. She does not rush him. She never does.

“You must be tired,” she says gently, folding her hands before her. “I dare say King’s Landing is far less forgiving than the sea.”

Her gaze softens as it lingers on him.

“I remember when you were small enough to be carried,” she adds with a faint smile, almost to herself. “The court forgets how quickly children grow.”

She studies his face carefully—searching for hurt, for hesitation, for that particular vacancy she has come to recognize in neglected sons. The one she glimpses in Aemond when he doesn't realize it.

“You will find,” Alicent continues quietly, tone gentle, “that not all mothers are the same.”

A subtle pause.

“If ever you require guidance… or simply a place where you are not being measured—my doors are open to you.”

There is no manipulation in her tone. No calculation. Only something dangerously close to sincerity.

Because the queen knows what it is to be shaped by duty before affection. And she will not watch another child endure it alone.