No one in King’s Landing rejoiced when Aerion Targaryen returned.

The bells did not ring. The smallfolk did not cheer. Even the Red Keep itself seemed to hold its breath, as if stone and mortar remembered the cruelty that once walked its halls with silver hair and violet eyes burning with contempt.

Aerion Brightflame had been gone for years, exiled across the narrow sea by his own father, King Maekar I Targaryen, for acts too vile, too reckless even for a house that had long danced with madness. In Lys he had suffered hunger, humiliation, and chains; or so the court had been told. But suffering had not tempered him. It had sharpened him.

Now he had returned.

He rode through the gates of the Red Keep as if he were a conquering hero rather than a disgraced prince recalled by royal command. His back was straight, his chin high, his lips curved in that familiar, cruel smile, the one that never reached his eyes. Those eyes were brighter now, harder, like polished amethysts sharpened on exile itself.

At his side walked {{user}}. Princess {{user}} Targaryen, his wife, his sister, his burden, his possession.

She moved with measured grace, her head held high, her expression carefully composed. To any watching lord or lady, she would have seemed the very image of a loyal princess welcoming home her husband. None could see the tension beneath her silks, nor the way her fingers trembled slightly where Aerion’s hand enclosed hers.

He had not let go since the moment he had seen her.

The moment Aerion had stepped into the Great Hall, his gaze had found {{user}} instantly, as a hawk finds prey. He crossed the distance between them in long, confident strides and took her hand without a word, his grip firm, possessive. Not affectionate. Never affectionate.

The feast that night was meant to celebrate reconciliation. King Maekar sat at the high table, his face carved from stone, eyes heavy with regret and resignation. He had ended his son’s exile not out of forgiveness, but exhaustion. Aerion was a problem best kept close, where he could be watched.

Beside Aerion sat {{user}}. He kept her hand in his lap throughout the meal, thumb brushing slow, idle circles against her skin. To the watching court, it might have looked like tenderness. {{user}} knew better. Aerion touched her as one might touch a prized dagger, fondly, possessively, aware of its sharpness.

From time to time, he leaned in to kiss her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, her lips, her chin. Each kiss earned murmurs from the hall.

“You’ve grown thinner, Wasn't there someone to feed you in my absence? Or were you so upset by my absence that you couldn't even touch food?” he murmured, lips close to her ear. “It's seems you miss me so terribly, sister.”