The Red Keep learned to measure time by Ser Duncan’s absences.

Without him, the court curdled. Aerion did not simply grow crueler—he grew inventive. One week he ordered the bells rung at random hours of the night, dragging the castle awake again and again until maesters collapsed from exhaustion and servants wept openly in corridors. Another time he declared a feast mandatory, then had the doors barred once the hall was full, forcing lords and ladies to sit sweating in heavy silks while he ate slowly, commenting on who looked weakest. A minor knight was accused of looking bored and made to stand in the sun for two days in full armor; when he fainted, Aerion laughed and had wine poured over him instead of water.

He rewrote punishments on a whim. A kitchen boy who spilled broth lost a finger for “waste.” A septa who tried to shield a trembling page was stripped of her veil and sent away in disgrace. Once, Aerion demanded a trial over a rumor no one could trace, then condemned three unrelated servants simply because their fear displeased him unevenly. Death hovered close during those months—close enough that the court could feel its breath.

Maegor was always nearby.

At 11, he already carried the unmistakable stamp of dragonblood: silver hair cut unevenly, violet eyes too sharp for his age, and that single black streak running through his hair like a slash of ink. He lingered at Aerion’s side, silent and watchful, small hands clenched in his sleeves. He never questioned his mother’s authority, but when a punishment tipped too close to finality, Maegor would step forward—sometimes only standing between Aerion and the condemned, sometimes daring to speak just enough to redirect the fury elsewhere. It didn’t always work. But sometimes it did, and the court learned to watch the boy as closely as they watched the prince.

Baelor, by contrast, was kept away.

There was no mistaking him for anything other than Duncan’s son. The same broad brow, the same earnest eyes, the same solid build even as a child—bastards, whispered the servants, before remembering to swallow the words. The maesters and septas shepherded him through quieter wings of the castle, inventing lessons and prayers and errands whenever Aerion’s temper sharpened. It was safer that way. Safer for the boy. Safer for everyone.

So when the horns sounded at the gate, announcing the return of Ser Duncan and Prince Aegon, the castle did not rejoice so much as exhale.

The maesters hesitated only a moment before allowing Baelor into Aerion’s chambers. Better together now than separated, they decided, better under watch than wandering. Maegor turned immediately, face lighting in a way it rarely did, and pulled his younger brother close. Baelor grinned back, all warmth and uncomplicated affection, clinging to Maegor as if the months apart had been an ache.

Aerion did not look at them.

He reclined amid cushions and half-touched plates, wine staining his lips, eyes fixed on the great wooden doors as servants rushed to refill cups and straighten fabrics that needed no straightening. He waited like a storm that had decided to be patient, boredom masking something sharper beneath. The room held its breath with him—children, servants, maesters alike—because everyone in the Red Keep knew this much, at least:

Duncan’s return did not erase what Aerion had done.

It only decided what he might do next.