Amon walked into the red keep as if he owned the very stones laid.
The stone corridors were the same narrow veins of red rock, the same torch brackets set at familiar intervals, the same faint scent of smoke and old heat clinging to the walls. Yet everything felt subtly altered, as though the castle itself had aged in his absence while he had not.
Viserys walked ahead, his pace careful, as though afraid that moving too quickly might shatter the fragile calm holding the Keep together. Guards lined the passageways, rigid and silent, eyes flicking toward Amon and then away again, unsure whether to salute, kneel, or pretend he was not there at all.
Whispers followed them.
Not spoken aloud, but present all the same. A tightening of breath, a pause in footsteps, a murmur swallowed too quickly to be understood.
Amon did not acknowledge any of it.
His gaze moved steadily, cataloguing everything. The banners hanging from the walls bore familiar sigils, yet some had been replaced. Some colours were missing. The absence struck him more sharply than any insult.
No Sigil of the Starks
Neither sigil of the Martells
That, at least, confirmed what he already suspected.
When the doors to the great hall opened, the sound of movement within faded into stillness. The chamber was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow, the Iron Throne rising at the far end like a crown made of knives.
Amon stopped just inside the threshold.
For a brief moment, he simply looked.
The throne was unchanged, jagged, cruel, unforgiving. A seat meant to remind its occupant that power was never gentle. He felt no longing for it. Only a distant awareness, like an old scar aching faintly.
Viserys stepped forward, coming to a halt beside it.
Queen Alicent stood at his right.
She wore green, the fabric rich and perfectly fitted, her posture immaculate. Time had not dulled her beauty, but it had sharpened her composure into something harder, more controlled. At her side stood her children, arranged as carefully as ornaments placed for display.
Aegon shifted restlessly, eyes darting toward Amon with open curiosity and poorly concealed excitement.
Helaena stood quietly, hands clasped together, gaze unfocused as though listening to something no one else could hear.
Little Aemond clung faintly to Alicent's skirts, peering out from behind her with wide, unblinking eyes.
And just behind the throne, where he had clearly retreated the moment chaos broke loose in the courtyard, stood Otto Hightower.
Amon's eyes swept the room.
He took in the nobles gathered there, Reachmen in fine silks, Crownlanders stiff with unease, men whose families had prospered in the years since his departure. They watched him now with expressions ranging from fascination to barely concealed dread.
Still no North.
Still no Dorne.
His gaze finally met Alicent's.
For an instant, something ugly twisted through Amon's expression. Not rage, though rage was loud and wasteful, but instead a sharp, corrosive contempt, born of memory and sharpened by absence.
Alicent held his stare.
If she felt fear, she did not show it. But her fingers tightened subtly at her side, the only sign that she had not expected this moment to arrive so soon.
Then Amon looked past her.
At Otto.
Whatever civility lingered in him vanished.
Otto inclined his head, composed as ever, his face arranged into polite neutrality.
"Prince Amon," he said. "Your return is… most welcomed."
Amon did not reply.
The silence stretched just long enough to make the words feel foolish.
Viserys cleared his throat. "You are welcome here," he said, voice steady but strained. "This remains your home."
Amon's gaze drifted back to the throne.
"Home," he repeated quietly.
It wasn't agreement or acknowledgement but instead a silent admonition.
Servants began to move then, as though the release of tension allowed them to remember their duties. Musicians took up their instruments, though their playing remained subdued, uncertain. Candles were lit as dusk crept through the high windows, casting long shadows across the hall.
Rhaenyra stayed close to Amon.
She felt the difference immediately. How the air seemed heavier near him, how people unconsciously gave them space. The necklace at her throat pulsed faintly, warm against her skin, as if aware of the shifting undercurrents around them.
She noticed the way Alicent's gaze flicked toward the veiled women standing behind Amon, lingering on the crimson veils that hid their faces.
She noticed how Otto watched Amon without blinking.
As night fell fully, the hall transformed for the feast.
Tables were laid, food brought in steaming platters, and wine poured into waiting cups. Yet the celebration felt hollow. Only a handful of people were seated at the high table: Viserys, Alicent, their children, Otto seated slightly apart, and Amon opposite them.
Two of Amon's women remained standing behind him, veils still in place, silent and unmoving.
The rest of the hall remained empty.
Knives scraped plates. Goblets were lifted and set down. The fire crackled loudly in the hearth, filling the silences no one dared break.
Aegon stared openly at Amon, his curiosity finally overwhelming caution.
"Is it true," he blurted, "that you rode Balerion all the way to the edge of the world?"
Alicent shot him a sharp look. "Aegon."
Amon regarded the boy for a moment, then gave a faint smile.
"I rode him where few dared follow," he said simply.
Aegon grinned, clearly delighted. His gueas lingering on the women who sat near his uncle for a moment too long.
Helaena remained quiet, eyes fixed on the flames. After a long moment, she spoke without looking up.
"The dragon is restless," she murmured. "He does not like sleeping among strangers."
Amon's head turned slowly toward her.
"He never has," he said.
Helaena nodded faintly, as if that confirmed something only she understood.
Alicent broke the silence next, her voice carefully measured.
"You must be exhausted," she said. "After such a journey."
Amon met her gaze.
"I have known far worse nights," he replied.
Otto's lips thinned almost imperceptibly.
Viserys shifted in his seat, discomfort written plainly across his face. "There will be time to speak later," he said. "Tonight is for family, for a celebration."
Amon inclined his head slightly.
"Of course," he said.
Yet his eyes drifted again to the empty spaces where northern and Dornish banners might have hung.
"Tell me," he said calmly, "did they refuse to attend?"
The question landed heavily.
Otto answered before Viserys could. "The realm was unprepared for your arrival," he said evenly. "Both houses usually send representativess but this time they didn't."
Amon's gaze flicked to him. Amon's purple eyes dug deep into Otto; an invisible dagger, so to speak, was practically driven into the conversation.
The silence that followed was deeper than before.
Rhaenyra shifted in her seat, uneasy. "Uncle," she said softly, "will you stay?"
Amon looked at her then, truly looked.
"Yes," he said. "For now."
Relief loosened something in her chest.
Viserys exhaled quietly, though the tension in his shoulders did not fully ease.
Otto watched them both, his expression unreadable.
As the meal continued, conversation never quite found its footing. Words felt dangerous. Glances lingered too long. Every movement seemed deliberate, weighed, and judged.
And yet within the dragon pits, a beast of incomprehensible size made its presence known to those nesting and guarding their lairs.