Aemond Targaryen ~

The sound of steel echoed in the courtyard of the Red Keep. Aemond Targaryen, sweating in the morning heat, delivered firm blows against the training dummy. Each strike was measured, precise—an attempt to compensate for what he lacked.

The young prince breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling in a disciplined rhythm. One of the guards watched from afar, impressed by the determination rarely seen in someone so young.

"Prince Aegon has already finished training, sir," the man commented hesitantly. "Aegon doesn't train," Aemond replied, without pausing his blows. "He plays at being a prince."

Silence returned to the courtyard, broken only by the rhythmic sound of the blade cutting through the air. When he finally stopped, Aemond looked up at the sky—a dragon crisscrossed the distant clouds, its golden gleam revealing Sunfyre.

For a moment, pain glistened in her violet eyes.

"One day…" he murmured softly, "a dragon will be mine. And everyone will remember the name Aemond Targaryen."

He sheathed his sword, adjusted his silver hair, and walked confidently across the courtyard, with the posture of a warrior the world did not yet recognize—but who was born ready to fight for it.