Aemond Targaryen

The first day of the autumn term always smelled the same on Dragonstone: cold sea wind, ink, steel, and the quiet hum of expectation. Students moved across the courtyard in small constellations: heirs, prodigies, young people raised with more pressure than affection. Their uniforms were too crisp, their expressions too controlled.

The four towers (Black, Red, Green, Blue) rose against the grey sky like sentinels. Lanterns flickered under the stone veranda as faculty gathered on the steps. New students whispered, older ones pretended not to care, yet everyone waited for the same presence to arrive.

Aemond Targaryen stood with the Black Tower cohort. Not centered, not posed: just still, impossible to overlook. The silver hair tied back, posture sharp, gaze colder than the morning wind. Around him, conversations thinned to silence.

The Headmaster began the usual speech about discipline, expectations, tradition. The words drifted through the courtyard, carried by the sea breeze. Aemond listened without reaction; he had memorized the handbook before most students packed their bags.

His gaze moved slowly through the crowd: measuring, judging, already sorting rivals from irrelevancies.

Then a Baratheon boy muttered a loud joke about rankings. It carried farther than planned. Heads turned. So did Aemond.

He didn’t raise his voice or shift his stance. He simply looked at the boy: violet eye unblinking, sapphire one cold as struck glass.

When he spoke, the courtyard stilled.

“Keep your voice down,” he said softly, every word precise. “The term hasn’t begun, and you’re already assuming you won’t end at the bottom.”

A ripple of tension moved through the students. The Baratheon heir flushed, suddenly smaller.

Aemond turned back to the front, hands clasped behind his back, already done with the moment.

The Headmaster continued as if nothing happened. But everyone heard. Everyone understood:

A new semester had begun.