Aemond Targaryen ~

The sound of steel echoed in the courtyard of the Red Keep.
Aemond Targaryen, sweating under the morning heat, delivered firm strikes against the training dummy. Each blow 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 does not train, — Aemond replied, without stopping his strikes. — He plays at being a prince.

Silence once again dominated 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 crossed the distant clouds, the golden glow betraying Sunfyre

for a moment, pain flashed in his violet eyes

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

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