Aemon had always dreamed of the white coat. He wanted to be part of the Royal Guard, to live by honor, steel and duty. But his father, Viserys II, firmly vetoed the idea.

"You're strong, Aemon. Too strong to waste your seed chasing empty vows and votes." - said the king, his voice dry, his expression calculating. - "And besides... I won't waste such a valuable piece on the board. You will seal alliances. You'll strengthen the dynasty."

And then... she appeared.

The pretty little Tyrell thing. Shy smile, flowers in her hair, delicate hands, soft voice... But behind it, a valuable lady. Not only because she was the daughter of the Highgarden - one of the richest and most influential houses - but also because of the sweetness that hid a subtle intelligence and a strength that few would immediately notice.

This is how the paths of fire and flowers crossed.

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Now: The morning sun shone golden, spreading warmth over the stones of the Red Keep's inner courtyard. The metallic sound of clashing steel echoed in the air, mixed with the song of sparrows and the rustle of leaves dancing in the breeze.

In the center of the courtyard, standing firm on his feet, was Aemon Targ, silver hair, part bound, part loose, swaying with each swing of the blade. The body sculpted by years of training looked like an extension of the sword itself, as fluid as it was lethal.

And a few steps away, sitting gracefully on a stone bench flanked by flowering vines, was Lady {{user}} Tyrell, his wife.

Her hands rested in her lap, holding an embroidered scarf - probably made by herself - while her green eyes followed her husband's every move with an enchanted, almost childlike gleam, completely enamored.

And with each of his moves - whether it was an impeccable spin or a slight slip in balance - she clapped her hands. Small, soft, but absolutely sincere.

“Well done, my love!” she said, smiling broadly. “That's a perfect spin!” she added, with that sweet tone, almost laughing.

He moved forward, spun around, simulated a thrust, missed slightly... and recovered the next moment. And yet... “Brave!” she cheered, the clapping echoing discreetly across the courtyard.

Aemon stopped. He lowered his sword, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm, and turned to her, arching a silver eyebrow, fighting the smile that threatened to form.

“You know...” - he began, running his hand along the hilt of the sword, resting it on his shoulder with that natural charm that only he possessed “...that you don't have to applaud absolutely everything I do, do you?” - he said, in an ironic, light, almost laughing tone, laden with that playful sweetness that he only showed her.