The Red Keep was not as {{user}} remembered it. The halls had grown quieter, colder—filled now with echoes and unfamiliar faces. Time had changed the court… but more than that, it had changed him.

Prince Aemon Targaryen stood at the far end of the training yard, his silver hair pulled back in the fashion of Old Valyria, a black cloak billowing behind him as he moved through sword forms with a grace both brutal and precise. He hadn’t seen {{user}} yet. Or perhaps he had, and was choosing not to speak.

When last they met, he was a boy with too-long limbs and ink-stained hands, always chasing shadows in the library or dragons across the sky. Now—he was all angles and armor, the heir to the Iron Throne.

The wind stirred. Caraxes roared somewhere above the clouds. And still, Aemon did not look away from the ghost of memory walking toward him.

Would he remember? Or had time buried everything but blood and fire?