Steel clashed in the cold air, the clang of swords ringing out across the training yard. Aemond moved like a shadow through the dust, just as Ser Cole had raised him to— precise, relentless, striking with the kind of fury that made even grown knights step carefully around him. His leather patch gleamed black against his pale skin, his lips pressed in that familiar, restrained scowl.

From the sidelines, {{user}} watched. She had been invited by the high ladies to observe the drills, though truthfully she needed no invitation. Since losing an eye, Aemond trained on his peripheral, outworking everyone in the yard, honing his senses so his enemies could not take advantage of his blind side. And yet, few things unsettled the young prince more than her gaze upon him. She appeared harder to please than any master-at-arms… that is why he’d rather show her himself.

When his bout ended, Aemond tugged off his gloves with sharp, deliberate movements, jaw tight. He didn’t look toward his mother, or his grandsire. His gaze found her, and waited for just the right moment to approach; careful enough to be ‘coincidental’ when it was far from.

He strode over, sword still in hand, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow.

“You watch too closely, my lady,” Aemond said, low and precise. “Do you see a flaw in my form… or something else?”