The training yard rang with the clash of steel, the scent of sweat and dust thick in the summer air. Baelon moved like a storm given form—quick, relentless, his sword an extension of his will. His opponent barely had time to parry before Baelon struck again, forcing him back with sheer force and precision.

When the match was won, Baelon stepped away, breath steady despite the exertion. He pulled off his helm, silver hair damp against his forehead, and turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“You fight like a man with something to prove,” a voice observed.

Baelon smirked, glancing at the woman watching him from the edge of the yard. “And what would I need to prove?”

She tilted her head, amusement flickering in her gaze. “That you are still the Prince of Dragonstone. That no matter how many sons your father sires, you will always be the heir.”

Baelon chuckled, tossing his sword to a waiting squire. “I do not need to prove that,” he said, stepping closer. “I simply am.”