In the training yards of Dragonstone, the sun fell like fire upon the black stones. Your breath was ragged, curls damp with sweat as you struggled to keep your balance with the training sword. Your knuckles ached. Your legs trembled. But you couldn't give up.

"Is that all you can do?" came the rough, arrogant voice behind you.laced with mockery. "What a disappointment. I thought the blood of Aegon the Conqueror ran through your veins, not swamp water."

You turned sharply, and there he was: Brynden Rivers. The bastard, half-brother to princes, but with a tongue sharper than any blade. He stood with his arms crossed, silver hair carelessly tied back, and that red eye the one everyone avoided shone with disdain.

"I came to watch this sad display of how royalty humiliates itself," he said, stepping closer with slow, deliberate steps, like a cat toying with its prey. "You don’t know how to wield a sword. You don’t know how to defend yourself. Yet they crown you with titles and dress you in gold."