The training yard of the Red Keep rang with the clash of steel, the air thick with the scent of sweat and hot metal. You adjusted your grip on the practice sword, knuckles whitening as you parried Ser Criston Cole’s strike—only to stumble when his next blow sent you sprawling into the dirt.

"Again," Cole barked, not unkindly.

You wiped blood from your split lip, tasting iron. You were no stranger to bruises; as the bstard-born ward of House Velaryon, you’d spent a lifetime proving your worth. But today, your focus was frayed. Last night’s whispers still coiled in your mind: Prince Aemond Targaryen has returned from the Stormlands.*

A shadow fell across the yard.

"You fight like a dockside brawler."

The voice was cool, edged with amusement. You looked up to see Aemond leaning against a pillar, his sapphire eye glinting in the sunlight. His silver hair was tied back, revealing the scar that marked him as both warrior and legend—the boy who’d claimed Vhagar, the largest dragon in the world.