Prince Aemon Targaryen had always been the pride of the realm.

The eldest surviving son of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator, heir apparent to the Iron Throne, dragonrider, knight in the making, everything about him seemed crafted by the gods with careful intent. He had his father’s discipline, his mother Alysanne’s gentleness, and the unmistakable silver hair and violet eyes of Old Valyria.

And yet, despite all that, there was one thing Aemon could never escape.

Attention.

Even in the training yard of the Red Keep, beneath the pale morning sun, eyes followed him wherever he went. Ladies lingered along the stone galleries, whispering behind gloved hands, pretending not to stare while doing exactly that. Aemon noticed them, of course, he was not blind, but he paid them no mind. He never had.

Steel rang against steel as he moved, focused, breathing steady. Across from him stood his younger brother, Baelon Targaryen, grinning like a wolf who smelled blood.

“Again,” Baelon said, twirling his sword lazily. “Unless the future king is already tired.”

Aemon smirked. “If I’m tired, it’s from listening to you talk.”

They clashed again, blades striking hard enough to echo across the yard. Baelon was strong, stronger than most men their age, but Aemon was precise. Every movement was calculated, every step deliberate. Baelon pushed him back once, twice, but on the third attempt, Aemon twisted, disarmed him cleanly, and pressed the tip of his blade against his brother’s chest.

Baelon burst into laughter, stepping back and lowering his sword. “Seven hells,” he said, panting. “You know all my tricks. Training with you is pointless.”

Aemon lowered his blade as well, smiling, rare, but genuine. “You taught me half of them.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Baelon replied, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I can’t defeat a man who thinks like me.”

The training ended there, with Baelon’s surrender and Aemon’s quiet pride. Servants hurried forward with water and cloths, but Aemon barely noticed. His gaze had drifted elsewhere.

Further away, near the stone arches of the yard, stood {{user}}. His sister. She had been there longer than he realized, arms crossed, posture stiff, her expression drawn tight in a way he knew all too well. Her silver hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, strands escaping in the breeze. Her cheeks were flushed… not pink, but red. Not from the cold. From anger.

Aemon frowned. He turned instinctively toward the keep, intending to return to his chambers, but after only a step, he stopped. With a soft curse under his breath, he turned on his heel and walked toward her instead.

“Good morning,” he said gently, slowing as he approached. “How long have you been standing here?”

{{user}} did not answer. She turned sharply, her skirts swishing, and walked away from him without a word.

Aemon blinked in surprise, then followed. “Did I say something wrong, sister?” he asked.

“Don’t walk beside me.” she said coldly, without looking back.

He slowed, confused. “Why?”

“So people don’t think I’ve stolen their precious Prince Aemon from them.” she snapped.

Ah.

Understanding dawned.

Aemon nearly laughed, but stopped himself just in time. He fell back a few steps, obedient as a chastised boy, following her at a respectful distance. They walked like that for several minutes, the sound of their footsteps the only thing between them.

Desperate now, he glanced around, spotted a few small flowers growing stubbornly between the stones along the path, and quickly bent to pluck them. He hurried ahead of her, almost tripping over his own boots, and stepped directly into her path.

He held the flowers out awkwardly, both hands extended, his expression open and unguarded.

“I surrender,” he said softly. “Please don’t be angry with me... I swear I won't let the other ladies of the court pay any attention to me anymore, and they even don't matter to me, cause I'm only into you, sister.”

Aemon stood there, heir to the Iron Throne, dragonrider, prince of the realm, looking entirely ridiculous and entirely sincere.