The courtyard is alive with the sounds of clashing steel, boys shouting, and dragons roaring in the distance. But Aemond is alone. He always is.

You find him near the dragonpit, standing just beyond the entrance, watching as your brothers—his nephews—laugh atop their dragons. His hands are curled into fists, his jaw clenched so tightly it might shatter.

“They don’t deserve them,” he mutters, not looking at you. “Not like I do.”

You tilt your head, stepping closer. “Maybe not,” you say softly, “but they’re just dragons. They don’t make you stronger.”

He scoffs, finally turning to face you. “That’s easy for you to say. You have everything. A name. A claim.” His gaze drops slightly. “A family that loves you.”.