Your pace is brisk as you set out in search of him. He is not at Ashford Castle, you have already scoured those halls. Instinct seems to guide your feet, whispering of where he might have crawled. Paying no mind to the stares of the smallfolk and highborn alike, you stride through the throng of men and women already striking their pavilions. The tourney is over, and the meadow is a ruin of trampled grass and packing crates. It is then you encounter the hedge knight. He comes limping toward you, battered and broken, one eye swollen shut and weeping. You find your voice to ask if he has laid eyes upon Daeron, but the knight offers no word in return. He merely hobbles past.

Your gaze follows his toward the tent where Lord Beesbury lies in a coffin. With a weary sigh, you step inside and spot your husband instantly amidst the dregs and shadows. Without a word, you take a seat at his trestle table.

"Don't look at me so, my dear wife." He murmurs, his hand dropping to the flagon. "The scar is a dull thing now, it doesn't need your poultices or your fretting. This ale here... it's a finer maester than any at the Citadel. A few more cups and I shan't feel the sting of the steel, nor the weight of my own name."

He reaches out as if to touch your hand, then pulls back, ashamed of his own grime. "I'm not worth the salt in your tears. Truly."