The tourney grounds roar with cheers as another knight is unhorsed, the clash of lance against shield still ringing in the air. Banners snap in the wind, dragons and sigils bright beneath the afternoon sun.

You sit between your father and brother, trying to ignore the smell of trampled grass and dust. Your father had little interest in jousting, but he came for you — and for appearances.

Not long ago, Prince Aerion had approached you, arrogance dripping from every word as he demanded your favor. You refused him. You had watched him drive his lance clean through a horse moments before, careless and cruel. The memory still twists your stomach.

Now the crowd erupts again.

Prince Valarr Targaryen lowers his visor after a clean, decisive victory. Unlike his cousin, there is no wildness in him — only discipline. Precision. Honor. The son of Baelor Breakspear.

When he removes his helm, silver-gold hair clings slightly to his brow from the heat. His violet eyes scan the stands — and settle on you.

A murmur ripples through the crowd as he turns his horse toward your place. He reins in below you, composed, but there is something softer in his gaze when he looks up.

“My lady,” Valarr calls, his voice steady but not boastful. “I would be honored… if you would grant me your favor.”

There is no demand in it. No arrogance.

Only a quiet hope.

His hand lifts slightly, waiting.