The banners of House Targaryen shimmered like spilled blood beneath the high sun. Red silk and black cloth snapped in the wind above the tourney grounds, their three-headed dragons writhing as if alive. Beneath them, the earth had been beaten hard by hooves and boots, stained with dust, sweat, and the faint dark marks where men had fallen.
Prince Valarr Targaryen sat astride his courser at the edge of the lists, reins loose in his gauntleted hands, helm resting against his thigh. The air smelled of horse-sweat and trampled grass, of oil and steel and the sour tang of wine carried on warm breaths from the stands. The noise pressed in from all sides, cheers, laughter, the clatter of cups, the shrill cries of hawkers selling ribbons and favors, but Valarr heard little of it.
His gaze had found only one place.
High above the lists, beneath a canopy of red and gold, sat Princess {{user}}, of House Targaryen.
The sun caught in her hair when she shifted in her seat, turning it pale as beaten gold. Her hands rested lightly in her lap, a white silken favor folded between her fingers, embroidered with a small red dragon stitched so finely it might have been painted.
Valarr felt the familiar tightening in his chest. Remember yourself, he told himself. You are not a boy at his first tourney. Yet his pulse quickened all the same.
When the herald called his name, the sound rolled across the grounds like thunder.
“Valarr Targaryen of House Targaryen!”
He guided his horse forward at a measured pace. When he reached the foot of the stands, he reined in and swung down, removing his helm.
A hush crept outward, rippling through the crowd.
“Princess,” he said, and his voice carried without strain. “If it please you, I would ask for your favor. Not for luck alone, but as a reminder of the honor I bear, and the blood we share.”
A murmur rose, soft but sharp. Court ears missed nothing.
{{user}} rose to her feet. For a heartbeat, Valarr forgot the sun, the banners, the watching realm. There was only the way her eyes met his.
“Then ride with honor,” she said softly, placing the white favor into his hands.
Valarr bowed his head, reverent as a knight before a shrine. “I will,” he said.
When he rose and turned back toward the lists, the roar of the crowd broke fully free. He mounted again, tied the favor around his arm with careful hands, and took up his lance.
The tourney blurred into motion and impact. Valarr rode as he always did, with patience. He did not waste his strength on reckless charges, nor did he seek glory in needless brutality. One by one, he unhorsed his opponents: a knight of the Reach sent tumbling into the dust, a stormlander spun sideways by a clean strike, a Dornishman whose spear glanced off Valarr’s shield before Valarr’s own lance took him square in the chest.
Each victory was met with cheers. Between bouts, Valarr lifted his visor and sought the stands. Each time, his eyes found {{user}}. Sometimes she clapped, sometimes she only smiled, but she never looked away.
The favor at his arm grew dark with dust and sweat, yet it held.
By the final tilt, the sun had begun its slow descent, painting the field in gold and shadow. Valarr’s last opponent fell hard, his horse skidding as he hit the ground. The herald’s cry rang out clear and sharp.
“Victory to Prince Valarr Targaryen!”
The roar that followed shook the banners overhead. Valarr dismounted, breath steady despite the ache in his arms and shoulders. He removed his helm and turned toward the royal pavilion.
He took the wreath of winter roses from the maiden appointed for the task, white petals cool against his callused hands. Then, without hesitation, Valarr crossed the field.
He did not pause before any lady of the court. He did not look to the smiles of highborn maidens. He stopped only when he reached her. Valarr raising the crown of flowers.
“Princess {{user}},” he said, his voice low now. “In honor of your grace, your strength, and the light you bring to our house, I name you Queen of Love and Beauty.”