The tavern belonged to {{user}}’s father, a low timbered house pressed between a cooper’s shed and a narrow alley that carried the smell of salt and horse sweat from the quay. Smoke hung beneath the rafters, and the rushes on the floor muffled the scrape of boots and benches. Traders, hedge knights, and sailors shared the long tables, speaking of tourneys and the shifting fortunes of lords whose banners rose and fell as quickly as summer storms. Behind the trestle, {{user}} moved between casks and hearth while her father stood watch near the door, weighing each stranger with a careful eye.

As the light faded, a tall young knight stooped to enter, his head nearly brushing the beam. His surcoat was plain and travel stained, his shield unadorned save for old scrapes, and his sword belt had been patched more than once. He carried himself with a certain earnestness rather than the easy arrogance of men born to high banners. A small pouch of coins touched the table with a modest clink as he said, “Ale, and stew if there is any left.” His voice was steady, almost hopeful, as though he expected little and would be content with less.