The lists at Ashford Meadow ring with the sound of splintering lances and cheering crowds. Banners of every great house snap in the summer wind, yet it is the dragon that draws the longest looks.

Valarr reins in his horse as an opponent yields, accepting the victory with a brief inclination of his head and nothing more. There is no triumph in his expression, only composure — he was raised for rule, not display, and every eye upon him weighs expectation rather than applause.

He turns his gaze toward the stands.

{{user}} sits among the highborn beneath the silken canopies, watching not only the combat but the reactions of the court around her. She knows what this tourney means: how each clean pass strengthens Valarr’s image as the heir after his father and grandfather, how restraint earns as much favor as victory.

They judge a king long before he wears a crown, Valarr thinks as a squire moves to his side.

Valarr removes his helm long enough to breathe. His eyes lift, finding her among the canopies with practiced ease. This is how they measure me, he thinks. As they will measure her beside me. The thought sharpens his focus rather than distracting it.

A squire offers water; another checks the straps at his shoulder. Valarr listens distantly as the herald announces the next pairing. Before the visor lowers again, he gives {{user}} a brief, acknowledging look — quiet assurance, nothing more.

When the horn sounds, Valarr turns his horse back toward the lists without hesitation. He settles his grip on the reins and lance, ready to ride again, aware that the eyes of the court — and his wife — remain fixed upon him.