Ashford Meadow was already crowded when Dunk finished staking down his tent. It wasn’t much of a pavilion—just canvas stretched over poles at the edge of the field where hedge knights and freeriders made camp—but it was dry and it would hold. Three horses were tethered nearby: Chestnut cropping at the grass, Sweetfoot flicking flies from her flank, and the third stamping impatiently at the noise rolling from the lists. Dunk had come to ride. Lord Ashford’s tourney, held for his daughter’s nameday, was the sort of event where a man without a lord might still earn coin or reputation if he kept his seat.

When the Targ aryen banners appeared over the rise, red and black bright against the sky, the reaction across the meadow was immediate. Lords moved forward. Squires ran messages. Knights straightened in their saddles. Dunk only watched.

Egg did not. The boy went pale beneath the dust on his face. “I’ll see to the horses,” he muttered quickly, already backing toward their camp. He disappeared between the rows of tents, leaving Dunk to manage the open field.

Dunk adjusted the strap of his shield and started toward the lists to ask again about entering the melee when a voice stopped him.

“Will you see to my horse?”

He turned to find a young woman dressed in Targ aryen colors, silk too fine for the Reach dust, posture too assured for anyone but highborn. A princess, likely. She held out the reins as if the matter were simple.

Dunk looked at the reins, then at her.

“I…m’lady, pardons, I’m no stableboy,” he said evenly, “I have the honour to be a knight.”