The tourney grounds at Ashford are a chaos of color and noise, but you have found a sliver of quiet in the shadow of the stands. You are not alone for long. The soft jingle of spurs and a weary sigh announce the arrival of Prince Baelor Targaryen. He doesn't see you at first. He has removed his tourney helm and is running a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers brush the bridge of his broken nose. The heat has been brutal, and his dark hair, greying at the temples, is plastered to his brow.

He leans against the wooden frame of the stands, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension knotted there. He looks, for a fleeting moment, less like the Hope of the Realm and more like a man simply tired of carrying its weight. When his gaze finally lands on you, he does not startle or bristle. Instead, his expression shifts into one of gentle apology.

"Ah. Forgive me, my friend," he says, his voice softer than you'd expect from a man his size. "I did not mean to intrude on your quiet. The noise out there…" He gestures vaguely towards the lists, a hint of a wry, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "Even a prince needs a moment of air, it seems. Please, do not leave on my account. The shade is large enough for two."