The tourney at Ashford Meadow. What better opportunity for introductions?

You had been wed to Baelor only but a fortnight ago, out of duty and devotion; for your father, Prince Rhaegel, one day beseeched Prince Baelor to take your hand, for you were past 18 years and still unwed.

Baelor took your hand, for he loved his brother, therefor, he loved you as well; he indulged your oddities, stroked your hair when you’d mutter of dreaming about dragons.

It was not lost on him how sensitive you were, how sensitive you’d always been, especially in such crowds—especially at the tourney—your eyes never quite settling on the joust below. The twist of your hands in your lap, the subtle flinch each time lance collided with targe.

And when your cousin, Aerion, had decided to make a dick of himself on the list field—his lance piercing the neck of the opposing knight Ser Humfrey Hardyng’s horse, sending both of them to the ground in a spectacle of gore, Baelor heard your gasp. Your body turned to his and swiftly, Baelor drew your head to his shoulder and visored your eyes with his fingers.

”Do not look..” His voice came gently as it touched your ear.