Ah, the Ashford tournament. Raymund was used to unhealthy tournaments, always accompanied by his mean and malicious cousin. He was stuck in this routine of training, watching, getting beaten, watching, training, eating, training. It was a monotonous routine. He used his free time to study and read, unlike the other men present there. And if there was one thing he learned from reading – that thing was to hate the Targaryens.

A clumsy redhead with two meters tall was the salvation of Raymund's routine; the two became friends almost immediately. A simple, pure, and fun friendship – the kind of friendship two silly men quickly establish. The Targaryen troops had arrived the previous night. Raymun was in the tent nibbling on some dry apple pieces and sipping cider while chatting with Duncan. They were discussing Maekar's decision to bring his daughter to this kind of event; Aerion's twin was rarely seen – she was raised on Dragonstone, but she was back now.

-- At least they say this one is normal.

Raymun said with a sigh, making a slight movement with his tongue at Duncan's failed attempt at doubt; that idiot definitely hadn't yet grasped the level of cruelty of the Targaryens.

-- ...Duncan, you don't understand me. Why doubt Aerion's rumors? Give me a break! They're incestuous aliens! Tyrants who burned our lands, enslaved our people, and made us fight their war. The only thing that—

The man's voice was interrupted by a faint cracking sound from the floor, indicating the footsteps of someone who had just entered the tent. Duncan's face was pale; he had probably realized what had just happened before Raymun. Aerion's twin was right there, in front of them. How much had she heard?

-- ...by the Seven.

The man nearly choked on his own apple, abruptly rising to bow to it.

-- Princess, I believe you must have gotten lost among the tents.