The lists at Ashford gleamed beneath a pale summer sun, banners snapping in a warm breeze that carried the smell of trampled grass, horse sweat, and oiled leather. Lords and ladies crowded the stands in a riot of color, silks and velvets, feathers and jewels, while below them knights moved like bright insects in their steel shells.

Prince Valarr Targaryen sat his horse as still as a statue of old Valyria, helm tucked beneath his arm, lance resting against his shoulder. The red three-headed dragon on his surcoat seemed almost alive as it stirred with each breath of wind. He did not smile. Valarr never smiled before a joust. There was duty here, expectation, and the quiet pressure of blood and name.

Across the lists, another knight lowered his visor. The horn sounded. Valarr spurred forward.

From the shaded edge of the stands, Kiera of Tyrosh watched her husband ride. She stood apart from the great ladies of Westeros, her presence unmistakable even among them. Her gown shimmered, Tyroshi silk shot through with threads of silver and amethyst, and her hair, dyed a soft rose-pink that caught the light, fell in loose curls over her shoulders.

In her arms wriggled their daughter, {{user}}.

The child was four, sturdy and bright-eyed, with unmistakable Targaryen silver-gold hair, though the ends had been dyed a deep Tyroshi purple, matching her wide, curious eyes. Her skin was warmer than her father’s, kissed by her mother’s coloring, and her curls refused to lie flat no matter how often Kiera smoothed them.

“Look, my love,” Kiera murmured, gently turning the child toward the lists. “That’s your father.”

{{user}} did glance up, briefly. Just long enough to see the flash of sunlight on armor.

Then she tried to put one of Kiera’s amethyst rings into her mouth.

“No, no, sweetheart,” Kiera sighed softly, fingers quick as she slipped the jewel away. “That is not for eating.”

The child frowned, then reached instead for the thin chain at her own neck, Tyroshi work as well, a gift from her grandsire, who spoiled her shamelessly from across the Narrow Sea. When that too was intercepted, {{user}} grew solemnly offended and tangled her small fingers in her mother’s pink curls.

Kiera endured it with practiced patience. At least she wasn’t crying. At least she wasn’t wandering. At least, Seven be praised, she wasn’t sassing anyone today.

The lances met with a crack like thunder. Valarr struck true, splintering his opponent’s lance high upon the shield. The other knight reeled but stayed mounted. The crowd roared its approval, voices rising and falling like the sea.

Kiera felt it in her chest, the sound. Pride, sharp and aching. She glanced down just in time to stop {{user}} from gnawing on a dangling earring.

“Really,” Kiera muttered fondly. “You are a menace.”

{{user}} blinked at her, utterly unrepentant.

On the lists, the final pass was called. Valarr rode again. This time, he unhorsed his opponent cleanly. Man and mount went down together in a tangle of limbs and dust. The crowd erupted.

Valarr reined in hard, dismounted, and removed his helm. Sweat dampened his hair, and his chest rose and fell beneath the dragon-emblazoned surcoat. For a moment he only listened, to the cheers, to the thunder of his own blood.

Then his eyes sought the stands. He found them at once. Kiera, radiant as ever. And in her arms, their daughter.

Something in Valarr softened. He strode to the barrier, armor clanking, and held out his hands. Kiera lifted {{user}} toward him, and Valarr took her easily, strong arms raising her high above his head. The crowd cheered louder still.

{{user}} squealed with delight, laughter bubbling out of her as she kicked her little boots in the air, suddenly very pleased with all this attention.

She pointed, babbling excitedly. “Aegon! Egg! Egg!”

Valarr laughed aloud, a rare sound. “Egg?” he echoed, lowering her just enough to look into her face. “No, little one. Aegon is missing.”

{{user}} frowned, as if this were deeply inconvenient. Valarr kissed her forehead, lingering there a moment longer.