The fields outside Ashford had been trampled into a churned sea of mud and straw, though the banners above still flew bright and proud, golden roses, crowned stags, three-headed dragons snapping in the wind. The smell of sweat, horseflesh, and anticipation hung thick in the summer air.

Prince Valarr Targaryen watched it all from beneath the shadow of the royal pavilion.

He stood straight-backed, hands clasped behind him as he had been taught since boyhood, his expression calm enough that most men mistook it for indifference. Only those who knew him well would have noticed how his jaw tightened whenever the crowd roared too loudly, or how his gaze flicked, again and again, toward the raised seating beside him.

Toward her. {{user}} sat beside him, dressed in pale silver and soft pink, her head tilted slightly as though listening more than watching. Her eyes, once violet and proud, were unfocused now, pale lashes lowered as if shielding them from the sun. Yet when the trumpets sounded and two knights rode onto the field, she leaned forward with a smile that was far too bright, clapping as though she could see every detail.

Valarr felt something twist in his chest. She cheered when lances splintered, gasped at falls, laughed when the crowd laughed, always half a breath late, always following sound instead of sight. Most did not notice. Those who did were wise enough to say nothing. All but one.

Prince Aerion Targaryen lounged nearby, a cup of wine in his hand, watching his sister with a thin, sharp smile. The light caught his pale hair and made it gleam like a blade.

Valarr did not look at him. If he did, he was not sure he could stop himself from reaching for a sword. The court said it had been an accident. A fall. She startled. A torch overturned. Valarr knew better. It was Aerion's doing.

She was not fully blind, no, the gods had not been so cruel, but the world had become fractured to her. Shapes blurred. Faces dissolved into shadows. Light burned too bright, darkness swallowed too much. What vision remained came and went like a treacherous friend.

Yet she had insisted on coming to Ashford. “I want to hear them,” she had said softly, fingers tightening around Valarr’s sleeve. “If I cannot see the glory, I will listen to it.”

Valarr had agreed. He always agreed to his wife.

The tourney moved on, knights unhorsed, squires scrambling through the mud. It was after one such fall, a hedge knight sprawled face-down, armor dented and ridiculous, that {{user}} laughed aloud, genuine and warm.

“Did he fall hard?” she asked no one in particular.

A deep, uncertain voice answered from behind her. “Hard enough, my lady. Though I think the ground suffered worse.”

She turned, startled. Valarr stiffened. The man who stood there was enormous, near a head taller than most knights, broad as a barn door, with a simple shield slung over his back and armor that had seen better days. His hair was brown, his face open, his expression one of immediate regret for having spoken at all.

Beside him stood a bald boy with quick eyes and a grin he was trying very hard to hide.

“I’m sorry,” the big man added quickly. “I didn’t mean- I mean-”

“It’s all right,” {{user}} said, smiling in his direction. She angled her head slightly, as if trying to place him by sound. “You’re not laughing at him cruelly. I can tell.”

The man blinked. “W-what? You can?”

“I can hear it,” she replied. “Cruel laughter sounds different.”

Valarr studied the knight carefully now. He wore no sigil Valarr recognized, only a tree crudely painted on his shield.

“State your name,” Valarr said coolly.

The man straightened at once. “Duncan, Your Grace. Just Duncan. A hedge knight.”

The boy beside him cleared his throat. “And I’m Egg.”

Valarr raised an eyebrow. The boy grinned wider.

{{user}} laughed softly. “Egg?”

“It’s short for-” the boy began.

“For Egg,” Duncan said quickly, shooting the boy a warning look. “His name is just a funny sock, I don't know why his parents named him Egg, maybe they mistook him for food.”