The lists at Dragonstone had never seen such splendor.

Banners snapped like dragon wings in the breeze, crimson and gold flickering against the summer sky. Lords from every corner of the realm had come to celebrate Prince Aemon’s nameday — the Crown Prince, the golden firstborn of King Jaehaerys, beloved and bright as a rising sun.

But it wasn’t Aemon they watched when the tilt began.

It was his younger brother — the one called the Spring Prince.

Baelon Targaryen, already a seasoned warrior at just twenty, with a scowl carved from Valyrian steel and the confidence of someone who had never lost a joust he meant to win. He had ridden in silence, clad in blackened armor chased with red, a simple dragon crest on his helm. No favors pinned to his lance. No smiles offered to the fluttering ladies above the stands.

And when he unhorsed Lord Baratheon with one devastating blow — the stands roared.

But it was the final round that held its breath.

His opponent, Ser Tyland of House Redwyne, was graceful, skilled, and clearly gunning for spectacle. He rode well. He struck true. And still, Baelon did not fall. He shattered his lance, wheeled his mount, and with brutal precision sent Ser Tyland sprawling in the dust of the field.

The crowd erupted.

Baelon removed his helm to the sound of thunderous applause, silver hair plastered to his brow, lips tight in concentration. But his eyes searched — not for his brother. Not for the king.

They searched for you.

You, seated high in the shade of the pavilion, wearing a gown of deep Targaryen red, a circlet of rubies at your brow, your hands folded tightly in your lap.

The first time his gaze locked with yours, you felt it like a strike to the chest.

He dismounted without ceremony.

Gasps followed him as he crossed the field, gauntleted hand gripping the broken haft of his final lance. He stopped at the foot of the gallery. Every eye followed him.

A thousand possibilities flickered through your mind.

Baelon, ever unbothered by decorum, only knelt.

“Lady of Dragonstone,” he said — loudly, deliberately — “you are my Queen of Love and Beauty.”

He held the snapped lance upward, and someone — you would never know who — handed him a garland of red roses threaded through with fine golden ribbon. His eyes never left yours.