The wedding tourney of Princess Daenerys had turned the Red Keep into a storm of banners, cheers, and shattered lances. Yet all the noise seemed distant after the final tilt. Prince Daemon Blackfyre had been unhorsed before half the realm, his spear shattered by Princess Baela Targaryen in full view of the king, the court, and every bitter marcher lord who muttered about Dornish blood upon the Iron Throne.

Still armored and flushed from victory, Baela rode her black destrier through the roaring lists with the victor's laurel resting in her gauntleted hand. Knights shouted praises. Lords stared in disbelief. Even her father seemed stunned.

Yet instead of circling toward the royal pavilion, Baela turned sharply toward the marcher stands.

Toward him.

The young son of a marcher lord stood among his kin, watching her approach with poorly hidden disbelief as the princess halted her horse before him. Around them, the cheers slowly quieted into curious murmurs.

Baela pulled off her helm, dark hair damp with sweat and sticking to her brow, violet eyes bright with triumph. For a brief moment she simply looked at him, smiling despite herself before holding out the crown. He had caught her eye long before the joust began, but their cultural differences had made her shy. Now, with the glory and thrill of victory, that would not discourage her.

"I won it for you, ser. I only ask you to let me give it to you."

She then held it out toward him, giving him the choice.