Ashford Meadow lay bright beneath the summer sun, a riot of banners snapping in the wind, three-headed dragons, crowned stags, falcons, suns pierced by spears. Laughter carried across the fields, mingling with the clash of steel and the roar of the crowd. It should have been a day of triumph, of pride. The heir to the Iron Throne sat among his kin, whole and hale, admired by lords and knights alike.

Yet Valarr felt none of it. His eyes, against his will, sought one tent above all others. The Dornish pavilion stood apart, its silks pale and flowing, colors of sand and sun-bleached stone. It was there that {{user}} stayed, Princess Aerion’s betrothed. Aerion’s.

The thought burned like sour wine in Valarr’s throat. He remembered when she had first come to court, brought by King Daeron himself, Valarr had scarcely noticed her in those early years; there had always been wars to think of, councils to attend, lessons to master. The weight of the crown-to-come had pressed upon him early, and he had borne it without complaint.

By the time he truly saw her, it was already too late. Prince Maekar’s decision had come swift and final. A Dornish match for his second son, binding blood to blood once more. Aerion himself had pressed for it. Aerion, who delighted in cruelty as other men delighted in song. Aerion, whom the court whispered of behind fans and goblets, calling him dragon not as praise, but as warning.

Valarr had argued. Gods knew he had argued. “You would give her to him?” he had demanded of his father, Prince Baelor, his voice low but tight with restrained fury. “To Aerion?”

Baelor had looked at him with tired eyes. “This is not for us to decide alone,” Baelor had said. “Your uncle has his reasons.”

Valarr had sought Maekar next. “She deserves better,” Valarr had said, abandoning all pretense. “She deserves a match worthy of her, I could give her that.”

Maekar’s face had hardened like forged steel. “Choose your words carefully, nephew.”

“She could be queen,” Valarr pressed. “My queen. I would honor her. I would protect her. Aerion-”

Maekar’s hand had struck the table, hard enough to rattle inkpots. “Enough. I will not have my son’s betrothed turned into court gossip by half-whispered ambitions. You will speak of this to no one again. Do you hear me?” Valarr had heard. And so he had been silent.

Now silence brought him here, to Ashford, watching the woman he could not have laugh softly at something Aerion said, unaware of the storm she walked beside.

Aerion was resplendent that day, pale hair gleaming, armor polished to mirror-brightness. He wore arrogance as easily as a cloak. When he leaned toward {{user}}, Valarr’s hands clenched without his bidding.

She did not flinch from Aerion’s presence. That, too, unsettled Valarr. Was it courage? Resignation? Or simply ignorance of the beast beneath the prince’s fine skin?

As dusk fell and the tournament’s fires were lit, Valarr made his decision. This, this moment, might be his last.

He left the feast without ceremony. The Dornish pavilion glowed softly ahead. Valarr stopped a dozen paces away. He stepped forward and announced himself.

A guard drew back the tent flap. Inside, lamplight spilled warm and gold. {{user}} rose from her seat in surprise, eyes widening when she saw him.

“My prince,” she said, bowing her head, courtesy flawless.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Valarr replied. His voice was steady, remarkably so, he thought, given the war inside his chest. “I wished to speak with you.”

She hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded.

“I will not insult you with false courtesies,” Valarr said at last. “Nor pretend this visit is harmless.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Then speak plainly.”

He inhaled. “I know you are promised to Prince Aerion. I know what I risk by standing here. But I would be a coward, and worse, if I said nothing.”

He met her eyes fully now. “I would have you as my wife. Not his.” The words fell heavy between them. “You deserve a man who will stand beside you, not over you. A man who sees you as partner, not prize.”