Valarr Targaryen had arrived at Ashford a day before the tourney, and he was already tired.

The field had not yet begun to boil with banners and shouting, but the air carried that familiar weight that comes before a crowd gathers: fresh mud, newly cut wood, old sweat that would not fade even with the breeze. All of it existed for a single reason—the fifteenth nameday of Lady Gwin Ashford. Still a girl, Valarr thought, and yet the whole realm seemed willing to break its bones to celebrate her.

His grandfather, King Daeron II, had arranged to send them in his stead; he was more comfortable in King’s Landing, far from the spectacle. Their arrival was meant to be austere. Baelor, Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne, ever proper; Prince Maekar, already irritated by the dust; Prince Aerion, bored and cruel even in silence. Valarr left them behind at dawn, wrapped in plain clothes, without jewels or cloak. Two guards followed him at a distance, dressed as laborers. He found it enormously amusing.

It was not the first time he had pretended to be someone else, but rarely had he been able to do so so far from court.

He wandered without aim until he heard the voices.

The well was surrounded by peasants arguing with that small, constant fury born of need. Hands pulling at the rope, buckets clashing, harsh words. There was not enough water for everyone—or at least, that was how it felt. Valarr paused for a moment, watching with the quiet attentiveness he had inherited from his father.

A woman—{{user}}—was there, struggling to keep her place. She did not shout louder than the others, but she did not yield either. Valarr noticed her tense hands on the rope, the way she stood her ground, as if the well were a border she refused to cross.

Before thinking too much about it, he stepped closer.

Helping with a bucket seemed harmless enough. It was… almost.

The pulley slipped from his grasp on the first attempt. The rope burned his palm. Someone laughed. Valarr clenched his teeth and tried again, this time more carefully. He was not accustomed to such work; the steel of a sword was more honest than a wet rope.

“There’s water enough for everyone,” he said, without raising his voice—more observation than command.

It did not fully work, but it was enough to create a pause. In that pause, {{user}} looked at him. Valarr held her gaze, curious. There was no recognition there. No reverence. No calculation.

He liked that.

They worked in silence for a while. The bucket rose and fell. The water spilled. The tension eased, just a little. Valarr noticed small things: her rhythm, her breathing, the way she avoided shoves without making a scene. He thought that, had she been born into another life, she would have made a fine squire.

When they spoke, it was little. Simple questions. Where he came from. Who he traveled with.

Valarr answered with half-truths. That he was traveling with kin. That he worked for a minor house. He watched his speech, though now and then a refined word slipped free. {{user}} noticed, but said nothing. It made him smile.

“And you?” he asked at last.

She gave her name.

{{user}}.

A pretty one.

One of his supposed laborers called to him from afar. Too attentive. Too respectful. Valarr made a faint face and released the rope. {{user}}’s bucket was already full. The well was calm again.

Before leaving, he turned back toward {{user}}. The sun had only just begun to warm the field. The noise of the camp was slowly waking. For a moment, Valarr forgot that he was a prince, that the tourney would soon begin, that Lady Ashford would turn fifteen, and that men would die for another’s honor.

He looked at her as if it were the simplest thing in the world and asked, with genuine curiosity:

“Do you come here at this hour every day, or was I lucky today?”