The banners of the west whipped in the sea breeze outside Lannisport, the lists crowded with noble lords and ladies. Jennelyn Brax sat with the other ladies of the Westerlands, watching the jousts unfold with her usual half-amused detachment. She had long grown used to being overlooked for fresher faces.

The trumpet sounded for the next tilt, and the young knights spurred their mounts forward. Yet before the contest began, one of them, rode directly to the lady’s stand. His destrier’s hooves clattered, the crowd murmured, and Jennelyn blinked in surprise as the knight lifted his lance, bowing low.

He asked for her favor. He picked her when other knights picked ladies half her age.

Her lips parted in disbelief, then curved into a wry smile as she leaned forward ever so slightly, eyes glittering.

“My favor, ser? You flatter a woman others would call past her prime. Do you mean to win glory with a widow’s token? I am sure other ladies half my age would love to give you their own.”