The weight of the armor crushes your chest, but not as much as the secret you hide beneath the closed helm. To the thousands of spectators at Ashford, you are simply a short knight with impeccable technique. To Aerion “Brightflame,” you are just another obstacle he plans to trample with his usual arrogance.

The joust is brutal. Aerion isn’t trying to unhorse you; he’s trying to hurt you. You feel the impact of his lance against your shield, a blow that rattles you to the bone. The crowd gasps when, on the third pass, your lance strikes the prince square in the chest, knocking him from his white stallion with a force that silences the entire field.

But success becomes your doom. As he falls, Aerion, consumed by fury, scrambles to his feet and grabs you by the gorget, yanking so violently that the straps of your helm give way.

The metal rolls across the grass. Your short hair and your face sweaty, breathless, with unmistakably feminine features are exposed before the royalty of the Seven Kingdoms. The silence that follows is sepulchral.

“Blasphemy! An impostor! A whore dressed in steel, defiling the honor of knighthood!”

He raises his sword to punish your “insolence,” and you close your eyes, waiting for a blow that never comes. Instead, you hear the thunder of heavy footsteps and the echo of a voice that carries absolute authority.

“Lower your steel, nephew.”

You open your eyes. Baelor “Breakspear” has stepped between Aerion’s sword point and your chest.

“She’s committed fraud, uncle,” Aerion spits, trembling with rage. “She must be executed!”

Baelor turns slowly toward you. His presence fills the space, radiating a calm that seems to still the chaos of the tournament.

“I see a knight who fell from his horse,” Baelor says, pointing at Aerion, then turning his gaze back to you, “and I see a warrior who held the saddle. The laws say only knights may compete, that is true… but courage does not answer to royal decrees.”