The sun was descending in a haze of amber and rose when Prince Valarr Targaryen first glimpsed the bright pavilions of Ashford spread across the meadow like a field of fallen stars.

The tourney grounds shimmered with color, silks in red and gold, blue and green, banners snapping in the warm Reach wind. Laughter carried over the hum of a thousand voices. Minstrels plucked at their strings, and the scent of roasting meats drifted thick and sweet upon the air. It was a scene fashioned for songs, unmarred as yet by blood or scandal.

Valarr watched it all from horseback, his expression composed, though his thoughts were seldom still. He wore his house colors, black trimmed with red, a three-headed dragon worked in fine thread upon his doublet.

Beside him rode {{user}}, daughter of Prince Maekar. His cousin. His heart.

She had drawn her hood low despite the warmth, though the late summer air held no chill. Strands of pale hair had escaped to catch the dying light, and for a moment, watching her, Valarr forgot the banners, forgot the tournament lists, forgot the careful masks required of princes.

“Look,” he said quietly, guiding his horse nearer. “Ashford has dressed herself for you.”

Her mouth curved faintly. “For me? I think not, cousin. The Reach has little need of dragons when roses bloom so freely.”

“There are roses,” Valarr allowed, glancing toward the Tyrell pavilion heavy with golden blooms, “but none so fair as the one who rides at my side.”

She rolled her eyes at that, though he saw the tension ease from her shoulders. She had been anxious since morning. Egg and Daeron had not arrived.

They were meant to have ridden ahead days past,

yet the road had swallowed them as easily as it did so many smallfolk and wanderers. Word had come that Prince Maekar himself had ridden in search of his sons, leaving {{user}} in Valarr’s care not Aerion's, who was her brother.

Valarr felt the weight of that charge keenly. Maekar was not a man inclined to softness. To be entrusted, if only by circumstance, with his daughter’s well-being was no small matter. Yet Valarr would have guarded her with or without command. He had done so in small ways since they were children chasing one another through the halls of Red Keep or Summerhall, before duty and expectation set walls between them.

The tourney field opened before them in full splendor as they descended the last rise. Knights in polished plate moved like mirrored giants in the sun. Squads of squires hurried past carrying shields emblazoned with sigils both ancient and newly made. Ladies in flowing gowns clustered beneath shaded awnings, their laughter bright as bells. For now, all was as it should be.

Valarr dismounted first and turned to assist her. His hand closed about hers, cool, slender, trembling faintly.

“Stop worrying so much, nothing bad is going to happen,” he murmured.

“Why should I not be worried for my family?” she replied softly. “Daeron is always drunk and now no one knows where he and Aegon are. They may be killed... or worse. Aegon is too young and can't protect himself... and Daeron is always drunk, he can't protect Aegon. And my father-”

“-will find them,” Valarr finished gently. “I'm sure uncle Maekar can find them, Daeron's probably just passed out from drinking a lot in a corner..”