Baelor arrived at Ashford without illusions. He was a man already shaped by loss: a widower, father to Valar and little Matarys, fully aware that his life had ceased to belong solely to himself the moment his firstborn came into the world. The tournament hosted by House Ashford marked the fifteenth nameday of the lord’s youngest daughter, yet no one present was unaware of the gathering’s true purpose: the eldest daughter was being offered for marriage, as so many ladies of the realm were.

House Ashford was honorable and steady, keeper of fertile lands and a respected name, though far removed from the grandeur of houses that inspired more ambitious alliances. Baelor knew this. He also knew that, as a Targaryen prince, his duty was not to indulge enthusiasm but to balance politics, blood, and continuity. The girl’s youth only strengthened his initial reluctance; he was no longer young, and he understood too well the weight of promises made too early.

And yet, over the course of the tournament days, it became impossible to ignore her.

She was not merely desirable—though she was so, in an evident and almost provocative way—but possessed of a curving form that drew attention effortlessly, of a vivid, assured presence that filled any space as though she had been born to be seen. Her beauty did not feel contrived; her charm arose naturally, sustained by an easy joy, by a full and unrestrained laugh that carried across the lists and reached him even when he tried to look away. Lord Ashford knew precisely what he was doing in offering her: she was a rare asset, one that required no announcement.

Baelor resisted. He watched, weighed, remembered his dead wife, the future of his sons, and how little the match would add in strictly political terms. And still, her presence began to assert itself as a quiet choice—unstrategic, unmistakably human. When he requested a private moment with her father, he did so with the same elegance that had always guided him through difficult decisions, aware that the request itself was already a concession.

They met in a broad solar, removed from the noise of the tourney grounds. Baelor had brought with him a gift chosen with care: an old necklace of fine, pale gold chain, from which hung a small ruby cut in the shape of a flame—a discreet emblem of the House of the Dragon, understated yet heavy with meaning. It was not an impersonal object; it spoke of protection, of bond, of something worn close to the skin and carried near the heart.

As he offered it, he asked leave only with the gesture. He stepped close enough to place the necklace himself, his fingers steady and respectful, fully aware that the brief intimacy was not improper, but revealing. Should he choose this path, she would become his wife; formal consent was not, in truth, a matter of choice. Still, Baelor did not want absolute silence. He did not want an agreement shaped solely by other men.

When he was finished, he stepped back, straightened his posture, and allowed the gravity of the moment to settle. She knew why he was there. She understood what was being considered. And he, at last, wished to know what stirred in her mind at the prospect of such a marriage—not as a plea, but as a man who, for the first time since his loss, allowed himself to ask before deciding.