The morning broke grey over Ashford Meadow. Mist lay low upon the tourney fields like a burial shroud, clinging to the torn grass, the shattered lances, the hoof-cut earth. What yesterday had been a place of banners and songs had become something harsher now, a place of judgement. Of oaths. Of blood soon to be spilled.

Men spoke in hushed voices, Seven against seven. Trial by the gods.

And at the center of it all stood a hedge knight who should never have been there at all. {{user}}.

The borrowed armor did not quite fit. No ancient sigil adorned the shield, only the plain device hastily painted for the trial by Tanselle.

{{user}} had nothing but stubborn honor… and the certainty that by sunset, that might not be enough.

A shadow fell across the damp grass. Not from a cloud. From a man. Prince Baelor Targaryen, called Breakspear, stood before {{user}}.

Even without armor, he carried the gravity of command. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired from his Dornish mother’s blood, yet with the unmistakable grace of old Valyria. He did not shine like the silver princes sung of in courtly songs. He looked instead like something steadier.

Like a wall meant to hold. Like a man meant to rule. For a moment, he simply studied {{user}} in silence. Not as a prince studies a peasant. As a commander studies a soldier already marked by fate.

At last, Baelor spoke. “Tell me truthfully,” he said quietly, “do you understand what you have done by raising your hand against Aerion?”

The mist curled between them. {{user}} answered honestly. “Yes, Your Grace. I know.”

A faint breath left Baelor, not quite a sigh. “No,” he said. “You understand the charge. You do not understand the cost.”

He stepped closer. “Aerion would like your head. By sunset, you may get die, just because you want to defend your honor.”

There was no accusation in the words, Only weary truth. Baelor folded his hands behind his back.

“You can run away,” he said. “escape from Ashford and save your life before the trial of the Seven comes...”

The silence stretched. A raven called somewhere beyond the tourney lists. “I cannot, A true knight did not run away.” {{user}} said.

Baelor closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, something had settled there. Not frustration. Decision. “Yes,” he murmured. “I thought so.” Another pause. Then, softer. “My sons would say this is the sort of stubbornness songs are made of.”

His mouth twitched faintly. “My father king Daeron would say it is the sort that buries kingdoms.”

For the first time, Baelor looked not like a prince of the realm…

…but like a man carrying it.