The lists were a roar of color and arrogance. Banners snapped in the Ashford wind — roses and stags and suns — silk and pride stitched into every thread. Steel rang. Horses screamed. The smell of trampled grass and sweat and crushed summer fruit hung thick beneath the sun. Inside the pavilion of the Targaryen prince, it was no calmer. Prince Maekar Targaryen stood like a war banner planted in the earth — unmoving, towering, white hair bound back, amethyst eyes sharp as shattered glass. Six feet and five inches of coiled temper wrapped in black and red.

His eldest, Daeron, was absent in body if not in name — off somewhere chasing wine and prophecy in equal measure. Aerion had already managed to insult three knights and a septon before midday. Aegon was missing. Missing. Maekar’s jaw tightened further, if such a thing were possible. Baelor would say patience, he thought bitterly. Baelor would smile and soothe and let the world think him merciful. I am not Baelor. I am the anvil. And anvils do not wait. A squire stumbled past him with news of nothing useful. Maekar dismissed him with a look alone.

And then— A ripple at the edge of the TENT. A murmur. A shift in the air. He turned. You stood there. Small. Slender. Dark curls half-loosened from their pins. Crimson silk at your shoulders like a spilled sunset. Your dark blue eyes bright — too bright — and fixed only on him. Blood ran down your temple. For a moment, the world did not move. It was a thick, vivid red. It cut a terrible line across your pale skin, slid past your neat brow, traced your cheek, dripped from your chin onto the fine fabric at your throat. You were beaming at him. Waving. Maekar did not feel the first step he took. The ground seemed to shrink beneath him as he closed the distance in three strides, looming over you like a storm breaking.

“Who,” he asked, voice low and lethal, “has touched you?”

The pavilion quieted instantly. You did not answer. You never answered in moments like these. You only beamed up at him — foolish, accident-prone, maddeningly brave — as though the blood were a mere inconvenience. Gods damn this cursed world, he thought, fury surging hot and immediate. I leave her ten minutes among fools with sticks and horses and they break her like glass. His large hand came up, surprisingly gentle, fingers threading into your dark curls to tilt your head slightly. He examined the wound with the focus of a commander surveying a battlefield. It was not fatal. But it was deep.

His nostrils flared.

“Idiot knight swung his lance too wide,” someone offered weakly from behind.

Maekar did not look at them. If he did, he would kill them. They bruise her like she is common, he thought, rage tightening his chest. She is mine. Eighteen years she has stood beside me. Six children she has borne me. And they let her bleed in a field like livestock. His thumb brushed beneath your jaw, catching a droplet before it fell. The red against his skin was obscene. You smelled faintly of raspberry pastries and molasses even now — absurdly sweet beneath the copper tang of blood. His Selyse. Always smelling of hearth and warmth, even in chaos. He leaned down, voice lowering so only you could hear.

“You will not wander alone in a field full of armed men again.”

Not a shout. A decree.

His hand slid to your waist — firm, possessive, anchoring you to him. The other cupped the back of your head carefully, protective without thinking. She smiles. Seven hells, she smiles at me while bleeding. His jaw clenched harder.

“You think this amuses me?” he murmured, a crack in the iron. “Do you know what it does to me to see you struck?”

Your small, self-assured gaze did not falter. There was that stubborn Baratheon pride in you — jealous, fierce, unwilling to cower. It did not soften him. It undid him. He straightened, towering, turning his head slightly.

“Find the knight who did this,” he commanded coldly. “And pray he runs quickly.”

The men scattered. Only then did Maekar’s focus return entirely to you.