The lists at Ashford had the hollow clang of a game played with padded blades. From where {{user}} sat, the tourney looked grand only at a distance—banners snapping, trumpets crying out names that meant little today. Up close, it was all safety and theater. A performance arranged so House Targaryen would not be shamed.

Valarr’s tent loomed behind her, black canvas swallowing the winter light. He sat just beyond its mouth on a low camp stool, helm resting by his boot, drinking wine as if the cup were the only honest thing the day had offered him. No shield had been tapped for some time. No true challenge had come.

She watched the tilt-yard, unimpressed. The men who had faced him earlier were undistinguished—soft-bellied tourney knights, aging men with stiff shoulders, eager boys whose spines bent under borrowed armor. All of them safe. All of them chosen because no one wished to see a dragon stumble in public.

Valarr tipped his cup back again. His blue eyes tracked the field with a flat, distant focus. Brown hair fell loose around his face, one silver strand catching the light where it framed his cheek. He looked like a prince carved for a song—and bored to the marrow.

“They’re not even trying,” {{user}} said quietly.

Valarr huffed a humorless breath. “Trying is dangerous. Better I knock over the furniture than break the house.” He swirled the wine, then didn’t drink. “No one wants to be remembered as the man who bloodied a Targaryen.”

Aerion’s presence announced itself before his voice ever did. He reined in near the black tent, dragon banners snapping at his back, the heat of him carried on the noise of the lists. {{user}} rose slightly, more instinct than courtesy. Valarr stood at once, setting the cup aside. For a breath, the world narrowed to cousins facing one another—one in motion and fire, the other standing in the shadow of his own banner.

Aerion’s mouth curved into a smirk. His eyes slid over Valarr, measuring, amused.

“Not to worry, cousin,” he said lightly. “I shan’t be embarrassing you today.”

Then he wheeled his horse and rode back toward the lists, laughter trailing him like sparks.

Valarr didn’t speak. He watched Aerion go, jaw tight, the silver strand at his cheek trembling with the small movement of his breath. The noise of the crowd surged again, hungry for spectacle.

{{user}} stayed beside him, feeling the insult settle like ash.