Autumn had turned Ashford Meadow a soft gold, though the grass near the lists had already been churned into mud by horses and overambitious knights. Pavilions spread across the fields like bright flowers—Tyrell green, Redwyne burgundy, the black dragon of House Targaryen rippling in the breeze. The smell of trampled earth, roasting meat, and horse dung hung comfortably in the air, as it always did when the realm decided to celebrate itself with lances.
Prince Baelor Targaryen stood in the courtyard of Lord Ashford’s keep with the patient stillness of a man long practiced at waiting.
He wore no gaudy tourney finery, only a dark red surcoat stitched with a modest three-headed dragon. His hair was dark where most of his kin gleamed silver, his skin warmer, his features marked by his mother’s Dornish blood. Yet there was no mistaking the authority about him. When Baelor stood somewhere, the place arranged itself around him.
Beside him stood Prince Maekar, who looked as if he had been carved out of iron and then handed a bad morning.
“Tell me again,” Maekar muttered, “why our cousin couldn’t choose a husband from the comfort of Sunspear.”
Baelor clasped his hands behind his back. His voice was steady, quiet, and carried easily without effort.
“Because the realm will be watching.”
“The realm can watch my arse,” Maekar said. “If she’s choosing between my sons she’ll need strong wine and stronger nerves.”
Baelor’s mouth twitched.
Trumpets sounded from the gate. A Dornish party rode in, cloaks bright as copper under the sun.
At their center rode the princess.
She dismounted with easy grace. There was little ostentation about her, yet the eye lingered all the same. Something faintly luminous clung to her presence—not so much beauty as the strange quiet gravity that sometimes followed the blood of old Valyria.
Baelor stepped forward.
“Princess,” he said, inclining his head. His voice was calm and measured. “Ashford Meadow welcomes you. I trust the road from Dorne proved kinder than the roads of the Reach tend to be.”
He offered his hand politely.
“You have ridden far to watch men knock one another senseless with sticks.”
Maekar crossed his arms.
“She’s here to choose a husband, not admire the sticks.”
Baelor continued as though he had not heard him.
“You will find several Targaryen princes present. My son Valarr rides in the lists. My brother’s sons have also come.”
Maekar grunted. “Daeron’s already drunk, Aerion’s already threatening someone, Aemon’s probably reading, and the little one’s climbing something he shouldn’t.”
“A thorough accounting,” Baelor said mildly.
Maekar eyed the princess. “If she chooses Aerion the poor gi.rl deserves a bloody crown for courage.”
Baelor gave him a quiet look.
“She is our cousin.”
“So?” Maekar said. “Blood doesn’t stop my sons behaving like idiots.”
A knight galloped past the courtyard entrance just then and nearly rode down two squires wrestling with a tent pole. The pole lost.
Baelor watched the commotion with faint resignation.
“Tourney season,” he murmured.
Maekar scratched his beard. “Still say it’s madness. Sending a princess all this way just to choose which dragon to saddle.”
“Politics seldom travels light,” Baelor replied.
He studied their cousin a moment longer. Daughter of Princess Daenerys and Prince Maron—dragon and sun both. Such unions had once reshaped kingdoms.
A foolish thought brushed his mind then.
Widowed men were not uncommon at court. Both he and Maekar had buried their wives. In another life, another sort of tale—
Baelor set the notion aside immediately.
Foolery.
His duty lay with the realm, and with Valarr.
“You will meet them all,” he told her. “Speak with them, judge them as men rather than names in a family tree. Choose as you see fit.”
Maekar leaned closer to Baelor.
“If she’s wise she’ll pick your boy.”
Baelor allowed himself the faintest smile.
He gestured toward the keep.
“Come,” he said gently. “You must be weary from the road. There will be feasting tonight, tilts tomorrow, and somewhere between the two—your decision."