The banners of Ashford stirred lazily in the summer wind, their colors bright against a sky washed pale with heat. Knights thronged the tourney grounds like ants upon a carcass, bright steel, painted shields, snorting destriers, and the constant clangor of hammer on armor. The smell of horse, dust, and roasted meat hung thick in the air.

Prince Valarr Targaryen watched it all from horseback, gloved fingers resting loosely on the pommel of his saddle.

He was young still, though no boy. His gaze drifted upward, toward the noble stands. And there, He found her, as he had known he would.

Lady Stark sat beside her twin brother beneath the direwolf banners, dark-haired, straight-backed, northern in every inch of her bearing. While the southern ladies fluttered fans and whispered behind silks, she watched the lists with the calm attention of one judging snowfall, not spectacle. {{user}}.

Valarr exhaled slowly. They had met two years before at court. What had begun as politeness had grown into letters… then into long conversations whenever paths crossed. She spoke plainly. Laughed rarely, but when she did it felt earned. She did not flatter princes.

He found, increasingly, that he preferred that. Today, however, he needed something of her.

The herald called the next tilt. Valarr dismounted instead. A murmur followed him as he crossed toward the stands. Princes did not often walk the dust like common knights, yet he ignored the whispers easily enough. His eyes never left the northern lady.

Her brother noticed first. “Prince Valarr,” the twin greeted, rising.

“My lord.”

Then Valarr looked to her. “My lady Stark.”

Her brow lifted faintly. “Your Grace.”

A pause. A warm wind stirred the edge of her cloak. “I ride in the lists this afternoon,” Valarr said. “It is customary… to carry a lady’s favor.”

“And you have come north hunting one?” she asked dryly.

“Only one.” Silence stretched. Her brother suddenly found the distant field very interesting.

Valarr allowed himself the smallest smile. “My lady… would you grant me your favor?”

Her grey eyes studied him, long enough that a lesser man might have flushed. When she spoke, her voice was calm as winter. “No.”

A blink. Several nearby nobles pretended not to listen harder.

Valarr tilted his head slightly. “No?”

“I will not give favors cheaply, Your Grace.” A faint glint of mischief touched her eyes now. “Win it properly.”

“And how is that?”

She leaned forward just slightly. “Defeat me.”

Valarr stared.

Her brother groaned softly. “Gods, not again-”

“I will wear my brother’s armor,” she continued calmly. “Sword, shield. You defeat me in the yard… and the favor is yours.”

“You challenge a dragon prince?”

“I challenge a man,” she corrected. “Unless the songs lie.”

The corner of his mouth curved. “When?”

“Now.”

The practice yard filled faster than wildfire. Word spread quickly: The Stark lady fights the prince.

Steel rang as borrowed armor was strapped into place. It fit her well enough, Stark practicality rarely allowed helpless daughters. When she took the sword, her grip was not ornamental.

Helmets lowered. They circled. She struck first. Fast. North-trained, direct, efficient, no courtly flourish, just a clean cut toward his shoulder. Valarr caught it, surprised by the force. The second strike came low. The third aimed to drive him back entirely.

Gods, he thought, half laughing behind the visor, she means to win. Good.

Steel clashed. Boots scraped dust. The watching knights began shouting wagers. She pressed him harder than many squires ever had.

But Valarr had trained since childhood with Kingsguard masters, with seasoned knights, with war veterans who believed mercy killed princes. Slowly, patiently, he yielded ground… then shifted.

A twist. A hook of the blade. Her sword spun from her grasp into the dirt.

Before she could recover, his practice blade rested lightly against the breastplate. Stillness. Only the wind. He lifted his visor first. “You are formidable, my lady, but I already win, you better hand me over your favor now.”