Ashford Meadow had become something else entirely.

What was usually no more than open grass by the Cockleswent had turned, almost overnight, into a second town, silk instead of stone, color instead of quiet. Pavilions stretched wide across the field, banners snapping in the summer wind, merchants shouting over one another, music weaving through the press of bodies. Lords and knights, hedge knights and fools alike, all drawn for the same reason: a name day celebration made grander than it had any right to be.

Lord Ashford had called the tourney for his youngest daughter, Gwin, newly thirteen, seated as the Queen of Love and Beauty while five champions bore her favor and defended her honor in the lists. Any man bold enough could challenge them, take their place, win glory for a day or a lifetime. It was meant to be spectacle, nothing more. Three days of tilts, flowers, and laughter, and then it would be over.

But when dragons rode in, even something small learned how to hold its breath. The banners announced them before the riders came fully into view, red and black, unmistakable against the gold of the meadow. The noise did not vanish, not entirely, but it shifted, softened at the edges, like a crowd remembering itself under the weight of royal eyes.

The gates stood open as the royal procession passed through, ordered and unhurried. Two standard-bearers led, their banners dark with red and black, the three-headed dragon stirring in the wind. Close behind rode the Kingsguard, white cloaks clear even at a distance, armor catching the morning light as they crossed into the courtyard.

They crossed the courtyard without breaking pace, and the moment they did, stable boys and squires hurried forward in a flurry of movement, bowing as they reached for reins, hands quick despite their lowered heads.

The steward stepped ahead, voice raised just enough to carry. “Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honourable Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne.” The words landed cleanly, though the pause that followed did not. Another rider drew alongside Baelor, and the steward faltered, recovering with less certainty. “And… his brother. Maekar.”

“My Lord of Ashford,” Baelor greeted, already stepping forward, composed as the exchange settled into place. Lord Ashford answered with pride too open to miss, drawing Gwin forward, presenting her as the cause for all of it. Androw and Robert stood where they should, the family arranged as neatly as the banners above them, and within that order stood {{user}}, third-born and first daughter, watching as it unfolded.

Her attention shifted without warning. Just beyond Baelor’s shoulder, past the line of white cloaks, another rider had come to a halt. Prince Valarr, Baelor’s eldest son.

He did not wait for the steward this time. He dismounted in one smooth motion, boots meeting stone without noise. There was something of Baelor in him at a glance—the same mismatched eyes, the same shape to his features—but not the same weight. Younger. Less fixed. His gaze moved across the Ashfords with practiced ease, touching where courtesy required, nothing lingering, until it did. It found her, and stayed.

He approached {{user}} without hesitation, as though it had always been his intention to do so, not pulled there, not uncertain. Up close, there was nothing careless in him, everything measured, yes, but not distant, not cold. His attention settled on her fully, and stayed there in a way that did not feel accidental.

“My lady,” Valarr greeted, inclining his head with quiet respect.