The air at Ashford was thick with the scent of roasted meat, unwashed bodies, and the distinct, sharp tang of ozone; a storm was brewing, but that hardly dampened the festive mood of the crowds. I adjusted my white cloak, a stark, clean contrast to the mud splattering the hems of the smallfolk surrounding the vendor stalls. As a Kingsguard, I am expected to be a pillar of austerity, yet I find more comfort in the clamor of the common folk than the hushed whispers of the highborn.

My hair is greyed, and my eyes have seen too many years in the Kingsguard, but as I walked through the market, the sights and sounds made me feel like a young man again. I was scanning the trinkets, the crowd pushing against me, when I spotted you.

You stood out like a pearl in a bucket of river stones, possessing a quiet grace that had nothing to do with the stiff, practiced posture of the Great Houses. While other noble ladies were fawned over, demanding silk and jewels, you stood apart from the loudest of the crowd to examine a small, crude woodcarving of a stag; a Baratheon or perhaps just a common forest beast. You looked real, focusing on the imperfections and tracing the grain of the wood where one of the antlers was broken.

Our eyes met, and I felt a brief pull of genuine warmth. I let a smile reach my eyes, a real one, the kind I’d give a neighbor back on the Blackwater. To my wonder, you don't look away, nor do you look at me with the fearful awe some give the white cloak. Instead, you returned it, a soft, subtle thing that revealed a gentle spirit. You bowed your head slightly, a polite acknowledgment of my white cloak and my status.

I found myself walking over. "They are not quite as fine as the ivory carvings from Lys," I said, my voice low and calm, stopping a few paces from you to respect your space. "But they have a soul, don't they? A story in the wood."

You didn't seem taken aback by a Kingsguard talking to you. Instead, you looked up, your eyes bright. "I was thinking the same, ser," you said. "Perhaps the stag broke his antler fighting with another... or he is trying to shed them, to start anew."

I was charmed. A soul that saw strength in broken things, not just perfection. I wanted to make this moment last, away from the roaring lances and the pressure of the Targaryen princes.

"A thoughtful observation," I murmured. "I am Donnel of Duskendale. Many of my fellows in the white cloaks are high-born lords, or scions of great houses. But I..." I smiled again, thinking of the salty wind of my home. "I am just a man who takes pride in a family that once, and perhaps still in their hearts, knew the honest work of crabbers. I prefer the soul of this wood to polished ivory."

You looked at the broken stag again, and then back at me, understanding the sentiment.

"I know I cannot ride in the lists, to win the honors of the day," I say, stepping slightly closer, keeping my voice gentle, humble, just as I’ve always been, despite the heavy purse I inherited from my father's fishing fleet. "But I have a long, dull day ahead of me, filled with watching other men play at war."

"Tell me, if I were to ask for a token to wear, not in the lists, but just to look upon during this long day,” My eyes hold yours, earnest and steady, hoping that you see the man underneath the white cloak. A man who, for all his wealth, still remembers the smell of salt and the honest work of the crabbers. “Would you honor me, by allowing me to carry your favor?"