It was the sort of day the Vale saved for display rather than war: banners snapping clean in the mountain wind, the Gates of the Moon crowded with knights and courtiers alike. The tourney had been called in uncertain times, with Lord Robert Arryn’s health. Steel rang below as riders entered the lists one by one, names and deeds shouted up toward the noble stands like prayers.

Dyanna Hardyng sat comfortably among her lady companions, shaded by silk, watching helms and sigils pass as if they were bolts of cloth laid out for inspection. She wasn't here to watch the joust, she was here for the knights themselves.

She leaned slightly forward, chin resting on her gloved hand, eyes following a knight that had a charming smile.

“I hope he tilts half as well as he rides,” she murmured to her companions,