From the gallery above the tiltyard Valarr watched the morning lists assemble below: bright banners snapping in the wind, squires running, knights adjusting straps and greaves. The city roared beyond the walls like some restless beast, but inside the yard there was only the measured clatter of order.

Tournaments, Valarr had long ago decided, revealed men far more honestly than councils ever did. Below, a trumpet sounded. The northern party was arriving.

They came without southern glitter. No silk parade, no peacock plumes. Only grey wool, heavy cloaks, and the direwolf banners of Winterfell. Their horses were smaller than the Reach destriers but hard-muscled and scarred by long roads.

At their head rode two figures. Twins.

The brother was first to draw notice: straight-backed, solemn, already carrying himself like a lord though he could not yet be more than twenty. His gaze measured distances, exits, men, and threats.

The sister drew notice second. And held it. She rode slightly behind, not from submission but from indifference, as if processions bored her. Her dark northern hair had half escaped its bindings. Her grey eyes moved constantly.

The tourney began three days later. By then the northern twins had settled into court life with surprising speed. The brother spoke little, trained often, bowed properly, and earned respect the old way: through silence and discipline.

The sister did the opposite. Lady {{user}} laughed too loudly in halls. Asked blunt questions of knights. Walked the castle without escort.

Half the court adored her. The other half predicted disaster.

Valarr… watched. Not with fascination. With caution.

She was the sort of person who shifted rooms merely by entering them. Dangerous, for anyone meant to rule.

The day Aerion lost his horse, the sky was clear and mercilessly blue.

Prince Aerion Targaryen rode like a man who believed the gods had personally sculpted him from arrogance. His armor gleamed black and red; his lance never trembled.

Three opponents fell. Then came the Stark. The northern brother saluted once, cleanly. No flourish. No speech. The tilt began. The first pass shattered both lances. Second pass, Aerion leaned too aggressive. Third, The crack of impact rang like a breaking tree.

Aerion flew. Not slid. Actually flew. He struck the dirt in a burst of dust and outrage. For one glorious, frozen second, the entire tiltyard forgot how to breathe. Then his roar out of anger came.

Trouble followed before sunset. Valarr was present when the guards escorted Lady {{user}} into Prince Maekar’s solar. She did not look frightened. She looked irritated.

Maekar stood stiff as an iron post beside the window. Aerion paced like a chained wildfire. Baelor leaned against the table already smiling in anticipation of nonsense.

Valarr remained quiet near the wall.

“She assaulted a prince,” Aerion snapped to Maekar, “she struck me.”

Lady {{user}} folded her arms. “You grabbed my buttocks,” she said plainly. “In a corridor. After telling me northern women should learn obedience.”

Aerion flushed red with anger. “I was correcting-”

“You were touching.”

Silence. Baelor made a choking sound suspiciously like suppressed laughter.

Maekar’s jaw tightened. “Did you truly strike my son?”

“Yes.”

“With intent to harm?”

“With intent to remove his hand.”

Baelor lost the battle and barked laughter outright. Valarr, despite himself, felt the corner of his mouth almost move. Almost.

Baelor said. “Well then. Seems efficient. Hand removed, problem solved.”

“Aerion is your nephew, you have to defend him,” Maekar warned.

“And she,” Baelor replied warmly, “is clearly innocent. We can't punish a lord's daughter for something like this.”

Even Lady {{user}} blinked at that.

Aerion stormed out before get humiliated further.

Later, in the cooling evening, Valarr found her alone in the outer garden, studying the Blackwater as if judging whether it was worth freezing. “I'm sorry for what happened to you, my lady. I give you credit for struck my cousin, He absolutely deserves to be beaten.”