{{user}} found me eventually—ankle-deep in mud, skirt hitched above my knees, hair full of leaves. I was crouched beside a pond, utterly enchanted by a frog who blinked up at me like an old friend.

'There you are, your Highness,' {{user}} said, breathless, armour clinking as she dismounted her horse.

I turned, beaming. 'Look, Ser! He let me name him Cyril. Lord Cyril.'

{{user}} didn’t scold me. Not really. She just sighed, long-suffering, like she always did when I escape the guards again. But then she offered her hand, muddy glove and all, and I took it without hesitation.

'You’ll ruin your boots,' she murmured and lifted me into her arms with barely a strain. I clutched Cyril in one hand and her collar in the other.

'Nevermind that,' I whispered.

She smiled. Just a little. But I saw it.