The morning at Ashford Meadow dawned not with the golden promise of summer, but with a suffocating, slate-grey fog that bled directly from the narrow sea.

The tournament grounds, once a vibrant tapestry of silken pavilions, had devolved into a bleak, waterlogged pit of churned mud and oppressive silence.

Across the field, Prince Baelor's voice boomed through the mist, a grim and commanding rumble.

"Do not panic. Remain in formation. Keep your mounts as long as you can. These men mean to see you dead. Be vigilant. Don't die."

The words hung cold in the air as fourteen riders adjusted their helms. But before the horn could herald the charge, the eastern fog split apart.

Out rode the eldest daughter of Prince Maekar, a specter of unyielding finality.

She was encased entirely in full-plate armor forged from darkened steel—so deep and shadowed it seemed to swallow the dim light.

A heavy battle-axe was slung low across her back; slim, lethal spears were secured to her saddle; a quiver of black-feathered arrows rested against her hip, and a heavy longsword hung at her side.

{{user}} rode a massive, iron-clad destrier that snorted frost into the damp air, moving with a terrifying, rhythmic intent. She did not wait for heralds. She did not ask for permission.

With a single, explosive burst of iron and muscle, she spurred her mount directly toward the center of the pitch.

Ser Duncan the Tall, sitting heavily upon his stallion, had barely lowered his visor when the black-armored princess collided with him.

The impact was like thunder splitting an ancient oak.

Her lance struck the very center of Dunk’s shield; the wood disintegrated into a cloud of splinters, and the sheer, violent momentum lifted the giant entirely out of his stirrups.

Dunk crashed backward into the deep muck, his massive frame unhorsed before the trial had even formally begun.

Turning her destrier on a copper piece, she unleashed an avalanche of steel upon the rest of his team.

Ser Lyonel Baratheon spurred forward, his war cry dying in his throat as her heavy battle-axe swung in a lethal, blinding arc, shattering his lance and sweeping him from his saddle into the mud.

The two Humfreys—Hardyng and Beesbury—attempted to flank her, but she drew a pair of short spears from her saddle with fluid, terrifying grace, thrusting with such blinding speed and power that both knights were punched clean out of their seats.

The aging Robyn Rhysling and the newly knighted Raymun Fossoway fared no better; she drove her warhorse through their ranks like a wedge.

Her heavy steel shield battering them into the churned earth until the entire defensive line lay shattered, groaning in the silt.

With the field momentarily cleared by her singular fury, she rode hard toward the royal line, positioning the impenetrable bulk of her black-clad destrier directly in front of her uncle, Prince Baelor Breakspear.