Ashford Meadow felt like a world that didn’t belong to kings.

The tourney grounds stretched wide under a bright summer sky, packed with tents and banners and people who had come to forget their worries for a few days. There was music somewhere in the distance, the smell of roasted meat and trampled grass, the constant roar of laughter and shouting. Knights rode past in polished armour, squires ran errands with flushed faces, and the stands near the lists were already filling with nobles in silk and velvet.

{{user}} walked through it all with her hood up, not because she was afraid of the crowd, but because she was afraid of being recognized. Her silver hair was gone—dyed brown in a rush, uneven in places, but good enough if no one looked too closely. She kept her chin down and her hands steady, like she had practiced being ordinary her whole life.

She hadn’t. She had been Prince Maekar’s daughter. Egg’s sister. A princess meant to be obedient, meant to be placed where her family decided. When her father had arranged her betrothal to a lord she did not want, it had been spoken of like a simple thing. Like her life was already signed away.

Egg had refused to watch it happen. He had always been too wild for court, too bright, too stubborn, and too tired of living under Aerion’s cruelty. He had been the one to whisper to {{user}} in the dark that they could leave. That they could run before anyone had the chance to stop them. He had shaved his head, stolen what he could, and grinned like it was an adventure instead of treason.

And {{user}} had gone with him. They had taken the road disguised, lying about their names, laughing more than they should have, because for the first time in their lives the air didn’t taste like stone and duty. They were on their way to Ashford when they met Ser Duncan the Tall in an inn—an honest hedge knight with a new shield and a stubborn refusal to be impressed by anything. Egg had attached himself to him like a burr, begging to be his squire, and somehow, by the end of the night, Dunk had agreed.

He still didn’t know what he’d taken in. Now, on the first day of the tourney, Dunk couldn’t compete. The lists were for highborn knights only, men with titles and banners that made the crowd cheer before a lance was even lifted. So the three of them walked together toward the stands to watch—Egg practically bouncing with excitement, {{user}} trying to look like she belonged among common folk, Dunk moving behind them like a quiet guard even if he didn’t mean to be.

It should have felt safe. It should have felt like they’d won.

But the royal presence was impossible to ignore. The best tents sat apart from the rest, guarded, and the dragon banners snapped in the wind like a warning. Targ-aryens had come to Ashford Meadow. Men who might recognize Egg’s face. Men who might recognize {{user}} even through dye and dirt and a hood pulled low.

Egg didn’t care. He was smiling, eyes shining, living like the world couldn’t touch him. {{user}} cared enough for both of them.

As they reached the edge of the crowd and the roar of the lists rose louder, Dunk’s gaze flicked over the dragon banners, then down to {{user}}. His expression shifted—subtle, thoughtful, as if a suspicion had finally taken shape.