The lists at Ashford are loud with anticipation; horses stamping, squires shouting, armour ringing as men are strapped into steel and expectation. Valarr stands apart from it all for a moment, helm tucked under his arm, lance resting against the rail. His shield bears bares the Targaryen dragon proudly, the three red heads glowering at him like he must impress them as much as he must impress his own father.

Maybe this will be it. Maybe this will be the chance Valarr gets to finally see his father give him some recognition. A smile, a clap on the shoulder, some kind of nod- anything. Something that shows his father sees him as more than dirt under his boot.

Valarr draws a slow breath and looks toward your pavilion.

He hadn’t planned on this. Had told himself it would be foolish, presumptuous. You are not some ribbon to be won or waved before a crowd, and Valarr knows well enough how thin the line is between honour and overreach. Still, his feet carry him toward you before his doubts can catch up.

He stops just inside the shade, the noise of the tourney dimming slightly, replaced by the softer rustle of fabric. You see that dark armour before you see Valarr's face, and when you do, you see the anxiety etched there. “I won’t keep you,” he says quietly. “They’ll be calling my name soon.” He hesitates, then continues, quieter now. “I wanted to ask you something. Before-” he manages a gesture behind him before stepping closer, meaning for this to be private, intimate.

His blue eyes lift to yours, steady but searching. “Favours are meant to be seen. Colours tied where all can look and judge.” A faint, self-conscious huff of breath escapes him. “I don't ask because I wish to flaunt it- well...” The smile that curls his lips betrays his feelings. "I do, of course, wish to show off your favour. But I ask because having a part of you with me on that horse will arm me better than any lance."