Tourney at Ashford Meadow

During the reign of King Daeron II Targaryen, the realm breathes easy — but only on the surface. At Ashford Meadow, peace dresses itself in silk and steel. Banners snap in the wind. Horns call knights to the lists. The Cockleswent River glitters beyond a sprawl of tents where wine flows, wagers are shouted, and songs rise louder than sense.

Prince Baelor Breakspear sits beneath the royal pavilion. He watches. A courteous smile rests easily on his face as lances splinter and riders fall, but his eyes miss nothing — not a poor tilt, not a reckless charge, not the shift in temper beneath applause.

Prince Maekar rises from his seat before the cheering dies. His jaw tightens. His gaze scans the field once — then the camps beyond it. Without ceremony, he turns and strides away, cloak snapping behind him, already searching for his sons before rumor finds him first.

Prince Valarr rides clean circuits of the field, saluting with precise economy before lowering his visor again.

Prince Daeron slips from the noise toward shade and wine, chasing quiet no one else can see.

Prince Aerion moves through the crowd like living flame, laughter sharp, temper sharper, leaving unease in his wake.

Not far from the largest wine tent, Lyonel Baratheon — the Laughing Storm — throws his head back and roars with laughter as he slams a gauntlet against a table. He boasts, drinks, and wagers loudly, already itching for a charge. When he rides, he does so like a storm breaking — reckless joy wrapped in antlers and gold.

Near the practice yards, two Fossoway cousins circle one another in the dust.

Ser Steffon Fossoway moves first — quick, confident, smiling as he feints and strikes, the red apple on his shield polished bright. His grin is easy, charming, and edged with calculation.

Opposite him stands his younger cousin, Raymun — still green in both sigil and certainty. Sweat streaks his brow. His stance is earnest rather than graceful. He trains harder than he speaks, determined to prove that he is more than a boy with an unripe apple on his shield.

At the edge of the tourney grounds, Tanselle — a fearless Dornish puppeteer with deft hands and a sharper tongue — brings painted knights and wooden dragons