A jeer rose up from the crowd, and you shifted heavily back towards the tourney ground. You sensed the doubling of Baelor’s unease before you saw your husband, straight-backed and proud, stalking the champions’ tents. He threw back his flaming helmet, exposing his pale sneer. You took another sip of wine.

“Your kin challenges.” Baelor prompted without turning his head.

Aerion’s mount loomed over the Targaryen tent.

You smiled blithely, the picture of a pleased Valyrian wife. “I pray that your champion unhorses mine,” you muttered between curved lips.

Your uncle exhaled in what was certainly disapproval and almost a laugh.

Aerion flounced past your cousin and towards the argyle Hardyng tent, from which the Vale’s young champion ducked, already securing his gauntlets. He was an unfamiliar face, ill at ease, but resolved. You felt a stab of pity, and drowned it in your cup.

Baelor twiddled his signet ring.

Hardyng’s steed was brought forth, but Aerion did not linger. Instead he galloped forwards, hoisting his lance in the shadow of the royal box.

“My lady wife!” he called up with a grin. “Will you grant me the honor of your favor?”

Baelor eyed you carefully. You drew yourself up, and he took your goblet, holding it at a distance.

Aerion’s white face was turned expectantly upward. His smile broadened as you approached, leaning over the balustrade with a bloodred ribbon pulled from your hair. You fastened it cleanly, and he licked along his lower lip, surveying you with darkened eyes. You were dressed in your house colors, in a high-necked gown that showed little of your chest but tapered at the waist in the way that always drew his gaze.

“My lord husband,” you said shortly.

Unabashed, he blew a kiss to your ribbon and shoved down his helmet.

You dropped somewhat inelegantly into your seat, crossing your legs and tossing the weight of your skirts over one knee. Baelor hummed in approval. You held out your hand, but he did not relinquish your goblet.

“Uncle,” you pressed him.

He looked stubbornly upon the tourney field, holding the goblet in his far hand. “You represent the house of the dragon,” he said quietly.

You gritted your teeth. Were your father here—or even your brothers—you need not be the Hand’s prop. But of course, were your brothers here, you would not be so indulgent.

The mere thought of their absence tempted you to swipe for your goblet. Gone in the night, the Kingsguard had said. Nowhere to be found. You had emptied half of Lord Ashford’s wine cellar after your arrival until you were drunk enough to seek out Aerion’s tent and ride him till he begged. It didn’t take particularly long.

He had fallen asleep beneath you, and you remained there, listening to the steady beat of his heart, until the walk back to the castle didn’t feel so perilous. You had intended to fetch another bottle before attempting sleep, and you had found it in your father’s hand as he sat, looking out over the lights of the tourney yard with more than his customary grimness. He poured you a goblet. You sat beside him and drank. You woke at the table to the sunrise and scandalized Ashford servants rousing you, covering your modest night robe in a blanket and leading you back to your quarters. Your father had left on horseback, they told you.

You resented him for leaving you with only Baelor and Valarr, dull and dutiful as they were, and your dumb cunt of a husband. The Ashford girl, at least, was not so bad. You were expected to accompany her, and she had been visibly irritated at your inebriation, which was more fire than most young ladies would display towards a princess. It entitled her to a certain degree of respect.

Aerion and the Hardyng ser took their places on the tourney ground, your ribbon fluttering on your husband’s lance. He stared determinedly forward, feet heavy upon his stirrups.

At the horn’s prompting, they took off. Hardyng’s lance wavered once before making its aim, but Aerion’s dropped. He leaned hard upon the stirrup, ducking Hardyng’s lance and sending him listing.

The crowd made their dismay known.

Your fingers itched for your goblet.

They lined up again, Hardyng hefting his unbroken lance while Aerion trotted easily back into place. His helmet’s metal sneer turned unmistakably towards you. You looked at him only in the instant before the horn sounded, and he shifted into readiness again.

The mounts hurtled towards each other, lances held at the ready. The moment before a clash, Aerion’s dropped again, impaling Hardyng’s horse through the neck. It let out a screeching neigh, and its knees collapsed, spilling Hardyng onto the tourney ground and pitching forward, still screaming, atop him.

“Oh, Gods…” you heard the Ashford girl sniffle.