AKOTSK

*The feast before the Ashford Tourney was in full swing.

Music echoed beneath the enormous silk pavilion while hundreds of candles cast golden light across polished armor, jeweled gowns, and flowing banners. Servants hurried between crowded tables carrying roasted boar, honey-glazed ducks, fresh trout, wheels of cheese, and enough wine to drown half the Reach.

At the center of the high table sat King Daeron II Targaryen, his crown gleaming softly beneath the candlelight. The king listened more than he spoke, exchanging quiet words with lords and maesters while occasionally smiling at some private joke.

Beside him sat Prince Baelor Breakspear, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne. Though dressed far more simply than many of the nobles surrounding him, he seemed impossible to overlook. Knights, hedge knights, and great lords alike approached his table throughout the evening. Baelor greeted each with the same easy courtesy, listening attentively and remembering names that lesser princes would have forgotten.

A few seats away, Prince Maekar Targaryen looked thoroughly unimpressed by the festivities. The stocky prince drank sparingly while surveying the hall with narrowed violet eyes. Every so often he exchanged a brief comment with a knight or lord, though his attention seemed more focused on tomorrow’s lists than tonight’s celebrations.

Prince Daeron Targaryen lounged comfortably among several companions, already deep in his cups. A half-empty goblet rested near one hand as he laughed at something nobody else appeared to understand. Every so often his dreamy lilac eyes drifted toward the crowds as if searching for things only he could see.

Prince Aerion Targaryen cut a far more striking figure.

Dressed in crimson, gold, and black, he moved through the feast like a dragon strolling among sheep. Smiles followed him wherever he went, though few seemed entirely genuine. Some nobles welcomed his attention. Others visibly relaxed when he passed them by.

Near the younger nobles sat Prince Valarr Targaryen.

The young prince’s dark hair and mismatched eyes drew attention wherever he went. Several aspiring knights eagerly sought his company while others watched him from afar, weighing the future heir’s measure. Tomorrow he would once again ride in the lists beneath his black banners.

Not far from him, Prince Matarys laughed with a group of young knights, his easy charm earning friends more readily than his older brother’s reserved nature ever could.

Elsewhere throughout the pavilion, rivalries quietly simmered.

Ser Humfrey Hardyng boasted loudly of tomorrow’s victories.

Lord Ashford moved tirelessly among his guests, ensuring every lord and lady was properly welcomed.

The Fossoways occupied a table crowded with cousins, retainers, and sworn swords, while whispers of old feuds drifted between cups of wine and half-finished songs.

Hedge knights sat shoulder to shoulder with merchants and lesser lords, each dreaming that tomorrow might change their fortunes forever.

Outside, beyond the lantern glow, thousands of tents stretched across Ashford Meadow beneath a sky filled with stars.

Tomorrow would bring glory.

Tomorrow would bring humiliation.

Tomorrow would make legends.

But tonight, the Seven Kingdoms feasted.*

*Night had settled over Ashford Meadow, but sleep was a stranger to the tourney grounds.

Thousands of campfires burned across the fields like scattered stars fallen to earth.

The distant sounds of laughter, music, arguments, and clashing practice swords drifted through the warm summer air. Knights made final preparations for the morrow. Squires polished armor until it gleamed in the firelight. Horses stamped and snorted within their pavilions.

The great lords feasted.

The hedge knights dreamed.

The ambitious prayed.

And the desperate wondered whether tomorrow might finally change their lives.

The royal encampment sat at the heart of it all.

Black-and-red banners bearing the three-headed dragon stirred lazily in the evening breeze.

Prince Baelor Breakspear’s pavilion remained illuminated long after many others. The Prince of Dragonstone sat with maps, letters, and reports spread across a table, balancing the duties of a Hand with the responsibilities of a father and heir. Even here, at a tourney, the realm demanded his attention.

Nearby, Prince Maekar’s camp was quieter.

The Prince of Summerhall stood among men-at-arms and household knights, inspecting armor and speaking with soldiers. The festivities held little appeal for him. Tomorrow’s contests interested him far more than tonight’s celebrations.

Prince Valarr sat outside his black silk pavilion beneath scarlet pennons. A silver goblet rested in one hand while squires moved in and out of the tent carrying pieces of polished armor. Several young knights lingered nearby, eager to speak with the future prince.

Not far away, laughter spilled from Prince Daeron’s camp.

The eldest son of Maekar had gathered musicians, wine, and questionable company around a fire. Empty cups littered the grass while Daeron himself lounged comfortably among them, appearing entirely unconcerned with the approaching tournament.

Elsewhere, Prince Aerion Brightflame stalked through the campgrounds dressed in red, gold, and black. His presence drew attention wherever he went. Some watched him with admiration.

Others watched him with caution.

Most watched him at all.

Young Prince Aegon had vanished hours ago into the maze of tents, likely seeking adventure where none existed.

The Kingsguard patrolled.

Servants hurried between camps.

Merchants counted coin.

Singers sharpened stories that would be exaggerated by morning.

Above it all loomed Ashford Castle, its towers silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

Tomorrow, lances would shatter.

Blood would spill.

Reputations would be made and broken.

But for now, beneath the stars of a peaceful realm, the great and small alike waited for dawn.*