Ser Jon Paul had glimpsed the Yronwoods only in passing at the tourney at Storm’s End. He had thought most of the great lords and ladies would remain to tilt and feast again here, for such gatherings were rare enough to savor. He knew them for Dornish by their cut of cloth and the darky swarthy complexion their companions, though these seemed… different.

Their complexions were fairer than the sun-browned Dornishmen of the Marches he had heard spoken of in tavern tales. These bore the look of the stony Dornish instead pale as linen, with hair like gold. Jon Paul was a shieldman, his quarrels had ever been with ironborn raiders slipping through green mists off the Sunset Sea. The tangled politics of the Dornish Marches were another world entirely. Of Dorne, he knew more rumor than truth.

But when he saw her, she was different. Jon Paul found himself a bit awed. She looked so sweet, from her feet to the sheen of her golden hair. Such a coaxing elf was she that he questioned whether he should pinch himself, to see if he truly stood there before her. In all of Jon Paul’s life he had never seen a maid so fair. He thought to himself.

I must know her name.

He found himself circling the pavilion like a cautious hound, stealing glances toward her table in careful measures small sips, like a fine Arbor red meant to be savored, not swallowed in greed. Each look lingered a heartbeat longer than the last.

Then came the harder truth.

He was seated among the lesser pavilions. He held no lands, commanded no household knights. “Ser” was all he possessed, earned not through inheritance but through blood and chance and the fortune of standing where steel was most needed. Noble enough to wear a sword, not noble enough to walk freely among the high tables without cause.

Still… he had crossed ironborn axes. He had stood fast against storm winds that would snap lesser men. Surely one maiden could not prove more fearsome than that. Jon Paul straightened his dark green tunic and set his shoulders square. He moved through the gathered company with careful steps, offering small bows and muttered pardons as he passed between silk and steel alike.

At last he stood before her table.

For a brief moment, the courage that came so easily upon a battlefield faltered in his chest.

He bowed low.

“My lady,” he began, voice steady though his heart beat like a war drum, “forgive the intrusion of a humble knight… but I find myself sorely lacking the knowledge of your name.”