P . O . V Lyanna Stark
281 AD
Riverlands, Harrenhal
"Am I to understand correctly—you're asking me to obtain armor for you within a day, so you can avenge Howland on the squires of House Frey, Blount, and Hay, who wronged him?" Sitting in a separate section of Lord Temper's tent, furnished like a small living room, I increasingly realized how foolish my position had become.
After that question, Reed and I were led into another room of the tent, a small reception area with a camp stove and an elegant table and chairs made of white wood. There, sipping a delicious herbal infusion that cleared my head and washed away all the aftereffects of the wine, I told the story that had prompted me to ask Temper for armor.
It so happened that, on his way from the Isle of Faces, Howland sailed toward Harrenhal, where preparations for the tourney were already underway. The first to see him were three squires from Houses Frey, Blount, and Heay, who eventually began bullying and beating him. Thank the Old Gods, I was passing by and recognized Reed, having seen him several times in Wintrefell during the feasts. My father's guards eventually drove those bastards away, and I brought Howland to our tent, introducing him to my brothers, who offered him food and lodging.
"Yes," I finally answered, having carefully weighed everything again. "I want to avenge Howland on those insolent Southerners."
"And why can't Howland do it himself?" Temper asked, popping another grape from the dish on the table into his mouth.
"Why are you asking such awkward questions..." I thought, looking at the swamp dweller, his fists clenched, his head hanging helplessly, looking at his feet.
"I can't," he replied before I could say anything, not looking up from the floor. "Yes, we swamp dwellers are shorter than most people, but we are not without our pride. I am no knight—there is no place for horses or tournaments in the swamps. Like all my people, I am more at home in a simple wooden boat than a tournament steed, and my hands are made for an oar, not a spear. I really wanted revenge, but… even if I tried, I would surely lose. They would make fools of me and all my people."
There was so much bitterness and anger in his words that I really wanted to pat him on the shoulder, to at least help ease his grief a little. But I pulled my hand back just in time, realizing that doing so would only make things worse—no man could tolerate being pitied by a woman.
"Then why Lady Stark?" the southerner continued his interrogation, still eating his grapes. "He's really a friend of Howland's? Too many questions and not a drop of help!" "Why not one of her many brothers or cousins? Even Jorah Mormont, even if they were equipped like good knights, would beat those squires to death with a simple stick."
"Because I asked him to!" I said loudly, slowly losing my temper. Things weren't going quite as I'd planned, and I didn't like it at all. "I want to personally knock their teachers off their feet and shame them, showing them what happens when you don't train your squire!"
"So you haven't considered what will happen to Howland's pride when a woman avenges him?" Temper suddenly raised his voice slightly, causing me to instinctively shrink back into my seat. There was something tyrannical and penetrating in that voice, something that made you instinctively obey the speaker. My father, Hoster Tully, Roose Bolton, and indeed any great lord wielding considerable power possessed such tones. But for such intonations to be present in the voice of a former merchant...
"Lady Stark, learn to separate your childish desires from reality. If you had acted as a mysterious knight on the day of the tournament, you might have saved Reed's honor in the eyes of others and taught the presumptuous squires a lesson, but Howland would have carried the shame of having been saved by a woman for the rest of his life." Lord Temper continued, not even raising his tone, but it seemed as if his words were beating like an alarm in my head.
- But…
"No BUTs!" the Lord of Osgiliath (I'd heard the name of the castle back at the feast) barked, silencing me with a single glance, and sat down in his chair. "Let's do it this way: I'll deal with the three fools myself, but for that to happen, Howland, you'll need to take part in tomorrow's archery competition and win. Can you do it?"
Seeing Reed's confident nod, I turned towards the green-eyed brown-haired man, who was looking at me with a very strange look.
"And you, my dear Lady Stark, will have to compete in the tournament and reach at least the quarterfinals." Hearing his words, I almost choked on the tincture I was drinking at the time.
"Is he joking?" the thought flashed through my mind, then vanished as soon as I looked into those emerald, glowing eyes, filled with undisguised malice. Thank the Old Gods it wasn't directed at me.
"Are you serious?" I asked, trying to restore my previously calm expression.
"Completely," the Dornish lord replied, folding his hands. "Armor and a horse of your size are difficult to obtain, but not impossible. I believe I can provide you with one this afternoon. You can even practice to become more comfortable in the saddle. If the rumors of your riding and military skills are true, you'll handle it easily."
"But I'm not a knight! I didn't train for a tournament or anything!" He really got me going. The whole camp probably heard my scream, judging by Howland, who was practically covering his ears with his hands. "How am I supposed to fight that same Robert? He'd knock me out of the saddle with the first blow! And I don't even need to talk about the others!"
"I'll bribe the manager to give you opponents who aren't too strong. And if you run into someone strong... you'll have a few trump cards."
After hearing this, I quietly sank into a chair, in a state of permanent shock.
"How did my plan turn into THIS?" I thought, looking slightly hunted at the man sitting before me… the monster who had twisted all my plans and intentions to suit himself. "I just wanted to buy a small suit of battle armor. And this Dornish lord was the perfect candidate—according to Howland, you could get anything you wanted from him, and he knew how to keep his mouth shut, never telling anyone that I was the mysterious knight... And I can't refuse. The honor of the North and myself are at stake. What am I getting at all for?"
"Why are you doing this?" I finally asked. My voice sounded cracked and dry, as if I hadn't had a drop of moisture in days. This conversation had exhausted me beyond measure. "What do you gain from my participation in the tournament?"
Looking at me strangely and leaning his elbows on the table, Temper began listing the reasons in an even tone:
"You're right—your participation won't give me much. Except for two things."
Without even waiting for an interested look from me, the Dornish lord continued:
"First, there's the betting." At my ironic raised eyebrow, he merely chuckled and glared at me, signaling that I should hear it out. "Lady Stark, you simply can't imagine the amount of money that circulates during the great tournaments among the disputing lords. Tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of gold pieces change hands these days, enriching some houses and ruining others. But for me, it's not the money that matters, but the services and goods that many lords offer during the betting. Interesting fact: at the last major tournament held in Lannisport five years ago, the Dragon's Blood rubies, mined in the Fourteen Fires mines and gifted to the Serretts by several travelers from Valyria, changed hands. Now they shine on Prince Rhaegar's breastplate, shaped like his coat of arms. Or another example: it was there that the Celtigarts lost two of their Valyrian daggers, leaving them with only one axe. I don't know who won them, but by fusing them together, they could have gotten half the sword the Lannisters covet. And I won't even mention the favors—thanks to them, new allies are made, betrothals are made and broken, and duties and taxes are lifted for some people, allowing their caravans to freely traverse places like the Crossing, the Skyward, the Golden Tooth, and many others.
I was mildly shocked by this revelation. Even I, far removed from politics and southern intrigue, understood the value of Valyrian steel and the importance of taxes and dues. After all, it was thanks to stories of glorious deeds performed by the Starks with Ice in hand that I became who I am, and our castle maester, who possessed two golden links, had thoroughly enlightened me on the importance of a share of the collected money.
- And you want to win the argument with my help?
"Yes. Few would bet on a puny, diminutive knight, especially on him reaching the quarterfinals. You could make a nice profit with minimal risk. Of course, if I'm not mistaken and you're truly as skilled as your older brother."
"I won't give in," I said with a hint of defiance, remembering how upset Brandon had been with me when, during mock family tournaments, my spear would send him flying into the dirt. Although it was a little offensive that I'd been chosen solely for my physique. "And what's the other reason?"
- Fun.
The answer I heard left me stunned once again, not knowing how to react.
"And don't look at me with such distrust," Temper continued. "What I said was the pure truth. This life is too short and fleeting to always consider the opinions of others and their common sense. Therefore, I live as I please, creating a place for my children and their descendants to live. Occasionally, I treat myself to small indulgences in the form of entertainment like this."
Seeing that cheerful look in his narrowed green eyes, I increasingly realized that something was wrong with this man. He was too strange, incomprehensible, and... alien to me. And judging by the bead of sweat trickling down Reed's temple, he understood me perfectly. So, nodding, agreeing to this adventure, the lake dweller and I, bidding farewell to the tent's owner as quickly as possible, rushed away from this camp.
Away from the strange Dornish merchant.
I don't remember how I made it back to my tent, accompanied by Howland. Nor the moment when my father and mother began scolding me and cursing, saying that my disappearance had put all the northerners in Harrenhal on their heads.
But I didn't care.
At that moment, I had only one desire: to sink my face into my favorite pillow, brought from the North and stuffed with soft falcon down, and fall asleep. Which is what I did. Tomorrow and today were going to be difficult, like all the others at this hellish Harrenhal Tourney.
*
Temper hadn't lied—the armor and horse were delivered that afternoon via Reed and I tried them on in the abandoned godswood of Harrenhal, which was as big as Winterfell. So I didn't have to worry about anyone seeing me.
"And why is it that all the commoner trials are taking place today, and Howland isn't around?" I thought, adjusting my underarmor and remembering the reason why my lake friend was now demonstrating the swamp people's mastery of archery.
Hangover.
Most of the lords, even though they hadn't drunk too much (by the standards of yesterday's feast), were hungover this morning and had no intention of participating, let alone watching, in the tournament. Because of this, the tournament organizers, the Whents, decided to hold competitions in archery, singing, horse racing, axe and spear throwing, and the like today.
"Are you satisfied with everything, Lady Stark?" The Dornish merchant, standing nearby and leaning his back against one of the trees, was in a very good mood and made no secret of it.
"It could have been better, Lord Temper," I replied, knowing in my heart that it simply couldn't have been better. The full plate armor, which only needed a little adjustment with special straps, and the thoroughbred Dornish mare, whose grace outshone any horse I'd ever seen, suited me perfectly, creating strange thoughts about a certain green-eyed brown-haired man. "May I inquire, where did you get such small armor that fits me perfectly?"
"A gift," Temper replied, surprising and perplexing me beyond words. "For whom?" "I bought it several years ago at one of the forges in the World, from a talented apprentice who wanted to make it a gift for his sister. But she died of illness before he could finish it. So I bought it cheap and wanted to sell it on the Isthmus. But as you know, there are no knights there. I didn't know that back then, so it just gathered dust in the hold of my ship until the time came." At that moment, he looked meaningfully at me, finishing tightening the laces on the bracer, and smiled. "Who knew it would still be needed? All I had to do was patch it up a bit and update the decorations. Truly, fate works in mysterious ways."
"I see," I said thoughtfully, putting on my helmet adorned with blue bird feathers and pretending not to notice his slip of the tongue. "So he can forge... So before becoming a merchant, he was a blacksmith? Isn't that a bit much for someone so young?"
"You are beautiful, Lady Stark. I didn't think you were one of those girls who look better in armor than in a dress," Temper said, looking me up and down, causing me to blush involuntarily. I'd never received such compliments before. But after examining myself more closely and admiring the reflections of the sun on the mirror-polished elements of my armor, I couldn't help but agree. The armor truly did look wonderful on me, bestowing a sense of security and inner harmony that no southern dress could match. "I took a small liberty and chose a shield with a coat of arms for you myself, a very suitable one."
With these words, he handed me a small (for him) package, covered in simple sackcloth. Inside was a shield. A simple triangular tournament shield, made of lightweight mahogany and covered on the front with thin steel sheets. But what caught my attention most of all, and caused me a wild delight, was the design depicted on the shield. A winter rose. My favorite flower.
"How did you know?" I asked, surprised, the man I had to change my mind about several times a day. "Only my family knows that this is my favorite flower."
"Intuition, Lady Stark," Temper replied mysteriously, causing me to chuckle. "You are too much like this beautiful flower, and your brother Eddard was too vocal in his advice to a certain Storm Lord to give you these flowers as a gift."
The mere mention of Robert soured my mood again, sinking below the White Knife at low tide. But the Dornishman quickly remedied it, producing a scroll from the saddlebag of the Dornish mare he had given me.
"This, Lady Stark, is the list of participants and their placement in the tournament," he said, holding up a list of at least a hundred names, all intricately and intricately linked. "As I promised, I bribed the master of ceremonies and assigned you to a group of less powerful knights. But if you win at least four times, you'll face a very difficult opponent."
My brows furrowed in confusion, I waited for the name of the one I needed to defeat. If it was one of the Kingsguard, the seasoned knights, or, worse, Prince Rhaegar, then Temper's plans would be ruined. But as soon as I heard the name of the one I was about to face, all doubts vanished, leaving only an unwavering determination and a desire to win.
- It will probably be Robert Baratheon.