The early morning sun flooded the magnificent courtyard of Harrenhal, and the grand award ceremony proceeded as scheduled.
Lord Whent, dressed in solemn attire, stood upon the hastily erected dais. Personally, he awarded the golden dragons—symbols of glory and wealth—to the victors of each contest.
When the champions ascended the stage one by one, the Iron Islands became the undeniable focus of the entire assembly. They had achieved an unprecedented feat, sweeping three major championships!
Euron Greyjoy stepped onto the platform with a steady gait. He received a heavy chest containing 40,000 Gold Dragons from Lord Whent—the colossal prize for the Single Combat Champion.
Next came Balon Greyjoy, wearing an arrogant grin as he claimed the 10,000 Gold Dragons for the Axe-Throwing Champion.
Finally, when Euron and Balon stood together representing the Iron Legion of the Seven Islands to receive the massive chest containing 60,000 Gold Dragons—the supreme glory of the Seven-Sided Melee—the atmosphere reached its peak.
Three championships. A total of 110,000 Gold Dragons! When this staggering wealth was carried off the stage, it nearly blinded the eyes of every onlooker.
The Iron Islands had shone brilliantly at the Tourney of Harrenhal, stealing the spotlight and earning immense glory and fortune through indisputable strength.
---
At high noon, the sun was at its fiercest, bathing the massive arena of Harrenhal in golden light.
The most traditional, most revered by knights, and most anticipated event of all—the Final Joust—had finally arrived! This ultimate duel was scheduled as the grand finale of the entire epic festival.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen versus Ser Barristan "The Bold" Selmy.
On these sands, they would offer the audience the ultimate contest of speed, power, and skill. Their duel would draw the most brilliant and breathtaking conclusion to this ten-day tourney filled with blood, glory, and legend.
Where all expectant gazes converged, the Red Viper, Oberyn Martell, and the young Princess Arianne stood on either side of Princess Elia, guarding her. Deep in their eyes lay the pain carved by yesterday's vision, yet there burned a desperate hope.
Oberyn's hand unconsciously tightened around his spear, knuckles white from the strain. Arianne clung tightly to Elia's arm, as if she could physically hold back the coming tragedy. Sunlight spilled through the high windows, but it could not illuminate the shadows in their eyes.
Euron's prophecy from the night before lingered like a ghost: Prince Rhaegar's victory... Ser Barristan falling from his horse... and the unsettling act that would follow. All of it weighed on their hearts like a stone.
Elia forced a calm expression onto her pale face, but her trembling fingertips betrayed her fear. Oberyn leaned down and whispered in her ear, voice soft enough for only her to hear: "Prophecies are but whispers in the wind, sister. No matter what, we are always by your side!"
Arianne dug her nails into her palms. In this moment, they prayed together—hoping Ser Barristan would win, hoping Euron's prophecy would fail, hoping fate would favor a different ending.
The horn for the final joust blasted suddenly, tearing through the anticipation and silence.
Rhaegar Targaryen and Barristan Selmy rode into the lists. Their full plate armor shone under the sun like two gods of war walking out of legend.
Rhaegar, atop his great black charger, paced slowly to the center of the stands. Elia Martell's gaze followed him tightly. Then she saw it—the Prince's eyes drifted past her, locking firmly onto Lyanna Stark on the other side of the stands. In that moment, Elia felt a sharp stab in her chest, but she maintained the poise befitting a Princess of Dorne.
Rhaegar eventually extended his lance, emblazoned with dragon runes, toward Elia. Her face was pale as paper, yet she raised her hand elegantly, accepting the symbolic lance. With trembling fingers, she carefully tied her favor to the tip. Every movement was so solemn it broke Oberyn's heart.
Meanwhile, Ser Barristan wheeled his horse toward Euron Greyjoy. Surprisingly, the legendary knight extended his lance not to a high lady, but to Ashara Dayne beside Euron. Encouraged by Euron's subtle smile, young Ashara stood up and carefully tied her favor to the legendary White Knight's lance, sincerely wishing him glory.
The two horses paced past each other in the center, metal barding clinking crisply. The knights accepted their blessings, tapped lances, and rode to the ends of the track. The sun cast long shadows behind them, foreshadowing the duel that would change the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.
Rhaegar's ruby armor reflected the sun; the three-headed dragon sigil danced on his lance tip. Barristan's white armor flowed like melting snow, bearing the scars of twenty years of service. Fifty yards apart, lances lowered, reins taut in the wind.
The horn sounded, announcing the start of the duel watched by thousands.
Rhaegar Targaryen and Barristan Selmy collided in the center like two torrents of steel.
First Tilt. The riders flashed past, lances screaming through the air. Rhaegar shone like burning fire; Barristan stood like a snowy mountain. Both lances struck shields simultaneously with a deafening boom, but neither knight moved an inch.
Third Tilt. Rhaegar changed tactics, dropping his lance point at the last second. He struck the lower edge of Barristan's shield, nearly flipping it upward. The crowd gasped, but Barristan stabilized his shield with incredible wrist strength and countered in the passing instant, his lance sparking off Rhaegar's pauldron.
Seventh Tilt. Rhaegar's black stallion reared up. The Prince used his superb horsemanship to coordinate with the sudden movement, his lance striking like a viper. Barristan leaned sideways to dodge; the tip barely grazed his breastplate, leaving a clear scratch. In the stands, the Red Viper leaned forward, eyes gleaming with excitement.
Tenth Tilt. Barristan showed why he was a legend. His lance seemed alive. The impact was so severe that Rhaegar rocked in his saddle, nearly losing balance. Rhaegar's lance also struck Barristan's left shoulder. Princess Elia gripped the armrests, knuckles white.
Thirteenth Tilt. Rhaegar launched a storm-like offensive, constantly changing angles. His lance rained blows on Barristan's shield. The old knight blocked steadily, but the impacts numbed his arm. Dust flew in the arena; both horses were drenched in sweat, snorting white steam.
When the horn ended the Fourteenth Tilt, the knights rode back to their starting positions. Rhaegar lifted his visor, revealing a sweat-soaked face and burning violet eyes. Barristan panted slightly; his left pauldron bore a deep dent from the tenth tilt.
The sun baked the arena. The cheers of the crowd sounded muffled, distant. Barristan adjusted his breathing, his gaze sweeping over King Aerys II's tense face in the royal box. The King's fingers drummed neurotically on the armrest, his eyes burning with a desperate desire for his son's glory.
"Let him win." The King's words from the night before echoed in Barristan's ears. "I want the Seven Kingdoms to witness the legacy of the True Dragon."
Twenty years of loyalty weighed as heavy as shackles. As the horn for the Fifteenth Tilt blew and the horses started again, Ser Barristan knew the moment had come.
The riders closed rapidly. Rhaegar's lance was steady as a rock, aimed straight at Barristan's injured left shoulder. The old knight's eyes were sharp as a hawk's. At the last moment, he adjusted his lance angle ever so slightly—a perfect strike turned into a glancing blow. Simultaneously, he intentionally relaxed his grip on his shield.
CRACK.
Rhaegar's lance hit the dead center of Barristan's shield. The immense impact should have been deflected, but the old knight chose to yield. Amidst the sound of shattering wood, Barristan felt the world spin. He allowed the force to lift him from his saddle.
The stands erupted in deafening cheers. Barristan adjusted his posture in mid-air, landing with trained precision, heavy armor crashing against the ground. He lay on his back, looking up at the blue sky through his helm, the chants of "Rhaegar! Rhaegar!" filling his ears.
Rhaegar reined in his horse and removed his helm. His deep purple eyes shone with victory, but also a trace of doubt. He looked at the fallen knight, as if questioning the true quality of this win.
Barristan stood slowly and knelt on one knee. "My Prince," his voice muffled behind the visor, "a beautiful victory."
In the stands, King Aerys smiled with satisfaction. But in Barristan's heart, bitterness welled up—this was the first, and only, time in his career he had intentionally lost a joust.
---
The sky rang with Rhaegar's name. Cheers surged like a tide.
Oberyn's eyes dimmed instantly. Arianne closed hers weakly. Only Elia stared straight at the arena, a bitter curve touching her lips—their deepest fear was becoming reality, step by step.
Lord Whent, wearing a solemn smile, approached Rhaegar carrying the Crown of Love and Beauty—woven of gold and silver thread, inlaid with pearls and winter roses. The Prince's horse pranced excitedly.
Rhaegar took the crown, lifting it high on the tip of his lance. Sunlight danced on the jewels. He began to ride around the lists. Dust kicked up by hooves; cheers erupted like waves. Women threw petals; men shouted "Long Live the True Dragon!" and "Targaryen!"
Every eye followed Rhaegar. Elia Martell sat calmly—or pretended to—her hands gripping Oberyn and Arianne tightly. As the Prince's wife, the future Queen, this crown naturally belonged to her.
But the prophecy of last night...
Euron leaned against the railing, his face calm as water, but a playful light flickered deep in his eyes, as if enjoying a carefully scripted play.
On Rhaegar's second lap, the cheers grew louder. Yet, when he passed the royal box for the third time, unexpectedly, he did not stop. Amidst confused looks, he rode on.
Elia's smile froze. Her slender fingers tightened. Oberyn narrowed his eyes; a suppressed commotion rippled through the Dornish ranks.
Rhaegar's horse finally stopped before the box of House Stark. Lord Rickard frowned. Brandon and Eddard Stark widened their eyes in confusion. Young Benjen stood frozen.
Under the gaze of the entire assembly, Prince Rhaegar leaned down elegantly. With a gentle twitch of his lance, the crown of supreme glory—the winter roses—fell precisely onto the lap of Lyanna Stark.
The blue and white petals contrasted sharply with her brown hair. The maiden looked up, her eyes a mix of shock and bewilderment.
In an instant, the arena fell into dead silence.
Cheers, applause, music—every sound seemed cut off by an invisible hand. Thousands of faces wore expressions of disbelief. Only the flapping of banners in the wind sounded harsh and loud.
"RHAEGAR!"
A roar like thunder exploded.
Brandon Stark shoved his chair aside, standing tall like an enraged direwolf. Veins bulged on his forehead; his grey eyes burned with Northern frost and fire.
"You madman! Are you sick in the head?" Brandon's shout echoed across the silent arena, every word squeezed through gritted teeth. "This is the greatest insult to House Stark!"
Beside him, Robert Baratheon's face was the color of iron. The heir to the Stormlands clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, his broad chest heaving like a brewing storm.
Brandon pointed fiercely at the royal box. "Your wife sits right there! And Lyanna—" his voice trembled with rage, "—my sister is betrothed to Robert! They are to wed soon! What is the meaning of this?"
As the heir to Winterfell, Brandon carried the fierce pride of the North in his bones. He felt not just anger, but a public trampling of his family's honor. He could already imagine the whispers in King's Landing, how this scandal would twist as it spread across the Seven Kingdoms.
The stands were silent. Everyone was stunned by the sudden conflict.
Thousands of eyes darted between the enraged Northerner, the iron-faced Stormlord, and the Prince who remained calm but cold.
Rhaegar turned his head slowly, his expression inscrutable under his helm. But before he could speak, Brandon exploded again:
"What are you implying? That you and my sister have a secret affair? Sullying a maiden's honor in such a despicable way?"
Every sentence was a heavy hammer blow. Even the wind seemed to stop. Only Brandon's angry interrogation remained.
Rhaegar ignored Brandon's deafening rebuke as if it were a passing breeze. He turned calmly to Lyanna and bowed elegantly—a posture so perfect it looked rehearsed a thousand times.
Lyanna instinctively held the crown of winter roses in her lap. The pale blue petals trembled against her fingers. Her eyes held shock mixed with an unconcealed flutter of emotion. Her mind buzzed.
Memories of secret meetings with Rhaegar over the past few days flooded back like a tide—late-night talks about music and ideals, his warm hand on her waist at the dance, the light in his eyes when he spoke of grand ambitions.
As a Northern girl just awakening to love, Lyanna had never understood what it meant to be moved. She only knew her betrothal to the rough Robert was a family arrangement. She didn't like Robert; he was rude, whored around, and smelled of wine and blood—like the butcher back home. Rhaegar was the first and only man to make her breath hitch and her heart pound.
Everything around her blurred. The world reduced to Rhaegar's deep violet eyes and that look of melancholy and reckless abandon on his beautiful face.
To Lyanna, who naturally revered freedom and bravery, Rhaegar's act of defying worldly judgment touched her deepest desire. In this moment, her heart beat wildly for the Prince who dared to challenge every rule.
"Throw that trash away!" Brandon roared, reaching to snatch the garland. "House Stark doesn't need this insult!"
Lyanna snapped back to reality and quickly shielded the crown against her chest. "Brandon, what are you doing!" She glared at her brother, a rare sight. "You're being too rude! You should apologize to Prince Rhaegar!"
Brandon stared at his sister's abnormal reaction in shock, then flew into a greater rage. He keenly sensed the unusual light in Lyanna's eyes. A terrible suspicion surfaced—was there really something between them?!
The thought nearly made him lose control. If true, how would House Stark face Robert? How would they maintain their honor in the North?
Brandon's voice shook with extreme fury, sounding like a growl from a direwolf's throat. "I apologize to him?" He took a step forward, armor clanking, finger pointing accusingly at Rhaegar.
"What does he mean by giving you this crown?" Brandon's voice rose, cutting through the arena like a winter wind. "This is not just a slight to you, but an insult to all of House Stark!"
He took a deep breath, chest heaving. In the dead silence, Brandon Stark drew his sword. The sharp ring of steel sliced the air.
"RHAEGAR TARGARYEN!" He thundered. "Take back your damned crown and apologize to House Stark for your absurd behavior—"
Brandon pointed his longsword straight at the Prince, the tip gleaming cold in the sun.
"Or else, in the name of the Heir to the North, I challenge you to a duel to the death!"
His words landed like heavy hammers, drawing suppressed gasps.
Thousands of eyes shifted. The angry Wolf vs. the cold Dragon. Harrenhal seemed to freeze in time.
Finally, Rhaegar spoke. His voice was calm and clear, like a breeze over a frozen lake. "Lyanna is the Queen of Love and Beauty in my heart. So I give the crown to her. That is all."
Spoken slowly and sincerely, the words caused an even greater ripple in the silent arena.
"Lyanna is a daughter of House Stark! My sister! Robert's betrothed! It has fuck all to do with you!" Brandon's roar exploded like thunder. "You Targaryens are all madmen!" Veins bulged on his forehead as he pointed rudely at Rhaegar. "You are as sick as your mad king father!"
The sentence pierced the air like a blade. Everyone inhaled sharply.
A weird silence fell over the stands. Even the flags seemed too loud. Nobles looked at each other, shock and unease on every face—though the words spoke the thought many hid deep in their hearts.
Lord Rickard stood up abruptly, grabbing his son's arm. "Brandon! Watch your words!" But the warning came too late.
Ned Stark stepped forward, pale-faced. "Brother, careful!" Benjen stood frozen, lost.
A complex emotion flashed through Robert's angry face. His fists trembled—partly satisfied by Brandon's bluntness, partly worried about the consequences.
The words were like ice water in hot oil.
This was Harrenhal. The King sat right there.
Just moments ago, Aerys II had been secretly pleased by his son's public slight of the Dornish Princess, even enjoying Brandon's rebuke of Rhaegar. Anything that embarrassed his heir was amusing to the unstable monarch.
But when Brandon's curse dragged him into the mud, the faint smile on Aerys's face froze instantly. His withered fingers dug into the gilded armrest. His eyes, flickering with paranoia, narrowed into snake-like slits, locking onto Brandon below.
The festive atmosphere vanished, replaced by suffocating pressure. Everyone realized: Brandon Stark's outburst would bring consequences no one could predict.
Aerys II stood up abruptly, his frail body shaking with rage. He gripped the railing like a hawk's talons.
"INSOLENCE!" The King's shrill voice tore the air, trembling with madness. "You dare insult House Targaryen! Insult your King! Seize him!"
His gaze was a poisoned dagger fixed on Brandon. Kingsguard knights on the sides moved instantly, white armor flashing, hands on hilts. Gold Cloaks advanced, forming a wall of spears.
SHING!
Steel rang out from the Northern stands. Lord Rickard rose. Ned and Benjen flanked him. Dozens of Northern lords and knights drew their swords simultaneously. A wall of cold steel formed behind Brandon.
Harrenhal plunged into a standoff. White Cloaks and Gold Cloaks against the grey and steel of the North. Thousands watched in terror as a few words pushed the tourney to the brink of civil war.
In this hair-trigger moment, Robert Baratheon's booming laughter broke the deadlock. He strode forward, clapping a hand on Brandon's tense shoulder.
Robert opened his arms as if embracing the arena. "Lyanna's beauty and virtue are known to the Seven Kingdoms! This crown is indeed hers by right!"
He turned to Rhaegar, his laughter carrying an unmistakable warning. "If you fear my anger, there is no need! Am I, Robert Baratheon, a man of such narrow mind?" He reached out and took the crown from Lyanna's lap, holding it high. "But this crown... shall be accepted by her betrothed—ME!"
Robert's gaze sharpened, voice dropping low. "However, Prince Rhaegar, remember this: Lyanna Stark is my betrothed. Consider today's event a gift for our upcoming wedding."
He turned to the armed stand-off, voice booming like a war drum: "Put away your swords! Do you want the whole realm to watch a joke between the North and the Crown?"
The Northern warriors looked at each other. Lord Rickard nodded slightly. The direwolves sheathed their steel, though they remained wary. The Kingsguard relaxed slightly, looking to the King.
On the dais, Aerys II snorted coldly. He released his grip on the throne. His sinister gaze swept the field, settling on Robert. "Let us go," the Mad King hissed. He stood and swept away. The White Cloaks followed; the Gold Cloaks receded like the tide. Rhaegar followed, his eyes dim.
The tension dissipated, but everyone knew: A seed of conflict had been planted today.
No one noticed that after Rhaegar gave the winter rose crown to Lyanna, and before the argument began, Rhaegar's wife, the Red Viper, and Princess Arianne had already left their seats.