At the tourney, folk found laughter and knights found honor.
Rhaegar sat in the royal box, watching the fight below. A warm day, sweet wine on the air, perfume thick—yet so many crowded the Dragonpit that the sea-breeze of King's Landing was lost.
Rhaegar shared the stand with the Baratheon brothers and sisters; though tall, he still yielded to age and sat among them.
"They are well matched!" Queen Rhaella said to Lady Cassana.
"Yes, both are fine children." Lady Cassana brimmed with pride; her daughter Roberta would one day outshine the beauties of the Seven Kingdoms and bring her new glory. Marrying from a petty house into Storm's End had been hard, but wedding a prince would be easy. Should she one day become the queen's mother, the honor would be beyond imagination.
The flame in the heart of the Princess of Dorne dimmed a little; by blood and by distance, her hopes shrank further.
Brightest in the lists was fearless Barristan; the White Knight rode as though alone, no foe able to stand against him.
Barristan was fierce in war and fiercer still in tourney—rare, for jousting is not true battle and prizes horsemanship above all.
The cheers for Ser Barristan rang so loud they drowned every other sound. The White Knight was rapt; all his life he had chased honor, and honor alone he loved.
The lord of Seagard also did the Riverlands proud; bold and brave, Jason Mallister wore a cloak of blue and purple trimmed with silver and an eagle-wing helm, fearless in the saddle, sharp as a blade.
With him rode Lord Tywin's younger brothers, Tygett and Gerion, all in glittering gold and lion helms. Lord Tywin had rallied many westermen, hoping to see his brothers win high honors.
Rhaegar felt Lord Tywin's thinking flawed: the man himself was a cold, scheming beast of politics, yet he tried to raise sons and brothers into simple warriors.
Rhaegar saw tumult and clamor, especially when a handsome favorite rode out. Every knight had his own cheering clique. The smallfolk shouted loudest for their local heroes: Bronze Yohn of the Vale, Lyn Corbray, the Golden Lion brothers of the West, Ser Jason of the Riverlands—but the greatest roar was for Ser Barristan, legend enough, and a White Knight besides, a taste of King's Landing.
Today's jousts moved briskly; Rhaegar soon saw four left: fearless Ser Barristan, Ser Jason Mallister of the Riverlands, Bronze Yohn of the Vale, and Ser Tygett of the West.
The semifinals began; Ser Barristan easily overcame Tygett. The White Knight's lance was swift and sure, horse and rider one, the destrier charging like silk. Ser Tygett was unhorsed in a breath; his Golden Lion helm cracked. He tossed the shards of gold into the crowd, sparking a scramble.
Even Lord Tywin smiled, for Ser Barristan was the realm's supreme knight, already a legend.
The commons were enthralled; Westeros's love of arms ran deep. Rhaegar watched too—studying the horses' strides, the riders' timing, the tempo of attack.
Closest fought was the match between Bronze Yohn of the Vale and Jason Mallister of Seagard on the Riverlands' edge. Armor clashed, horses reared; they were near equals. Seagard stood against Ironborn reavers, poor but warlike.
So evenly matched, they tilted until Jason gained the narrowest victory.
After a pause, Barristan and Jason would ride for the championship—yet every soul already crowned Barristan, more seasoned and at ease.
And so it fell out: both spurred forward, lances splintering twice. On the third course both shattered together; shards flew, Barristan untouched, Jason hurled from his red destrier, his fine helm dented as he struck the earth.
The crowd thundered gratitude to the White Knight and the Riverlander for the splendid show. For Barristan it was honor, not gold, that mattered.
Rhaegar knew the Iron Bank pressed for repayment and the crown was lean; the purse was modest—Golden Dragons enough, but no thousand-crown extravagance.
"I hate jousting. I'd rather fight outright, side by side in a melee," Robert muttered, curling his lip.
Rhaegar glanced at Robert. The boy disdained the lists, yet none could deny the warrior spirit in him—strong, bigger than most lads his age.
Watch for boars, Rhaegar almost said; but without someone to lend him gold, Robert would lack coin to hunt them.
Rhaegar descended to congratulate Barristan—Barristan, the superman of Westeros. Had the fire not devoured, Rhaegar doubted he himself could surely best him.
Ser Barristan laughed, bright as sunshine; jousting felt like war, and he loved that more than coin.
"Your Grace, once my kin at Harvest Hall take their share, the rest can serve as pay for the Eagle Guards and train those lads," Barristan said.
Rhaegar was moved; in knightly virtue Barristan stood with the Dragonriders, with Duncan the Tall—peerless.
Yet Rhaegar also sought out Ser Jason; such mettle deserved a place in his gathering, a collector's impulse.
Ser Jason was touched, for Seagard, though martial, was poor and far below Harrenhal in wealth and rank.
"The count is the iron shield of our Riverlands," Rhaegar said.
Rhaegar turned at the voice and saw a lordly couple approaching.
Their dress was rich, their bearing fine. Nine black bats on yellow told him who they were: Lord Walder Haan of Harrenhal and his lady.
They were already the castle's seventh holders; the curse seemed to cling to the vast ruin.
Lord and Lady Haan bowed eagerly, offering welcome. "Harrenhal is vast and the views fair; should Your Grace tour the Riverlands, we would be honored beyond words."
"If I come to Harrenhal, Lord Walder, I shall trouble you then," Rhaegar answered, accepting the courtesy.
Though cursed, Harrenhal boasted kingly grandeur and fertile fields. Even haunted, Lords still lusted after it.
Lord Walder's heart lifted; if the prince visited, he might host a tourney to rival this one.
Rhaegar returned to his seat, still weighing Lord Walder's friendliness.
Harrenhal—cursed, yes, yet vast and rich, a prize all craved. In the world there is only one true sickness: once you hold Harrenhal, what fear have you of curses? Better to die great than to die poor.
Men saw only House Haan's rise—from petty knights to the Riverlands' second power in a generation—Lord Walder in his prime. Even Lord Hoster had wed a Haan girl; the Tully-Haan alliance flourished.
Rhaegar meant to court the Lord of Harrenhal; the castle stood well placed and he would raise men there.
A mighty fortress, a Godswood, the fabled Gods Eye Lake nearby—and, perhaps, a whispered curse.
Rhaegar suspected Harrenhal's curse lay more in its eminence, too near the maelstrom of politics, ever sucked within.
The archery victor was a commoner named Alyn; Rhaegar admired his skill and sought to enlist him. The boy was tempted, yet would linger in King's Landing—gold in pocket, he meant first to taste every tavern and brothel.
Then came the wild melee: warriors with blunted steel, hacking left and right, bloodily brutal.
Robert watched in rapture, aching to leap into the fray.