The final day of the tourney dawned beneath a silver sky. Harrenhal, for all its ruins, thrummed with anticipation as lords, ladies, and commoners crowded the lists to witness the grand conclusion. Two names on every tongue: Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
Edward Grafton stood near the base of the stands, arms crossed, his eyes fixed not on the tilt-yard but on the tiered rows above. He was waiting.
Oberyn Martell arrived fashionably late, dressed in sun-gold silks and deep crimson armor that gleamed like polished flame. Known across the Seven Kingdoms as the Red Viper of Dorne, he was a man of legend—scholar, poisoner, seducer, and one of the deadliest fighters ever trained at the Water Gardens and in the Free Cities. His reputation traveled before him like a storm: quick-tempered, unrelenting, fiercely intelligent. Some feared him for his temper. Others admired him for his principles. All respected his blade.
He walked with the effortless grace of a man used to drawing attention, his eyes sweeping the crowd not with curiosity, but with intent. When they fell upon Edward Grafton, he stopped. He walked with the effortless grace of a man used to drawing attention, his eyes sweeping the crowd not with curiosity, but with intent. When they fell upon Edward Grafton, he stopped.
With deliberate steps, Oberyn descended from the stone steps of the gallery and approached. Edward noticed the Dornish prince out of the corner of his eye, but made no move to greet him first.
"You're the Vale knight who outmatched Selmy," Oberyn said, his voice smooth and laced with challenge. "And humbled that smug brute from the Stormlands in the melee."
Edward gave a faint nod. "Grafton."
Oberyn studied him closely. "You fight like you know how a man thinks before he moves. I saw you let Dayne win. That was no accident."
Edward turned, meeting Oberyn's gaze. "You saw more than most."
The Dornishman smiled. "I see what others ignore. That's why I'm here."
Edward arched an eyebrow. "To what end?"
Oberyn shrugged lightly. "To speak with the only man here more dangerous when standing still than charging with a lance."
A moment passed.
Then Edward stepped aside, gesturing subtly to the empty space beside him at the base of the stands. "Watch with me, then."
And so, side by side, the two warriors stood—not as lords, not yet as friends, but as predators who had, at last, seen something worthy of their time. He spotted Edward and, with that familiar half-grin, descended to stand beside him.
"You look like a man preparing for war, not a spectator," Oberyn said.
Edward gave a faint nod. "This is a war. Just dressed in lace."
Oberyn's smile sharpened. "And what are we watching for? Who wins? Or who bleeds more?"
"Neither," Edward said. "I'm watching what they hide."
A horn sounded from above. The field cleared. The crowd hushed. Rhaegar Targaryen entered first, clad in black and red, the three-headed dragon emblazoned across his chest. The cheers that followed were nearly drowned by silence as Arthur Dayne emerged, his white cloak billowing, his sword Dawn strapped to his back.
Oberyn exhaled softly. "That sword... it was forged from a falling star. You believe such things?"
"I believe men give legends power," Edward replied. "Dayne earned his."
The match began.
Steel clashed. Not in blinding speed, but with the weight of fate. The crowd erupted. Rhaegar struck fast, with the precision of a trained warrior-poet. Dayne moved with the elegance of a dancer, each parry a masterstroke.
Edward and Oberyn said nothing for a long while.
Then Oberyn leaned close. "Tell me something, Grafton. If you had to choose between killing Rhaegar or serving him—what would you do?"
Edward's jaw tightened. "Neither. I'd outlast him."
Before Oberyn could respond, the sound from the field changed.
Dawn glimmered through the overcast light, crashing against Rhaegar's shield. The prince stumbled. The crowd gasped. Edward's eyes narrowed.
"He's slipping," Oberyn muttered.
"No," Edward said. "He's thinking."
Then, for the briefest of moments, Edward caught it—a hesitation in Dayne's strike. Just enough for Rhaegar to recover.
Oberyn caught it too. "Did you see—"
"Yes," Edward cut him off.
The two men on the field broke apart. Blood dripped from Rhaegar's side. Dayne's cheek bore a long cut.
The next charge would decide everything.
The crowd held its breath.
Oberyn leaned forward.
Edward remained still.
The trumpet sounded.
And they rushed.
Steel flashed.
A scream.
A blinding blur of silver and flame—
Then—
Darkness.