Chapter 90: The Lord of Harrenhal's Overture
At the tourney, the commons found laughter and the knights found honor.
Rhaegar sat in the royal box, watching the lists below. The day was warm, the wine sweet, perfumes heavy in the air—yet the Dragonpit was so crowded that even the sea breeze from Blackwater Bay could not reach within.
He shared the stand with the Baratheon siblings. Though tall for his age, Rhaegar was still younger and sat among them.
"They are evenly matched," Queen Rhaella Targaryen said to Lady Cassana Baratheon.
"Yes, both are fine children," Lady Cassana replied proudly. Her daughter Roberta Baratheon would one day outshine all the beauties of the Seven Kingdoms and bring House Baratheon fresh glory. Marrying up from a lesser house into Storm's End had been difficult—but marrying a prince would be effortless. Should she one day become the queen's mother, such honor would be beyond imagining.
Nearby, the Princess of Dorne felt the fire of her hopes dim. By blood and by distance, her chances were slimmer still.
Brightest in the lists rode Ser Barristan Selmy, fearless and peerless. The White Knight seemed untouchable, as though no foe could stand before him.
Barristan was fierce in war and fiercer still in the lists—rare, for jousting was no true battle and favored horsemanship over killing skill.
The cheers for Ser Barristan the Bold drowned out every other sound. He was enraptured; all his life he had pursued honor, and honor alone.
The Riverlands were well represented by Ser Jason Mallister, Lord of Seagard—bold, disciplined, and sharp as a drawn blade. He wore a cloak of blue and purple trimmed with silver, an eagle-winged helm crowning his head.
Beside him rode Ser Tygett Lannister and Ser Gerion Lannister, younger brothers of Lord Tywin Lannister, clad in glittering gold with roaring lion helms. Lord Tywin had gathered many westermen, hoping his brothers would win renown.
Rhaegar found Tywin's thinking flawed. The man was a master of cold politics, yet he tried to shape his kin into simple warriors.
The crowd roared whenever a favored knight rode forth. The smallfolk shouted loudest for their heroes: Bronze Yohn Royce of the Vale, Lyn Corbray, the golden lions of the Westerlands, and Ser Jason of Seagard—but the loudest cheers of all were for Ser Barristan Selmy, already a living legend.
By midday, only four knights remained:
Ser Barristan Selmy
Ser Jason Mallister
Bronze Yohn Royce
Ser Tygett Lannister
The semifinals were swift. Barristan unhorsed Tygett in a single, flawless tilt, shattering his lance and cracking the golden lion helm. Tygett laughed and tossed the broken helm into the crowd, sending the commons scrambling.
Even Lord Tywin Lannister allowed himself a thin smile. To lose to Barristan was no shame.
The second match—Bronze Yohn against Jason Mallister—was fiercely contested. Armor rang, horses screamed, and both men rode with stubborn resolve. At last, Jason won by the narrowest margin.
The final tilt was all but decided before it began.
Barristan and Jason charged. Twice their lances shattered cleanly. On the third pass, both struck true—yet Barristan remained seated while Jason was hurled from his red destrier, striking the earth hard.
The Dragonpit thundered with applause.
Rhaegar knew the Iron Throne's treasury was strained by debts to the Iron Bank of Braavos. The purse was respectable, but not lavish.
"I hate jousting," Robert Baratheon muttered. "I'd rather fight in a real battle."
Rhaegar glanced at him. The boy scorned the lists, yet the warrior's fire burned bright in him.
He descended to congratulate Barristan Selmy—peerless knight of Westeros. Even without dragonfire, Rhaegar doubted he could best him with certainty.
Barristan laughed like a boy, radiant with joy.
"Your Grace," he said, "once my kin at Harvest Hall take their share, the rest may go to pay the Eagle Guards and train them better."
Rhaegar was deeply moved. In knightly virtue, Barristan stood alongside Ser Duncan the Tall himself.
Rhaegar also sought out Ser Jason Mallister. Such a man deserved notice.
Then a new voice spoke.
"The Lord of Seagard is the iron shield of the Riverlands."
Rhaegar turned.
A lordly couple approached, richly dressed, bearing yellow banners marked with nine black bats.
Lord Walder Haan of Harrenhal, and his lady.
They bowed deeply.
"Harrenhal is vast and fair," Lord Walder said eagerly. "Should Your Grace tour the Riverlands, we would be honored to host you."
"If I come to Harrenhal, my lord, I shall trouble you then," Rhaegar replied.
Though cursed, Harrenhal remained kingly in scale—its lands rich, its walls unmatched.
Rhaegar returned to his seat, thoughtful.
Harrenhal—cursed, yes, but vast and powerful. Men feared the curse only until they held the castle themselves.
House Haan had risen swiftly—from petty knights to one of the Riverlands' great powers. Even House Tully had wed into them.
Rhaegar meant to court the Lord of Harrenhal. The fortress stood at the heart of the realm, perfect for mustering men.
The archery champion was a commoner named Alyn, whom Rhaegar quietly marked for future service.
The day ended with a brutal melee—blunted steel, broken bones, roaring crowds.
Robert Baratheon watched with undisguised hunger.
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