Harrenhal's immense shadow fell across the land.
Its twisted black towers, melted by dragonfire, stabbed at the clear sky.
Beyond the walls, a sea of colors spread across the land. Countless tents and pavilions sprang up, their many-colored banners snapping in the wind.
The knights' shouts, the horses' whinnies, and the ladies' shrieks all merged into a single torrent of noise.
Preparations for the Tourney were nearly complete. Once word spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms, knights hungry for honor and wealth would swarm here like sharks drawn to the scent of blood.
The party stopped outside Harrenhal.
Eddard Stark swung down from his horse. His gray eyes swept over the noisy camp, but his face showed little emotion.
He walked over to Lymond Lychester and gave him a simple nod.
"Lord Lychester."
"Lord Stark."
There were no unnecessary words, no false courtesies.
The direwolf banners of the North turned away and joined the crowd on the other side, seeking a place to make camp. They went their separate ways.
Lymond Lychester watched them disappear into the distance. His withered hand tightened around the reins. The cold blade from Riverrun still seemed to press against his throat.
Just then, a knight rode over.
He wore a cape of sky blue and off-white, and his breastplate was engraved with the sigil of an eagle and a moon—the emblem of the Vale, and Jon Arryn's sign.
The knight reined in his horse and looked down at Lymond Lychester, a hint of scrutiny in his gaze.
His voice was clear and cool. "Lord Lymond Lychester?"
The old man paused, slightly taken aback. "That's me."
The Vale knight's tone was not a request but a notification. "Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and Warden of the East, requests your presence at Harrenhal."
Lymond Lychester