The tourney

When Rhaegar returned to camp after reporting to Aerys, the setting sun was shining on the towers of Harrenhal. He slowed his steps and stared blankly at the sunset, but his gaze strayed involuntarily toward a cluster of noble tents. Their banners bore a direwolf, marking the camp of House Stark. I wonder if anything happened after she went back, Rhaegar thought.

As he was removing his armor, Princess Elia's maid arrived. "The princess invites you to dine with her, Your Highness," she said softly.

Rhaegar looked at her, but at that moment, all he could see were Lyanna Stark's vivid gray eyes as she turned back beside the stream.

"Tell the princess I must prepare for tomorrow's joust." Rhaegar lowered his gaze, avoiding her eyes.

After the maid left, silence returned to the tent. Only his almost inaudible sigh remained, dissolving into the night.

The next morning, when the horns sounded, Rhaegar rode his jet-black warhorse into the lists. He reined in at the center, the three-headed dragon on his dark red armor gleaming coldly in the morning sun. His gaze swept over the knights gathered to compete.

Then he pointed his lance at Yohn Royce, a knight from the Vale's "bronze" house.

"Ser Yohn." His voice carried clearly across the field. "I would like to test my skill against yours."

The joust began. Rhaegar's warhorse shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, and Royce spurred his mount to meet him almost simultaneously. Both lances shattered against the other's shield, leaving the first pass evenly matched.

On the second pass, Rhaegar struck first. His lance caught his opponent's shoulder, and the tremendous force knocked Yohn straight from his saddle.

Over the following days, Rhaegar competed in several more bouts and won them all. Two opponents stood out in particular: Brandon Stark, the heir to the North known as "Bloody Hand," and Arthur Dayne, the "Sword of the Morning." Arthur was formidable, but Rhaegar was no weakling either. Besides, Arthur's greatest strength was his swordsmanship, and this was a joust.

Before long, the final arrived, and Rhaegar's last opponent was Ser Barristan Selmy. Watching that spirited figure in the lists, Viserys felt a wave of helplessness.

Truth be told, Viserys had always harbored envy toward Rhaegar. It was a pure, uncomplicated jealousy. Rhaegar had truly become the sort of person Viserys had found most enviable in his previous life: whatever he wanted to do, he succeeded at, and once he began, he rose straight to the top.

Until he was sixteen, Rhaegar had spent his days buried in books. Yet the moment he put them down, picked up a sword, and declared that he would learn to fight, he was able to defeat the young Arthur Dayne at the tourney at Storm's End at seventeen. He had even held his own against Barristan Selmy in his prime, losing by only a narrow margin in the end. It was as though he had transformed overnight from a scholar into a martial prodigy, his fame resounding throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

What made it infuriating was that even before this, Rhaegar had already become famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms for his learning and his captivating singing. Whatever field he turned to, talent and praise seemed to follow naturally, winning him everyone's affection without the slightest effort. Just thinking about a life like that was enough to set one's teeth on edge.

Now, the air in the lists seemed to freeze.

Barristan Selmy adjusted his grip on his lance, his white cloak hanging motionless in the breeze. The legendary Kingsguard knight's eyes were as sharp as a hawk's, with none of his usual gentleness.

Opposite him, Rhaegar leaned slightly forward, his black warhorse stamping restlessly. His dark red armor shone with a bloody sheen in the sunlight.

Without warning, both horses sprang forward.

Dust flew beneath their iron-shod hooves, and the cheers from the stands seemed shut away in another world. Barristan's lance was steady as a rock, fixed on his opponent's breastplate. Rhaegar's charge carried a certain rhythm, as though he were following a beat only he could hear.

Just before they collided, Rhaegar made a sudden adjustment to his angle. The change was minute, but Barristan caught it and turned slightly to block with his shield.

Both oak lances shattered at once, sending splinters flying.

The first pass was a draw.

The squires on either side hurried to hand them fresh lances.

The second charge was fiercer still. Barristan changed his strategy, suddenly lowering his lance at the last moment to strike the bottom edge of Rhaegar's shield. It was a seasoned maneuver that had brought countless young knights to grief in the lists.

But Rhaegar seemed to have anticipated it. With a slight tug on the reins, he made his warhorse sidestep deftly while thrusting his lance upward at a tricky angle.

Crack! The wooden lance burst apart.

Barristan's shield took the blow squarely, making him sway slightly. His own lance tip, meanwhile, slid across Rhaegar's shoulder plate, leaving only a shallow scratch.

Gasps erupted from the stands. Lyanna gripped the edge of her dress tightly, silently cheering Rhaegar on.

Before the third charge, Barristan took a deep breath. He realized that this young man had seen through all his tricks. His only chance now was to return to the most basic technique.

Both horses accelerated again. This time, Barristan abandoned every flourish and held his lance level in the most orthodox position. He was gambling that the young man would expect a more elaborate change of attack.

His gamble paid off.

In the instant before impact, Rhaegar hesitated ever so briefly. In that split second, Barristan's lance struck him precisely in the center of his breastplate.

The tremendous impact threw Rhaegar backward, but with astonishing strength in his waist, he forced himself steady and stayed in the saddle.

Gasps erupted from the stands. Lyanna gripped the edge of her dress tightly, worried for Rhaegar.

The joust continued, only ending after each man had used twelve wooden lances. Rhaegar won because he was younger than Barristan and had greater endurance.

After the match, Rhaegar stretched, touched the dent in his breastplate, then bowed to Barristan. The crowd cheered for Rhaegar.

"He is buying their loyalty," the king whispered to Varys. "Did you see the way those nobles looked at him?"

His voice was filled with venom and cold malice. Varys merely smiled and gave him a slight nod, saying nothing.

By tourney tradition, the winner of the joust would choose the "Queen of Love and Beauty." Everyone expected Rhaegar to present the crown symbolizing that honor to his wife, Elia Martell. Instead, he rode past Princess Elia, whose hand was already extended, and slowly approached House Stark's stand. He stopped before Lyanna Stark, the crown on the tip of his lance glittering in the sunlight.

"I wish to bestow this honor upon you, the most beautiful flower of the North." His voice was not loud, but everyone nearby could hear him.

Lyanna froze. Beside her, Brandon Stark was all smiles, though there was no telling how many more chances he would have to smile in the future. Eddard Stark, meanwhile, frowned. In the Dornish stand, Oberyn Martell sprang to his feet, only to be restrained by his sister Elia.

"Don't do anything foolish," Elia said softly, her fingers whitening with the force of her grip.

King Aerys clenched his hands until his knuckles turned white. "He is insulting the honor of the royal family," he told Varys.

Meanwhile, Robert was still fighting fiercely in the melee. The green, antlered helm on his head gleamed in the sunlight.

In the end, the tourney concluded amid this strange atmosphere.