On the day the tourney opened, Harrenhal began seething with activity at dawn.
The shadows of its five towers stretched long in the morning light, like five charred fingers pointing west.
The waters of the Gods Eye reflected a sky full of banners.
The Stark direwolf, the Baratheon crowned stag, the Tully silver trout, the Arryn sky-blue falcon, the Lannister golden lion, the Tyrell golden rose, the Martell blazing spear...
The pride of the Seven Kingdoms snapped in the wind beneath the same sky.
Leon stood at a window in the east wing, watching the crowds below stream toward the tourney grounds.
He wore a crimson velvet doublet, with a lion embroidered in gold thread at the collar and cuffs tailored to fit just right.
Thea had insisted he dress formally, because "today is Jaime's big day."
But beneath his finery, fine-linked mail rested against his skin, cold and heavy.
Tyrion pushed open the door and came in, already dressed.
His doublet was dark red, almost black, as though he were imitating their father.
"Ready?" Tyrion asked.
"Are you?"
"I'm ready to watch the show." Tyrion walked to the window and stood beside him. "There'll be a lot of eyes on us at today's opening ceremony. Especially on you."
Leon did not answer.
He knew.
News of Simon Toyne's capture the night before had already spread throughout Harrenhal, but rumors about the "purple eyes" had spread along with it.
When he had gone out that morning, he had met several minor Riverlands nobles. The way they had looked at him...
Curiosity, appraisal, awe, greed, like countless tiny needlepoints.
"Let's go," Leon said.
They went down the stairs.
Thea and Sandor were already waiting at the door. Ser Barristan Selmy stood on the steps, his white cloak dazzling in the morning light.
In the distance, horns sounded from the tourney grounds, low and long.
The tourney grounds lay on the plain east of Harrenhal, with the Gods Eye behind them and the five towers ahead.
Three enormous stands encircled the jousting lists in a horseshoe, their crimson awnings rippling gently in the spring breeze.
The raised platform at the very center belonged to the royal family. Gilded seats glittered in the sunlight, and the three-headed dragon banner flew high above.
Aerys II Targaryen was already seated.
Today he wore a purple robe densely woven with gold thread, a Valyrian steel crown upon his head. Its spikes forced him to keep his head raised.
His sparse white hair had been carefully combed, but it could not hide his ashen scalp.
Deep in their sunken sockets, his purple eyes burned with feverish excitement.
The seat beside him was empty-
It was reserved for Prince Rhaegar.
The crown prince had not yet arrived.
As Leon followed Tywin up into the nobles' stands, he felt countless gazes settle on him.
From the Stark section, Eddard Stark gave a slight nod, his gray eyes unruffled.
Beside him, Brandon Stark studied Leon openly, a faint, defiant smile at the corner of his mouth.
Next to him, Benjen Stark craned his head curiously, only to be pushed back by his elder brother.
Over in the Baratheon section, Robert had already risen and was waving, his voice loud enough for the entire grounds to hear. "Little Leon! Come sit here! I've got the best wine!"
Ned tugged at his sleeve.
Robert sat down grudgingly, but he was still grinning.
In the Tully stands, Lord Hoster Tully sat stiffly upright, his two daughters seated on either side.
Leon recognized the red-haired one-she should be Catelyn. The other, small and pale, was probably Lysa, sitting primly.
Jon Arryn of the Vale of Arryn exchanged a glance with Tywin and nodded in greeting.
The Dornish stands were at the far right. Oberyn Martell leaned against the railing like a languid snake.
As his gaze swept over Leon, a meaningful smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
Tyrion whispered in his ear, "There's something wrong with the way that fellow looks at you."
"He's always like that," Leon said.
They took their seats.
Tywin sat at the front, his back straight, like a statue carved from black marble.
All the clamor before him, all the looks, all the whispers had nothing to do with him.
But Leon noticed his father's fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest, a little faster than usual.
The horns sounded again.
Everyone rose.
The Kingsguard entered in formation.
Seven men-there should have been seven, but Ser Harlan Grandison was gone, and Prince Lewyn Martell was with the queen, so only five white cloaks passed along the lists.
Gerold Hightower led the way, his white cloak snapping in the wind.
Arthur Dayne followed close behind, Dawn's hilt gleaming in the sunlight.
Jon Darry, Barristan Selmy, Oswell Whent. Every face was familiar throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
But behind them came one more person.
His golden hair looked like molten gold in the sunlight.
His white cloak was brand-new, but a little morning dew already clung to its hem, traces of his ride from the shores of the Gods Eye.
His young face held a radiance he could not suppress, and his green eyes were astonishingly bright.
Jaime Lannister.
The entire grounds fell silent for an instant, then erupted into whispers.
"Who's that?"
"Tywin's son? That-"
"Fifteen? Seven above, in the Kingsguard at fifteen?"
Leon saw his father's fingers stop on the armrest.
At that instant, Tywin Lannister's face held no expression at all.
But that very expression was more frightening than any anger.
His jaw tightened slightly, and deep within his green eyes, something was freezing.
Tyrion's hand quietly tightened around Leon's arm.
The seven Kingsguard halted before Aerys and went down on one knee.
Gerold Hightower rose and unrolled a parchment.
"By the will of His Grace King Aerys II Targaryen, and by resolution of the Small Council:
Whereas Ser Harlan Grandison of the Kingsguard passed away in his sleep, his vacant place must be filled by a new member. Personally chosen by His Grace, Ser Jaime Lannister is hereby granted the white cloak of the Kingsguard. From this day forth, he shall swear to defend the king, the queen, and the royal bloodline until death."
Not a sound could be heard.
Aerys stood.
He walked unsteadily to the edge of the platform and looked down at Jaime, kneeling before him.
"Rise," he said.
Jaime stood.
Aerys stared at him for a long time.
Then he extended a finger and poked Jaime's breastplate, as though inspecting a horse.
"Tywin's son," he murmured. "Tywin's son... wearing a white cloak. My white cloak. Not his."
Suddenly he laughed, a giggling sound that made everyone's skin crawl.
"Good! Very good! Tywin, your son is mine now! No longer yours! Do you hear me?"
His gaze passed over Jaime, over everyone, and settled precisely on Tywin in the nobles' stands.
Tywin rose and bowed slightly.
His bearing was flawless-
Back straight, head slightly lowered, even a faint, appropriate smile at the corner of his mouth.
But Leon saw.
His father's fingers were clenched inside his sleeve, the knuckles white.
Aerys smiled triumphantly and waved for the ceremony to continue.
Gerold Hightower stepped forward and draped the brand-new white cloak over Jaime's shoulders.
Arthur Dayne handed him the written oath.
Jaime went down on one knee, his right hand on the oath and his left on his sword. His voice rang clear across the entire tourney grounds:
"I, Jaime Lannister, do hereby swear.
I shall defend His Grace the king, Her Grace the queen, and the royal bloodline. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. My sword shall be my life, my shield my oath, and death my end. Gods above, bear witness to my oath."
He raised his head.
Someone in the crowd clapped. Scattered applause followed, then more.
Oswell Whent helped Jaime to his feet, his white cloak lifting in the wind.
Jaime's gaze swept across the crowd and lingered for an instant on the Lannister stands, settling on Leon.
There was much in that look.
Pride, excitement, and a trace of... guilt.
I'm sorry, little brother.
Leon understood.
Jaime was apologizing, not for leaving, but because he knew his choice had left the position of heir to Tyrion.
The son their father hated most.
Leon looked at Tyrion.
His face was pale, his mismatched eyes fixed on Jaime, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Leon did not know what he was thinking. Fear? Expectation? Or both?
Aerys spoke again, his voice as shrill as glass scraping against slate:
"Ser Jaime! From this day forth, you are to remain at my side at all times. Not a single step away. Do you understand?"
Jaime faltered for a moment, then lowered his head. "As you command, Your Grace."
Aerys smiled in satisfaction. He turned and walked back toward his throne, then stopped and looked back at the nobles' stands.
At Leon.
"And you, Little Leon."
His voice suddenly softened, becoming almost gentle. "Come to me later today. We must continue reading those books. About dragons, about fire, about... purple."
The entire grounds fell deathly silent once more.
Countless gazes-curious, appraising, jealous, fearful-surged toward Leon like a tide.
Leon stood and bowed slightly, saying nothing.
He felt his father's gaze on his back, as cold as the mines of the Westerlands.
After the ceremony, the crowd streamed toward the temporary feasting area.
The tourney had officially opened, but the actual contests would not begin until tomorrow. Today was only for revelry.
Wine, meat, song and dance, and whispers among the nobles.
Leon did not go.
He stood in the shadow of the stands, watching Jaime amid the distant crowd.
The young knight was surrounded. Some congratulated him, some studied him, and some tried to strike up a conversation.
His white cloak stood out sharply among the crowd.
Tywin did not go either.
He stood on the other side of the stands, his back to everyone, looking toward the Gods Eye.
Leon walked over and stopped three paces behind his father.
"Father."
Tywin did not turn.
"You know what this means."
His voice was level, as level as stagnant water beneath the ice. "Jaime has joined the Kingsguard. He is no longer my heir. He cannot marry, cannot father children, cannot inherit Casterly Rock."
Leon was silent.
"Your brother has destroyed twenty years of my plans with one night of madness."
Tywin's voice remained level. "Hoster Tully is still awaiting my answer about the betrothal between Jaime and Lysa. Jon of the Vale of Arryn is watching and waiting as well.
Every marriage alliance, every pact, every piece on the board, all of them by his white cloak..."
He turned and looked at Leon.
There was no anger left in those green eyes, only something Leon had never seen before... weariness.
"And now my heir is your dear brother-Tyrion," he said. "A dwarf I have hated for eight years. A... thing the gods use to mock me."
Leon's throat tightened.
He wanted to say something, but could not.
Tywin looked at him, his gaze suddenly growing complicated.
"Do you know what is most ironic?"
Leon said nothing.
"I could have stopped it." Tywin seemed to have no end of things to say today. "Appointments to the Kingsguard require the Hand of the King's countersignature.
"If I had still been in King's Landing, if I hadn't relinquished my authority as Hand, Jaime could never have donned that white cloak. But I surrendered my power, kept the empty title of Hand, and returned to Casterly Rock. I gave Aerys this opportunity."
He paused.
"He seized it. Just as he seized you."
Leon said nothing.
In the distance, Jaime turned amid the crowd and looked their way. His smile froze on his face, then slowly vanished.
Tywin did not look at him again.
"Go," he said. "Go where you belong. Tomorrow, you must see the king. Don't disappoint him."
He turned and left, his steps as steady as ever.
Leon stood where he was, watching his father's retreating figure disappear into the crowd.
That figure had never looked so... lonely.
That night, at the Lavender Tavern.
It was the only tavern in Harrenhal permitted to serve nobles, tucked away in the old market on the castle's western side.
Leon should not have come, because Thea and Ser Barristan Selmy opposed it, but he insisted.
"I need to see someone," he said.
He wore a coarse gray cloak, its hood pulled low.
Thea guarded the entrance, her hand on her sword hilt.
Sandor sat in the shadows in a corner, his greatsword across his knees.
The tavern was thick with smoke and loud with voices.
The tournament revelry had only just begun. Knights had shed their armor and were swilling ale, boasting of tomorrow's feats.
In the farthest corner, someone sat alone.
A gray cloak, a half-slipped hood, revealing a strand of silver-gold hair.
He held a cup of golden Arbor wine, his gaze resting on the darkness outside the window.
Leon walked over and sat opposite him.
Rhaegar Targaryen turned his head.
Five years ago, at the Saltwater Cod in Lannisport, a three-year-old child had held a cup of wine he had never tasted and looked at him with pale purple eyes.
Five years later, those pale purple eyes met his again.
Deeper than five years ago, calmer, yet colder.
"You came," Rhaegar said.
His voice was still gentle, still distant, but something in those deep purple eyes was shifting slightly.
Leon nodded.
"Have you been waiting long for me?"
"Five years," Rhaegar said.
He poured a cup of wine and pushed it toward Leon. The same golden Arbor wine, the same vintage of 259.
"Try it," he said. "You're eight now. You can drink."
Leon lifted the cup and took a small sip.
The wine slid down his throat, leaving a finish of honey and smoke.
"Why did you seek me out?" He set down the cup.
Rhaegar watched him and remained silent for a long time.
"Because of your eyes," he said at last. "Not their color. It's... the way you see."
He paused.
"What did my father say to you today?"
Leon recalled every sentence, every word the Mad King had spoken.
"He said I should keep reading those books. About dragons, about flames, about purple."
Rhaegar nodded slightly, as though confirming something.
"Do you know why he cares so much about purple?"
Leon shook his head.
Rhaegar rose, walked to the window, and looked out into the dark night.
"Because of an ancient legend," he said. "The flames of Valyria were purple, but the flames of a Dragon Dream are another kind of purple-paler, colder, like the light deep within a glacier.
"According to the legend, those who possess this purple can see things ordinary people cannot. They can dream of dragons. They can wake dragons."
Leon's fingers tightened slightly inside his sleeves.
"Are you saying..."
"No," Rhaegar said. "But I know your eyes are unlike any purple eyes I've ever seen. Including my own."
He returned to the table and sat down.
Rhaegar remained silent for a long time.
"Little Leon... there are things I cannot stop simply because I wish to," he said. "Some fires must burn on their own, then put themselves out."
Leon looked into his eyes.
Those deep purple eyes held endless weariness.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Rhaegar did not answer.
He merely watched Leon, with something in those eyes Leon could not fully decipher. It was... recognition.
"Because five years ago, in that tavern, you asked me this question."
At last, he said, "'Do you like the smoky flavor because it reminds you of flames you've never experienced?'"
He paused.
"That was the first time anyone had asked me that question. And the only time."
He rose, drawing his gray cloak close again.
"After Harrenhal, everything will change," he said. "You must be ready."
"Oh, and..." He did not turn around. "Do you still have that gold dragon?"
Leon's fingers pressed unconsciously against his chest, where a gold dragon minted in 276 lay hidden against his skin.
It was the one Rhaegar had left him that night.
"I do," he said.
Rhaegar turned his head, candlelight dancing in his deep purple eyes.
"Why?"
Leon was silent for a moment.
"Because you said I was still young and could take my time thinking." He raised his head and met Rhaegar's eyes. "I haven't figured it out yet. But I want to keep it until the day I do."
Rhaegar watched him for a long time.
Something in those eyes shifted slightly, like some deeper, almost sorrowful... confirmation.
"When you truly understand," he said softly, "perhaps you will no longer need that gold dragon."
He turned and left, disappearing into the smoke-wreathed crowd.
Leon stayed where he was, took the gold dragon from inside his clothes, and stood it on its edge on the table.
The two sides of a gold dragon...
What exactly was Rhaegar trying to say...?
Candlelight danced across the coin's surface, reflecting two blurred images... one deep purple, one pale purple.
He watched for a while, then put them away, returning them to the spot against his heart.
By the time Leon returned to the east wing, it was past midnight.
The corridor was deserted, with only the torches swaying in the wind.
He stopped as he passed Jaime's room.
The door stood ajar.
Muffled sobs came from within...
Jaime was crying.
Leon stood outside the door and did not enter.
He heard Jaime's voice, halting, as though he were speaking to someone.
Perhaps to himself, perhaps to someone who did not exist.
"I agreed... I agreed... but I didn't know it would be like this... Father's eyes... he looked at me... like I was a dead man..."
Silence.
Then came even more stifled sobbing.
Leon slowly took a step back, turned, and left.
At the end of the corridor, Tyrion leaned against the wall, waiting for him.
The brothers met each other's eyes.
"He chose this road," Tyrion said softly. "Now he has to walk it himself."
Leon nodded.
They walked back to their rooms side by side.
Behind them, Jaime's sobs gradually faded into the night wind.
And Leon knew that, starting tomorrow, he would step alone onto the grand stage of the Seven Kingdoms.