That summer was unusually long.
The entire town was submerged beneath the crimson and gold banners of the Lannisters. From every tower, every stretch of wall, and every mast at the docks hung the lion of Casterly Rock.
Beyond the harbor, the Sunset Sea spread out like an endless sheet of blue silk, its ripples dancing with flecks of light like golden dragons.
This was one of the grandest tourneys Westeros had seen in nearly a decade.
Tywin Lannister had spent three full months preparing for it.
Casterly Rock's stated reason was to celebrate the birth of Prince Viserys Targaryen!
The third son of the Mad King and Queen Rhaella, a healthy child the Targaryen Dynasty had finally welcomed after long years of miscarriages and infant deaths.
But anyone who understood politics knew this was merely a gilded invitation from the Lannister lord to the Iron Throne.
The contents of that invitation were written in Cersei Lannister's beautiful green eyes.
The tourney grounds had been erected on the coastal plain north of Lannisport.
Three enormous stands formed a horseshoe around the jousting lists, their crimson awnings like the great outstretched claws of a lion.
On the raised platform at the very center, the royal seats stood empty, awaiting the king, who was said to be traveling slowly west along the Goldroad.
The commoners' section was packed with people from villages and towns throughout the Westerlands. They climbed the roadside oaks, crowded the roofs of inns, and some had even rowed small boats offshore to stand on tiptoe and watch.
The people of the Westerlands had waited twenty years for House Lannister to host a gathering on this scale. No one wanted to miss it.
And in the most conspicuous position on the platform, just behind and to one side of Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock, Cersei Lannister sat perfectly straight.
She wore a crimson velvet gown Lady Joanna had sewn before her death, with finely stitched lions in gold thread around the neckline.
At ten, the girl already showed the beginnings of the beauty that would one day captivate the Seven Kingdoms.
Her long golden hair spilled from a pearl hairnet, and her skin was as white as marble deep within Casterly Rock that had never seen the sun.
Her back was as straight as her father's sword, and the angle of her raised chin had been practiced countless times before a mirror.
After today, the Seven Kingdoms would remember the daughter of House Lannister.
"Will he come?" Cersei lowered her voice, her gaze sweeping over the noble faces taking their seats in the stands.
Beside her, her aunt Genna Lannister lowered her fan. "Heh heh heh... Prince Rhaegar? Of course. This is the centerpiece of His Grace's western progress."
Cersei asked nothing more. Fine beads of sweat formed on her palms, nothing like that night before the mirror a few days earlier.
Rhaegar Targaryen.
She had never seen him. Over the past while, she had rolled that name over and over, grinding it into the sweetest sugar on her tongue.
The serving girls said he had the clearest violet eyes of all the kings of the dragon's line.
The maesters said he could recite the entire Annals of Valyria at seven.
Uncle Gerion said his harp could make wildflowers bloom in the cracks between the stones of Summerhall's ruins.
Cersei kept those words beneath her pillow, taking them out to polish each night before sleep.
She would become his queen. She was certain.
Her father had never promised, but that almost invisible curve at the corner of his mouth when he fell silent was a promise.
Horn calls sounded from the city gates, drawing closer like advancing waves.
"The king arrives!"
Everyone rose.
Cersei stood with the others, her knees a little weak.
Through the open gates, she saw the gold-and-black royal carriage enter slowly, dragon banners twisting in the wind like living creatures.
The white cloaks of the Kingsguard lined either side, sunlight flashing almost blindingly off their steel armor.
But behind that line of white cloaks rode another figure.
His long silver-white hair was unbound, flowing in the sea breeze like a soft banner.
A three-headed dragon was embroidered on his deep purple velvet coat, and nothing about his attire was deliberately ostentatious.
He rode a placid gray mare with plain tack, and did not even carry a jousting lance.
Rhaegar Targaryen raised his head and looked toward the platform.
What had he seen? Cersei did not know.
She only felt those violet eyes sweep above the platform like two distant beams of moonlight, lingering nowhere.
Yet that was enough to set her entire summer ablaze.
Meanwhile, in the western tower's corridor, Thea hurried outside in a septa's robe, her hood raised and a wicker basket filled with flowers in her hands.
Strangely, the guards who stood watch in the courtyard every day had vanished.
Even had there been guards, they probably would not have paid attention to this widow with her "ample bosom."
"Young master, are you all right?" Thea pressed both arms tightly around the bulge beneath her robe.
"Thea, act natural... I'm fine..." Leon tilted his head to breathe more easily.
"Did that old serving woman agree?"
Thea watched their surroundings warily. "We spent two silver stags... That was your living allowance for next month, young master..." she muttered resentfully.
"The Lannisters have no shortage of gold dragons. Uncle Gerion told me." Leon secretly poked his head through the wide neckline and looked around. "Take the path around to the left..."
The tourney had drawn the attention of everyone in Casterly Rock to Lannisport.
Taking advantage of the shortage of guards, Leon had Thea bring him to visit his poor brother.
The first day of the tourney belonged to the Westerlands, an opening Tywin had carefully designed.
The king had just arrived, weary from the long journey.
The representatives of the great houses had not all arrived yet, making it the perfect opportunity for House Lannister's knights to show the Seven Kingdoms the martial prowess of the Westerlands.
The pairings for the first round of jousts were posted on an oak board at the entrance to the grounds.
The most eye-catching match had been scheduled as the third bout that afternoon-
Ser Tygett Lannister versus Ser Lymond Vikary, the "Green Lion."
Tygett was twenty-six that year, the sharpest-edged of Tywin's younger brothers.
Unlike Kevan, he was not content to live in his elder brother's shadow, nor did he hide his edge behind humor as Gerion did.
Tygett was a sword forever unsheathed, eager to prove with his own blood that Tywin was not the Lannisters' only lion.
His opponent, Lymond Vikary, was a veteran knight of the Westerlands, nearly fifty, who had taken the heads of three sellsword captains during the War of the Ninepenny Kings.
His shield was painted green, its leaping golden lion the arms House Vikary had passed down for three hundred years.
Cersei had little interest in this match.
Her gaze passed over the lists, searching for that silver-white figure in the royal stands.
Rhaegar was speaking quietly with Barristan Selmy, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.
The horns sounded.
Tygett spurred his horse into a charge.
His crimson armor flowed like molten rock in the sunlight, his golden lion cloak flying high.
His lance point held steady, his weight lowered as far as it would go-
Kevan had taught him that stance. Tygett had practiced it for twenty years, until it had finally become muscle memory.
The two riders met.
Bang!!
Thea slammed her shoulder against the wooden door several times. The newly added boards loosened a little, and the gap gradually widened.
The old serving woman Grey had already taken the silver stags and gone happily off to the market.
Leon stood on the ground, gripping the edges of the gap with both hands as he peered inside. No one was visible in the cool, damp room.
He waited a while.
Everything was so quiet that even the insects had stopped crawling...
The corners of Leon's mouth lifted slightly, and he activated the Eye of Insight.
By the stone wall beside the wooden door, a mass of pale blue and green light shifted uneasily, hesitation mingled with hope.
"There's food down here, if you're hungry..." Leon pushed the pastries hidden beneath the flowers in the wicker basket through the gap.
Swish...
The pastries vanished so quickly it was as though nothing had ever been there.
"Mmph... you... are... mmph... the one from the western tower?" A hoarse voice sounded amid swallowing.
Before long, a grubby little hand appeared in Leon's sight.
Leon did not touch that little hand.
"I'm 'the one' from the western tower." He turned around and sat on the ground with his back against the wooden door. "The cursed dwarf sprite. That's what they call me..."
The voice fell silent for a moment.
Tyrion peered cautiously through the gap with his mismatched eyes wide. "I... I saw you that day... reaching your hand out to me."
He reached through the gap, trembling and hesitantly touching Leon's pale golden hair.
When that hand touched Leon, a faint warmth and sadness flowed through Tyrion's heart.
His eyes grew wet without his realizing it...
At that moment, he felt something called courage suddenly appear within him, filling his chest.
"Don't do that again next time..." Leon tilted his head without turning around.
Tyrion's hand shook, and he hurriedly drew it back. "S-sorry."
"Our name may be Lannister, but openly disobeying that man's orders isn't wise." Leon pointed toward Casterly Rock's main keep. "Being dragged away by two guards didn't feel very good, did it?"
So he meant that day...
Tyrion touched his own face again and realized that, at some point, he had begun to smile.
"Brother..."
That word made Tyrion tremble all over. He dropped to the ground and held his head in both hands.
"Brother... power is like a shadow on the wall." Leon stood and brushed the dust from his trousers.
"Even the smallest person can cast an enormous shadow. But when it exceeds what you're capable of, that shadow becomes ashes left after a fire."
Tyrion raised his head.
A pair of mismatched eyes.
A pair of violet eyes.
Through the long, narrow gap...
Their gazes met.
"Patience... we must be patient..." A glint appeared in Leon's eyes, as though he had suddenly remembered something.
"Please remember, Uncle Gerion will be competing in today's tourney... if you want to watch..."
A moment later, Thea ran in from outside the courtyard, picked Leon up, and hurried away.
"You... take care of yourself! I'll grasp those things you spoke of! Those shadows on the wall... little brother... I'll try..."
Curled in Thea's arms, Leon heard Tyrion's voice growing fainter.
And the repeated thuds of Tyrion throwing himself against the wooden door, hoping to widen the gap...
Bang-bang!
Lymond Vikary's lance slipped from his hand, its point scraping past Tygett's shoulder plate into empty air.
Tygett's lance struck the center of his opponent's shield, and the tremendous impact hurled the old knight straight out of his saddle. He landed on his back in a cloud of dust.
The entire crowd fell silent for two seconds.
Then the people of the Westerlands erupted in thunderous cheers.
That was pride in one of their own!
Look, our lion of Casterly Rock can unhorse even an aging hero!
Tygett reined his horse around and removed his helm. His sweat-soaked golden hair clung to his forehead as he lifted his face toward the platform.
Toward his elder brother.
Lord Tywin's face was expressionless.
He did not even applaud, merely giving a slight nod, like a lord approving accounts that were in order.
Tygett's smile froze on his lips. He lowered his helm and rode from the field, his crimson cloak trailing desolation behind him.
Watching her uncle's retreating figure, Cersei suddenly understood something.
In her father's eyes, victory was not glory. It was merely a passing mark.
The men of House Lannister were born undeserving of any praise beyond that passing mark.
She turned her gaze back to the royal stands.
The true brilliance belonged to Rhaegar Targaryen.
When Rhaegar rode onto the field, the crowd was so quiet that the cries of seabirds could be heard.
His armor was not the most magnificent.
Silver-white steel, the three-headed dragon picked out in blue enamel, simple and cool.
No cloak, no elaborate decoration.
He still rode no warhorse, only that placid gray mare.
Someone drew a sharp breath.
Jousting on a horse not bred for war-was this arrogance or madness?
The horns sounded.
His opponent was a tourney knight from the Westerlands.
The two riders charged toward each other.
At the last moment, Rhaegar lowered his weight.
His lance point did not aim for the center of the shield, but struck toward its upper-left corner.
There was a dent there, almost invisible to the naked eye, left by the previous bout.
The lance point drove precisely into the dent.
The shield shattered with a crack.
The knight toppled sideways, armor and all, while his startled warhorse bolted out of the lists.
Before he hit the ground, the jousting knight clung tightly to the reins and dropped to one knee, avoiding a complete fall.
The entire arena fell deathly silent.
Then applause erupted like thunder.
That thrust had relied not on brute force, but on a pair of eyes that saw through every weakness.
Cersei stood at the edge of the raised stand, all ten fingers clamped tightly around the railing. She knew nothing of lance work, but she recognized perfection.
Rhaegar reined his horse around and removed his helm. His long silver-gold hair spilled out, like molten moonlight in the sun.
He bowed his head slightly, offering a knightly salute to the knight kneeling on one knee.
Then he rode back to his position to await the next bout.
That afternoon, Rhaegar defeated three more challengers.
Every bout ended too quickly, so quickly that people wondered whether those long-renowned knights were throwing their matches.
But everyone knew they were not.
Before Rhaegar thrust his lance, his gaze always lingered on his opponent for a moment: the worn patches on a shield, the rivets on a pauldron, the old marks on a saddle.
Every suit of armor was a book, every scar a line of writing.
And Rhaegar Targaryen had read far too many books.
With one decisive lance thrust after another, the prince had already earned three days of thunderous cheers from the spectators.
"Thea, hurry... squeeze farther forward." A child's hushed voice came from a septa.
"Young master, you'll be seen if we go any farther." Thea braced both hands against the railing, wedged among the crowd.
The blazing sun and the mingled smell of sweat made her somewhat uncomfortable.
The two uncles of House Lannister met their respective destinies.
When the morning's matchups were posted, muffled gasps rose from the crowd:
Ser Tygett Lannister vs. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen
Leon saw Uncle Tygett standing before the noticeboard, motionless for a long time.
His back was as taut as a fully drawn bowstring, his knuckles white around his sword hilt.
The Eye of Insight revealed Tygett's emotions: grayish white, bewilderment and dejection, but it soon turned pale green.
At last, what he had waited for had come.
Not a chance to defeat his elder brother, but a chance to prove that the name "Tygett Lannister" would stand independent of anyone else.
His opponent was the dragon prince, the dream of maidens throughout the Seven Kingdoms, a figure even Tywin had never challenged head-on.
There would be no shame in losing.
Victory would make him a legend.
As Tygett turned, his eyes met Cersei's. He froze for a moment, then forced a smile for his niece that barely resembled one.
"Watch, little lion," he said. "Your uncle won't disgrace the Lannister name today."
The horn sounded.
Tygett's posture as he spurred his horse into a charge was utterly unlike that of the first day. He no longer held back his edge or used the standard form Kevan had taught him.
His center of gravity leaned farther forward, his lance dipped lower, and his entire weight bore down on the blow about to erupt.
This was a desperado's lance work, a charge with no return.
A light flashed in Rhaegar's eyes.
For the first time in the tournament, he changed his horse's gait.
The gray mare stepped diagonally forward to the right, not retreating but cutting straight in, into the blind spot along Tygett's line of charge.
The two riders crossed in an instant.
Tygett's lance tip slid across Rhaegar's pauldron, leaving a white scratch.
Rhaegar's lance tip struck the seam in the armor beneath Tygett's arm. That blow...
Precise, restrained, lethal.