The silence after the clash lingered like fog. All of Harrenhal sat breathless, unsure of what they had just seen. The dust had not yet settled when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen rose to his feet, Dawn clattering to the ground beside Ser Arthur Dayne's unmoving form.
Dayne was not dead. But he had lost. And for the first time in many years, it showed.
Rhaegar, his silver hair matted to his brow with sweat and blood, turned to the stands. A murmur began to rise, one of awe and confusion. No one had expected him to win, not against Dayne. Not like this.
Oberyn Martell stood motionless beside Edward Grafton.
"He was holding back," Edward murmured.
Oberyn nodded once. "Both of them were."
"Until the very end."
The lords and ladies began to cheer, slowly at first, then thunderously as the reality of the outcome took hold. The silver prince, the warrior-poet, had emerged victorious.
The master of ceremonies approached with the laurel crown, a circlet of pale blue winter roses—the traditional token for the Queen of Love and Beauty.
All eyes turned toward Princess Elia Martell, seated in grace and patience, a calm smile fixed upon her lips. She was noble, beloved by Dorne, and the mother of Rhaegar's children. It was expected, proper, and right for the prince to crown her.
Rhaegar took the circlet in his hands.
Edward's gaze sharpened.
Instead of turning to Elia, Rhaegar descended from the field. The crowd shifted with him, confused, buzzing with curiosity. Step by step, he passed the high lords, the old kings, and finally halted before a young woman seated modestly among the northern contingent.
Lyanna Stark.
Her grey eyes widened as the prince approached. A breath caught in her throat. The air was suddenly heavy, electric.
Oberyn whispered, "Tell me this is not what I think it is."
Edward said nothing.
Rhaegar knelt before Lyanna. Wordlessly, he offered her the crown of blue roses.
The world went still.
The North gasped. The Vale murmured. The Reach watched in silence. Elia Martell did not move.
Lyanna, trembling, looked to her brothers—Brandon and Eddard—but neither spoke.
She accepted the crown.
Rhaegar rose, turned, and walked back toward the victor's circle, the cheers now scattered and uncertain.
Oberyn's jaw was tight.
"He just made a thousand enemies and shattered a kingdom's hope," he muttered. "For what?"
Edward folded his arms. "For a feeling."
In the shadow of the broken towers of Harrenhal, history cracked like stone under frost.
But the day was not done.
As the victor's feast commenced, the mood was strained. Great banners of House Targaryen fluttered overhead, but the colors seemed more ominous than triumphant. Elia Martell remained dignified, but silent. The Martells whispered among themselves in their mother tongue, and many cast long glances toward Lyanna Stark, who had already been quietly escorted away by her family.
Brandon Stark was seen pacing, red-faced, and only Lord Rickard's presence kept him from drawing steel.
At a private table near the rear of the hall, Edward sat with Oberyn and a few others—quiet swords, distant observers.
"I give him three months," Oberyn said, sipping from a goblet of Dornish red.
"To what end?" Edward asked.
"Before this mistake becomes blood," Oberyn replied.
Edward didn't disagree. Rhaegar had upset the fragile balance of power with a single gesture. He had humiliated his wife, insulted Dorne, and affronted the Starks all in one breath.
As the feast wore on, Edward noted the shifting alignments. Tywin Lannister dined with Lord Hoster Tully but watched Rhaegar like a lion tracking a wounded stag. Robert Baratheon had gone quiet for the first time all week, drinking in sullen silence.
Later, Edward stepped out onto the battlements of Harrenhal. The moon cast pale light across the scorched stone. He heard footsteps behind him.
It was Oberyn.
"I never asked you why you fight," Oberyn said.
Edward's eyes stayed on the horizon. "Because I know what's coming."
Oberyn joined him at the wall, silent for a moment. "You always speak like a man from somewhere else."
Edward smiled faintly. "Perhaps I am."
The next morning, the lords began to depart Harrenhal. Some quickly, others in tense silence. The North rode with haste, Brandon Stark at their head. The Martells followed soon after. Only a few remained for the closing ceremonies.
And Rhaegar Targaryen? He stayed behind in the library tower, writing songs no one would ever hear.
Edward rode out last. He had more names to remember. More blades to find.
He would gather them like kindling.
Because war was coming.
And he would be ready.