The ride to Harrenhal was swift, unburdened by supply wagons or non-combatants. We would reach the castle by tomorrow morning, and now we made camp for the final night. After a simple dinner, I dismissed the others, wanting a private word with my squires.
The firelight flickered on their young, earnest faces. "The games begin tomorrow," I said, my voice low. "Harrenhal will be a nest of vipers. I need to know you are both prepared. Not just for the fighting, but for the politics, the watching eyes. Our actions here will define us."
Alban spoke first, his voice steady. "We are your squires, Ser Julius. Our place is at your side, whatever comes." Alaric nodded in firm agreement. "We are ready."
Their unwavering loyalty was a gift. "Then I will see you both knighted before this tourney is done," I vowed. "Win the squires' melee, and I will grant you your spurs before all the realm to witness." The fire in their eyes was answer enough. I fell into my bedroll, my mind a storm of contingencies. I could not interfere with the timeline, but the prophecy of this place was a palpable thing, a shadow I could feel even from miles away.
After three days on the Kingsroad, we saw it. Harrenhal. From a distance, it was a blot on the horizon. Up close, it was a monstrosity. The sheer, melted scale of it was an abomination, a testament to hubris and dragonfire. Yet, its strategic position was undeniable—the heart of the continent, with roads leading to every kingdom.
My students were struck silent, their awe tinged with unease. The fields around the castle were a sea of thousands of colorful tents, a temporary city of merchants, knights, and lords. We had missed the opening ceremonies, but not the main event. We pitched our own tents and I set out to secure fodder for the horses.
Today was the grand melee, a battle royal between the kingdoms. I hurried to the lists and signed for the Riverlands. I gave each of my boys a few gold dragons and told them to enjoy the spectacle. For my part, I needed to understand the lay of the land. The air was thick with festive excitement, a stark contrast to the dread coiling in my gut. These people had no idea of the winter that was coming for them all. A selfish part of me, the Warden's part, craved the coming storm. This body was forged for war; conflict was its purpose.
I approached the Riverlands knights preparing for the melee. A man with the twin towers of Frey on his surcoat eyed me with hostility. "And who might you be, ser? State your business."
"I am Ser Julius Harlane. I've signed for the Riverlands. And you are?"
Before he could retort, a taller lord with an eagle sigil intervened. "Walder Rivers, though most call him Black Walder." He turned to me, his gaze assessing. "I am Jason Mallister, Lord of Seagard. Almost a year ago, I had a raven from a Florent, asking after a knight of your description. He wrote quite a bit about you. Seeing you now, I believe every word. Come, ser. Let me introduce you to your comrades. Your strength will be a welcome addition."
He introduced me to the fourteen other men who would fight beside us, including the formidable Lord Tytos Blackwood, who was chosen as our leader. The strategy was simple: focus on the Westerlands first, then the others. We waited for the King's signal, the tension growing. From the Stormlands contingent, I heard a booming voice shouting about needing to hit something. Robert Baratheon. The Stag was restless.
Then, the horns blew, and chaos erupted. I settled the familiar weight of my new, winged great helm—retrieved from the smith before leaving the capital—onto my head and charged into the fray.
(Alfy's POV)
Our village was nothing. A place forgotten by lords and gods alike. When the plague came, it took everything. My family, my friends. We sent for help, and the only answer was a threat. So, Elder Durran led us to banditry. It was that or starve.
Then Ser Julius found us. He didn't kill us. He saved us. He used his own coin and strange knowledge to pull us back from the brink. He was a miracle, a hard and demanding one, but a miracle nonetheless. He trained those of us who could fight, drilling us until we collapsed, but he never abandoned those who couldn't. He gave us all a purpose.
When he brought us to the capital, the smell nearly broke our spirit. But we endured. We trained in secret, and when he tasked us with training the new recruits from the slums, we unleashed the hell he had taught us upon them. We were becoming his strong right arm.
And now we were here, at Harrenhal. The castle was a monstrous thing, so vast it seemed to swallow the sky. The field was a riot of colors and noise. Ser Julius gave us coin and told us to have fun. But when we heard he had entered the melee, we ran to the lists.
We arrived late. The field was a mess of groaning men and mud. Only two figures were left standing. One was Ser Julius, his armor dented but his stance unbroken. The other was a giant of a man in an antlered helm, a warhammer in his hand—Robert Baratheon himself.
The whole crowd fell silent as the two titans faced each other. Then, to everyone's shock, Ser Julius dropped his tourney sword and raised his fists. Lord Baratheon stared, then erupted in booming laughter, throwing his own hammer aside.
What followed was not a knightly duel. It was a raw, brutal brawl. Fists flew, armor buckled, and helms were smashed. The crowd erupted, chanting "Eagle!" and "Stag!" in a roaring tide.
In the end, it was Ser Julius who stood, helping a laughing, bruised Robert Baratheon to his feet. There was no enmity, only a fierce, earned respect.
Later, Ser Julius found us, a grim smile on his face. "We are invited to Lord Whent's feast tonight."
Good. I was starving.