The tourney ground was a cacophony of cheers and thundering hooves. I had successfully avoided entering the lists, a decision that raised a few eyebrows until Robert Baratheon boomed his approval of my reason.
"A man needs to know his limits!" Robert laughed, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to stagger a lesser man. We sat in the gallery, a flagon of ale between us. "And by the gods, you found mine! Watching is its own sport, eh?"
It was not difficult to maintain my place among the high lords. Robert's charismatic endorsement was a powerful shield, and my own demeanor—that of a wealthy, independent knight, not a desperate sellsword—kept their condescension at bay. They might disdain my merchantile income, but they could not dismiss me.
And why would I regret missing the joust? I was growing profoundly wealthy. Every lord in Westeros seemed to be a gambler, and I held the ultimate advantage: knowledge of the future. I placed my bets with a quiet confidence that baffled the bookmakers, my coffers swelling as I wagered on the outcomes I knew were inevitable.
The true highlight came with the squires' melee. Alban and Alaric fought with a discipline and ferocity that belied their years, standing triumphant over all challengers, including Prince Rhaegar's own squires, Myles Mooton and Richard Lonmouth. As they stood panting in the mud, the victors, I called them before the gathered nobility.
"My lords and ladies!" I announced, my voice carrying. "You have witnessed their skill, their courage, and their heart. They have proven themselves beyond any doubt." I turned to the boys, their faces alight with a hope they scarcely dared to believe. "Kneel."
As they knelt, I did not simply tap their shoulders with a sword. My new knights, my loyal brothers, deserved more. "A knight is nothing without the tools to uphold his vows," I declared, as my Stormlanders brought forth two long, cloth-wrapped bundles. I unveiled them myself. There, gleaming in the sun, were the two full suits of plate armor commissioned from Tobho Mott. The steel was dark and finely crafted, a master's work.
"Alban of the House Whitesteel. Alaric of the House Blacksteel." I named them, honoring the bitter, formidable blood of their great-grandfather, Aegor Rivers. "Rise now, not as my squires, but as my brothers-in-arms. May this steel protect you as you protect others."
The applause was genuine. It was a good moment.
It was overshadowed later by a summons I could not refuse: an audience with the King.
The summons came on the heels of their knighting. The throne room had been arranged in one of Harrenhal's less-damaged halls, the monstrous Iron Throne replaced by a high chair on a dais. It did nothing to diminish the aura of the man who sat there.
King Aerys II Targaryen was a skeleton wrapped in fine silk, his long, unkempt nails tapping on the chair's arm. His eyes, burning with a feverish intensity, tracked my every step from the moment I entered the long hall. The air was thick with the smell of incense, barely masking the scent of fear.
I stopped at the prescribed distance and went to one knee, bowing my head. "Your Grace."
"Rise. Let me look at you," the King commanded, his voice a dry rasp. I stood, keeping my posture respectful but unthreatening. I felt the weight of the white-cloaked knights flanking him. I recognized the grim face of Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander, and the solemn intensity of Ser Arthur Dayne. The presence of the Sword of the Morning alone was enough to make any man measure his words. The other two, whom I took for Ser Oswell Whent and Prince Lewyn Martell, completed a wall of the realm's finest, their tension a palpable force.
"So. You are the murmuring knight from the east," Aerys began, leaning forward. "They say you sing pretty songs and fight like a demon from the hells. Tell me, where did you learn your trade? In the disputed lands? Fighting for some magister's vanity?"
"I learned in many places, Your Grace. My education was… varied." I kept my answers vague, neutral.
"Varied," he repeated, the word a sneer. "A sellsword's answer. Who was your master? What house did you serve? Speak plainly! Do you serve the Black Dragon?" His voice rose sharply on the last question, his eyes wild.
This was the heart of it. He was looking for a Blackfyre. "I serve no dragon, Your Grace, black or red. I am a simple knight, seeking fortune and adventure in the Sunset Kingdoms. My family were merchants in the Free Cities. We dealt in spices and silk, not swords and rebellion."
I deliberately wove a mix of the mundane and the mercantile, things he would find beneath his interest. I spoke of the cold winds off the Narrow Sea, the grey skies of Pentos, the icy peaks I claimed to have seen in northern Essos—anything to steer his mind away from fire and blood.
He listened, his head tilted like a bird of prey. "Ice," he muttered, cutting me off. "You speak too much of ice. A cold, treacherous thing. Fire purges. Fire cleanses." He leaned back, a flicker of disappointment in his mad eyes. I was not the enemy he wanted me to be. I was boring. "You may go. You are of no use to me."
I bowed again, deeply. "Your Grace."
I turned and walked away, feeling the stares of the greatest knights in the realm on my back until I passed through the great doors. Only then did I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The message was clear. In the eyes of the crown, I was either a useful tool or a traitor to be burned. There was no middle ground.
My low profile was shattered. I was a topic of rumor, a foreign knight with connections to three Lord Paramounts. King's Landing was now a death trap for anyone associated with me.
I acted quickly. I wrote two detailed letters—one for Miranda, one for Rolf—explaining the danger, the king's paranoia, and the coming storm. I told them to prepare for immediate relocation.
I gave the letters to my newest knights. "Take these to the capital," I ordered Alban and Alaric. "Take two dozen of our best Stormlanders with you. Your task is not to fight a war, but to avoid one. Protect our people. Get them to safety. Do not join any host. Your only duty is to them."
They were upset to be leaving the tourney's end, but the gravity of the task steadied them. "We will protect everyone, Ser Julius. You have our word."
With that burden lifted, I secured my next move. I approached Lord Jon Arryn, with Robert and Elbert's endorsement, and asked permission to visit the fabled Eyrie. He granted it graciously. The Vale would be my next destination.
The final day of the tourney arrived. As the last two riders—Prince Rhaegar and the legendary Ser Barristan Selmy—prepared for their final pass, I made my most audacious wager.
"One thousand gold dragons!" I declared loudly. "For the Prince!"
The crowd erupted. Men rushed to take the other side of the bet, certain the veteran Selmy would win. I merely smiled.
When Prince Rhaegar's lance struck true, unseating the Bold, my victory was financial. But it was short-lived. As the Prince rode forth to claim his crown of blue winter roses, a dreadful anticipation settled over me. He guided his horse past his own wife, Princess Elia, and the entire court.
He crowned Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty.
In the space of a heartbeat, every smile in the great field of Harrenhal died.