The day was bright, the sky an endless stretch of blue above the tourney fields of Harrenhal. The stands teemed with lords and ladies, their banners flapping in the gentle wind, gold and silver catching sunlight with a kind of divine brilliance. There was anticipation in the air—not the common sort reserved for gallant tilts or drunk wagers, but the heavy silence that precedes a storm.
Edward Grafton stood at the edge of the field, dressed in dark, undecorated armor, the same he had worn in every bout. Opposite him, across the packed earth, stood Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, cloaked in the white of the Kingsguard. He bore the legendary greatsword Dawn on his back—not merely a blade, but a symbol.
When the names had been drawn for the next match, the crowd had roared with approval. Two undefeated men. One, the legendary knight of the Kingsguard. The other, the mysterious warrior who had bested Ser Barristan.
Edward's eyes were calm as ever, expression unreadable beneath the lowered edge of his helm. Yet inside, every thought was measured.
This was the moment.
The crowd did not know it, but this was the last duel that would matter in the tourney. The realm would remember it not for its outcome, but for what it revealed. Edward had chosen it carefully.
He would lose.
Not clearly, not dramatically, but deliberately. Enough for a discerning eye to see the restraint. Enough to sow doubt in the minds of the lions and stags and wolves watching.
The horn sounded.
They met in the center with a fury that shook the dust from the earth. Arthur moved like no man should, swift and sure, his strikes as elegant as they were deadly. Dawn sang through the air, cutting arcs of pale fire in the morning light.
Edward matched him blow for blow—for a time.
He parried with a precision that made seasoned knights lean forward. He dodged with a fluidity that made squires forget to cheer. But slowly, imperceptibly, his pace slackened. He allowed his footwork to become a hair less certain. He timed a parry just a breath too late, letting Arthur press the advantage.
The Sword of the Morning did not notice it at first. He was too focused, too driven by the battle.
But then came the moment.
Edward stepped back from a sweeping blow, stumbling into the dirt. The crowd gasped. Arthur advanced, pressing hard. Edward rose slowly, his counterstrike lacking its usual precision. Another flurry followed, and Edward let his sword turn a fraction too wide. Arthur spun, disarmed him with a resounding strike, and drove Edward to one knee.
Cheers erupted.
Edward remained motionless for a moment, breathing heavy, before raising his hand in surrender.
Arthur took two steps back, lowering Dawn with practiced grace. He did not smile. His brows were drawn, his lips tight. He extended a hand to lift Edward.
Edward took it.
Their gazes met for an instant—and in that silence, something passed between them. A recognition. Not of weakness.
Of choice.
Afterward, the nobles were abuzz. Most were satisfied. Some were awestruck. A few—those with keener eyes—looked disturbed.
Arthur Dayne approached Edward later in the shade of the barracks.
"You could have won," he said quietly.
Edward tilted his head. "Could I?"
Arthur's jaw clenched. "You insult me with restraint."
"You won. The realm saw it."
"The realm sees little. But I see clearly."
Edward met his gaze, silent.
Arthur turned, voice cold. "Rhaegar asked about you. He won't again."
And he left.
Edward stood there, watching him go. He had not wounded the Sword of the Morning's body, but he had bruised his pride. That was the risk.
But the reward had already come. The dragon's eye had turned away.
And in that shadow, Edward Grafton would be free to move once more.
Later that evening, Edward stood on the ramparts of Harrenhal, the wind whispering through the jagged stone. The Blackwater Rush shimmered in the distance, reflecting the colors of the setting sun like a river of molten copper. Below, the campfires of a hundred noble houses flickered to life, each a different blaze of ambition.
He leaned on the cold stone and considered the day's events. The act had cost him something. Dayne's scorn was real. Edward had admired the man—his discipline, his skill, his devotion to a code. Losing his respect was a cut deeper than Dawn could give.
But there were greater goals than admiration.
Already, the ripples were forming. He had seen the way Tywin Lannister's eyes narrowed during the duel. The old lion had caught the nuance. So too had Lord Hoster Tully, who murmured something to his daughter as Edward knelt in defeat.
And then there was Rhaegar.
The Prince had spoken to him after the Barristan match—just briefly. His interest had been cool but unmistakable. Edward had seen the calculation begin in Rhaegar's violet eyes. He would not allow that.
He could not risk being drawn into the dragon's fire.
The subtle loss was a withdrawal, a shield. Rhaegar would no longer see Edward as a threat, nor as a tool. That distance was precious.
A soft footstep behind him interrupted his thoughts.
"I was told I'd find you here," said a voice. Edward turned.
It was Jaime Lannister. Still young, barely more than a boy, his white cloak too large for his shoulders, his sword too clean.
"You fought well today," Jaime said, though his tone was uncertain. "But…"
Edward raised a brow.
"You didn't fight like you did against Ser Barristan."
"No, I didn't."
Jaime hesitated. "Why?"
Edward turned back to the river. "Because not every battle is won by victory."
"That's cryptic."
"Good."
The younger knight scowled but said nothing more. He stood beside Edward for a while, arms crossed, before departing with a mumbled farewell.
—
In the following days, whispers bloomed like spring weeds.
Some said Edward had finally met his match. Others wondered aloud if he had been wounded in a previous bout. A few whispered of collusion, of debts owed or favors promised.
The truth, as always, floated above them, cloaked in ambiguity.
Edward trained quietly. He spoke little. He kept to the edges of the tourney crowd, watching, listening.
And then, at last, the summons came.
A messenger from Casterly Rock arrived, bearing the crimson lion on his breast. Lord Tywin requested Edward's presence in his pavilion on the morrow.
Edward folded the parchment and smiled faintly. The trap was set. The bait had been taken.
The Sword of the Morning's blade had pierced more than his armor.
It had cracked the surface just enough for the lions to come sniffing.
And Edward Grafton was ready to let them believe they were hunting.