Chapter 55:False Spring's Bloom and the Dragon Prince's Folly (The Tourney at Harrenhal)
The year 281 AC dawned upon a Westeros increasingly suffocated by the erratic paranoia and creeping madness of its king, Aerys II Targaryen. The Red Keep, once a symbol of Targaryen majesty, had become a place of fear, its walls echoing with the King's rages, the scent of wildfire lingering in its shadowed corridors. His Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister, a man of immense capability and pride, had resigned years prior, driven away by Aerys's constant slights and jealous suspicions. The governance of the realm was now in the hands of sycophants and pyromancers, further isolating the monarchy from its great lords.
Yet, amidst this growing darkness, a beacon of hope, however melancholic and enigmatic, shone in the person of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Handsome, skilled in both arms and music, learned and thoughtful, Rhaegar was seen by many as the realm's best chance for a return to sanity and stability. He was popular with the smallfolk, respected by many lords, and possessed an almost otherworldly grace. But Rhaegar, too, was a creature of shadows, his mind consumed by ancient prophecies, by the tragedy of Summerhall that had heralded his birth, and by a deep-seated belief that he, or his line, was destined to fulfill a momentous, world-altering fate.
It was against this backdrop of royal decay and princely mystique that Lord Walter Whent announced his intention to host a great tourney at his vast, cursed castle of Harrenhal. The prizes offered were an order of magnitude greater than any seen in living memory, the scale of the planned festivities unprecedented. Whispers soon spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms that the true benefactor behind Lord Whent's lavishness was Prince Rhaegar himself, that the tourney was perhaps a pretext for the Prince to gather the great lords, to discuss matters of state, perhaps even to address the King's increasingly untenable behavior.
From his eternal seat within Mount Skatus, Aelyx Velaryon received news of the planned tourney with a surge of intense, analytical interest. "A grand gathering of peacocks and predators," he remarked to Lyanna and his immortal council, as Tibbit's agents relayed the details of the invitations and the growing excitement across the realm. "Harrenhal, that monument to hubris and dragonfire, will once again be a stage for ambition, intrigue, and folly. Such events are often the crucibles where the fates of kingdoms are forged, or shattered."
The public Lord Volmark of Skagos at this time was a young man named Daeron Volmark (Aelyx's descendant many generations removed, now in his early thirties, his Valyrian features strikingly prominent, a trait Aelyx had subtly encouraged to re-emerge more strongly in the public line after several generations of more Northern-looking lords). Daeron Volmark, guided by Aelyx, was a picture of Skagosi prosperity and quiet Northern strength. An invitation to Harrenhal naturally arrived at Icefang Keep.
Aelyx deliberated. Sending a significant Volmark presence to such a high-profile southern event carried risks. Skagos preferred its isolation; its wealth, while legendary, was best not flaunted too openly before the greedy eyes of southern lords or the paranoid King. Yet, the intelligence gathering opportunities were unparalleled. "Lord Daeron," Aelyx instructed his public descendant through their hidden channels, "you will attend, but with a modest retinue. Your purpose is not to compete or to make a grand display, but to observe, to listen, to be our eyes and ears. The North will be well-represented by Lord Stark and his banner_men_. You will act as a loyal, if somewhat reserved, Northern lord, interested primarily in fostering goodwill and perhaps some minor trade connections. Your true task is to report everything of significance back to us here."
Daeron Volmark, accompanied by a small, disciplined guard of Skagosi warriors (their dark grey and sea-green livery impeccable, their Valyrian-steel-edged blades discreetly superior) and a handful of glamoured house-elves serving as his personal attendants and Tibbit's on-site intelligence coordinators, made the long journey south. He joined the vast Stark contingent, led by Lord Rickard Stark himself, and his children: the wild, spirited Brandon, the quiet, dutiful Eddard, the beautiful, headstrong Lyanna, and young Benjen.
Harrenhal, when the delegations arrived, was a breathtaking, chaotic spectacle. The colossal, fire-blackened ruins of the castle were surrounded by a veritable city of pavilions, tents, and banners representing every noble house of Westeros, save for Lord Tywin Lannister, whose pointed absence spoke volumes of his rift with King Aerys. Thousands of knights, squires, merchants, mummers, camp followers, and fortune seekers teemed within its shadow. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and the underlying tension of a realm on edge.
Aelyx, through Daeron Volmark's senses and the constant, magically relayed reports from his house-elf agents scattered like unseen dust throughout the tourney grounds, became an omnipresent, silent observer. He noted the forced joviality of many lords, the nervous glances towards the royal pavilion, the hushed conversations in shadowed corners. His Emissaries, those deep-cover agents seamlessly integrated into Southern society, were also present, some within the retinues of minor lords, others posing as merchants or scholars, their observations adding layers of depth to his understanding.
King Aerys II's unexpected decision to attend the tourney – his first emergence from the Red Keep's suffocating paranoia in years – sent a fresh wave of unease through the assembled nobility. He arrived with a diminished, suspicious court, his appearance shocking to those who had not seen him recently. His hair and beard were long, tangled, and matted, his fingernails like yellowed claws. His eyes, the same violet hue as Aelyx's own, darted about with a feral, fearful intensity. He was accompanied by his Kingsguard, including the legendary Ser Barristan Selmy and the newly inducted Ser Jaime Lannister, whose golden beauty was a stark contrast to the King's decay.
Prince Rhaegar, by contrast, was the epitome of Valyrian grace and kingly charisma. He moved through the tourney grounds like a figure from legend, his silver harp often in hand, his melancholic smile captivating all who met him. He jousted with unmatched skill, his silver armor gleaming, his three-headed dragon sigil prominent. Yet, Aelyx, observing him through Daeron's more critical, Aelyx-influenced perspective, saw beyond the public adoration. He sensed a deep, almost fanatical obsession beneath Rhaegar's poetic exterior, a man driven by prophecies and a desperate sense of destiny.
"Rhaegar believes he must save the world," Aelyx mused to Lyanna in the sanctuary. "A noble aspiration, perhaps, but one fraught with peril when it blinds a man to the immediate consequences of his actions. He seeks to fulfill a song, and in doing so, he may well compose a dirge for his entire house."
The tourney itself was a magnificent affair. The jousts were fierce, the melee a brutal spectacle of martial prowess. Knights like Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Arthur Dayne (the Sword of the Morning, with his Valyrian steel blade Dawn), and Prince Rhaegar himself displayed their legendary skills. Aelyx's agents recorded every tilt, every blow, analyzing the fighting styles, the quality of arms and armor, the strengths and weaknesses of the great martial houses.
Then came the mystery of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. A small, unknown knight, his shield bearing the device of a smiling weirwood, championed three lesser knights who had been bullied by squires of more prominent houses. The Knight of the Laughing Tree defeated their tormentors' champions in the lists, demanding only that they teach their squires honor. King Aerys, his paranoia instantly inflamed, became convinced the knight was a hidden enemy, his laughter a mockery of the Targaryen crown. He flew into a rage, demanding the mystery knight be unmasked. Prince Rhaegar was tasked with finding him, but the Knight of the Laughing Tree vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared.
Aelyx's agents, with their unique skills, made discreet inquiries. While they could not definitively identify the knight (though whispers and subtle clues pointed towards Lyanna Stark, or someone acting on her behalf, defending the honor of a crannogman friend, perhaps Howland Reed, Lyra Volmark's husband, who was present with the Stark party), Aelyx was more interested in Aerys's reaction.
"The King sees treason in a child's prank, a mortal insult in a simple act of chivalry," Aelyx noted. "His mind is truly gone. He is a wounded, cornered beast, lashing out at shadows. Such a king cannot rule. He can only destroy."
The climax of the tourney, the event that would forever be seared into the memory of all who witnessed it and become the immediate catalyst for the realm's undoing, came when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, having won the final tilt and been crowned champion, made his fateful choice for the queen of love and beauty. He rode past his own wife, the Dornish Princess Elia Martell, who sat watching with a strained smile, and laid the laurel wreath of blue winter roses in the lap of Lyanna Stark of Winterfell.
A stunned silence fell over the tourney grounds. Lyanna, her wild Northern beauty flushed with surprise and perhaps something more, accepted the wreath. Her brother Brandon Stark's face was thunderous. Robert Baratheon, Lyanna's betrothed, was said to have laughed it off initially, but his friends saw the fury simmering beneath. King Aerys, however, seemed almost pleased by the public slight to Elia Martell and her Dornish kin, a family he had come to despise.
Aelyx, receiving Daeron Volmark's urgent, magically relayed report of this astonishing event, felt a cold certainty settle upon him. "The fool," he breathed, his voice a whipcrack in the silence of the Obsidian Chamber. "The utter, thrice-damned Valyrian fool! Rhaegar has just signed his house's death warrant, and perhaps that of the entire realm, for a gesture of romantic idiocy driven by his accursed prophecies."
He knew, with the chilling clarity of his centuries of experience and his seers' dire visions, what this meant. This was no mere tourney prize; it was a public declaration, an insult to multiple great houses, a spark thrown into a powder keg of resentment, ambition, and royal madness.
"Lord Rickard Stark will not suffer his daughter to be so used and his house's honor so publicly compromised by the Crown Prince," Aelyx predicted. "Robert Baratheon will not forgive this slight to his honor and his betrothed. Jon Arryn, their foster father, will be drawn into their cause. Tywin Lannister, already alienated, will watch for his opportunity. The Martells, their princess grievously insulted, will nurse a burning grievance. Rhaegar, in his obsession with his 'three heads of the dragon' and his prophetic songs, has just handed his enemies the perfect justification for rebellion."
Daeron Volmark, from Harrenhal, reported the poisonous atmosphere that followed. The feasting was strained, the smiles brittle. Lords whispered in hushed, angry tones. King Aerys, perversely, seemed to enjoy the discomfort, his mad laughter echoing through Harrenhal's haunted halls. Prince Rhaegar, seemingly oblivious to the storm he had unleashed, remained lost in his melancholic reveries, his gaze often straying towards Lyanna Stark.
Aelyx instructed Daeron to make his discreet farewells and return to Skagos with all speed. "The air in the south is thick with impending bloodshed. Skagos must be seen to be far removed from this folly, its loyalty solely to Lord Stark, whatever course he now chooses. Our preparations for the… ensuing instability must accelerate."
The Tourney at Harrenhal, intended by Rhaegar perhaps as a moment of unity or a chance to rally support for some grand design, had instead become the prelude to war. The false spring of its early days, filled with chivalry and hope, had withered under the heat of royal madness and princely obsession. Aelyx Velaryon, watching from his Northern fastness, saw the pieces aligning for a conflict that would dwarf even the Dance of the Dragons in its potential to reshape the political landscape of Westeros. He felt no pity for the Targaryens; they were architects of their own doom. His only concern was ensuring that Skagos, and his eternal dynasty, would not only survive the coming inferno but emerge from it stronger, their secrets intact, their long-term plans unimpeded. The Dragon Prince had made his move. The wolves, the stags, and the falcons would soon respond. And the Shadow King, as always, would watch, and wait, and prepare.