That night, both victors and losers gathered in the castle's massive Hall of a Hundred Hearths to feast and celebrate.
The Hall of a Hundred Hearths actually contained only between thirty and forty hearths, but the hall was large enough to house an entire army. The floor was paved with smooth slate, with stairs leading up to two galleries above.
The feast, which should have been jubilant, was shrouded in an indescribable oppression. The presence of King Aerys II Targaryen was like an invisible shackle, imprisoning everyone's laughter.
The air was filled with the charred aroma of roasted meat and the sickly sweetness of mead. The long tables were piled high with roast goose, honeyed ham, and steaming meat pies. The fires in the hearths crackled, yet they could not dispel the chill brought by King Aerys's anxiously scanning golden eyes. His skeletal fingers rubbed back and forth along the rim of his cup, as if he might be startled into action by the slightest sound at any moment.
Rhaegar's harp music suddenly cut through the dullness. Embracing the harp, he walked to the center of the hall, his silver hair glowing with a soft halo under the firelight. When the first note fell, the hall gradually quieted down—the music was like a spring stream where ice was melting, cold yet surging with an indescribable sorrow. He did not play a courtly movement praising the Seven or the glory of the dynasty, but an ancient Dornish ballad telling of the hopeless love between a legendary knight of Starfall and a sea spirit.
Lyanna Stark sat among the sons of the North. As Rhaegar's music deepened, the stubbornness in her grey eyes gradually melted, replaced by a sheen of tears. The strings plucked not just a melody, but the untamed wildness and sorrow deep within her heart. She thought of her approaching marriage to Robert, that future which seemed like a preordained fate; or perhaps the music evoked her longing for freedom and sincere emotion.
Benjen Stark noticed his sister's unusual behavior. Being young, he could not yet read the complex emotions in the music; he only felt that Lyanna shedding tears for the "enemy's" music was a loss of Stark dignity. He leaned close to her, teasing with the characteristic rashness of a boy: "Has the She-Wolf of the North been tamed by the Dragon King's music?"
This was meant to be a common joke between siblings, but in that moment, it became the spark that lit the fuse.
Lyanna turned her head abruptly, the tears in her eyes instantly evaporated by anger. Without hesitation, she grabbed the gold cup before her and splashed the deep red wine onto Benjen's face. The liquid dripped down his chin, dying a large stain on his tunic. "Shut up, Benjen!" Her voice wasn't loud, but it was piercingly clear. "You simply know nothing!"
After an instant of dead silence, suppressed gasps came from the nearby seats. All eyes focused on this spot—infighting within House Stark was actually playing out before the King's eyes.
The corners of King Aerys's mouth actually curled into a twisted smile; he seemed to enjoy this sudden chaos very much.
Rhaegar's music stopped quietly at this moment. He looked at Lyanna, no surprise in his eyes, only a deep resonance and understanding. He nodded slightly, as if thanking her for understanding the story in the music that could not be spoken. And Lyanna, after her anger passed, met his gaze and suddenly understood why he chose that song—they were both bound by the shackles of fate, both longing to break free.
Lyanna's action was viewed as some sort of ambiguous attitude toward House Targaryen, while Rhaegar's music and gaze became the beginning of countless future conjectures.
That night, in the flickering firelight of the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, two hearts unwilling to be bound by fate completed their first silent resonance through music and tears.
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The figures clustered around King Aerys II only became particularly noticeable after the initial shock had settled.
That bald, plump eunuch with an unfathomable smile, Varys "the Spider," was whispering something softly into the King's ear. Beside him stood the solemn-faced Master of Coin Qarlton Chelsted, the stern-looking Master of Laws Symond Staunton, and the newly appointed Hand of the King, Lord Owen Merryweather.
The members of the Small Council, except for Grand Maester Pycelle who was feigning frailty and illness, were almost all present. Clearly, the King had made ample "preparations" for this trip.
Brandon Stark snorted cold, his gaze scraping over Varys like an ice blade. "Hmph, it's that detestable eunuch, always weaving lies in the shadows and offering slander to the King."
Eddard Stark agreed in a deep voice, worry in his eyes. "Perhaps the King's sudden arrival at Harrenhal was their idea."
However, the deepest hostility in Jon Arryn's eyes was not directed at Varys or those ministers, but was locked dead onto a man wearing smoky grey robes with curly brown hair—Wisdom Rossart, the Pyromancer. What was even more contemptible was that Aerys favored this man who manipulated wildfire so much that he not only granted him the title of honorary noble but also gave him a seat on the Small Council. The collar set with eerie glyph stones around Rossart's neck glimmered with an ominous luster in the light.
Robert Baratheon could almost not tear his eyes away from the King. The image of his parents' tragic death was branded deep in his soul.
His father Steffon Baratheon and mother Cassana Estermont, under Aerys's orders, had gone to Volantis to find a noble bride for Prince Rhaegar. On their return journey, they were buried at the bottom of the sea in Shipbreaker Bay—his parents' deaths were caused solely by an absurd whim of the Mad King.
This tragedy forced Robert, who was enjoying himself in the Vale at the time, to become the Lord of Storm's End overnight, bidding farewell to his carefree life forever.
He never forgot that the Targaryen father and son were indirectly responsible for his parents' deaths. At this moment, not only did the flames of hatred burn in his eyes, but intense dissatisfaction and jealousy toward Rhaegar Targaryen also surged.
Robert could not stand Rhaegar's gentle, elegant demeanor at all. In his view, a real man should drink wine from large bowls, eat meat in large chunks, be bold and unrestrained, and be direct. Rhaegar's behavior appeared affected and pretentious in his eyes.
"A grown man, especially a Prince, plucking that harp all day like a mummer..." Robert looked at Rhaegar in the center of the hall, stealing the limelight and attracting the admiring gazes of all the ladies, and couldn't help muttering jealously in a low voice, "Looks like a woman!"
Euron, standing aside, keenly perceived Robert's thoughts and couldn't help shaking his head secretly.
Robert, oh Robert, you truly don't understand. Women just love appearances and temperaments like Rhaegar's. Can't you see that even your own fiancée—that Stark girl who should belong to you—has become intoxicated looking at him?
Actually, she can't be blamed. Rhaegar has superb martial skills, a handsome face, an incomparably noble status, high artistic attainments, and a gentle, considerate, approachable personality. Such an existence, no matter placed in which corner, is destined to be the focus of everyone's attention.
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