Night completely enveloped Harrenhal, but this colossal fortress did not sleep.
Countless torches, bonfires, and massive bronze braziers were lit. The dancing flames turned every giant stone of the castle into a stage of light and shadow. The blazing light even dispelled the deep night, reflecting an eerie dim yellow onto the sky.
Under this brightness akin to daylight, the Melee of the Seven—the most chaotic, cruel, and exciting event of this tourney—was about to unveil its bloody curtain.
The rules were simple and brutal: each side sent exactly one hundred warriors into battle. Originally, forty-six teams had signed up, but to align with the sacred number of the Faith of the Seven, the event was divided into seven preliminaries. In each match, exactly seven teams would fight chaotically within the vast arena. The three missing teams were filled by vassals and soldiers sent by the host House Whent—but they would only make a symbolic appearance at the start and then voluntarily withdraw, leaving the battlefield to the true contenders.
The only rule for victory was cold as steel: at the end of each preliminary match, only members of one team could remain standing in the arena.
Either die in battle or voluntarily withdraw and surrender; there was absolutely no third option.
In this vast killing field, conspiracy was as important as martial force.
The seven teams could form alliances at will or betray allies at any time.
Uniting, ambushing, betraying, fighting to the death—any means were permitted, any scheme could be deployed. Only the side standing last could bathe in blood and fire to advance to the final contest.
The Iron Islands team was not scheduled to fight on the first night, but Euron and all his subordinates stood on the viewing platform, staring down at the battlefield illuminated like an inferno by the firelight. The fillers from House Whent had long since withdrawn according to the rules, leaving only six teams truly yearning for victory and honor.
As the melee began, alliances and betrayals played out in succession. Two teams quickly formed an alliance, and three others unhesitatingly formed a temporary camp, attempting to crush their opponents with numbers. Only the Stormlands Stag Team led by Robert Baratheon stood defiantly independent from beginning to end, disdaining to associate with anyone.
Tonight, Robert himself was the most dazzling eye of the storm. Like a legendary warrior reborn, every swing of his incredibly heavy warhammer "Skullcrusher" (Note: Likely referring to his unnamed hammer, often just called his warhammer, but text gives it a name/description) carried destructive power, tearing the air with terrifying whistles. No exquisite moves were needed; anyone swept by the warhammer suffered dented armor and shattered bones, ending up dead or crippled. He laughed wildly, caring not who allied with whom, nor bothering with tactics or strategy. He only wanted to fight to his heart's content in this most primal slaughter.
"Come on! All of you come at me!" His roar drowned out the noise of the battlefield. "I'll smash you all anyway! The last one standing will be me!"
In the end, when the shouting and clashing of blades gradually subsided, only Robert Baratheon and his Stormlands warriors remained standing on the bloody sandy field.
They won this preliminary match. However, looking around, of the hundred brave warriors of the Baratheon Stag Team, only thirty-odd remained standing and breathing. The price of victory was the mountainous piles of corpses surrounding them and the blood soaking the sand.
Standing beside Euron, Ashara's fingertips were cold as she gripped his hand tightly. Looking at the undried blood on the sand and the corpses being quickly dragged away, her voice carried a trace of imperceptible trembling. "If... if every match is this cruel, then..."
She didn't finish her sentence, but the worry and fear within were self-evident.
Euron felt the coolness and slight tremor in her palm. He turned his hand to hold hers more firmly, the warm strength carrying a reassuring firmness. He turned his head, no longer looking at the blood in the arena, but focusing on her face written with worry.
"Don't be afraid," his voice was low and steady, without the slightest perfunctoriness, carrying a solemn promise. "I promise you, I will never be reckless."
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The night grew deep, and the noise dissipated. Most torches on the tourney grounds had been extinguished, leaving only sporadic lingering lights swaying in the darkness.
The crowd dispersed. Some crawled back into tents to continue numbing their nerves with wine; others strolled and chatted in twos and threes under the starry sky; still others disappeared into the deep woods, seeking moments of private pleasure.
Euron and Ashara strolled side by side at the edge of the woods, enjoying the moment of tranquility after the great battle.
However, a faint, melodious sound of a harp broke the silence, leading them to an unexpected scene—Prince Rhaegar sat alone on the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, fingertips gently plucking the silver strings of a harp. And the one listening intently beside him was not his wife Princess Elia, but Lyanna Stark.
Lyanna listened, mesmerized, cupping her cheeks with both hands. The embers of the bonfire reflected red on her small face. Her usually wild eyes stared unblinkingly at Rhaegar at this moment, flowing with obvious affection and intoxication.
Euron and Ashara exchanged a glance. Though surprised, they tacitly did not step forward to disturb this ambiguous and secret atmosphere, only quietly retreating into deeper shadows.
Unexpectedly, a moment later, sounds of fighting and malicious mockery suddenly came from a nearby clearing in the woods.
They saw Howland Reed—the young crannogman from the Neck—being besieged by three squires taller than him. One served a pitchfork knight (House Haigh), one a porcupine knight (House Blount), and one came from the twin towers knight (House Frey). Though none of these squires were fifteen yet, relying on their numbers, they easily snatched Howland's only trident spear, pushed him to the ground, and wantonly pushed and kicked him, spewing insults constantly.
Seeing this, Prince Rhaegar frowned tightly and immediately put down his harp, intending to step forward to stop it. However, someone was faster than him—it was Lyanna Stark.
Like an enraged she-wolf, she rushed over without hesitation, shouting sternly, "Stop! He is a bannerman of Winterfell, under the protection of House Stark!" Before her voice faded, she had grabbed a blunt training sword from the ground and attacked the three bullying squires fiercely. Her swordsmanship might not be top-tier, but that fierce, shrewish momentum and surprise attack quickly knocked the three boys to the ground, sending them fleeing in panic.
Prince Rhaegar stopped in his tracks, gazing at Lyanna Stark standing with sword in hand. The firelight outlined her resolute profile and hair flying in the wind. That heroic spirit and sense of justice, different from ordinary noble ladies, quietly plucked his silent heartstrings like the most precise arrow.
The injured crannogman was taken back to her tent by Lyanna. She personally cleaned his wounds and bandaged them carefully with clean linen. Then she introduced Howland Reed to her brothers—Brandon Stark, wild and uninhibited as a wolf pack leader; Eddard Stark, silent and steady; and the still-young pup Benjen Stark.
After Rhaegar and Lyanna left with Howland Reed, Euron and Ashara walked slowly out of the shadows of the woods. Both clearly saw the look Prince Rhaegar gave Lyanna Stark just now—the focus and appreciation contained within had long exceeded ordinary courtesy, permeating with an indescribable ambiguity.
Ashara couldn't help but frown slightly, a trace of worry and confusion in her voice. "Between the two of them..."
Euron's reaction was calmer and more restrained. He gently held Ashara's hand and whispered, "Seeing isn't necessarily believing; don't speak too much of it. Perhaps it's just a moment of appreciation from the Prince, like a spark, fleeting, not necessarily as serious as we imagine."
Ashara was silent for a moment, then nodded gently, a trace of pity for another woman passing through her eyes. "Mm... I just thought of Princess Elia. Her situation is already sad enough..."
Her voice faded, dissolving her unfinished worries into a soft sigh.
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