The morning mist had not yet been fully burned off by the sun, and the massive shadow of Harrenhal loomed over the bustling encampment. Just before the clamor of the tournament was set to begin anew, a piece of news spread silently but rapidly among a select few, like a cold undercurrent.
No farewells. No omens.
Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, had left Harrenhal quietly that very morning with only a few of his core guards.
The squires who discovered this looked at each other in bewilderment, not daring to speak loudly, only whispering. His tent still stood, the furnishings inside untouched, as if the owner had merely stepped out for a moment. But anyone familiar with the Duke's style knew that this meant the most important things had already been taken with him.
His brother, Ser Kevan Lannister, and his children—Cersei and Tyrion—remained, seemingly unaware, or perhaps deliberately left behind.
Ser Kevan continued to handle various affairs with his usual stoicism, stabilizing the Lannister camp and managing the gambling houses they sponsored. Yet, his brow was furrowed tighter than usual, as if he were shouldering a heavy, unspoken burden left by his brother.
When the news reached Euron, who was preparing for the joust, he merely raised an eyebrow slightly. Tywin Lannister never did meaningless things. His quiet departure meant a larger game awaited him elsewhere. The tourney at Harrenhal was grand, certainly, but perhaps on Duke Tywin's cold strategic scales, this place was no longer the most crucial weight.
This sudden vacancy was like a silent thunderclap, adding an eerie sense of political maneuvering to a morning that was supposed to be filled with the clash of arms.
The joust was not delayed a single moment by Duke Tywin's departure. The horns still sounded on time across the Harrenhal arena. In the stands, only King Aerys II looked darker than usual, like a storm cloud. Any slight disturbance might ignite the fury rolling in his eyes.
Today's focal battle was between Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Oberyn Martell.
Oberyn Martell had just suffered the agony of broken ribs the night before, yet he still donned his armor and took the field. Beneath the gilded steel, every breath pulled at his injury, but an unyielding fire burned in his black eyes. There was no retreat.
Just like the words of House Martell: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken!
Horses galloped, lances crossed.
In the first tilt, the two riders passed each other, lances missing narrowly. Rhaegar's movements were precise and elegant, yet lacked a certain piercing ruthlessness.
In the second tilt, Oberyn's lance tip wavered due to the swaying of his body, missing its mark. Rhaegar's lance lifted subtly at the last moment, merely grazing the plume of Oberyn's helm instead of striking his chest or vitals.
By the third tilt, Oberyn could barely maintain his balance; the intense pain blurred his vision. As the horses charged again, he couldn't even raise his lance effectively. This time, the tip of Prince Rhaegar's lance tapped lightly against his pauldron. The force was controlled perfectly, more of a reminder than an impact. But even so, Oberyn could hold on no longer. His body swayed, and he slid limply from his saddle.
Dust rose slightly as a mix of gasps and sighs of regret came from the stands.
Euron watched clearly from the crowd. Prince Rhaegar had held back today—perhaps because he knew Oberyn was injured, or perhaps due to a deep-seated guilt toward Oberyn's sister, his own wife, Princess Elia. It had robbed his lance of its usual decisiveness.
Oberyn struggled to his feet. He took off his helm, decorated with viper patterns, revealing a pale but smiling face. He looked up at Rhaegar—his brother-in-law—still sitting atop his horse. There was no anger of defeat, but rather a clear, almost grateful smile. It was a silent understanding between warriors.
Prince Rhaegar nodded slightly in response. Sunlight fell on his dark silver hair. His figure remained noble, yet seemed to carry a heavy burden invisible to others.
The lists for the joust were hung high again. When the name Euron Greyjoy was paired with Ser Oswell Whent, a murmur of significant whispers rippled through the stands.
Ser Oswell Whent was no ordinary knight. He wore the pure white scale armor of the Kingsguard and was the last glory of House Whent in this tourney—his niece was the Queen of Love and Beauty, Ashara Whent, and her four brothers had already been defeated in earlier matches. Now, all hope and pressure rested on him alone.
But fate did not favor the White Knight enough.
Just in yesterday's match, his opponent had been the "Mountain That Rides," Gregor Clegane, known for his terrifying strength and brutality. Although Ser Oswell won through superior skill and courage, he paid a heavy price: his lance arm was severely sprained while blocking the Mountain's earth-shattering blows.
Now, this injury became Euron's opportunity for victory.
The match began. Two horses charged.
Ser Oswell gritted his teeth against the excruciating pain, trying to ride with perfect form. But every time he raised that heavy lance, the movement was sluggish and agonizing. The arm that was usually steady as a rock struggled to control direction precisely.
First tilt: Euron's lance struck the edge of his shield accurately. The massive impact shook Ser Oswell violently, sending a drilling pain through his injury.
Second tilt: Euron clearly sensed his opponent's weakness. His attacks targeted the injured side more aggressively. Ser Oswell clenched his jaw, barely parrying the blow, but his pale face and the cold sweat on his forehead said it all.
Third tilt: As they clashed again, just moments before the lances met, Ser Oswell's arm finally gave out under the repeated strain and pressure. The crowd saw clearly as the arm gripping the lance went limp, the weapon dipping downward.
Euron's lance tip seized the opening, striking him squarely on the breastplate.
The outcome was decided.
Ser Oswell was knocked from his horse. He lay on the sand, not rising immediately, clutching his agonizing shoulder with his uninjured hand, his eyes filled with unwillingness and helplessness. He hadn't lost to his opponent's skill, but to the injury he couldn't overcome.
Euron reined in his horse and removed his helmet. He had won, but the victory was colored by luck. He looked down at the fallen White Knight, his gaze holding little of a victor's arrogance, more like someone appraising a gift from fortune.
Euron dismounted cleanly. He walked over to Oswell Whent, who was now propping himself up with his good hand, trying to stand.
Euron didn't reach out to help him—that might have been a greater insult to a defeated knight. He simply held his helmet under his arm.
Euron nodded slightly. His voice, coarse as sea salt, held no boastfulness, only a fitting prudence. "A lucky win. You let me off easy, Ser Whent. If not for the injury you took yesterday fighting the Mountain, I would never have gained the upper hand so easily today."
Ser Oswell finally stood steady on his own strength. Fighting the waves of pain from his shoulder, he looked up, sweat and dust clinging to his determined but pale face. He stared at Euron. In those warrior's eyes, there was no resentment, only calm acceptance and a trace of exhaustion.
After a moment of silence, his voice raspy from pain but still steady, he said, "Luck is also a part of skill. A win is a win. No need to say more."
His words were short and powerful, like the sword in his hand, acknowledging the result while defending his final dignity.
And so, Euron won the match, becoming one of the final four.