After Rhaegar reported back to Aerys, the setting sun was just striking the towers of Harrenhal as he returned to the camp. He slowed his pace and stared at the sunset, yet his eyes drifted toward a cluster of noble pavilions whose banners bore the direwolf—Stark's encampment. "I wonder if anything happened to her after she left," he thought.
While he was removing his armor, a handmaid of Princess Elia arrived. "The princess invites you to supper, Your Grace," the girl murmured.
Rhaegar looked at her, yet what rose before him were Lyanna Stark's bright grey eyes when she had glanced back at the brook.
"Tell the princess I must ready myself for tomorrow's joust." His gaze was lowered; he did not look at her.
After the maid left, the tent fell silent again, nothing left of his sigh but a whisper swallowed by night.
At dawn the next day, when the horns sounded, Rhaegar rode into the lists on a pure-black war-horse. He reined in at the center; the three-headed dragon on his dark-red armor glinted coldly in the rising sun. His eyes swept the knights who had come to compete.
Then he leveled his lance at Yohn Royce of the Vale's "Bronze" branch.
"Ser Yohn," his voice rang clear, "I would ask your counsel."
Once the charge began, Rhaegar's stallion shot forward like a loosed arrow; Royce spurred to meet him. Both lances exploded against the other's shield—first pass, even match.
On the second pass Rhaegar struck first, landing a blow to the shoulder that hurled Yohn from the saddle.
Over the following days Rhaegar entered several more contests and won. Two opponents stood out: the northern heir "Bloody-Hand" Brandon Stark and the Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne. Arthur was formidable, yet this was a lance tourney, not swordplay.
In a blink the finals arrived; Rhaegar's last foe was Ser Barristan. Watching that spirited figure in the lists, Viserys felt a pang of helpless envy.
Deep down, Viserys had always harbored pure jealousy of Rhaegar. The man had become everything he himself had once coveted: whatever Rhaegar tried, he mastered, and at the first attempt.
Before sixteen Rhaegar spent his days among books, yet the moment he set them aside for a sword—declaring, "I shall learn to fight"—he defeated young Arthur Dayne at the Storm's End tourney at seventeen and fought peak-form Barristan Selmy to a near draw, losing only by a hair. Overnight the scholar had turned martial prodigy, his fame ringing through the Seven Kingdoms.
Worse, even before that he had already won the realm with his learning and bewitching singing voice. Whichever path he chose, talent and praise followed effortlessly, along with every heart. A life like that could make one gnash his teeth.
At this moment the air over the field seemed to freeze.
Barristan Selmy shifted his grip; his white cloak hung motionless in the breeze. The legendary Kingsguard's eyes were hawk-sharp, all his usual gentleness gone.
Opposite him Rhaegar leaned slightly forward; his black destrier stamped restlessly. Dark-red armor glinted like fresh blood in the sun.
Without warning, both horses launched.
Dust flew beneath iron hooves; the stands' roar felt a world away. Barristan's lance held steady, locked on the breastplate, while Rhaegar's gallop carried a rhythm only he could hear.
An instant before impact Rhaegar made a minute shift. Barristan caught it, angling his shield just enough.
Both ash lances shattered, splinters spraying.
First tilt: a draw.
Squires hurried fresh lances to each rider.
The second charge was fiercer. Barristan changed tactics; at the last heartbeat his lance dipped low, aiming beneath Rhaegar's shield—an old gambit that had unhorsed many a youngster.
But Rhaegar read it. A light tug on the rein and his stallion sidled half a step while his own lance flicked upward at a wicked angle.
Crack! The ash shaft burst.
Barristan's shield took the blow, jarring him, while his point scraped across Rhaegar's pauldron, leaving only a faint scratch.
The stands gasped. Lyanna's fingers clenched her skirt as she silently urged Rhaegar on.
Before the third charge Barristan drew a slow breath. The youth had seen through every feint; the only hope now lay in the simplest form.
Both horses thundered forward again. This time Barristan abandoned all flourish, his lance leveled in textbook fashion. He gambled that the younger knight would expect another trick.
The gamble paid.
Rhaegar hesitated for a heartbeat—and in that flash Barristan's lance struck him square on the breastplate.
The impact snapped Rhaegar backward, yet with astonishing core strength he held his seat and stayed in the saddle.
The crowd cried out. Lyanna's knuckles whitened on her skirt, fearing for him.
The joust continued until each man had broken twelve lances; victory went to Rhaegar only because youth outlasted age.
Afterward Rhaegar flexed his shoulders, fingered the dent in his breastplate, then bowed to Barristan. The field roared his name.
"He's buying their love," the king muttered to Varys. "Did you see how the lords looked at him?"
His voice dripped venom. Varys merely smiled and inclined his head, saying nothing.
By tourney custom the victor must crown a "Queen of Love and Beauty." Everyone expected Rhaegar to place the laurel on his wife Elia Martell—yet he rode past the already outstretched hand of the Dornish princess and drew up before the Stark stands. Halting before Lyanna Stark, he held the garland on his lance-tip; it blazed in the sun.
"I would dedicate this honor to you, fairest flower of the North." His voice was soft, yet those nearby heard every word.
Lyanna stood stunned. Brandon Stark beside her grinned—who knew how many smiles he had left—while Eddard frowned. In the Dornish seats Oberyn Martell sprang up, only to be caught by his sister Elia.
"Do nothing foolish," Elia whispered, her fingers white with pressure.
King Aerys's knuckles whitened. "He shames royal honor," he hissed to Varys.
Meanwhile Robert still fought in the melees, the antlered green helm upon his head flashing in the sun.
Thus, in that eerie hush, the tourney came to its end.
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