Chapter Two: The Tournament of Harrenhal / Tully Sisters
The year 280 AC arrived with the promise of blood and glory, for Lord Whent of Harrenhal had announced a great tournament. It was to be the grandest affair seen in Westeros in a generation, with knights and lords from every corner of the realm gathering to compete for fame, fortune, and the favor of the royal family. Adian Frey, now a man of one-and-twenty, watched the preparations from the comfort of a rented room in a nearby inn. He had no intention of participating. The Frey contingent was already large enough—his father had sent a dozen of his brothers and half-brothers to compete, each more eager than the last to prove their worth in the lists. Adian had learned long ago that glory was a fool's pursuit, and the only reward worth having was the one you could count in coin.
Harrenhal itself was a grim testament to the folly of ambition. The massive fortress, built by Harren the Black, loomed over the land like a stone giant, its towers twisted and dark, its halls echoing with the ghosts of the past. Adian had seen it once before, during his travels with the Frey forces, and it had left him with a sense of unease that lingered long after he had ridden away. There was something about the place that felt wrong, as if the very stones were soaked in blood and sorrow.
The tournament grounds, however, were alive with color and noise. Banners fluttered in the wind, each representing a different house or knight. Tents of all sizes dotted the landscape, housing the competitors and their retinues. Merchants hawking their wares moved through the crowds, their voices rising above the din of blacksmiths hammering out new armor and squires polishing shields until they shone like mirrors. It was a spectacle of wealth and power, a temporary city built for the sole purpose of celebrating martial prowess.
Adian moved easily among the crowd, plain enough to be ignored. He paid attention where others didn't, collecting stray words and half-truths that surfaced only when people thought no one was listening.
He found a spot near the betting tables, where a group of merchants and minor lords were arguing over the odds. The favorite to win the tournament was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the silver-haired dragon who had already proven his skill in previous contests. Close behind him were Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and Barristan Selmy, the Bold, both of whom were renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms for their prowess with sword and lance.
"The prince cannot be beaten," one of the merchants declared, his voice loud with confidence. "He rides as if the dragon himself guides his lance."
"Selmy has a trick or two up his sleeve," another countered, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "And Dayne... well, Dayne is Dayne. There's a reason they call him the Sword of the Morning."
Adian let them argue while he ran the numbers. He'd spent enough time in the betting halls of Riverrun and White Harbor to trust patterns over noise.
He placed his bets carefully, favoring the prince but backing a handful of overlooked knights as well. Safer that way. Fewer surprises.
As he turned away from the betting tables, Adian's gaze swept the crowd with detached curiosity—not seeking faces, but opportunities. He had no time for sentiment, no patience for ghosts of the past. Yet the gods, it seemed, had other plans.
There she was.
Catelyn Tully stood beside her father, Lord Hoster, and her younger brother Edmure, her posture regal, her gown of deep blue shimmering under the afternoon sun. But it was not her beauty that caught his eye—it was the way her breath hitched when she saw him. The slight tremor in her fingers as they tightened around the folds of her skirt. The way her eyes, wide and dark, lingered a fraction too long on his face before darting away, as if ashamed to be caught staring.
Beside her, Lysa Tully—smaller, sharper, her eyes glittering with a hunger that had never dimmed—leaned in and whispered something to Catelyn. Catelyn's cheeks flushed, her lips parting slightly as if to protest. But Lysa only smiled, her gaze sliding over Adian like a blade testing its edge.
And then, Lysa moved.
She stepped forward, slipping through the crowd with the grace of a cat on the prowl, her eyes never leaving Adian's. When she reached him, she did not curtsy, did not lower her gaze. She simply smiled, slow and knowing.
"Ser Adian," she said, her voice low, laced with honey and something darker. "It has been... too long."
Adian inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "Lady Lysa. You look well."
"I look alive," she corrected, her fingers brushing the fabric of her gown where it clung to her thigh. "And I remember. Every moment. Every gasp. Every cry."
Adian's gaze flickered, just for an instant, to Catelyn, who had not moved, her eyes locked on them, her body rigid with tension. He saw the way her breath quickened, the way her fingers dug into her own palm as if to keep from reaching out.
Lysa followed his gaze, then turned back to him with a smirk. "She remembers too," she murmured. "Though she pretends not to. She watches you. She wants you. And she hates herself for it."
Adian said nothing, but his silence was answer enough.
Lysa leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Let's meet tonight. The old watchtower near the stables. After the feast. Come alone."
She pulled back, her eyes gleaming. "And bring your cock. I've been waiting to feel it."
Before he could respond, she turned and walked away, her hips swaying with deliberate grace, her gaze flickering once more to her sister—watching, waiting, testing.
Catelyn stood frozen, her face pale, her breath shallow. She had heard every word. Every syllable. Every filthy, delicious promise.
She did not protest. She did not scold her sister. She did not command her to stop.
Instead, she looked at Adian—once, long, and with a fire in her eyes that burned hotter than shame.
And then she turned, her skirts swirling as she walked away.
But not to her chambers.
Not to her father.
She walked toward the stables.
And she would be waiting.
Not for her sister's sake.
Not for duty.
Not for honor.
She would be there because she needed to see.
Needed to know.
Needed to feel.
And if Adian's cock found its way inside her again, if his hands gripped her hips, if his voice growled her name as he took her like he had that night in the gardens—
Then so be it.
She would not stop him.
She would not pretend.
She would not lie.
She would let him ruin her again.
And this time, she would beg for it.
The first day of the tournament dawned bright and clear, the sun rising over the walls of Harrenhal like a golden coin. The lists were already crowded with spectators, their voices rising in a chorus of excitement as the competitors prepared to take the field. Adian found a spot in the stands, his eyes scanning the crowd for familiar faces, for potential allies or enemies. He saw the royal family seated in the highest box, King Aerys looking thin and paranoid, his queen, Rhaella, pale and withdrawn beside him. Prince Rhaegar sat with them, his expression calm, almost serene, as if the coming contest was of no consequence to him.
The jousting began with a series of matches between lesser-known knights, their lances shattering against shields with a sound like thunder. Adian watched with a practiced eye, noting the strengths and weaknesses of each competitor, adjusting his bets accordingly. He won a few, lost a few, but overall, his coin purse grew heavier with each passing hour.
It wasn't until the afternoon that the excitement began. Prince Rhaegar took the field, his silver armor gleaming in the sunlight, his black destrier prancing nervously beneath him. His opponent was Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold, a veteran of a hundred battles, his face weathered and scarred, his eyes sharp with determination.
The crowd fell silent as the two knights charged, their lances lowered, their shields raised. The impact was tremendous, the sound echoing across the field. Rhaegar's lance struck true, shattering against Selmy's shield, but the Bold held his seat, his own lance glancing off the prince's armor. The crowd roared its approval, their voices rising in a wave of sound that washed over the lists.
They charged again, this time with more force. Rhaegar's lance found its mark, striking Selmy's chest with enough power to unseat him, sending him tumbling to the ground in a shower of splintered wood and bent metal. The crowd went wild, their cheers drowning out all other sounds as the prince rode around the field, his hand raised in triumph.
Adian watched, his expression unreadable. He had won his bet, of course, but there was an undercurrent of tension in the air, a sense of something brewing beneath the surface of the celebration.
He saw it again in the melee, where knights fought with blunted weapons, their movements a blur of steel and sweat. Rhaegar fought with a grace that was almost inhuman, his sword moving as if it were an extension of his arm, his strikes precise and deadly. He defeated Ser Arthur Dayne in the final round, their duel a spectacle of skill and strength that left the crowd breathless.
What followed the melee unfolded exactly as Adian expected. When Rhaegar was crowned champion, his gaze swept the crowd before settling—briefly, deliberately—on the northern ladies. Lyanna Stark stood among them, dark-haired and unyielding, her presence hard to miss. Adian noted the subtle change in the prince's expression: the softening, the pause held a heartbeat too long. It was more than courtesy. It always had been.
He also saw the way Brandon Stark reacted, his face dark with anger, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as if he were about to draw it. There was a story there, Adian knew, a tale of love and betrayal that had yet to be told, but that was already unfolding in the quiet glances and subtle gestures of the players on this grand stage.
By nightfall, the tourney grounds had emptied and the noise had faded. The watchtower stood silent against the night sky, its stone walls cold and unyielding, the wind whispering through the cracks like the ghosts of forgotten men. Adian Frey stood at the top, his back against the parapet, his eyes fixed on the path below. He had come early, not out of eagerness, but out of habit—always one step ahead, always in control. He had stripped off his doublet, left his belt and sword at his feet, his breeches loosened just enough to let the cool night air kiss his skin. His cock, already half-hard from the memory of Lysa's voice, throbbed against the rough fabric, heavy with anticipation.
He heard her before he saw her.
Footsteps, soft but hurried, climbing the worn stone stairs. A rustle of silk. A breath, quick and shallow. Then she appeared.
Lysa Tully.
Her gown was darker than Catelyn's, a deep crimson that clung to her curves like blood on snow. Her hair, usually pinned tight in the style of a proper lady, was loose tonight, tumbling down her back in wild, untamed waves. Her eyes—wide, dark, burning—locked onto him the moment she stepped into the moonlight.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Adian stepped forward, his boots echoing on the stone. "Kneel," he commanded, his voice low, rough with command.
Lysa dropped to her knees without hesitation, her hands pressing into the cold stone as if she had been waiting for this moment since the night she'd watched her sister take him. Her breath came in short, eager gasps, her lips parted, her tongue darting out to wet them.
"Crawl," he ordered.
She obeyed, her knees scraping against the rough stone as she moved toward him, her eyes never leaving his cock, now fully hard, jutting from his breeches like a weapon. She reached him, her fingers trembling as she reached for the laces.
"Unlace me," he growled.
She fumbled, her fingers clumsy with desire, but she got the laces undone, pulling his breeches down just enough to free him. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening with pre-come. Lysa didn't hesitate. She leaned forward, her tongue darting out to lick the head, tasting him, savoring the salt, the musk, the power of him.
"Deeper," he commanded.
She opened her mouth, taking him in, her lips stretching around his girth, her tongue swirling around the sensitive underside. She moaned around him, the sound vibrating through his cock, sending shivers up his spine. He gripped her hair, not gently, not cruelly, but with the firmness of a man who knew she craved his control.
"Suck," he ordered. "Like you've been dreaming of it since."
She did.
Her head bobbed, her throat working as she took him deeper, her hands gripping his thighs, her nails digging in. He could feel her throat tighten around him, the pressure, the heat, the wetness. He groaned, his hips thrusting forward, fucking her mouth, using her like the whore she had become.
"Harder," he growled.
She obeyed, her lips tightening, her tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as she took him deeper, her nose pressed against his pubic hair. He could feel her gag, her throat convulsing, but she didn't pull away. She took it, took all of him, her eyes wide with a mixture of pain and pleasure.
"Good girl," he murmured, his voice rough with approval.
He pulled her head back, his cock slick with her saliva, and then thrust forward, driving into her mouth again, his hips slamming against her face, his balls slapping against her chin. She moaned, the sound muffled, her eyes watering, her hands gripping his thighs tighter.
"Take it," he growled. "Take all of it."
He fucked her face, his hips pistoning, his cock slamming into her throat, his balls slapping against her chin with each thrust. She gagged, her throat convulsing, but she didn't pull away. She took it, took all of him, her eyes wide with a mixture of pain and pleasure. Her throat worked around him, her tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as he drove into her. He could feel her throat tighten around him, the pressure, the heat, the wetness. He groaned, his hips thrusting forward, fucking her mouth, using her like the whore she had become.
"Swallow," he commanded. "Swallow my cock."
He felt it building—the pressure in his balls, the fire in his spine, the primal need to claim her, to mark her, to fill her. He gripped her hair tighter, his hips slamming forward, his cock driving deeper into her throat, his balls slapping against her chin with each thrust. Her throat convulsed around him. He could feel her gag, her throat tightening, but she didn't pull away. She took it, took all of him, her eyes wide with a mixture of pain and pleasure.
And then he came.
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