Game of thrones : The Stag requiem

The dust was a living thing, swirling in great clouds around our party, coating my cloak, my hair, even Ragnar's soft dark curls. It tasted of parched earth and distant promise, a taste I quickly grew to despise.

Yet, it was the first thing that truly assailed me as Harrenhal's colossal, twisted towers finally materialized on the horizon. It wasn't merely a castle; it was a scar on the land, a skeletal hand clutching at the sky, a monument to a king's fire and a god's vengeance. A cold dread, ancient and primal, settled deep in my bones, a feeling no amount of sunshine could dispel.

Robert, riding beside me, seemed oblivious to the oppressive aura, his face alight with the boisterous joy of a child promised a new toy.

"Harrenhal!" he roared, his voice cutting through the clatter of our vast column.

"The greatest tourney, Lyanna! The greatest!" He glanced down at Ragnar, who, though only two, looked nearer four in his sturdy frame and bright, alert eyes.

"You'll see, boy! Your father will win this one!"

Ragnar, perched in his own small saddle before me, adjusted his grip on the pommel, his violet eyes fixed on the looming ruin.

"Dad," he piped, his voice clear, though still carrying the slight lisp of his youth.

"Those towers... they look like broken fingers. Like something tried to grasp the sky and shattered."

Robert merely guffawed, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Aye, lad! Harrenhal's a cursed place! But curses won't stop your old man!" He turned to me, beaming.

"See, Lyanna? A true Baratheon! Sharp as a tack already!"

I smiled, a mix of pride and a familiar, unsettling wonder. Ragnar was more than just sharp. He was... profound. His observations often startled me, far beyond anything a child of his age should conceive, yet he delivered them with a perfectly innocent air, allowing adults to dismiss it as childish imagination or extraordinary genius.

He was my little mystery, my fierce, quiet heart. And he was the reason for everything.

My hand instinctively covered his small, strong one on the pommel.

I felt the familiar tension in my shoulders, a dull ache that had settled there since Robert had announced my participation, then just as quickly recanted it. A joust. A proper one. The fire to ride still burned, a familiar she-wolfish ache in my bones, but the logic of my brothers, of Lord Arryn, had been cold and undeniable. Mom of an heir. Too dangerous. I was a Stark, yes, with she-wolf's blood hot and wild. But I was also the Lady of Storm's End now, and a mom. The roles tangled within me, a constant, quiet war.

Sometimes, the cage felt a little tighter, even if Robert, bless his oblivious heart, truly believed he'd never caged me at all.

The tourney grounds were a dizzying sprawl of tents and banners, a riot of color against the faded green fields. Ours, the Baratheon pavilion, a massive black tent bearing the crowned stag, had been raised near the lists, already drawing a throng. We dismounted amidst the joyful chaos, the earth itself seeming to vibrate with the hum of thousands.

Every great house seemed present: the bold Lannister lion (though their lord was conspicuously absent, a silent testament to the King's spite), the elegant Tyrell rose, the watchful Arryn falcon.

As we settled into our tents, the air buzzed with excitement for the evening's grand feast. But before that, an injustice. I found myself drawn away from the Baratheon encampment by the familiar sight of my brothers, Ned, Brandon, and even young Benjen, their direwolf sigils flying high. They greeted me with boisterous shouts and warm embraces, but my gaze quickly fell upon a small, quiet man, half-hidden behind Ned. He was slender, with a somber face and large, intelligent eyes, and he carried himself with a quiet dignity even as mud clung to his worn clothes.

A crannogman, I realized, noting the tell-tale green cloak and general air of unease.

"Lord Howland Reed," Ned said softly, introducing him.

I saw the dark bruises blooming on his face, the faint grime of a recent fall.

"He had some trouble with a few squires, sister."

My blood ran cold. Squires. And bruises. My eyes narrowed, scanning the nearby encampments.

"Who?" I demanded, my voice low, dangerous.

"Frey, Haigh, Blount," Brandon supplied, his own face darkening.

"The usual louts."

My hand instinctively went to the dagger at my belt, and I felt the heat rise in my cheeks.

"Louts who deserve a lesson," I snarled.

"Come, Lord Howland. We will see them answer for this. You shall enter the lists, and my brothers will champion you."

The thought of riding out myself, lance in hand, against those arrogant knights, sent a thrill through me, a fierce longing for the freedom of the lists, even as I knew it was denied

But Lord Howland, though he nodded his thanks, shook his head, a quiet resolution in his eyes.

"No, Lady Lyanna. My quarrel is my own. I have other ways." , He said, his words soft, but his gaze was firm, strangely knowing.

I frowned, but recognized the quiet strength that sometimes lay beneath a placid surface. He was not one to be forced.

Other ways, I thought, a mischievous spark igniting within me. Perhaps there are other ways for wolves too.

The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was a spectacle. Its vastness, meant to awe, now swallowed the joyous cacophony, turning it into a deafening roar. The smell of roasted boar, spiced wine, and unwashed bodies hung heavy in the air. Robert, true to form, had found a drinking companion in Ser Richard Lonmouth, and their shouts of laughter and clatter of goblets rose above the din, already engaged in a wine-drinking game that Robert was, predictably, winning with great gusto.

A wandering crow from the Night's Watch, gaunt and grim, moved amongst the tables, seeking recruits, though mostly met with polite smiles and a few snickers.

I sat with Ned, Brandon, and Benjen, Ragnar perched on a cushion beside me, his small feet dangling. He was taking it all in, his violet eyes sweeping the vast hall with a familiar, unnerving intensity.

"Dad," Ragnar said, pointing a tiny finger at the Night's Watch recruiter.

"Why does that man wear only black? Is he sad?"

Robert leaned down, beaming at his son.

"No, lad! He's sworn his life to the Wall! To guard us from wildlings and worse!"

Ragnar nodded slowly.

"So he trades his life for a very cold duty. Is that a good exchange?"

Robert merely laughed again, patting his head.

"Only the gods know, boy! But it takes a brave man!"

My gaze wandered, taking in the myriad faces, the shifting alliances, the quiet dramas playing out beneath the surface.

Ashara Dayne, a vision in silks with those captivating purple eyes, danced gracefully, first with a Kingsguard knight, then Prince Oberyn Martell, then Jon Connington. Brandon, ever the charming rogue, approached her, and I watched with a small smile as he somehow convinced her to dance with shy, awkward Ned, who stumbled through the steps, a bright red.

Then, the music changed. A hush fell, slowly at first, then absolute. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had taken up his silver harp. His fingers, long and elegant, plucked a mournful, haunting melody from the strings. It was a song of love and loss, of forgotten heroes and a world of endless winter. It spoke to something deep within me, a sorrow I had not known I carried, tears pricking at my eyes.

"She's crying!" Benjen mock-whispered, elbowing me.

"The she-wolf's crying!"

My tears instantly dried, replaced by a flush of heat. Damn him. Without a thought, I grabbed my cup, still half-full of wine, and emptied it over Benjen's head. He spluttered, drenched, and the hall, released from the prince's spell, erupted in laughter. Rhaegar, still playing, offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile in my direction before his eyes returned to their distant, melancholy focus.

The merriment, however, was short-lived. A sudden, jarring silence fell, deeper and more terrifying than Rhaegar's music. Every head turned as a small, thin figure entered the hall, surrounded by the white cloaks of the Kingsguard. King Aerys Targaryen.

"Is... is that the King, Mom?" Ragnar asked, his voice softer now, a hint of unease. "He looks... dusty."

He hadn't left the Red Keep in years, a phantom king. But the man who walked into Harrenhal was no phantom. He was a nightmare. His long, unkempt silver hair hung in matted tangles, his beard is sparse and dirty, and his fingernails, I saw with a shudder, were grotesquely long and yellow, curling like talons. His eyes, though violet like Rhaegar's, burned with a terrifying, unpredictable madness. He shuffled, muttering to himself, his head jerking from side to side. My stomach twisted with disgust. The air, which had moments ago been vibrant with music and laughter, now felt thick with an oppressive, suffocating dread.

He stopped, his gaze sweeping the hall, then a thin, cruel smile stretched his lips.

"Cheer! Cheer for your King!" he shrieked, and a nervous, uncertain cheer rose from the uneasy lords.

Then, his voice sharpened, colder than any winter wind.

"Come forth, Ser Jaime Lannister!"

A handsome young knight, barely out of his boyhood, with golden hair and a confident swagger, stepped forward. He knelt before the Mad King.

"You are bold, boy,"

Aerys hissed, his voice slithering through the silence.

"Bolder than your craven father. You want a white cloak? You shall have it. Swear your vows!"

The shock was palpable. Jaime Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock, stripped of his inheritance, forced into eternal celibacy and Kingsguard vows, all to spite his absent father.

Jaime stood tall, his eyes gleaming with pride. Though his face was pale with awe, his voice rang clear as he recited the sacred vows - eager, honored, and entirely unaware of the chains he was binding himself with.

He was now a sworn brother, a permanent fixture in the King's retinue. The cruel brilliance of it was chilling.

"Now go! Back to the Red Keep! Guard your Queen and my Viserys! I need no Lannister here to taint my victory!" , coldly ordered King Aerys.

And just as quickly, Jaime was gone, whisked away, a pawn sacrificed to his father's perceived insolence.

The feast continued, but the merriment had curdled. The wine tasted sour, the laughter seemed forced. Robert, beside me, still drank, but even he seemed subdued, a dark frown etched on his face. Rhaegar's mournful music seemed to echo Aerys's madness, a haunting undercurrent to the night.

"Mom," Ragnar whispered, his brow furrowed, his violet eyes, so like the King's but so clear, fixed on Aerys.

"Why is he so... strange? Does he not like the celebration?"

"He is the King, Ragnar," I whispered back, not entirely sure how to explain the rotting heart of the realm to a two-year-old. "And he is ill.", I said gently taking his hand in mine.

The next morning, the tourney officially began, but the vibrant energy of arrival had been replaced by a subtle unease. The grand jousting would not begin for several more days, but the lesser competitions commenced.

The archery contest drew a large crowd, the air filled with the rhythmic twang of bowstrings and the thud of arrows. I watched the archers, my mind still replaying the horrors of the previous night. My attention was drawn to a man in a plain surcoat, devoid of any house sigil, who moved with a quiet, almost unsettling grace.

He was utterly unremarkable to the casual eye, yet his arrows flew with uncanny precision, burying themselves consistently in the gold, without fanfare or a hint of self-satisfaction. I remembered his skill from yesterday, and a thought began to solidify.

Throughout the day, I saw other contests unfolding – axe-throwing, foot races, even horse races across the broad fields, filling the air with cheers and the shouts of bookmakers. Robert participated in the melee, a brutal, joyous free-for-all where knights battered each other with blunted weapons until only one remained. He was in his element there, unhorsing many and laughing all the while. like a storm in a glass garden - loud, furious, and utterly unstoppable.

I watched him with a mix of pride and exasperation; he was magnificent in his strength, utterly oblivious to the subtle currents of fear and ambition that now permeated Harrenhal.

The King's presence was a palpable weight. Every lord and lady watched Aerys, gauging his moods, dreading his outbursts. He stalked the grounds, sometimes laughing hysterically, sometimes railing at imagined slights. The tournament, once a celebration, had become a strained performance, a dangerous dance under the shadow of madness.

That evening, as the camp settled into its usual after-dark hum, I slipped away. I moved like a shadow through the tents, my mind clear, my purpose firm. The thought of those arrogant squires and their oafish knights still chafed. Howland might have his 'other ways,' but so did I. My brothers would never approve, Robert would thunder, but the she-wolf in me demanded satisfaction.

I found what I needed in the storerooms of our own camp, where spare armor was kept. It was ill-fitting, a jumble of pieces that didn't quite match, but it would do.

A dented breastplate, an oversized helm that would obscure my face entirely, gauntlets far too big for my hands. For a shield, I found an old, unpainted buckler.

With some charcoal from the cooking fires, I hastily drew a crude yet distinct image: a smiling, laughing face, carved into the trunk of a tree. A heart tree, grinning.

The next morning, as the jousting lists prepared for their first full day, a whisper went through the crowd. A mystery knight had appeared. In mismatched armor, with a shield bearing a laughing weirwood, he called himself the Knight of the Laughing Tree. I felt a surge of exhilaration as I took my place in the lists, the weight of the lance a familiar comfort in my disguised hand.

My first opponents were the knights of House Haigh, House Blount, and House Frey. The very same houses whose squires had abused Lord Howland. The crowd groaned as their names were called, for they were not well-loved, these arrogant, hulking men. I spurred my horse, a rush of pure, unadulterated joy thrumming through me as I leveled my lance.

The first tilt was swift. The Knight of Haigh, a brute of a man, fell heavily, his own lance splintering harmlessly. Then the Knight of Blount, thrown from his saddle, landing with a grunt and a cloud of dust. Finally, the Knight of Frey, arrogant and sneering, who met my lance with a clang of steel before being unhorsed with a satisfying crash.

A roar erupted from the common folk, a wave of cheers for the mystery knight who had humbled these unpopular figures. I raised my shield in silent acknowledgement, my heart pounding with a fierce satisfaction

When the defeated knights came to offer their ransoms, I shook my head. My voice, muffled by the helm, was rough and low.

"You shall have your horses and your armor back," I boomed,

"provided you teach your squires honor. And if they fail to learn, you may come find me again."

The knights looked bewildered, but agreed. The crowd roared again, delighted. I rode a slow circle, my eyes scanning the high tables. I could feel the king's fury, a palpable heat in the air. Aerys was already dispatching his Kingsguard, including Prince Rhaegar, to scour the grounds, to find the insolent knight who dared to defy him.

My part was done. I rode out of the lists, through a side gate, into the concealing woods that bordered the tourney grounds. Once deep within the trees, I stripped off the ill-fitting armor, discarding the helm and the distinctive shield, leaving the latter hanging from a branch of an ancient weirwood, its painted face still grinning.

The she-wolf had had its way, and now it was time to vanish. I returned to our camp, my movements silent, my heart still thrumming with adrenaline, a secret smile playing on my lips.

I slipped back into our tent, the canvas muffled the sounds of the bustling camp, and exhaled, a triumphant thrill still coursing through me. The small lantern cast flickering shadows, illuminating Ragnar, who was not asleep in his bed as I'd hoped, but sitting upright, his violet eyes fixed on me with an intensity that sent a jolt down my spine.

"Mom," he said, his voice quiet, almost eerily calm.

There was no childish lisp this time, only a clarity that seemed too old for his small frame.

"That horse... Thunder, he limps slightly on his left foreleg after that fall last month. I saw the Knight of the Laughing Tree's horse favor its left foreleg during the tilt against the Knight of Haigh. A peculiar detail, wouldn't you say?"

My breath hitched. I swallowed, trying to compose myself, to form a denial.

"Oh? I suppose so, little wolf. I didn't see much, I was..."

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering.

"And the way the Knight adjusted his grip on the lance, that small rotation of the wrist just before impact... I've seen you practice that movement countless times in the yard, perfecting your aim, even against Uncle Brandon and Uncle Ned. No one else here fights with your blend of raw power and elegant precision. It was you, wasn't it? The Knight of the Laughing Tree."

My facade crumbled. I knelt, pulling him into a tight embrace, burying my face in his soft, dark hair. He was truly Lelouch. He saw everything.

"Ragnar," I whispered, a mix of fear and wonder in my voice.

"You can't tell anyone. No one, do you understand? Not even your dad. Especially not your dad."

He pulled back, his small hands cupping my face, his expression earnest.

"I understand the need for secrecy, Mom. I will tell no one. But you must promise me something in return."

"Anything, little one," I breathed.

"You must promise to be careful," he said, his voice firm.

"The King is dangerous. Prince Rhaegar is looking for this knight. The consequences of discovery could be... severe. I need you to be safe, Mom."

I held him tighter, a new, unsettling understanding settling between us. My two-year-old son was asking for my solemn promise, knowing the dangers far more clearly than I had assumed.

"I promise, Ragnar," I vowed, my voice thick with emotion.

"I will be careful."

The tourney would continue, a grand spectacle, but now it was a grand spectacle under the dark cloud of a mad king's rage, and the added intrigue of a mystery champion.

The great jousting finals were still to come, but the whispers would be about the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and the frantic search for him. The true battles, I knew, were only just beginning, and Ragnar, my brilliant, terrifyingly perceptive son, was already able to understand everything.