Game of thrones : The Stag requiem

Harrenhal. The name tasted of ash and ambition, a suitable stage for the grand deception. I surveyed the sprawling camp from a vantage point high on one of the castle's less ruined towers, the banners of the great houses rippling like a colorful fever dream below. Lord Whent's conceit, his maiden daughter's name day—a flimsy veil, easily seen through by any lord with an ounce of wit, yet useful nonetheless.

This gathering was mine, meticulously planned, a necessary gamble to set the realm aright. I had personally extended invitations to the great lords of each region, the heads of the major houses, and their most influential heirs and banner lords. It was a carefully curated guest list, designed to bring the kingdom's elite together under the guise of celebration. My true purpose: to discuss my father's spiraling madness, and to forge a consensus for a council to depose him.

Then, he arrived. Aerys. Uninvited, unpredictable, a venomous ghost from the Red Keep. The air, which I had hoped would be thick with anticipation and cautious camaraderie, now crackled with fear. His very presence was a blight, a cruel mockery of the peace and stability I sought to build. He shrieked, he rambled, his eyes darting like trapped birds, seeing slights and enemies in every shadow. Each public outburst was a knife twisted in my gut, undoing weeks of careful groundwork, reminding every lord present of the viper we truly served.

I went through the motions, riding the lists, breaking lances with the finest knights. Barristan, Arthur, Jon Connington—they were magnificent, their skills a testament to the fading glory of our order. My own movements were precise, elegant, a dance of steel and horseflesh. I heard the cheers, saw the admiration in the eyes of the ladies, but it was all a hollow performance.

My mind was elsewhere, perpetually burdened by the prophecies, by the chilling certainty that the realm would burn unless I acted. The prince that was promised. The dragon must have three heads. My sweet Elia, my precious Rhaenys, my tiny Aegon—they were part of this prophecy, but were they enough? The words of ancient scrolls beneath the Red Keep whispered of fire and ice, of a union destined to save the world.

I watched the other great lords, assessing them. Tywin Lannister, predictably absent, had sent his men led by his brother Ser Kevan Lannister, but not himself. His absence spoke volumes of his disdain and estrangement from my father, but also his refusal to be openly drawn into this web.

Robert Baratheon was a thunderous force, a man of simple appetites and brutal strength. He was admirable in the lists, but his mind, I suspected, was as blunt as his warhammer. He possessed loyalty, yes, but to friendship more than to the Crown, a wild stallion who would need careful handling should my plans bear fruit. He was dangerous, perhaps, but predictable in his passions.

Beside him, Lady Lyanna Baratheon, his wife, held my gaze longer. She was a Northern beauty, fierce and untamed, with the grey eyes of a wolf and hair like midnight. There was a restless energy about her, a spirit that rebelled against courtly confines, much like the one I sensed within myself. She carried a melancholy about her, a silent understanding that resonated deeply within my own burdened soul. I found my eyes returning to her often, seeking that elusive spark of recognition, a kinship of spirit that transcended the boisterous joy of her husband. She was like me, burdened by a hidden uniqueness, chosen for a destiny far beyond the petty squabbles of lords. Her family, her current commitments—they were inconsequential. Mere details in the grand tapestry of prophecy. She was the ice to my fire, a vessel for the savior the world desperately needed.

Our union was not merely desired, it was ordained.

And then, there was the child. Ragnar. I encountered him with his mother in the viewing pavilion, his tiny form remarkably still, his unusual violet eyes tracking every movement with an unnerving intensity.

"This must be young Ragnar," I murmured, my usual pleasantries feeling hollow.

When I knelt, bringing myself to his level, his eyes met mine, and a profound, inexplicable jolt passed through me. It was not the innocent curiosity of a two-year-old, if such a big a child could even be considered that age...

There was a depth, an ancient awareness in those violet pools, a gaze that seemed to pierce through my carefully constructed facade.

"A formidable presence for such a young one," I whispered, the words escaping me without conscious thought.

"The stag's fury, with a wolf's sharp eyes."

I saw a flicker—of comprehension?—before he offered a wide, disarming, utterly childish smile, reaching a tiny hand to grasp at my silver hair. I took his hand, his touch surprisingly gentle, and felt a distinct tremor, not of physical movement, but something deeper, within my very being. A disturbance.

He was unsettling. Uncategorizable. A question mark hovering in the air. Could a child, even one of such potent lineage, possess a soul so old? It left me unsettled, another thread in the already tangled tapestry of prophecy.

The tourney continued, and then, on the third day, a fresh disturbance arose: the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Mismatched armor, a crudely painted weirwood. He unhorsed Haigh, Blount, and Frey – knights whose squires I knew to be boorish louts.

There was a certain irony in his justice, a simple clarity to his actions that was almost admirable. But Father saw only insolence.

"Find him!" Aerys shrieked, his madness flaring.

"Find this laughing traitor! He mocks me!"

I led the search, riding out myself with Barristan and Arthur, scouring the woods and surrounding camps. The knight had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only whispers and Father's growing paranoia. My mind, however, kept returning to the identity of this anonymous champion. The way the knight had moved, that swift, almost fluid precision, was unlike the brute force of most male riders. It held a certain wild grace... familiar.

Then, I recalled the scene in the squires' tent, Lyanna's fierce indignation over the bullying of her brothers' companions, her eyes blazing with a defiant fire. Later, back in the stands, I'd caught a fleeting glimpse beneath her sleeve—a faint, fresh bruise marring her pale skin, easily hidden, but not from a discerning eye. The pieces clicked with startling clarity, forging a dangerous, undeniable truth:

Lyanna. It had been Lyanna.

The very notion sent a jolt through me, a chilling confirmation of the prophecies that consumed my every waking thought. She was precisely as the visions foretold: fierce, courageous, utterly unique. The true wild wolf I had sought, the perfect complement to my fire. This wasn't merely a suspicion; it was a revelation that solidified her place in the destiny I was meant to forge.

The true work, the real reason for this gathering, was still largely unaddressed. The tourney was a diversion, the jousting a mere sideshow. But Father's presence, and now this enigmatic knight and the unsettling child, were proving to be formidable distractions.

My inner circle, those I trusted with my desperate cause, watched me, waiting. The time for the council was drawing near. The game I played was perilous, the stakes unimaginably high.

And now, a laughing knight and a child with unnervingly ancient eyes had added unforeseen layers to its complexity.