Chapter 12: The Harrenhal Harvest - 281 AC

Chapter 12: The Harrenhal Harvest - 281 AC

The spring of 281 AC was pregnant with a tension that the songs would later call glory. Lord Walter Whent, with a sudden and inexplicable fortune, had announced a tourney at his great, cursed castle of Harrenhal, promising prizes that dwarfed any in living memory. The great houses of Westeros, like moths to a flame, began their grand processions. For them, it was a stage for pride, for prowess, for politics and pageantry. For me, it was a business trip.

At twenty years of age, I rode at the head of the Thorne delegation, no longer a boy prodigy but a lord in my own right. The walls of Stone's End were rising behind me, a testament to my ambition. My ships patrolled the coast, my coffers were overflowing, and my intelligence network was spreading its silent tendrils. My upcoming wedding to Elara Penrose was the final piece of my regional consolidation. Now, it was time to step onto the world stage and take the measure of the men I would one day break.

We arrived at the fields of Harrenhal to a scene of controlled chaos. A city of pavilions had sprung up around the monstrous, melted towers of the castle, a vibrant, teeming ecosystem of vanity and commerce. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat, horse manure, and ambition. I saw the splendour, the banners of a hundred houses snapping in the wind, the knights in their shining, extravagant armour. But beneath the pageantry, the Serpent saw only the numbers. The logistics. The vulnerabilities.

Our encampment was a reflection of my philosophy. Not the largest or most opulent, but by far the most secure and efficient. Our tents were arranged in a defensible formation, patrolled by a rotating guard of my disciplined soldiers, their practical steel plate and uniform bearing marking them out from the flamboyant retinues of other lords. We were an island of quiet professionalism in an ocean of feudal indulgence.

My father, bless his honourable heart, was in his element, eager to meet with old friends from the Stepstones campaign. I left the pleasantries to him. My first meeting was in the privacy of my command tent with the key operatives of my network. Rhys was there, his face leaner, his eyes sharper than ever. Jonos and Brella had traveled from Lannisport, their demeanor as tavern keepers a perfect cover. A quiet man named Harys, our new agent in Oldtown, completed our small council.

"The next ten days will be the most important intelligence gathering operation we have yet undertaken," I began, my voice low. On the table between us lay not a map, but a list of the principal combatants in the joust. "But it will also be our most profitable. The lords of Westeros love nothing more than a wager. Their pride makes them terrible gamblers. We will not be."

I laid out the plan. It was a classic, distributed bookmaking scheme, but in reverse. We would be the ones placing the bets. I had a near-perfect knowledge of the outcomes of the major tilts. I knew Rhaegar's prowess, the skill of the Kingsguard, the surprising success of lesser-known knights, and the failures of famous ones.

"No single large bet," I commanded, my finger tracing a line on the parchment. "That draws attention. We spread the risk and the winnings. Jonos, you will work the merchants and minor lords. Brella, the ladies of the court are often the most reckless gamblers. Harys, you will focus on the retinues of the Reach and the Citadel. Rhys will coordinate, and I will place a few, visible, well-reasoned wagers myself, to build a reputation as a shrewd but lucky man. Our watchword is discretion. We are here to harvest, not to be seen."

The tourney began, and our operation moved with the precision of a well-oiled machine. While the commons cheered and the high lords preened, my agents moved through the crowds, quiet shadows placing calculated bets. A hundred gold dragons on Ser Arthur Dayne to unhorse the Knight of Skulls and Kisses. Fifty on Lord Yohn Royce to defeat a brash young knight from the Riverlands. Two hundred on Ser Barristan Selmy to win the melee.

The winnings began to flow, a quiet river of gold that was funneled back to our secure camp. I made my own public wagers, discussing form and style with lords like Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully, earning nods of respect for my "keen eye." I would occasionally place a small, public bet on a losing knight, lamenting my poor luck with a convincing shrug. A predator must know when to misdirect the herd.

Then came the moment I had been waiting for. The Knight of the Laughing Tree. A small, mysterious knight in mismatched armour rode onto the field and challenged the three knights whose squires had bullied a crannogman. He defeated them all, demanding only that they teach their squires honour.

While the court buzzed with the romance and mystery of it, I felt only a cold annoyance at the foolishness of it all. This was the work of Lyanna Stark, a reckless act of northern pride.

"Rhys," I thought, focusing on the disc in my pocket, "Eyes on the Starks. All of them. And find the crannogman. I want to know everything about him."

My agents confirmed what I already knew. They noted the wild wolf-maid's absence from the feast that night, and the presence of a small, green-clad man in the Stark camp: Howland Reed. Aerys was furious, convinced the mystery knight was his enemy, Jaime Lannister. The King's paranoia was a thick, suffocating blanket over the tourney. I saw the seeds of rebellion being watered by a child's foolish game of honour.

The highlight of my own networking came on the fourth day. I orchestrated a 'chance' encounter with the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister. I found him observing the tilts from a private gallery, his face a cold, unreadable mask. With me were two servants, one bearing a silver tray with a crystal decanter of Thorne's Gold and two glasses.

"Lord Hand," I said, bowing deeply. "Forgive my intrusion. Lord Lysander Thorne of Stone's End. I could not help but notice you seemed a man in need of a finer drink than this tourney swill."

His cold, pale green eyes fixed on me. They were the eyes of a lion, utterly devoid of warmth, seeing everything, revealing nothing. He assessed me in an instant: my fine but practical clothing, my guards, my confident demeanor.

"I know of you, Lord Thorne," he said, his voice a low baritone. "The boy lord who tamed the pirates… and Lord Estermont. Your reputation precedes you."

"A reputation for protecting my investments, Lord Hand. Nothing more." I gestured to the decanter. "My own distillery's product. I call it Thorne's Gold. I would be honored if you would share a glass."

He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. I poured two glasses. The conversation was brief, a verbal chess match. We spoke of trade, of the state of the realm, of the costs of such a tourney. I was respectful, deferential, but I let my intelligence show, speaking of economics and logistics in a way I knew he, a master administrator, would appreciate. I was selling myself, presenting House Thorne not as a threat, but as a competent, useful, and wealthy tool.

"A fine spirit," he remarked, setting the empty glass down. "It has… character." Coming from Tywin Lannister, it was the highest of compliments. He had given me nothing, but I had gained everything. I had taken his measure, and he had taken mine. A connection had been made.

The tourney reached its zenith. The final jousts were a blur of splintering lances and roaring crowds. My agents, guided by my perfect foresight, had amassed a fortune. The final tilt came down to Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur Dayne. My last, largest bets were on the prince.

Rhaegar, the poet prince, the silver dragon, was magnificent. He rode with a melancholic grace that was beautiful and tragic all at once. He unhorsed the Sword of the Morning in a display of supreme skill, becoming the champion of the tourney. The crowd erupted. And in our tents, my agents began to count the last, and largest, of our winnings.

Then came the moment that would seal the fate of a dynasty.

I stood in the crowd, a neutral observer, as Prince Rhaegar took the victor's laurel, a crown of blue winter roses. I watched him ride the length of the lists, his eyes scanning the gallery. I saw his wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, watch him with a hopeful, fragile smile. And I watched as he rode right past her.

He reined in his horse before the Stark pavilion, before Lyanna Stark, whose fierce beauty was a flame in the cold northern air. And with all the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms watching, he lowered the crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty and placed it in her lap.

A collective gasp went through the crowd. I felt the world shift on its axis. It was an act of such profound, catastrophic foolishness that I almost felt a flicker of admiration for the sheer romantic stupidity of it. Elia's face crumpled. Brandon Stark's face became a mask of thunderous rage. Robert Baratheon, Lyanna's betrothed, looked as if he had been physically struck. And King Aerys… I saw his eyes fix on his son, and the paranoid suspicion within them curdled into something far more dangerous.

My internal monologue was a scathing torrent. You fool. You beautiful, tragic, poetic fool. For a woman? For a moment of high drama? You have just insulted Dorne, enraged the Stormlands, shamed your wife, and alienated the North, all while proving your father's worst fears about your ambition. You have not crowned a queen; you have signed your family's death warrant.

While the court reeled, my agents quietly and professionally concluded our business. The Harrenhal Harvest was complete. We had, by my conservative estimate, quadrupled my House's annual income in ten days of betting. The gold was quietly packed into reinforced chests, the winnings of a dozen different men, all of it now belonging to me.

We left Harrenhal the next morning. The festive atmosphere had evaporated, replaced by a tense, sour mood. Plots were being hatched in every tent. Alliances were being tested. The Great Game had been declared, and the first move had been a disaster for the house of the dragon.

On the road back to Stone's End, riding at the head of my column, I felt a sense of profound satisfaction. The gold was a means to an end, fuel for my fortress, my army, my network. The true prize was the intelligence I had gathered. I had seen the players, all of them. I had seen Brandon's hot-headed pride, Robert's boisterous rage, Ned's quiet solemnity. I had seen Tywin's cold pragmatism and Rhaegar's honor-bound folly. I had seen the spark that would ignite the rebellion.

My monologue was no longer a conversation, but a final summary, a closing statement on the case of the Targaryen dynasty. They are all slaves to the songs. To honor, to love, to pride, to rage. They move in predictable patterns, driven by passions they cannot control. They believe they are playing a game of thrones, but they are merely pieces, and the board itself is about to be set on fire. And I, the man who saw the fire coming, have just spent ten days selling water at an exorbitant price.

The tourney was over. My harvest was secure. Now it was time to go home, to marry my intelligent bride, to finish my fortress, and to prepare for the storm. When it came, I would not be cowering behind my walls. I would be waiting, ready to collect the dividends.