After over a month's hiatus, I'm back. And here's the second chapter of Lord of the Ruins.

Just before we get into this chapter, I thought I might make it clear that the thoughts of the characters are not my own. Our POV has been raised at Riverrun, a place which churned out people like Edmure, or Catelyn. Good people, yes, but traditional. So his thoughts are going to reflect that.

I know that 99% of people will be able to understand that, but I thought I'd include this little forward for those who aren't paying attention.

Harrenhal - 278 AC

Seeing all of the banners was simply magnificent. There were hundreds of them, hues of blue, red, black, and green, fluttering like a flock of birds in the midday sun. Horath had seen dozens of different sigils in his life, when his father's vassals had visited Riverrun or when the Tullys had visited them in kind. But never had he seen so many in the same place.

Mallister, Blackwood, Bracken, Vypren - Horath knew some, a drop in the ocean compared to the total that had come to Harrenhal. The dark ruins stretched up far into the sky, and long shadows hung over the tourney grounds. Horath had gotten to explore the seat of House Whent thanks to his Uncle Walder, who had personally given the children of his late sister a tour.

Catelyn had made a big stink of learning all she could about Harrenhal's history. "Our mother was a Whent," she told him. "This is not any old castle. It's the seat of our family's past, decades and decades. It's important."

"Yeah, yeah," said Horath, waving a hand. He was far more interested in the tourney to come, and all the knights that brought with it. Already there were thousands of squires, stablehands, and aids rushing about, preparing the grounds for King Aerys' abrupt arrival. They crossed back and forth across the siblings' path, carrying all sorts of equipment.

The two of them were searching the dozens of lanes for the Stark tent. Or tents, he supposed. House Stark was a Great House, after all. They would likely have more than one, just as the Tullys did.

Cat had been betrothed to the heir of Winterfell, Lord Brandon Stark, who was known by many as 'The Wild Wolf'. He hoped to meet him properly, as he was to be Horath's goodbrother. Catelyn would become Lady of Winterfell and would rule the entire North at Brandon's side. Perhaps Horath could come North with them, seeing as Edmure would inherit Riverrun.

His sister was just as excited as her younger brother to find Brandon, if not more so. Cat had talked Horath's ear off about him on their trip east to Harrenhal, going on about how gallant and chivalrous Brandon was. The two had spent time together in Riverrun after the betrothal was announced, and judging by Cat's enthusiasm, Brandon had made a good impression. The visit had been made even better when Petyr had challenged Brandon to a duel.

Horath felt a little thrill run through him just remembering it. As much as the violence had been scary, seeing Petyr finally get what was coming to him had made it all worth it. The lowborn Valeman was too close to Horath's family for comfort, always knowing exactly what to say to both come off smelling of roses and to make Horath sound or look like an idiot. Petyr would get this cruel look in his eyes that would never reach his perfect smile, and completely innocently correct or deflate what Horath had to say. He hated it.

The duel won Brandon a lot of respect from Horath, to say the least. It seemed that the heir of Winterfell didn't like Petyr any more than Horath did, and unlike Horath, Brandon had the power to act on it. The only reason Petyr lived was because Cat's womanly weakness made her beg for Petyr's life. Otherwise, the Stark would have gutted him like a fish.

As if summoned by his inner thoughts, Catelyn's betrothed called out from across the field. "Lady Catelyn!"

Cat whipped around, frantically searching for the source of the sound. As soon as she spotted Brandon, she hurried to his side. Horath followed behind, politely giving her some space with her future husband.

Brandon Stark was a tall man, easily standing a head taller than his betrothed, and even more over Horath's seven-year-old stature. He wore the colors of the Starks, grays, whites, and blacks, with a fur coat covering his shoulders. Petyrsbane, or as it was commonly called, Ice, rested in his sheath. Odd that Brandon would carry it, seeing as his father Rickard was lord, but then again, he was of an age with Horath's own father. Perhaps the Warden of the North was too old to properly wield it.

Cat arrived in front of her betrothed, excitement clear on her face but still remembering her courtesies. "Lord Brandon."

Brandon knelt and kissed Catelyn's hand, his flinty eyes twinkling with amusement. Cat blushed, smiling down at him, before prompting him to rise. He offered her an arm, which she gladly took. Their eyes were only on each other.

"My lady, I thought we could go for a walk through the tourney fields, perhaps greet my bannermen. Would you be interested?"

"Of course, my lord. I look forward to meeting them, and there are many beautiful sights here at Harrenhal."

"But none as beautiful as you, my lady."

Horath cleared his throat, drawing their attention. He felt quite awkward about his presence. "My lord Brandon."

The tall man's gaze turned to regard him. "Ah. Lord… Horath. Apologies."

"It's nothing. I would be remiss to find an issue with your care for my sister." Horath smiled up at him, proud of his words.

Brandon and Cat exchanged a look, and both smiled. "Thank you, my lord. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

"Can I see your sword?"

Catelyn stared at him, in shock, mortified. Brandon, after a long moment, let out a bark of laughter. "Sure. Of course."

He drew Ice, the massive valyrian steel blade humming as it slid from its sheath. Morning light, bright and searing, reflected off of it. It was far cleaner than it had been after Petyr's duel.

Considering how it looked large in the hands of Brandon, Horath was positively dwarfed by it. Brandon wielded it easily, of course, valyrian steel being lighter than the average metal, but seeing the blade in all its glory was intimidating, to say the least. He was transfixed.

Brandon laughed again at Horath's reaction, drawing a reluctant smile from his betrothed. "Have you seen valyrian steel before? Besides Ice?"

"No, ser."

"There are no knights in the North, save for those of the barrows or White Harbor. Say 'my lord'."

Horath amended his statement. "No, my lord."

Cat tutted, a little clicking sound produced without any mouth movement. "Is that so, brother? Are you perhaps forgetting a certain prized goblet in our father's solar?"

He reddened and glanced away. He had forgotten.

"Well Cat, we'd best be off," said Brandon, sliding ice back into its sheath. Horath was disappointed to see it go, but relieved to escape the humiliation. "Many of my vassals are in attendance. The Mormonts, the Hornwoods, oh, even Howland Reed. Well, he sent a raven. He'll be here soon."

"How about the Ryswells?" Cat asked.

Brandon coughed. "N-no. Lord Rodrik elected to remain in the Rills."

Horath's sister brushed imaginary dirt from her skirt, and smiled at her betrothed. "That sounds lovely, then." She turned and crouched. "Horath, will you be able to return to Harrenhal alone?"

"Yes," Horath lied. He would not return there anytime soon.

Brandon, perhaps sensing an opportunity, slipped his hand into Cat's, prompting a blush. Together, the two began to make their way across the lawn.

Watching them leave, the seven-year-old smiled. He decided his sister being Brandon's wife might not be the worst thing. Of course, she'd have to visit. And he'd have to make his way North, at some point.

Seven hells. He forgot to ask.

…

Taking a deep breath in, Horath laid an arrow against the drawstring. With all his strength, he drew back the string and loosed the arrow at the target. It flung itself towards the straw dummy at the other end of the field, thudding into the torso with an explosion of yellow particles. Grinning, he laid a second shaft into place.

"Woah!"

Horath flinched, concentration broken. The arrow rocketed off into long grasses, and the string slapped against his bracer. "Hey!" he said, turning. "It's rude to interrupt someone while they're practicing!"

The tall black-haired girl laughed at him, leaning over a nearby fence where she watched. "Really? You're so easily distracted and you have the gall to blame me for your mistakes?"

Horath felt his face grow red. "You distracted me!" he accused. "I was doing fine beforehand!"

"You were." She waved her hand, conceding his point before her face resumed an eager expression. "Do it again!"

"Huh."

"You seem like a good archer. My mother is better, but I haven't seen someone your age shoot like that before."

"Your mother? Who is she?"

The black-haired girl drew herself up with a smug smile. "Why, only the Lady Maege Mormont, greatest warrior in all the North."

"My sister says that women shouldn't be warriors. It's improper."

The Mormont daughter glared at him. "Yeah? Who's your sister?"

"The future lady of Winterfell. Catelyn Tully."

She harrumphed, hopping over the fence. As her feet hit the ground, Horath was suddenly aware that she stood nearly a head taller than him. The greens and blacks of her coat fluttered in the wind, but he could see some serious muscle on her arms and shoulders.

"Let's fight," she suggested, smiling excitedly, "and I can show you how much of a warrior I am."

Horath was taken aback. "Huh? I don't have my training sword. It's back at Riverrun."

She shrugged. "It's fine, I've got plenty."

"Um." this wasn't supposed to happen. "All right then. Let's spar." It wasn't like she would win. Horath had been training with his uncle Brynden and his older brother for years. Even if he wasn't very good with a sword, he would still be better than her. "What's your name, again?"

The girl's smile returned, bigger than before. Horath's confidence wavered. "Dacey Mormont."

"H-Horath Tully. Let's do this."

…

His chin crashed into the ground, face and hands sinking into the earth. Horath's cheek burned from where Dacey's mace had struck, and a groan escaped into the soft grass. Her harsh laughter could be heard from above.

"So what was it that your sister said? Women shouldn't be warriors or something like that?"

Horath rolled onto his back, his hand grasping the training sword. Muscles burning, he staggered to his feet. "Women shouldn't be warriors. Then they would turn out like you."

Dacey laughed again. "What am I doing wrong? You're the one who's losing handily. Better admit that women are better warriors than men. Only way I'll stop."

"Never!" he cried, charging her with his sword held high. With a kick to the chest and a swing of the mace, Horath fell back to the earth. As he made to get up, he felt a foot on his back.

"Admit it!" she laughed gleefully, "Admit it and I'll teach you how to fight better than that!"

Horath struggled in defiance, pushing up against her boot. He felt little purchase in the soil and grass, his hands more sinking than pushing him up. "I won't lose!"

"No, you will. It's only a matter of when, and how embarrassing it's going to be." With that, she increased the pressure, putting her remaining weight onto her leg. With a grunt, Horath collapsed to the ground.

"Fine. You win. Just let me up."

"Victory!"

The second son of Hoster Tully felt the pressure lessen, and he rolled onto his back, gasping for air. His hands and face were covered in dirt, and his body ached all over. The blue and red colors of House Tully were dusty, and his training sword lay far out of reach. He had never felt more tired in his life.

Dacey plopped down next to him, crossing her legs as she leaned back onto her hands. Her mace, that gods forsaken mace, sat loosely next to her in the grass.

"You have potential, you know," said Dacey conversationally, looking up at the sky. "The muscles you've built from firing that bow don't help all that much, but your stance is good enough and you've got some upper body strength."

"Really?" asked Horath, sitting back up beside her. "You think so?"

"Oh yes. You'll never be better than me, though."

"Seven perish at the thought."

The two sat back and enjoyed the moment, their competitive bickering and discussion halted as they simply sat in silence. Horath, for one, was happy to finally have someone his age to spend time with. At Riverrun, he was constantly in the presence of all his older siblings, as well as the various knights, servants, and the occasional noble. All the other children his age were the children of said servants and knights, and all acted weird around him. Dacey was his age, or at least close to it, which was nice. And she didn't treat him like he was special.

"Horath," called a voice from behind them, "where did you run off to?"

The children turned to see Cat and Lord Brandon observing them, as well as a retinue of Tully and Stark soldiers. The two were arm-in-arm and had bemused looks on their faces. Horath and Dacey both quickly got to their feet.

"Sister. Lord Brandon. My apologies, I did not see you there."

"Lord Brandon. Lady Catelyn."

The older pair exchanged amused glances before Cat returned the formality. "Lady Dacey, I believe your mother was looking for you. Would you give me a moment with my brother?"

"Yes, my lady. Bye, Horath." Dacey raced off.

"Bye!" called Horath to the retreating girl.

Brandon watched as the child of Bear Island was swallowed by the mass of tents and people, before smiling back at Horath. "And what exactly were you doing with Lady Dacey, Lord Horath?"

Horath blushed. He didn't want Lord Brandon to know how Dacey had demolished him. "Sparring. I won, though."

Once again, Cat and Brandon exchanged amused glances. Horath looked at the both of them, his head flicking back and forth. "What?"

Absent-mindedly, Cat's hand came to rest atop Horath's head. "Come, brother. Let's return to Father. A feast is being held tonight in King Aerys' honor, and we will be expected to sit as a family."

Horath nodded. His sister was right. "Will you be joining us at the feast, Lord Brandon? Will you bring Ice?"

Brandon laughed. "I'm afraid not. The King might take issue with such a deadly weapon, so I'll leave it behind. Besides, it would be unwieldy to dance with."

"Oh," Horath wilted, unsure of how to respond. "That's fine, then."

Catelyn pulled a sealed letter from her pocket, presenting it to her betrothed. "Please, my lord this. Wear this tonight, so that all might know that you are my dance partner."

She received a solemn nod in return, and Brandon tucked it into his coat. "I will, my lady. And I look forward to it"

He was rewarded by a deep smile, one which he returned. Horath was once again struck by the feeling of awkwardness he'd experienced with Lysa and Petyr, back when the latter had been at Riverrun. He didn't like it at all and coughed. "To our lord father, then?"

Cat reluctantly broke her gaze away from Brandon's and nodded. "Yes. Good day, my lord."

"May the Father bless you, Lord Brandon."

Brandon snorted. "I'll be receiving no blessings from the Seven, little trout. But you have my thanks all the same."

At that, they were off.

So that's the first chapter that revolves around the Tourney of Harrenhal. We're introduced to some Starks and Mormonts, as well as the older versions of Horath and Catelyn.

As always, review, favorite, and follow as you see fit.