Ned and Brandon rode through the gates of Harrenhal, fifty of the North's finest warriors at their backs. Both wore their best suits of armor, forged from iron annealed with Skagosi ash, lending the resulting steel a dark, burnished hue. Etched from acid and lye, the visage of direwolves adorned each cuirass while carved weirwood branches weaved through every gorget, gauntlet, and greave.

They had been gifts from Father, commissioned specifically for the melee. Exceptional by even the exacting standards of the Reach, the armors had seemed an obscene expense. But Ned reminded himself that Harrenhal was to be the greatest tourney for centuries to come and thus no place for Northern austerity.

Tightening the violet favor around his arm, the younger Stark surveyed the field. He recognized Lord Royce and Ser Denys at the head of House Arryn's finest knights. A stone's throw away, Brynden Tully commanded the river lords while the familiar figure of Ser Tygett stood alongside Roland Crakehall. Further back, Ned spotted Robert sporting an antlered great helm, face no doubt split with a rakish grin.

Turning his gaze from his foster brother, Ned passed a critical eye over Jon Connington, who had sided with the Crownlands over his liege lord. Lord Tytos Blackwood stood amongst them, his presence at Connington's side explained by the scathing looks he shot at Jonos Bracken.

Stone-grey eyes settled on the Dornish contingent, led by Oberyn Martell, his uncle, and another member of the Kingsguard who had Ned's lips drawing thin.

"That's Arthur Dayne."

Brandon acknowledged the warning without concern.

"I'll take you at your word," he replied, hands resting against the horn of his saddle, eyes focusing more on the clouds overhead than the riders afield. "You've met the man more often than I."

Though he gestured to Ashara's favor and spoke the words in jest, Brandon's voice lacked its usual levity, laced with a bitterness that had set in days ago. The elder Stark had since ceased his good-natured japes and taunts, and Ned was saddened at the change.

"I suspect I've seen more of him than Ashara these last two days," he supplied as the remark garnered a faint laugh.

"What a sad state of affairs," the elder Stark sighed, and Ned found himself unable to argue.

Since his first dance with Ashara, the young northern knight had met the Daynes on several occasions, seeking their permission for a proper courtship. Lord Symon Dayne had pressed Ned regarding his incomes, duties, and prospective holdings, demanding to know what sort of future Ashara could expect as a member of his household. Ned had not begrudged Lord Dayne his queries; irrespective of his family name or personal deeds, the young Stark remained a second son and landless knight. Had Ned sat in the man's stead with Symon's kinsmen seeking Lyanna's hand, he and Brandon would have seen they suffer much worse.

Ashara had aided him at every turn, guiding Ned through each meeting, needling and teasing her brother whenever he grew too forceful with his questioning, all while assuring Ned that the man was far warmer than he appeared. Time and again, the Lord of Starfall would grumble while yielding to Ashara's chidings, and she would smile, ever gracious in victory.

When even Ser Arthur Dayne endorsed Ned's character, Lord Dayne had finally acquiesced, granting him permission to accompany Ashara for the remainder of the tourney and continue correspondence thereafter.

That had been just days ago, back when Ned had believed he would leave Harrenhal with nothing but fond memories.

Then came the night he and Brandon had returned to their apartments after supping with Jon and Robert, finding Lyanna in clear distress. She had refused to share her thoughts until the following day. Only then did Ned learn of Rhaegar's intrusion, how the prince had all but forced himself into her room, demanding a song as though she were a common minstrel.

The mere memory of his sister struggling to recount her ordeal had spurred something dark and hateful within Ned's breast.

He had hugged her, assuring Lyanna that she had done well and was not to blame for Rhaegar's folly. He repeated the words until she believed him.

Brandon had not joined their embrace. Instead, he stood silent and still, not trusting himself to move. Ned, struggling with his own anger, had understood.

The following days would pass like a blur. All thoughts of the melee lay abandoned as the brothers worked to safeguard their sister's honor, imperiled through no fault of her own. They had acted quickly, for any number of witnesses might have seen Rhaegar entering or departing Lyanna's chambers, and rumors could not be allowed to spread.

Brandon had returned to the sparring ring and issued challenges to every house within the Crownlands, House Targaryen's staunchest supporters. Nine men would enter the ring that day, and none would leave by their own power. Their broken bodies served as a warning that Rhaegar's actions would not be overlooked, that any fool tempted to besmirch Lyanna's honor best back his words with steel.

Ned had waged his own battles within the Widow's Tower, which housed the Kingsguards' temporary quarters. He had confronted Arthur, and though Ned had initially thought well of his future good-brother, the Dornishman's involvement in Rhaegar's transgressions had tarnished Ned's good opinion of the legendary knight.

His opinion had plummeted further when Arthur–knowing full well that Rhaegar had breached propriety the moment he arrived unannounced–insisted that nothing untoward had passed between Lyanna and the prince. It had taken all of Ned's control not to ask Arthur if he would have thought the same had Ashara or Allyria been the ones to suffer Rhaegar's attention.

"She's to be your sister as well," he had said instead, and the knight had wavered, his eyes betraying shame.

When pressed, Arthur had sworn he would offer truthful testimony if asked what occurred that evening. Such a simple thing, yet it had taken hours to extract the promise. Ned had returned to his chambers accomplished yet embittered; if the need arose, Arthur's word would shield Lyanna from the worst of the rumors, for the Realm still held the Sword of the Morning in high regard, even if Ned did not.


The Wolf Knight drew himself from his thoughts in time to hear the low bellow of a warhorn, the first of three signaling the start of the melee. There would be time before the second and more before the third, enough for the gathered warriors to muster their courage for a grand display. But even as his fellow northmen inspected their armor and readied their arms, Ned kept his gaze fixed on the Sword of the Morning.

"I hadn't expected him to participate," he remarked, recalling Arthur's preference for the joust despite his title. "Though I can guess his reasons."

Ned turned to the Martell prince and was met with dark eyes alight with venom. He looked on, unbothered.

"Perhaps it's the same reason the Red Viper's been taking our measure and why he's staring daggers at us now," Brandon scoffed as he brought his horse into the path of Oberyn's gaze.

Ned nodded his assent. Neither he nor Brandon had much mind for intrigue–the events of the last two days had left them both stretched thin–but the Red Viper had hardly been subtle.

House Martell had won the war for Prince Rhaegar's hand, only for Aerys to deny the Dornish a meaningful presence at court, all but declaring them tools in his feud against Tywin Lannister. Princess Elia's position had been precarious after she birthed Rhaegar a daughter instead of a son. Aerys limiting her household to a handful of ladies-in-waiting and ineffectual stewards had only worsened her plight.

Like many others, Ned had assumed Lewyn Martell and Arthur Dayne to be the princess' strongest defenders within the Red Keep. No doubt the latter's reputation as the greatest blade in all the realm had shielded Elia better than even Arthur himself.

Ned and Brandon's growing renown had challenged Arthur's preeminence, and Dorne would never allow such a challenge to go unanswered. That was why the Red Viper had spent the better part of a week observing them, why fifty of House Martell's finest warriors had enlisted in the melee over the joust. If they had their way, the Wolf Knight and Northern Blade would never again be uttered in the same breath as the Sword of the Morning. Days ago, Ned would have thought that Arthur shared their cause.

But recent events had cast everything into doubt.

That the Sword of the Morning would defend the prince after what had befallen Lyanna and Elia, that he had not even deigned to warn their families of what might occur…

No, it was clear that Arthur was neither the stalwart defender Ned had envisioned nor the loyal guard the Martells had desired.

The young knight sighed.

A kinder part of him thought Dayne's participation was an apology to the Martells, just as his promise had been one to the Starks. A crueler part wondered how many hours the Red Viper wasted convincing Arthur of the task.

"He knows," Ned noted, not turning his eyes from the Dornish prince, whose coiled limbs and blazing eyes conveyed the anger of a man suffering a great injustice.

"Of course he does," Brandon said, tone uncaring. "His uncle was in the tower when you confronted Dayne."

"Do you think he holds us responsible?" Ned asked, already knowing the answer.

"Does it matter?" the elder Stark challenged. "The man's thoughts are his own. He's free to think what he wants, so long as he minds his tongue."

Ned grimaced, already foreseeing disaster.

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then remind him that Prince Doran doesn't have another son to surrender for his mistakes," Brandon bit back, sounding too much like their teacher during his rare moments of displeasure.

"This is a tourney," Ned stressed, recalling the grueling events of the last two days. "I'd rather not start a war."

For a time, the elder Stark gave no reply. The silence stretched long enough that Ned no longer expected an answer, only for Brandon to inhale a low, strained breath and release it with a nod.

"I'll endeavor to do the same."

Ned found himself smiling as he placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, knowing how easily Brandon took to anger and how hard he had worked to keep it at bay.

Nothing more was said as the second horn blared, and the brothers sat in silence, awaiting the third.


"Wendel!"

Ned had no time to say more as he raised his sword against the mace descending upon the merman's helm. He drew his shield back in the same breath, warding off a spearpoint aimed at his flank.

The sound of thunderous hooves, screams, and clashing steel fell like a fog over Ned's mind, obscuring his thoughts as he pressed his destrier onward. The Wolf Knight lost himself in the simplicity of his single-minded task: again and again, he raised his sword and shield to drive back the survivors of Brandon's initial charge.

Only after riding past the men of the Reach did Ned's senses return and the world refocus. Granted a brief respite, Wendel Manderly raised his visor and dipped his head.

"My thanks, Ser Eddard."

Ned gave a curt nod and sheathed his blade.

"Rest and gather your strength," he ordered. "The day is still young."

The merman did as instructed, falling back into formation. The northmen returned to their place on the field. The Wolf Knight brought his destrier beside the vanguard, where his brother greeted him with a half-finished wineskin.

"Those flowers had thorns," Brandon drawled.

"Our pelts were thick," he replied, taking the wineskin as his brother laughed.

They watched as seven maesters rode forth to assist the wounded. As the casualties were tallied and carried off, the Dornish and river lords moved into position, awaiting the warhorn that would signal the next charge.

'A seven-sided melee in the ancient style.'

There was a good reason why mounted knights preferred to charge against footmen over their mounted peers. A hundred stones worth of man, beast, and steel was a frightful thing, and two knights facing one another in the joust was perilous enough. For companies of fifty to do the same without fencing or boundaries bordered on madness.

The format and participants of the melee had been decided well before the Starks traveled south, and Lord Whent had met with the lords of every kingdom to coordinate the grand affair.

Each kingdom was to muster fifty men. One kingdom would charge against another, passing first on the right and then left while the rest bore witness, thereby ensuring ample spectacle for the onlookers and time for the maesters to oversee the wounded. The charges would continue until forty men remained ahorse, the fourth blast of a horn prompting the remaining warriors to dismount and fight afoot.

Other rules had been set forth: swords and axes were to be blunted, spears were to be no longer than the length of a man, and war hammers no heavier than half a stone's weight. Blows to a man's back or horse were expressly forbidden.

Ned had stood at Brandon's side while the lords discussed the order of the charge. A handful of seasoned knights, veterans of the last Blackfyre Rebellion, had claimed the format a mockery of true combat. Ned was inclined to agree, but pageantry did not preclude the melee from danger, for a single blunder and the resulting collision would improve the fortunes of a dozen second sons.

Thus far, the North had done well, losing only ten men to the Westerlands, Crownlands, and Reach. None were so injured that the maesters feared for their lives or limbs. Brandon had commanded two of the last three charges, while Greatjon Umber had led the other. Ned would not soon forget the sight of his brother releasing his reins to deliver a two-handed swing that lifted Jon Connington from his horse.

Ned had volunteered for a role less dangerous by only the barest of degrees: at the start of each charge, he would fall back to the middle of the company on the side facing the enemy. From there, he would repel any foe who withstood Brandon's initial offensive.

He watched grimly as the Dornishmen, led by Arthur Dayne, carved a bloody path through the rivernmen and readied himself for the next charge.


They faced the stormlords afterward. Commanding their respective companies, the scions of two great houses met at full tilt. Forced to evade the arc of Robert's warhammer, Brandon swung his own blade wide, allowing the laughing Baratheon to exact a heavy toll on the northmen until Ned intervened. Brandon claimed his own bloody price, but more than twenty men lay wounded when the dust settled.

Despite Lord Blacktyde's able command and the fearsome reputations of Houses Harlaw and Drumm's warriors, the men of the Iron Islands did not perform nearly as well. The lords of the Riverlands, largely exhausted by their battles with Arthur and Robert, fared no better.

At last, the warriors of the North faced those of Dorne. Their numbers stood near equal, Brandon commanding twenty-eight men while Ser Arthur led twenty-three. The two warriors clashed and proved each other's equal on horseback. The Kingsguard parried Brandon's initial strike in a masterful display of skill that opened his opponent's guard. He delivered a cross-cut to his opponent's head, only for Brandon to catch Arthur's blade on the hilt of his own, denying the death blow.

As the Sword of the Morning and Northern Blade engaged in single combat, Ned saw to the defense of the northmen's flank. Twice, he warded off Oberyn's spear, diverting the tip skywards away from his comrades. He crossed blades with Ser Lewyn, catching the latter's sword on the lip of his shield when the Dornishman brought his blade down in a powerful arc. A well-placed underarm thrust saw Ned unseat his foe.

Passing the notable Dornish commanders, Ned readied himself to face the rearguard when his destrier seized. The young Stark barely freed himself from his stirrups before the beast faltered and fell.


He escaped being crushed under his mount. Even then, Ned landed poorly, armor betraying him as his limbs crashed against the unyielding steel. Despite retaining consciousness, his vision blurred, and sounds bled into echos as he struggled against the bile that welled in his throat.

For a time, he lay there, mind clouded by pain, bleary eyes staring in disbelief at the spear buried in his stead.

He felt several hands help him sit as more shadows ran to his defense. Distantly, he heard Brandon shouting, his voice almost unrecognizable with rage, quickly joined by Lord Royce's and Robert's sounding equally wroth.

New voices drowned out the ones he knew, and Ned abandoned his efforts to decipher some semblance of conversation. He instead allowed two maesters to inspect him while William Dustin stood guard. He accepted a cup of water but refused milk of the poppy, needing what remained of his focus and strength.

In the distance, Brandon and Oberyn exchanged insults and threats, nearly coming to blows as their bannermen threatened the same. Ned noted several valemen and stormlanders among the ranks of the northmen while a contingent of crownlanders backed the Dornish. Lord Whent's eldest son stood between them, preventing the melee from devolving into a true battle.

The wounded knight watched and waited for tempers to cool. He inspected his armor and found it dented but sound. Eventually, the battle lines dissolved. Robert and Lord Royce returned to their men, and the Crownlanders followed suit. A much smaller party made their way towards him, Brandon at their head.

"Ned–"

"I'm alright," he assured, willing himself to stand. He turned from his brother, acknowledged Alton Whent, and settled his eyes on the Dornishman. "You have words for me, Prince Oberyn?"

Peering down from his stallion, Red Viper wore the expression of a man forced to sup on spoiled milk.

"My apologies, Lord Eddard." Gone was the prince's usual condescension and conceit. In its place was the terseness of a man whose every word invoked physical pain. "Ebbin Wyl thought himself above the rules of the tourney. He desired your death and dishonored all of Dorne in his wake."

Oberyn tilted his head behind him, where a young man lay restrained by his fellow Dornishmen.

"Fool thought the heat of battle would conceal his crimes from the eyes of five kingdoms."

Sparing the man a glance, Ned looked to his horse, which had long received mercy at his behest. He breathed a sigh.

"What were his motives?"

A bitter smile tugged at Oberyn's lips.

"You made an enemy of every unwedded man in Dorne when you courted Ashara. I suspect many of the wedded ones hate you just the same," the prince explained, and none of the lords doubted his words. "Ebbin was among the most vocal of your detractors, but even I had not expected such treachery."

The Red Viper gripped his reins tighter with every word.

"House Martell will see you compensated for your horse, and a message will be sent to Sunspear. House Wyl will forfeit its lands and title, either in part or totality."

Several Dornish lords stirred in their saddles, clearly unsettled by the fate that had befallen one of their own, however deserved. Oberyn paid them no mind.

"As for Ebbin," he continued, as though discussing the fate of a man long dead, "Your brother has requested he face northern justice. Neither House Targaryen nor House Martell saw reason to deny him."

The words said much and implied more. One glance at Brandon told Ned that his brother had not been courteous nor compromising with his demands. Ned had no time to dwell on the matter, feeling the Dornishman's eye upon him once more.

"I had not intended to see you injured in this manner, Lord Eddard."

Red Viper offered the apology with great reluctance, yet his words were sincere, implying sentiments said and unspoken.

Ned gave no reply. The Martell no doubt expected him to respond in resignation or anger. Instead, the young knight walked past the northern destriers and Dornish steeds, denying him either. Stopping beside his fallen mount, he reached for his saddle and lifted his longsword.

"Thank you for all you've done under these trying circumstances, Prince Oberyn." Ned offered the words with simple courtesy, and all fell silent as he unsheathed the blade. "Would you do me the final kindness of dismounting? I'm afraid I no longer have the means to fight ahorse."

With the exception of his brother, the gathered lords stared in shock. Even Oberyn failed to conceal his surprise and growing intrigue.

"I have not forfeited the melee," Ned explained when the prince remained silent. "Or was I unhorsed by legitimate means?"

He allowed the question to linger, giving the Red Viper time to accept his challenge or endorse the actions of his brother's bannerman.

The Red Viper laughed.

"Are you sure of this, Stark?" the prince warned as his previous frustrations gave way to a mire of amusement and offense. "You've unseated many men today, my uncle amongst them. Most would consider that honor enough."

Ned regarded the prince with unyielding eyes.

"I wish to settle all matters between us, Martell."

Once more, words conveyed more than what was said. The Red Viper's only response was to jump from his stallion, spear in hand.


He had not enjoyed his time in Oldtown, exiled from Sunspear in all but name. In truth, the Red Viper could scarcely recall his years amongst the maesters; for a man able to match wits with Doran Martell, forging six links of a chain had proved a trifle. His time had been better spent inviting courtesans to his private quarters.

Perhaps he should have given the study of theology a passing glance. As little as he cared for the northern savages and their sanctified trees, the old gods clearly still held power in the frozen North. How else could Rickard Stark have sired such sons?

The thought hounded the Dornish prince like the stench of King's Landing.

Hate came easily to him these days. He found his temper short, and Ebbin's idiocy had made it shorter. But even as Oberyn directed his anger at the man before him, there was no denying Eddard Stark's mettle.

The heir of Winterfell may have unhorsed more men than any other, but it had been his younger brother who had ensured nearly half the northmen remained afield, with only Dorne close to matching their numbers.

Even now, more battered and bruised than not, the second son of House Stark repelled Oberyn's every attempt to lay him low. Even as the Red Viper's spear came alive in his hands, sailing forth in a twisted dance of pointed steel, the young northman fended off Oberyn's assault with fast footwork and precise swordplay.

The prince's anger worsened the longer the Stark stood his ground.

He recalled the morning his uncle relayed news of Rhaegar's transgressions. Several men had been needed to dissuade him from murdering all those involved. But even in his rage, Oberyn knew House Martell had greater access to the crown prince than any other. Between his uncle and Ellia's ladies-in-waiting, a paramour would not have gone unnoticed, and Lyanna Stark had never so much as parsed words with his faithless goodbrother. Perhaps Ashara could have relayed a message through Arthur with no one the wiser, but the very idea beggared belief.

Loath though he was to admit it, the Starks had not shown themselves to be such men, and despite Arthur's recent failings, the Red Viper did not think the Daynes capable of such treachery.

No, the dragon's crimes were his own, and nothing could call it to task. Not even the Dornish sun.

The knowledge did nothing for Oberyn's fury. He raged at Rhaegar for his faithlessness, Arthur for his betrayal, and Doran for agreeing to the damned match years ago. He hated Lyanna Stark for catching the prince's eye, himself for being powerless in the wake of this insult, and Eddard Stark for being the same.

As the Red Viper simmered in his anger, a blunted blade caught the edge of his helm.

He watched as Oberyn staggered back. The prince's helm had spared his face from ruin, but Ned's blade had driven his cheek guard inward and upwards. Now, the warped sheet of bronze only served to block the prince's vision.

As he waited for his opponent to regain his bearings, Ned sensed a change in the air, as though a revelation had rippled through the surrounding lords.

They had thought him quiet.

He recalled his earliest years in Winterfell, how the walls would echo with warm laughter and gentle teasing whenever the servants spied him trailing behind his elder brother.

As the years passed, the words grew less kind as men mistook his reserve for weakness. His foster father's court would whisper of how peculiar and ill-matched the Quiet Wolf appeared beside the heir of Storm's End.

The whispers had lessened after his first duel and disappeared altogether once he earned his spurs. But in another life where he had not rescued Lady Lorra, Ned doubted he would have outgrown the name.

Even now, having witnessed him best countless warriors with a patient and implacable defense, the lords of the realm compared him to Brandon and thought him incapable of anger.

Ned was sure Oberyn Martell had thought the same, forgetting that he faced a trueborn son of Winterfell, one whose family had suffered a great insult.

Ned was not his brother, but the wolf blood was every bit his birthright as it was Brandon's, and the cold could burn as brutally as any flame.

Permitting Oberyn the barest moment to divest his helm or fight half-blind, the northern knight readied his blade in a wrathful stance and resumed his attack. With his back acting as a fulcrum, the Wolf Knight leveraged his footwork and lent his full weight to the strength of each blow. That his sword lacked an edge no longer mattered as he delivered a cut meant to part the prince's jaw.

Bringing his own weapon to bear, Oberyn braced against the heft as castle-forged steel clashed against hardened cornel wood. A crack sounded from the spear as he diverted the blow and slid his arm down its length, turning the spearpoint into a dagger which he drove into Ned's side.

But the Wolf Knight had already raised his sword and brought it down on the prince's head. Forced to abandon his attack, Oberyn intercepted the blade with the heel of his spear, only for the ill-timed defense to falter. The Red Viper screamed as Ned's sword bit into his shoulder, and the bronze discs of his armor bent under the blow.

Ned allowed the prince to retreat.

This was not how he preferred to fight, fueled by fury and bereft of restraint. Even now, his efforts paled when compared to Brandon's natural ferocity, never mind the primal fear Lord Fairchild could instill within the hearts of men.

Yet, even a poor imitation of the Hunter's teachings had left the Dornish prince grasping his arm, weapon trembling in his hand as he gasped for breath through gritted teeth.

Not for the first time, Ned marveled at what he had achieved as the lesser student of a great teacher. But this would be his only duel of the melee, something he had known from the moment he fell. Maintaining the power and pace of his offensive required heroic effort, and already he was beyond exhaustion. Even if he prevailed against his opponent, Ned knew he lacked the strength to face another. Once the match was done, he would retire to the spectator stands and drag the Red Viper along with him, easing Brandon's path to victory.

He retook the wrathful stance, and the prince, despite his pain, answered by raising the butt of his spear with the tip angled low.

For the briefest moment, the two second sons stood motionless under a noonday sun. All thoughts of the melee, its rules, and the blunted weapons in their hands fell away as they resolved themselves to a proper duel.

With a sudden kick, the Red Viper raised his spear and lunged, intent on driving the point through Ned's visor and out the other end. Veering his head, the Wolf Knight turned the lethal strike into a glancing blow. He answered with a cut meant to open Oberyn's throat. The prince leapt back and lashed out with his spear's daggered hilt, only for Ned to step into the arc of his swing, sword raised high.

The prince blocked the descending blade with the vambrace of his wounded arm, the pain and frustration on his face clear for all to see.

The Red Viper was a spearman without peer. With nary a glance, he could pierce the gaps in a man's armor, forcing his enemies to wager their lives on the strength of their mail. But a spear needed space to strike, and Ned stubbornly denied his opponent that advantage, forcing him to lose ground without gaining distance.

The Wolf Knight had long proven himself a match for the Dornishman's speed and footwork, but the Red Viper was unable to mimic Ned's impregnable defense as the northman drove him back. With his face unprotected and the Wolf Knight striking with lethal intent, the Red Viper could no longer turn the tide of battle, unable to risk certain death for a wounding blow.

The end was inevitable and came without a preamble. Again, Ned brought his sword down on Oberyn's head, and the Red Viper answered by raising his spear. The prince was fast enough to see the Wolf Knight redirect the blow, scraping his blade along the spear's length, and withdrew his hand to spare it from injury. But he could do nothing when Stark pivoted and drove the sword into his side. A dull crack sounded as Ned's blade collided with the copper scales of Oberyn's armor.

The Red Viper fell slowly, stubborn even in defeat, and the field remained silent even as Ned made out the faraway sound of shouts and applause. As the anger and strength fled his body, the young knight directed his blade at the Dornishman's chest.

'Yield,' he thought but did not say, knowing Oberyn would understand.

From the ground, the prince seemed almost grateful for his silence and answered in kind, discarding his spear in disgust. The young Stark was not blind to his anger, but where that anger was directed now, he could no longer say.

Ned offered a hand he knew Oberyn would refuse and was not surprised when the prince found his voice.

"I will stand by my own strength or not at all, Stark," he hissed, voice bitter and weary, and Ned found no desire to argue.

He turned to leave, taking several paces before the prince spoke again.

"Ser Eddard," Oberyn called, and Ned was surprised to hear his voice carry the barest hint of formality and respect. He turned to find the prince having righted himself, hand still clutched against his wounded side. "I will send you my personal taster for tonight's feast. Feel free to make use of his services for the remainder of the tourney."

The Dornish prince held his gaze without explanation or apology, and Ned acknowledged the offer with a silent nod, returning to his northern companions with slow, unsteady steps.

His eyes met Brandon's, and a wordless understanding passed between them as Ned walked by. He made for the battlements unaided, the very picture of a battle-worn yet victorious knight, Ashara's favor still tied to his arm.

TBC

Chapter Summary:

Ned and Brandon scramble to clean up the mess Rhaegar left on their doorstep. Ned made sure all involved parties have their stories straight in case anyone starts asking questions. Brandon went and beat nine innocent men within an inch of their lives to dissuade said questions from ever being asked.

As they say, 'Teamwork makes the dream work.'

Oh, and there's also something about a melee in there.

Arthur notes:

This chapter sees quite the tonal shift as the Starks suffer the consequences of Rhaegar's visit. As mentioned before, this is a big deal. I would go so far as to place Rhaegar's intrusion somewhere between crowning Lyanna the Queen of love and beauty and the infamous abduction (much closer to the former, but still).

Rhaegar's actions have endangered Lyanna's honor and reputation. If word of what happened gets out, just the implications alone would bring Lyanna and Robert's engagement to a screeching halt. At a time when marriage and politics were so intertwined, this would be seen as a political attack on the whole North, Stormlands…and even Dorne, never mind a major overstep by House Targaryen.

Of course, what Ned and Brandon care about protecting their sister.

So the first half of the chapter sees the melee take a back seat while Ned and Brandon do damage control. One thing to point out is that the brothers know what they're doing: they're not plotters or schemers, but they were born and raised in the highest echelon of Westerosi society. They understand the implications of this whole debacle, and know how their response would be interpreted. Politics might not be their strength, but they are socially apt (a small difference, but a difference all the same).

The result is that the situation is as good as it can be: maybe someone saw a silver-haired man enter Lyanna's room; maybe they didn't. But it's not anything a man would hang his hat on (especially when Brandon seem liable to hang the man next to his hat).

Now that we've caught up on some (historical) canon events, I also wanted to point out some points of divergence:

Ned and Brandon's armor:

Had a bit of fun with the description here. A full suit of etched plate would likely be cresting the upper limits of Westeros' technological capabilities (~late medieval, think the Reach). In canon, I don't recall Ned ever wearing anything this nice, but here he and Brandon were considered favorites in the melee and Rickard made sure they were geared for the event. Plus, the quarterly earnings for the North were probably looking pretty good, so he splurged a bit.

Ned and Arthur:

Canonically, Ned speaks well of Arthur even AFTER things went down at the Tower of Joy. Here, not so much.

The reason is that Ned's now publicly courting Ashara. Their first meeting was a very public affair. So Ned has to make sure everything is up to code by approaching her family (again, the alternative is damaging a lady's reputation).

Then, his future brother-in-law accompanies his boss to visit Lyanna while she's unsupervised.

To be sure, Ned's furious at Rhaegar, but Arthur's actions are borderline betrayal as they're about to be family. Ned felt he was at least owed a "Hey, my creepy boss is eying your sister. I'll do what I can, but stay sharp."

This will be further explored in an Arthur POV (...maybe).

The Melee:

Hope you guys enjoyed the format. I took some liberties to make the scene more unique and the action digestible.

The Horse Incident:

I'm sure some of you might have mixed feelings about this scene, but from a plot perspective, I didn't need Ned to progress any further, and from a character perspective, Ned didn't need to win more battles in order to grow.

Furthermore, this scene illustrates that striking another combatant's horse during a joust/melee was often a "forfeit lands and titles" level of offense. This is made all the worse with all the great houses and the KING in attendance. Of course, if someone were crazy enough to do it, it would be the Wyls, best known for wartime atrocities (selling Alys Oakheart into slavery and worse) during the First Dornish War.

Furthermore, this development explores the consequences of Ned and Ashara's more overt courtship, similar to how the Stark brother's growing reputation have the Martells concern for Arthur's title as the world's preeminent swordsman.

Lastly, under normal circumstances, there was no way Oberyn would have handed a fellow Dornishman to Brandon, regardless of his crimes. However, given the magnitude of the crime and the fact it was committed in broad daylight with seven kingdoms bearing witness, he didn't have much choice. If he hadn't agreed, he would have risked being accused of culpability…but I'm pretty sure he would have swung at Brandon if other's (i.e. his uncle) weren't around.

Ned vs Oberyn:

Not much to say here. The "wrathful guard" or Zornhut is a visually striking and aggressive stance that I thought aptly described how Ned went on the offensive in a way that would make Cyril proud. (I took inspiration for light saber stances, think transitioning from Soresu to Djem So).

Big fan of this picture of Oberyn by Magali Villeneuve. Matched the description of his armor pretty faithfully (just added a helmet). The bronze scaled/disced armor he favor's is likely great against slashes but would still transfer a lot of force onto the wearer. Oberyn was likely left the duel with a fractured clavicle and rib when all was said and done.

Anyway, that's all for now. Hope everyone's doing well. Thank you all for your patience and support.

As always, many thanks to KnightStar for his edits. This one took extra work.