When Rhaegar finished reporting back to Aerys and returned to camp, the setting sun was just shining on the towers of Harrenhal.
He slowed his pace and gazed blankly at the setting sun, his eyes unconsciously glancing toward a cluster of noble tents bearing the banner of the Direwolf, which was precisely the location of House Stark.
“I wonder if any accidents happened after she went back,” Rhaegar thought to himself.
As he was removing his armor, Princess Elia’s handmaiden came forward.
“The princess invites you to dine with her, Your Grace,” the handmaiden said in a low voice.
Rhaegar looked at her, but at that moment, what surfaced in his mind was instead those bright grey eyes of Lyanna Stark turning back by the stream.
“Tell the princess that I must prepare for tomorrow’s tourney.” Rhaegar’s gaze was low, not looking at her.
After the handmaiden left, silence returned to the tent, leaving only a barely audible sigh from him, melting into the night.
Early the next morning, when the horns blew, Rhaegar rode his pitch-black warhorse into the lists.
He reined in his horse at the center of the lists, the three-headed dragon on his dark red armor gleaming with a cold light under the morning sun.
His gaze swept across the knights participating in the tourney present.
Then he pointed his lance at Yohn Royce from the Bronze family of the Vale.
“Ser Yohn,” his voice clearly carried across the entire field, “I would like to ask for your instruction.”
After the trial began, Rhaegar’s warhorse rushed out like an arrow released from a bowstring, and Royce spurred his horse to meet him almost simultaneously.
Both lances shattered against each other’s shields, making the first clash an even match.
In the second clash, Rhaegar struck first, landing his lance on the opponent’s shoulder, and the tremendous force knocked Yohn directly off his horse.
Over the next few days, Rhaegar participated in several more matches and won them.
Among them, two opponents were impressive: Brandon Stark, the heir to the North known as the “Bloody Hand”, and Arthur Dayne, the “Sword of the Morning”.
Arthur was very strong, but Rhaegar was not weak either; besides, Arthur’s greatest strength was swordsmanship, and this was a knightly jousting tourney.
In the blink of an eye, the finals arrived, and Rhaegar’s final opponent was Ser Barristan.
Looking at that spirited figure on the field, Viserys felt a sense of helplessness.
To be honest, deep in his heart, Viserys had always harbored a sense of envy toward Rhaegar.
That was a very pure feeling of jealousy.
Rhaegar truly lived as the kind of person who made others the most red-eyed in his past life’s understanding: whatever he wanted to do, he could accomplish it, and whatever he did, he could reach the very top.
Before turning sixteen, Rhaegar spent all day holding books, but the moment he put down the books and picked up a sword, saying he wanted to learn martial arts, by seventeen he was able to defeat the young Arthur Dayne at the Storms End tourney and fought to a standstill with the peak-condition Barristan Selmy, finishing only slightly inferior in the end.
As if overnight, he transformed from a pedant into a martial arts genius, his fame resounding throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
What was infuriating was that, even before this, Rhaegar had already become famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms by virtue of his scholarship and intoxicating singing voice.
Such a life made one’s teeth itch just thinking about it.
At this moment, the air on the tourney field seemed to have frozen.
Barristan Selmy adjusted his grip on the lance, his white cloak motionless in the breeze.
This legendary figure of the Kingsguard had eyes as sharp as an eagle at this moment, completely devoid of his usual gentleness.
Opposite him, Rhaegar leaned forward slightly, his black warhorse stamping its hooves restlessly.
That dark red armor gleamed with a bloody luster under the sunlight.
Without warning, both horses started moving simultaneously.
Dust flew under the iron hooves, and the cheers from the stands seemed to be isolated in another world.
Barristan’s lance was as steady as a rock, firmly locked onto the opponent’s breastplate.
Rhaegar’s charge carried a certain rhythm, as if following a beat only he could hear.
Just the moment before impact, Rhaegar suddenly fine-tuned his angle.
This change was extremely subtle, yet it was captured by Barristan, who then slightly turned aside to block with his shield.
Both oak lances shattered simultaneously, wood splinters flying.
First round, a tie.
The squires on both sides hurriedly handed over new lances.
The second charge was even more intense.
Barristan changed his strategy, his lance suddenly sinking at the very last moment to aim directly at the lower edge of Rhaegar’s shield.
This was a seasoned move that had once caused countless young knights to bite the dust on the field.
But Rhaegar seemed to have anticipated it long ago.
With a gentle tug of his reins, his warhorse deftly moved half a step sideways, while his lance thrust upward at a tricky angle.
“Bang!” The wooden lance burst into pieces.
Barristan’s shield took a solid blow, shaking him slightly.
Yet his lance tip grazed past Rhaegar’s shoulder armor, leaving only a shallow mark.
Gasps burst out from the stands.
Lyanna’s hand tightly clutched her hem, cheering inwardly for Rhaegar,
Before the third charge, Barristan took a deep breath.
He realized that this young man had seen through all of his routines.
Now his only chance of winning was to return to the most basic moves.
This time, Barristan abandoned all fancy techniques, keeping his lance in the most standard horizontal posture.
He was gambling, gambling that the young man would expect more complex counter-moves.
He won the gamble.
An extremely brief hesitation appeared in Rhaegar at the moment before the collision.
In that flash of lightning, Barristan’s lance precisely struck the exact center of his breastplate.
The tremendous impact caused Rhaegar to lean backward, but relying on his astonishing waist strength, he forcibly stabilized his posture and did not fall off his horse.
Gasps burst out from the stands.
Lyanna’s hand tightly clutched her hem, worrying for Rhaegar.
The tourney continued, and finally ended only after both sides had used twelve wooden lances.
Rhaegar won because he was younger and had more stamina than Barristan.
After the match, Rhaegar stretched his body, reached out to touch the dent on his breastplate, and then bowed in salute to Barristan.
The crowd was cheering for Rhaegar.
“He is buying people’s hearts,” the king whispered to Varys, “Did you see the way those nobles looked at him?”
His tone was filled with venom and coldness.
Varys merely smiled and slightly nodded to him without saying a word.
According to tourney tradition, the victor of the jousting contest had to choose the “Queen of Love and Beauty”.
Just when everyone thought Rhaegar would present the crown symbolizing the “Queen” to his wife Elia Martell.
Rhaegar instead rode his horse past Princess Elia, who had already extended her hand, and slowly approached the stands of House Stark.
He stopped in front of Lyanna Stark, the crown on his lance tip gleaming brilliantly under the sunlight.
“I wish to dedicate this honor to you, the most beautiful flower of the North.” His voice was not loud, but enough for those nearby to hear.
Lyanna was stunned, while Brandon Stark beside her was full of smiles—not knowing how many more times he would be able to smile in the future—whereas Eddard Stark frowned.
Over at the Dornish stands, Oberyn Martell suddenly stood up, only to be held back by his sister Elia.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” Elia said softly, her fingers turning white from exertion.
King Aerys’s knuckles turned white as he said to Varys, “He is humiliating the honor of the royal family.”
Meanwhile, Robert was still striving hard in the melee.
The green helmet with antlers on his head was shining brightly under the sunlight.
Finally, the tourney ended in this eerie atmosphere.