The sound of hooves was all that could be heard as the road carried them on.
In that silence, only by the sounds of the horses themselves and occasionally chatter between the accompanying men, stretched long, the green sweep of the countryside seemed almost intrusive in its beauty. The rolling grass, the open sky, and the quiet indifference of the land. It invited reflection whether one wished it or not, pressing inward, forcing Edric's thoughts to turn to within. Back to Harrenhal. To what had been done there.
There had been celebration first.
It had come naturally, almost inevitably as Robert's victory demanded it, and Edric had not stood apart, not for long at least, until he came back to his senses. He had made himself present, to share the moment. Wine flowed freely. Laughter spilled easily. Bodies pressed close, whether roughly or with a gentle touch. The beauty of song, flesh, and relief— all simple things, that he indulged in heavily after long weeks of restraint. For a brief while, the weight of duty had been set aside.
Edric had allowed himself that pleasure.
Robert, for his part, had embraced the moment with even greater appetite, taking the victory as license to drown himself in the pleasures afforded to the rich, the strong, and the celebrated. For that short span of nights, it had almost felt earned.
But such moments never lasted.
Work followed swiftly, as it always did. Long hours returned, dragging concentration back into its familiar, merciless shape. Measurements taken twice, then again. Lines redrawn. Plates reshaped. The armor commissioned by House Lannister demanded perfection, and nothing less would be tolerated. It consumed Edric utterly. Each piece was formed with the intention to craft something that would last. That would stand the test of time and dull Lannister boredom, so each time one looked at it, they would find it more beautiful than the day before.
It was worth its price.
Tywin Lannister did not receive it in person however.
His brother stood in his place. Kevan Lannister had been polite and attentive.
He inspected the armor carefully, on his brother's behalf and was more than satisfied with its product.
Tywin's absence needed no explanation by Kevan, after all it was understandable why.
The king had knighted Jaime Lannister.
Ser Oswell Whent had helped Jaime to his feet, and the White Bull himself, Lord Commander Ser Gerold Hightower, had personally fastened the snowy cloak of the Kingsguard about his shoulders. All six White Swords there to welcome their newest brother.
The common people cheered his ascension into knighthood, as they saw the boy as a courageous and gallant figure.
But Tywin could see through the deceit of ceremony.
His own son, named and bound in white, stripped of inheritance beneath the pretense of honor. What should have been a crowning achievement was, in truth, a deliberate affront, one more added to the long list that he had no doubt kept count of.
Jaime himself was not seen after that in the following days of the tourneys. Possibly sent back to King's Landing on the orders of Aerys, to ensure the security of his newfound hostage.
A wise decision by Tywin, Edric thought. Who knows what he might have done had he not left to hold himself back. For an angry Tywin was the sin of pride and vengeance reborn. Edric himself knew in his heart that he would have done it the same had he had such a temper as great as the Warden of the West.
Following that, there had been no end of recounting.
There were stories of the knight of the laughing tree, who humiliated three squires, and gave the small folk reason to cheer.
Robert himself had told him how Aerys had asked him to unmask the mysterious figure, only for him to have vanished the next day.
There were other things as well. Bards certainly had enough material for a lifetime's worth of songs and tales alike from tourney under Haren's roof.
The only thing he had actually seen. How the greatest names in knighthood had been unseated one by one. Of how skill, reputation, and many years of renown had failed before Rhaegar Targaryen, the prince of dragonstone.
Barristan Selmy. Arthur Dayne. Pillars of chivalry, in the eyes of the masses humbled. Though they would only have considered it an honour to have been unseated by their master.
They spoke of the prince's mastery in the saddle. How none could best him.
And yet, despite the many times he repeated that in his mind, none of it was the cause of the great stirring of the realm.
It was actually what came after.
For as he basked in the glory of a deserved victory, the prince rode forth with a crown in his fingers, winter roses pale against the dark of his armor. Ned told him that he turned toward the stands, towards where his wife sat. The spectators thought they knew what to expect, the crowning of one's wife being a common and perfectly reasonable choice. But the surprise rose as expectations were not met.
As Rhaegar did not stop for Elia Martell.
But instead, he rode on, until he came before the daughter of House Stark, and named her Queen of Love and Beauty before the eyes of the realm.
Robert, Ned told him, had chuckled. A rough, startled sound, unsure of itself. As he did not know how else to answer it at that moment. The image of the tall man scratching his nape with a sheepish smile and half-squinted eyes immediately came to mind, his imagination whirling to fill what his lack of presence had left empty.
Brandon Stark on the other hand had known exactly how he desired to answer.
He let his hot-headedness seize the rudder, hot enough to turn the icy weather of the north into a tempered climate
His rage had been immediate and uncontained. Furious enough that men had laid hands on him to keep him from acting, from turning shock into something irreversible. The memory of it lingered in every retelling, heavy and unresolved.
All of it rode with Edric now.
The hooves kept their steady rhythm.
And the road stretched on, carrying them forward, while the echoes of Harrenhal refused to fade into memory.