The sun filtered through the hazy veil of Harrenhal's morning mist, bathing the tourney grounds in a muted golden light. Knights stretched in their armor, squires rushed with polished helms in hand, and retainers stoked fires for morning bread. Edward Grafton walked alone along the perimeter of the grounds, a silent silhouette of steel and shadow.
Despite the buzz of excitement that surged through the gathered nobles, Edward remained still, detached. Harrenhal reeked of ambition. Every house wanted something—glory, alliance, favor. But Edward, with his cold detachment and knowledge of what was to come, saw only inevitability.
He stopped when he saw the direwolf banners of House Stark. They hung stoically over a modest camp near the edge of the field, fluttering in the breeze like silent sentinels of the North. Seated before a small fire were Lord Rickard Stark and his sons: Brandon, the eldest—tall, strong, with fire behind his eyes; Eddard—quieter, more thoughtful, the future Warden of the North; and young Benjen, still full of boyish energy.
Edward approached with measured steps.
"Lord Stark," he said, inclining his head. "I am Edward Grafton of Gulltown."
Rickard Stark's gray eyes regarded him with cool politeness. "Grafton. Of the Gulltown Graftons, I presume. Your uncle stood for the Targaryens in the rebellion on Duskendale's heels."
Edward gave the slightest nod. "Lord Gerold is my uncle. My father, Alaric, is his younger brother. I walk a separate path."
Brandon grinned. "You must, if you're here to smile at wolves instead of breathing salt air."
"My lord brother's tongue is looser than it should be," Eddard said under his breath.
Edward turned to Brandon, his expression unchanging. "Your brother's tongue is fine. It's the sword arm I'm curious about."
That got Brandon's attention. He rose to his full height and stepped toward Edward, his grin sharpening. "Are you challenging me, Gulltown?"
"Not challenging," Edward said evenly. "But if you'd like a match, I won't decline."
Moments later, a ring formed in the soft dirt beside the Stark camp. Squires and knights from nearby houses gathered quickly—combat, even practice combat, always drew eyes. Brandon pulled off his outer coat, revealing a padded tunic stretched over broad shoulders. Edward unbuckled his sword belt and rolled his sleeves. A pair of wooden practice swords were brought forth.
They met in the center of the ring.
Brandon twirled his blade with theatrical flourish. "Don't blink, Grafton. You might miss your own defeat."
"I don't blink," Edward said, and then struck.
Brandon moved to parry, but the speed of the attack surprised him. Edward's blow landed on the edge of his ribs—not enough to bruise, but enough to sting. Brandon responded with a thunderous downward chop, which Edward sidestepped with casual grace. He flowed like water, turning his shoulders to let the blow skim past, then spun inside Brandon's guard and tapped him on the back.
A gasp ran through the crowd.
Brandon grinned. "So you dance."
"I don't need to dance. I just don't like being hit."
Brandon adjusted his grip and charged.
The next flurry of blows came fast and hard. Brandon's strength was undeniable—every strike carried the weight of a man raised in winter, forged by war and snow. But Edward met each with calm precision. He shifted his stance smoothly, blocking and striking like a man who had practiced every movement a thousand times.
And he had.
Edward had trained relentlessly before arriving at Harrenhal. His body, already gifted beyond reason, had been honed to something close to perfection. Faster, stronger, more agile than any man around him—though he made sure never to show it all at once.
Brandon feinted left and struck right. Edward caught the blade with his own, twisted under the swing, and landed a sharp blow to Brandon's knee, knocking him off balance. Brandon staggered.
Edward didn't follow up. He let him recover.
Brandon roared and rushed forward again, angling for a grapple.
That was his mistake.
Edward's left hand struck out, catching Brandon by the collar. In a single, fluid motion, he lifted the older Stark son off the ground and hurled him backward, slamming him onto the dirt with a crash that knocked the wind from his lungs.
Brandon lay on his back, wheezing, then let out a laugh that turned into a cough.
"Seven hells, Grafton," he said, still laughing. "How in the name of the old gods are you that strong?"
Edward offered him a hand. Brandon took it, and Edward pulled him to his feet as though he weighed nothing.
"I eat well," Edward said, voice as calm as ever.
From the edge of the circle, Lord Rickard was watching. His face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes lingered on Edward longer than politeness demanded. Beside him, Eddard seemed torn between awe and concern.
That night, Edward sat with House Stark in their pavilion, the tension of the day replaced with mutual respect.
"My lord father says you're Gerold Grafton's nephew," Benjen said through a mouthful of food. "Is it true what they say? That he tried to raise Gulltown's fleet for the Targaryens after Duskendale?"
Edward didn't look up from his cup. "My uncle is a proud man. Proud enough to wager loyalty against reason."
"And you?" asked Eddard, quieter.
"I serve House Grafton," Edward said. "But I owe fealty to no man's ambition."
Lord Rickard narrowed his eyes slightly. "Spoken like one who walks his own path. That's not always safe."
"I've never found safety interesting, my lord," Edward replied.
There was silence for a moment before Brandon laughed and clapped Edward on the back. "You might be madder than Robert. I like that."
Later, as the camp settled into night, Edward climbed to one of Harrenhal's broken towers. He stood atop the blackened stone and stared out at the tourney grounds. Beneath him, firelight flickered. He saw knights laughing, squires chasing shadows, and lords whispering schemes they thought original.
The North had taken his measure. He had won their respect without bending his intentions. That was enough.
He thought of Brandon's fate—strangled in King's Landing, hung in silent fury. Eddard, knee-deep in corpses at the Trident. Benjen lost in the white wilderness beyond the Wall. He could have warned them. Could have tried to change something.
But that was not his way.
He was not a hero.
He would not stop the wheel. He would ride it.
"The wolf fights well," he murmured to himself, eyes fixed on the dying fires below. "But the falcon flies higher."
The wind stirred his cloak, and he turned from the tower's edge, disappearing once again into the dark bones of Harrenhal.