The morning light spilled across the tourney grounds of Harrenhal like a baptism of fire. The banners of great houses shimmered in the breeze, and the smell of oil, sweat, and fresh hay clung to the air. Knights walked with pride, squires hurried, and common folk leaned against wooden fences, hungry for spectacle. All waited for the final match of the day.
Edward Grafton stood silently in the shade of a pavilion, clad in dark, unmarked armor. His body was still, but his mind turned with the rhythm of memory. The path to this duel had been neither short nor easy.
He remembered his first bout against Ser Mychel Redfort, a knight of his own Vale. The man had fought with elegance and form, but Edward's feint—sharp and clean as a surgeon's knife—had sent Redfort crashing to the dirt within moments. A fluke, some had whispered. A trick of timing.
The second round, against Ser Lyonel Corbray, silenced those whispers. Corbray had come at him like a wild boar, swinging the ancestral blade Lady Forlorn with reckless abandon. Edward had parried and danced, absorbing the man's fury until one clean strike knocked the sword away. He remembered the stunned look on Corbray's face as he lay in the mud. Strength and speed—unnatural, some had murmured.
But it was the third fight that had turned the air electric.
Brandon Stark had entered the ring grinning like a wolf who scented blood. His first strike nearly took Edward's head off—but Edward had waited, watching the rhythm of Brandon's aggression. When the opening came, he dropped the heir of Winterfell with a shoulder throw, planting him in the dirt without a blade even drawn. Edward had extended a hand to help him up, and Brandon had laughed.
"You're not just fast," he had said. "You're quiet about it. That's worse."
After that came Ser Gwayne Gaunt of the Kingsguard. That bout had lasted longer. Gaunt was disciplined, patient. But Edward had slipped under his guard, using a low kick and brutal upward slash to disarm him. It was the first time someone in white armor had looked at Edward with calculation instead of condescension.
And now he faced Ser Barristan Selmy.
The announcer's voice rang out, drawing cheers from the crowd.
"In this final exhibition of arms, Ser Barristan the Bold, of the Kingsguard, shall face Lord Edward Grafton of Gulltown!"
A roar went up.
Edward stepped onto the field. Opposite him, Ser Barristan stood in white plate, his visor raised, his expression calm. He looked neither arrogant nor cautious—only ready.
"I've heard of you, Lord Grafton," Barristan said. "They say you fight like the wind."
"And you like a storm," Edward answered.
Barristan smiled faintly. "Let's hope the skies favor us both."
Then the horn blew.
Barristan advanced with the confidence of decades. His swordwork was crisp, devastating, an education in motion. He struck first—downward diagonal, then a quick thrust, followed by a retreating slice. Edward parried, turning each blow aside with precise economy.
On the wooden benches, Eddard Stark watched intently.
"He's holding his ground," Ned murmured.
"Barristan's testing him," replied Brandon, still bruised from their own bout. "But Grafton's not breaking."
Robert Baratheon was less subtle. "Seven hells, look at him move. That sword's a damn extension of his arm."
Back on the field, Edward swept sideways and twisted under Barristan's guard, delivering a blow that cracked against the older knight's shoulder. Barristan stumbled but recovered instantly. His eyes narrowed. The pace quickened.
Edward felt every shift of pressure, every change in breath. He knew this tempo, this moment. In truth, he had been waiting for it.
He pressed forward—faster now, relentless. Their blades rang like iron bells, echoing through the quiet that had fallen over the crowd. Every eye was on them. Even Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, seated beneath a canopy, leaned forward.
Barristan launched a flurry—upward cut, feint low, pivot left.
Edward met him halfway and stopped the final strike with one hand—gauntlet catching the blade mid-air. Gasps rose from the crowd. Edward twisted, disarming the white knight cleanly and stepping back without finishing the blow.
The sword clattered to the dirt.
Silence.
Then Ser Barristan raised his hand in surrender.
The cheers were deafening.
Edward bowed deeply and retrieved the fallen blade, offering it back with respect.
Barristan took it with grace. "You're not just fast," he said. "You're… inevitable."
"I'm only a man," Edward replied. "But I try to be a prepared one."
As the crowd swelled toward the field, nobles whispering and knights murmuring, Rhaegar stood and gave Edward a single, slow nod. He did not smile.
Later, near the edge of the grounds, Eddard Stark approached.
"You fight with control," he said. "That's rarer than skill."
Robert clapped Edward's back. "You made the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms look like a hedge-born apprentice. You must let me get you drunk tonight."
"I'll consider it," Edward said coolly.
He looked up at the high towers of Harrenhal, where the shadows of royalty and lions waited.
This was the end of the swordplay.
The real war—of words, of favors, of politics—was about to begin.