Chapter 19: The Knight of the Laughing Tree, The Queen of Love and Beauty
The great Tourney at Harrenhal unfolded like a vast, intricate play, its glittering surface of chivalry and celebration barely concealing the seething undercurrents of ambition, fear, and impending tragedy. Darth Vorhax, now significantly enriched by his archery winnings, moved through this elaborate charade as a silent, discerning spectator. His primary purpose was no longer acquisition, but the meticulous observation of those key figures whose actions would ignite the future he had foreseen.
His days were spent watching the jousts and the grand melee, his nights in his fortified encampment, analyzing the intelligence gathered by Will, Anya (who had accompanied the retinue disguised as a common camp follower, her unassuming nature allowing her access to the servants' gossip and back-alley whispers), and his most discreet Obsidian Guard operatives. Nyx, his goshawk, undertook daring flights over the vast tent city, her Force-enhanced senses relaying impressions of unusual gatherings, the movement of prominent retinues, and the general mood of the sprawling encampment. Vorhax was particularly focused on Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. The Crown Prince was a figure of undeniable charisma, his skill in the lists matched only by his melancholic grace. He was surrounded by his loyal companions – the formidable Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, the stoic Ser Oswell Whent, and the young, eager Lord Jon Connington. Vorhax noted Rhaegar's quiet intensity, his scholarly air, and the almost desperate hope he inspired in many who saw him as the realm's only shield against his father's madness.
King Aerys himself was a horrifying spectacle. His appearances were erratic, his behavior volatile. One moment he would be laughing with manic glee, the next screaming accusations of treason at shadows. His queen, Rhaella, endured his public humiliations with a strained, heartbreaking dignity. The fear Aerys instilled was palpable, a suffocating miasma that even the forced gaiety of the tourney could not entirely dispel.
Then came the affair of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. A small, mysterious knight, his armor cobbled together, his shield bearing the device of a smiling weirwood, appeared in the lists to champion the honor of a crannogman (Howland Reed, Vorhax later learned) who had been bullied by three squires. The mystery knight defeated the squires' masters in the jousts, demanding that they teach their squires honor. King Aerys, his paranoia instantly ignited, declared the knight an enemy and demanded he be unmasked, suspecting some hidden mockery or conspiracy. He ranted that the laughing tree was an affront to the majesty of dragons. Rhaegar was tasked with finding the enigmatic champion.
Vorhax observed this minor drama with keen interest. He could sense the knight's surprising skill, the fierce determination beneath the ill-fitting armor, and a strong, almost defiant, aura of youthful idealism. He also sensed a connection, a subtle thread of involvement, leading towards the Stark pavilion, specifically towards Lyanna Stark, whose wild spirit and empathy he had already noted. The mystery knight vanished before Rhaegar could find him, adding another layer of intrigue to the tourney. Vorhax filed this away; Lyanna Stark was clearly a young woman capable of unconventional, defiant action.
Vorhax himself remained a figure of aloof, intimidating power. His victory in the archery contest had cemented his reputation as more than just a ruthless warlord. He was now seen as possessing uncanny, almost unnatural skills. Few lords approached him without a clear purpose, and those who did were met with a cold, calculating courtesy that offered little warmth but exuded an undeniable aura of strength. He had brief, formal exchanges with several prominent figures. Lord Tywin Lannister, his face a mask of cold disdain for the entire spectacle, acknowledged Vorhax with a curt nod, his lion-gold eyes appraising the young Stormlord with unsettling intensity. Jon Arryn, the Lord of the Eyrie, sought him out, his manner grave, questioning Vorhax about the state of the Stormlands and the preparedness of his forces, clearly trying to gauge the younger lord's capabilities and loyalties. Vorhax answered with carefully measured responses, revealing little but implying much about his commitment to order and strength.
The jousts continued, building towards their grand climax. Prince Rhaegar, his silver-chased black armor gleaming, rode like a hero from the songs. He unhorsed renowned champions one after another – Lord Yohn Royce, Ser Barristan Selmy (after a magnificent contest), and even the formidable Ser Arthur Dayne in a tilt that many whispered was deliberately thrown by the loyal Sword of the Morning. Rhaegar was the undeniable champion of the jousts.
The moment Vorhax had foreseen in the swirling chaos of the Force was now at hand. The crowd roared as Rhaegar, the victor, rode to the stands where the Queen of Love and Beauty would be crowned. His own wife, Princess Elia Martell, sat with her Dornish ladies, her delicate beauty somewhat strained, her dark eyes fixed on her husband. The tradition was clear. The expectation absolute.
Rhaegar received the victor's laurel of blue winter roses. Then, in a move that would shatter the fragile peace of the Seven Kingdoms, he turned his horse, his silver armor glinting, and rode slowly, deliberately, past his own wife. A collective gasp rippled through the stands. Princess Elia's face, for a moment, was a mask of stunned disbelief, then profound, public humiliation. Her brother, Prince Oberyn Martell, his dark eyes blazing with sudden fury, made to rise, but was restrained by his elder brother, Prince Doran.
Rhaegar continued his fateful ride. He stopped before the Stark pavilion. Before Lyanna Stark. Her wild beauty, her wind-tangled dark hair, her grey eyes wide with a mixture of shock, confusion, and perhaps, Vorhax sensed, a dawning, dangerous excitement. With all of Westeros watching, Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, lowered the wreath of blue winter roses and placed it in Lyanna Stark's lap, proclaiming her the Queen of Love and Beauty.
A stunned, deathly silence fell over Harrenhal, broken only by the sighing of the wind in the banners. Then, chaos. Brandon Stark, Lyanna's hot-tempered elder brother, surged to his feet, his hand on his sword, his face contorted with rage, only to be restrained by his father, Lord Rickard Stark, whose own expression was a mixture of fury and grave concern. Eddard Stark, quieter, more thoughtful, looked on with grim disbelief. Robert Baratheon, Lyanna's betrothed, his jovial face now a mask of thunderous, possessive fury, seemed about to explode. His knuckles were white where he gripped the railing.
King Aerys, from his high seat, was seen to cackle, a high-pitched, unnerving sound. Perhaps he saw it as a slight to Tywin Lannister (whose daughter Cersei he had refused as a match for Rhaegar), or merely enjoyed the scandal. Or perhaps, Vorhax thought, the King's madness found a perverse satisfaction in his son's reckless, honor-flouting act.
Vorhax watched it all, his external demeanor one of cold, unwavering composure, but his mind was a vortex of analysis, his Force senses drinking in the raw, potent emotions sweeping the stands – the shock, the outrage, the humiliation, the dawning fear, the sudden, fatalistic attraction. This single, symbolic act, born of Rhaegar's romantic folly or his obsession with prophecy, had irrevocably alienated the Martells, deeply insulted Houses Stark and Baratheon, and sent a tremor of scandal and foreboding throughout the entire realm. It was the fulcrum upon which the future would turn. The war Vorhax had patiently awaited was now not just inevitable, but imminent.
The great Tourney at Harrenhal ended under this dark cloud. Lords and their retinues began to depart almost immediately, their minds reeling, their conversations hushed and urgent. Alliances, once firm, now seemed brittle. Enmities, long simmering, were now dangerously inflamed.
Vorhax gave the order for his own formidable contingent to break camp. He had seen enough. He had his gold. He had witnessed the catalyst. "We return to Stonefang," he told Ser Gareth and Captain Snow. "The realm will soon have need of true strength. And we shall provide it – on our own terms."
During the long journey south, Vorhax meticulously re-evaluated his strategic plans. Rhaegar's infatuation with Lyanna Stark, and her apparent reciprocation, would be the flashpoint. Robert Baratheon's possessive fury, Brandon Stark's protective rage, Lord Rickard Stark's honor, Jon Arryn's loyalty to his foster sons – these would be the driving forces of the rebellion. The Martells, deeply insulted, would likely remain neutral or even lean towards the Targaryens out of spite for Robert, but their commitment would be lukewarm at best. Tywin Lannister would watch, wait, and throw his strength behind the eventual victor.
Vorhax's role would be to consolidate his own power in the Stormlands, presenting himself as a bastion of order amidst the growing chaos. He would honor his oaths to Robert Baratheon, his liege lord, when the call to arms inevitably came, but he would do so in a way that maximized his own gains and preserved his forces. He envisioned his Obsidian Guard and the Wolf Brigade as an elite strike force, a decisive factor in key battles, earning him Robert's gratitude and further concessions of land and influence. The War of the Five Kings he had seen in his initial, overwhelming vision was still some way off, but this rebellion would be its bloody precursor.
As they neared his own borders, Vorhax felt a grim satisfaction. His preparations had been meticulous. His resources were vast. His forces were honed. While the great houses stumbled towards a war born of passion and folly, he, the unseen hand, the Hawk Lord, moved with the cold, calculating certainty of a Sith Master, ready to reshape this primitive world in his own dark image.
They had just crossed into Vorant lands when a rider, his horse lathered, met them. It was one of Will's agents.
"My lord!" the man gasped, dismounting unsteadily. "Urgent news! From the Riverlands… and Winterfell! Princess Lyanna Stark… she has vanished from near Riverrun! Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was with her! Some say he abducted her! Lord Brandon Stark and his father, Lord Rickard, are riding to King's Landing to demand justice from King Aerys!"
Vorhax listened, his expression unchanging, though a glint of icy triumph lit his eyes. The next domino had fallen, precisely as foreseen. The abduction – or elopement – would lead to demands, then to murder, then to open rebellion. The Dragon's call had been answered, and the song of ice and fire was about to begin in earnest.
He looked towards Stonefang, his dark fortress on the stormy coast. It was time to make the final preparations. The realm would bleed, and from that blood, the Hawk would rise to claim his empire.
(Word Count: Approx. 4250 words)