The banners of a hundred houses flapped in the wind like the wings of a great, feasting bird. Harrenhal loomed ahead — a ruin in spirit, if not in stone, its black towers clawing at the clouds. But for one fortnight, it pulsed with life. Tents sprawled across the lakeside like a city of silk—gold, crimson, green, and blue. Horses snorted. Laughter echoed. Steel gleamed.
Edric rode beside Robert, his new armor catching every glint of sunlight. The warhammer embossed on his breastplate—his own mark—seemed to burn. He sat tall, eyes wide as the castle drew near, as if it might rise up and swallow them whole.
"Gods, would you look at that," Robert muttered, sweeping a hand toward the chaos. "If this ain't the heart of the realm, I'll eat my own bloody hammer."
Ned Stark gave a quiet nod, his face unreadable. "They say there are more lords here than at any noble gathering in living memory."
Robert barked a laugh. "Aye, and half of them brought sons chasing roses, gold, or glory. The other half? Daughters, sharpened to a point. Eyes on some lord with teeth left in his head!"
They passed under the shadow of Harrenhal's broken towers. Even ruined, the gatehouse dwarfed them. The guards waved them through without question—Robert Baratheon needed no introduction.
Inside, a steward in Tully colors met them, guiding their horses toward the repurposed pavilions.
"Jon should've come," Robert said low.
Ned reassured him. "Jon's smarter than the rest of us. A mad king and a tourney with most lords present—smells like trouble."
They dismounted. Edric followed, his breath catching as he scanned the field—knights sparring in the lists, minstrels tuning lutes, campfires smoking beside gold-brocade pavilions. It was too much. It was perfect.
From across the yard, a knot of minor lords turned.
"Lord Baratheon!" one called—a squat man with a potato nose and a gut barely restrained by his girdle.
Robert turned slow, a smile forming like a crack in ice. "Vance. Still holding that crumbling castle of yours together, are you?"
"Oh, well it has seen better days." the man stated
"And this must be your squire smith?" Vance eyed Edric. "When I heard that he earned the title Mountainsbane, I obviously expected someone strong, never thought he would be a mountain himself."
Robert chuckled. "Aye he is mountain!"
"Let's hope he doesn't swing that big hammer like a dancing girl
Robert didn't blink. "He can lift the damn thing. Can you?! And He swings his warhammer better than your second son swings his insult of a sword. Or does he still train by chasing pigs through the yard?" The Stormlands's lord laughed.
A stunned silence. Ned coughed into his fist.
"Watch your tongue, Baratheon," said a lord with flaxen hair—Blanetree, maybe. "You're not at Storm's End, or hiding behind Jon."
Robert stepped forward, broad and grinning. "That's the joy of it, lords. I'm not. So unless you want your teeth lining the lakeshore, go find a tree to piss behind."
They muttered. One scowled. None stepped forward.
Robert clapped Edric's shoulder and moved on. "Courtiers," he said. "Half of them haven't seen a blade drawn in anger. They think silk and titles make them men."
Edric said nothing, but his smile was slow and quiet. "I see."
"Come," Robert said, chin jerking toward a growing crowd. "Lets go inside, I haven't had proper wine in a moon."
"Ned!" A big man sharing Stark features, yelled out running towards them.
"Brandon!" Ned exclamed as the two reunited.
The now named Brandon's eyes gleamed with excitement as he approached, his voice booming with the energy of someone who could never quite keep his enthusiasm in check.
"Ned!" Brandon boomed, pulling his brother into a rough embrace. "Still breathing, then? Didn't think the Vale would chew you up so gently."
Ned smirked. "Still mad, I see."
Brandon's grin only grew wider. "Mad? I'm not a Targaryen Haha! Besides, I'm alive, aren't I? That's more than I can say for some of these poor bastards who haven't even managed to make it in the melee and Joust." He laughed his head turning toward the jousting grounds, where a knight in shining armor was getting ready to mount his horse. "Old and New Gods be good, this is the kind of thing I live for. No stone and no wall—just steel and flesh."
Robert suddenly interrupted their reunion.
"Am I not worthy enough of the Stark heir's greetings?!" He exclaimed jokingly.
"Hahaha! How are you, Robert, aye?"
"As well as a I can be," he laughed. "Unless you have wine, I only get better then!"
He slapped Ned's shoulder again before turning the Edric himself
"And who are you?" the Stark heir inquired.
"Edric of Stonehaven, squire of lord Robert Baratheon," Edric replied respectfully, his eyes scanning the horizon where the tourney's noise reached its crescendo.
"Ah the Mountainsbane and supposed best smith in the world Ned wrote to me about haha! I can see why now, I'll need an armor like for myself."
"Of course my lord, as long as Robert wills it."
"I'll see you later, lads." Robert said turning to both Ned and me.
"So how is my betrothed!-" Both Lord paramount and future Lord paramount discussed, there conversation fading in the backround.
"Come Ned, lets go have a few swigs of ale."
---
The hall was once a garrison, tucked in the shadow of Harrenhal's broken towers—stone walls blackened with age, the ceiling beams scarred by fire long past. Now it served as a drinking hall for lesser lords and hedge knights, the kinds who weren't welcome at Lord Whent's high table but still needed somewhere to piss away coin and pride.
It smelled of sweat, sour wine, and desperation. A bored minstrel strummed a lute near the hearth, each note more off-key than the last. Long tables groaned under the weight of elbows, spilled drink, and the brittle laughter of men who knew they'd never matter.
Robert had returned from his talk with Brandon and now lounged at the back, feet kicked up on a bench, a tankard half-spilled in one hand, voice loud enough to carry over the worst of the noise.
"This," he declared, "is good wine... It's no arbor red or dornish but its still tastes better than that piss they call ale here!"
Ned chuckled "I remember Edric saying, Lets have a nice swig of ale. One sip and he spat the whole thing out over the entire yard."
The two laughed while Edric put on a face of mock anger
"I could make far better Ale then this. This tastes like something a tired farmer pissed into after a long day's plowing." He complained.
Ned's mouth twitched. "Drink enough of it, you won't care."
"I care about everything." Robert raised his cup in salute to no one. "Even the bloody harp player, gods. Rains of Castamere—I've that shit too many times, enough to know he doesn't a singme fucking thing he is doing." He threw his cup at the bard.
"Play something different you fat fuck! I had enough of Tywin's deeds for one evening—preferably something you won't screw up or I'll knock some skill into you!"
The men filling the big room laughed, men from all the corners of Westeros. All come here, for the tourney of Harrenhal, he thought.
Edric sat beside them, cup untouched. His eyes moved from face to face across the hall. He wore his breastplate still, despite the heat, the firelight glinting off its edges. When asked, he'd say.
Across the room, a voice rose sharp—cutting over the din like a blade drawn too fast. A hedge knight with sallow cheeks and a trimmed beard slammed his hand down on the table. The man across from him—a red-faced knight with a crooked nose and wine-stained tabard—stood to shout back. Their words were slurred and venomous. Something about a cheated wager. Or an insult. Or a horse.
Then one threw a punch.
The room shattered into motion.
Benches fell. A tankard smashed against a wall. A Reachman slipped on spilled stew and cursed the gods as he hit the ground. The minstrel kept playing, faster now, like if he lost the rhythm, he might be next.
Robert stood like a thunderclap. "HAHAHA! Now that's more like it!"
Ned sighed. Not a prayer. Not a curse. Just the long breath of a man too used to Robert's brand of chaos.
But Robert was already gone, shoving through the mess, laughing as he barreled into the fray. He didn't bother with his sword—just started throwing fists like a boy let loose after a week indoors.
Two rough-looking men—one with a greasy braid, the other with a scar like a fork down his cheek—turned toward Edric and Ned's table, sensing softer targets or better spoils.
Edric rose, slow and silent.
The man with the braid lunged, stool leg in hand. Edric met him with a short, brutal hook to the ribs. The man wheezed, dropped the stool leg, and sank to the floor like oil sliding off stone.
The second man had already left the second Edric rose up. His masssive frame instilling fear through simply existing.
The smith sat back down.
Ned looked at him. "Didn't spill your drink."
"These fools couldn't make me spill if they wanted to," Edric laughed.
He didn't chase. He just sat back down, as he calmed down. Across the hall, Robert howled with joy as another table gave way beneath a flailing knight. Harrenhal's ghosts would have approved.
The roughly twenty nameday young man, meanwhile, was in his element. He punched one hedge knight so hard the man landed atop a table and broke it clean in two. Another tried to wrestle him from behind—Robert reached back, grabbed the man by the neck, and flung him face-first into a seat.
He turned, blood running from his nose, and laughed like it was all a game. "You call that a brawl?" he shouted. "Come on, one of you has to know how to fight!"
A third man charged, shouting curses. Robert ducked, drove a shoulder into his belly, and sent him flying.
The hall shook with fists and curses and overturned chairs.
Eventually, a harried kitchen boy clambered onto a barrel and waved his apron like a white banner. "Enough!" he shrieked. "You'll bring the roof down, you mad bastards! Take it outside before Lord Whent hears!"
"He can't hear us fool!" on of the groaning knights yelled in frustration, while lying in pain on the floor. "He's half a mile away in the main castle with all the rest of the high lords!"
Robert basking in his bloody victory, didn't share the downed men's pain. He picked up a pitcher, raised it high like a crown, and shouted, "To Harrenhal!"
Then he tripped over an unconscious knight and spilled it all over himself.
---
A/N: To be honest, Edric could totaly make better ale than anyone in westeros, he is former french winemaker lol.