After parting ways with Lyanna and Brandon Stark, Twig followed the directions they'd given him toward Harrenhal. Once far enough from the caravan, he abandoned his walking pace and broke into a run—silent, swift, and careful not to draw attention from anyone along the road.
He passed caravans bearing noble banners—some familiar, others unknown—and whenever the situation required, he slipped into the scenery like a shadow, avoiding unnecessary contact.
Even with his extraordinary speed, he did not reach Harrenhal before dusk. The last light of day was fading when the colossal silhouette appeared in the distance: five titanic, ruined towers clawing at the sky, like the rotting hand of a dying giant reaching for the moon.
Twig found a discreet bush near the outskirts and saved the location as a teleport point. With that accomplished, he summoned the Kafra assistant and requested an immediate return to Saul's inn.
Back home, he found Aron and Jenny preparing to sleep. He briefly summarized everything—his journey, the nobles he saw, and the upcoming plan. Then he carefully laid out what the three of them would do once the tourney began: who would speak, where each should stand, when to intervene, which signals to watch for. He made it unmistakably clear that every step depended on sticking exactly to the plan.
Only Aron and Jenny went to bed. Twig slipped away into the forge, unable to contain the ideas swirling in his mind.
This will be fun. I can't wait, he thought.
He worked deep into the night, slept only hours, and awoke before dawn. Alone once more, he teleported back to his discreet point near Harrenhal to observe the pre-tourney movement—and to win a certain wager.
Upon stepping out of the teleport zone, he walked toward the fortress. Ahead, long lines of travelers formed. So many had come for the tourney—nobles and common folk alike—that an ocean of tents stretched both inside and outside the outer walls.
The great Houses had taken the central grounds with lavish pavilions; everyone else—merchants, craftsmen, servants, and commoners—occupied the leftover space.
After confirming that the northern caravan had not yet arrived, Twig wandered through the dense crowd, trying to catch interesting sights or rumors. But the noise and chaos bored him quickly. Eventually, he drifted toward an empty corner, far from the masses.
When he was certain no one was watching, he accessed the Kafra service to rent a Merchant Cart. From his personal storage he pulled out handpicked items and arranged them neatly in the Cart. With everything ready, he dragged the cart to a discreet but open space—far from the heavy foot traffic—and activated his "Shop" skill.
A small merchant tent materialized. He set out a few items, adjusted his smiling mask, and waited eagerly for his first customer.
At first, he almost regretted choosing a spot so out of the way—until he spotted a small escort approaching. Cloaks of pure white fluttered around them, led by a young man with long, silver hair.
No way… my first customer is the prince, Twig thought.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen slowed upon noticing a solitary merchant tent placed in such an impractical location. His retinue halted behind him.
Approaching the stall, Rhaegar surveyed the scene: the overly colorful clothes, the strange smiling mask, the wooden plaques carved with odd symbols. Everything about the merchant was unusual.
"Greetings, strange merchant," Rhaegar said, tone regal, face composed.
"Greetings, my Prince—and to your magnificent entourage," Twig replied, bowing theatrically.
Rhaegar ignored the strange courtesy.
"What are you doing here, with a tent in such a desolate spot? Only the spirits will accompany your business."
"Well, my Prince," Twig said, "my merchandise is not meant for common folk. Therefore, I do not set up shop in common places."
"So you are insane," Rhaegar said dryly.
The knights around him burst into laughter—except for the oldest among them, who remained stern.
"Perhaps I am," Twig answered.
"And what is so special about this tent of yours, mad merchant? I only see these wooden plaques. What are they?"
"Each plaque represents a category of items I sell. I carry too many goods to leave everything on display, so the plaques help organize things."
Rhaegar leaned closer.
"Interesting… very interesting. And this plaque with a blade—what is it?"
"Weapons, my Prince."
"And the one shaped like a shield? Armor?"
"Correct. Then there's this mouth—food. This leaf—remedies. And the star—for… special things."
"What an unusual merchant you are."
"Well, let me see your weapons," Rhaegar said. "Show me what you sell."
"That's not how it works, my Prince," Twig replied. "I have many weapons at different price ranges. You must tell me what you intend to spend. My categories start at fifty silver coins, then one gold, ten gold, fifty, one hundred… and I even have weapons worth a thousand gold or more. But I only display weapons up to the hundred-gold tier."
Rhaegar blinked.
"What do you mean 'only up to a hundred gold'? Stop being ridiculous. Do you truly expect me to believe you have weapons worth more than a thousand gold? Do you have Valyrian steel here, by any chance?"
"Valyrian steel is interesting," Twig admitted. "But no—I do not have any. Instead, I have things far better. Weapons that can even cut through Valyrian steel."
The knights froze. Rhaegar's expression darkened.
"That is absurd. Insane."
"The weapons I sell for a hundred gold are comparable to Valyrian blades. If you wish to see one, simply present the proper amount of coin."
Twig leaned forward on the counter with a half-hidden smirk beneath the smiling mask.
"Show the gold, and I'll show you the blade."
"You doubt my wealth?" Rhaegar retorted. "You expect me to prove I can pay before you show anything?"
One knight stepped forward, hands on both swords at his waist.
"My prince, shall I deal with this fool?"
"No, Ser Arthur. No bloodshed," Rhaegar said sharply. "This merchant is simply deranged."
Twig ignored the insult. His eyes glided to the knight's left scabbard.
"Hey—you, Ser Arthur of the Kingsguard. Where did you get that sword?"
The knight stiffened. "What did you say?"
"I'm asking," Twig said, voice suddenly serious, pointing straight at the sword. "Where did you get that blade?"
Before Arthur Dayne could react, Rhaegar raised a hand to stop him.
"What is it now, merchant? What about my knight's blade?"
"I recognize that scabbard," Twig said. "I want to know how he obtained it. What right he has to wield it."
"You know this sword?" Rhaegar asked.
"Of course I do," Twig replied. "It belonged to Madrik Rouster."
Rhaegar exhaled softly.
"So you're not quite as mad as you look. Yes, that blade once belonged to Ser Madrik Rouster. But that is old history. The sword was forgotten among the treasures in the Red Keep, so I gave it to Ser Arthur. It serves well beside Dawn—the sword he already wields as the Sword of the Morning. Both seem forged from fallen stars, so the match felt fitting for a man who excels with two blades."
"I see. So you gifted it to him." Twig nodded. "Alright. How much for it?"
Rhaegar almost laughed aloud.
"By the gods, you truly are insane. I'm trying to buy a weapon from you and now you want to buy his sword? As if we'd sell it—even if you had all the gold in the world."
"You wouldn't sell it? Not even trade it for something valuable?" Twig insisted.
"Don't be absurd, merchant. You clearly don't understand the importance of that blade. Why would we sell it to a common trader like you?"
"That blade means more to me than it ever will to you," Twig said quietly. "That is why I wish to buy it. But fine—everything in its time. At least now I know where it is."
He straightened.
"So… are you going to show me the gold, or not? As I said—I won't display anything unless the payment comes first."
"I've had enough of your nonsense," Rhaegar snapped. "If you spoke like this to anyone else, you'd be dead already. You are lucky I am patient. We're leaving. I refuse to waste another moment on this lunatic."
As the prince turned away with his retinue, Twig called out:
"My Prince, even if we never trade, grant me a simple favor. If you encounter a Stark named Brandon or Lyanna, tell them the Masked Merchant arrived yesterday in Harrenhal."
Rhaegar hesitated mid-step.
"You know the Starks?" he asked without turning—then continued walking without another word.
Watching the group depart, Twig whispered to himself:
Madrik… what became of you? What happened in your life? Where did your path lead?
While Twig pondered these questions inside his tent, Prince Rhaegar pondered entirely different ones.
That strange merchant… that mask… I've heard tales of something like it before. But where? And how did he recognize that scabbard instantly? The blade is ancient—how could he know that so easily?
Maybe he truly is mad… but something about him doesn't sit right, concluded the prince.