The Wolf and the Stag
7th moon, 281 AC.
The morning air was crisp, touched with the faint sweetness of summer blossoms carried on the breeze. From the towers of Harrenhal's ruined heights, banners flapped and rippled—House Whent's bat of gold and black fluttering highest over the broken battlements, while lesser standards formed a brilliant kaleidoscope around the tourney grounds. The vast field had been transformed into a carefully marked archery range, with lines of straw butts and ringed targets stretching across the greensward like a soldier's dream of order.
A fanfare of silver horns rang out, drawing cheers from the gathered crowds. The sound rolled over the field like thunder, silencing conversations and prompting even the knights lounging near their pavilions to rise and look toward the arena. A herald in black and gold stepped forward onto a small wooden dais.
"Lords and ladies of Westeros," the man called, voice rich and trained. "By decree of Lord Walter Whent and with the blessing of His Grace King Aerys, we welcome you to the archery contest of Harrenhal's Great Tourney!"
A roar of applause greeted his words. From the viewing stands—crafted hastily but expertly from timber—lords, knights, and smallfolk alike leaned forward to take in the sight.
Two hundred archers stood in ordered ranks, bows in hand, quivers full, some adjusting their gear, others exchanging quiet words or stretching sinewed arms. Nobles in fine mail and dyed leathers stood beside squires yet unblooded, hedge archers whose mismatched armor and plain longbows bespoke long years of service, and even a few women—notably one, drawing many curious stares.
Lady Alysanne Mudd, tall in the saddle on the day before, now stood among them clad in dark green leathers trimmed in silver thread, her raven-black hair bound back from her face with a twist of dark ribbon. In her hands, she held a weirwood bow—its white surface smooth as polished bone, carved with runes that gleamed faintly when the light struck them right.
Some men smirked when they saw her. Others frowned, or whispered. But Alysanne ignored them all, her expression calm, eyes fixed ahead. She had come to compete, and compete she would.
At the edge of the dais, the herald's voice boomed again.
"First prize—fifty thousand gold dragons, a jeweled arrow from the Summer Isles, and the laurel of the champion. Second prize—twenty-five thousand gold dragons and a silver quiver of Dorne. Third—ten thousand dragons, and the King's own recognition!"
Gasps echoed through the crowd. The wealth involved was enough to found a small house, to repair a castle, to marry a daughter richly. And already, tensions rose like steam in the morning air.
From the shaded viewing stands, Lord Hosteen Mudd sat in silence, his arms crossed atop the dark oaken rail as he surveyed the field. Beside him, a squire fanned away the heat, but Hosteen barely noticed. His gaze was locked on the archers, and when it landed upon Alysanne—distinct among the lines, tall and calm—his expression warmed, just for a moment.
She stood with confidence. No jesting lordling or knight in gilded plate could distract her. She was like a crow watching a storm, still and sharp-eyed.
A low voice rang out from the stairs behind the stand.
"Hosteen Mudd, my friend!"
Robert Baratheon burst into view, all booming laughter and restless energy, his short groomed black beard gleaming with wine or sweat in the sun, his dark blue tunic already slightly askew from motion or wine—or both. Behind him followed Eddard Stark, lean and quiet, the very picture of Northern reserve. His hair was windblown, his jaw clean-shaven, his gray eyes sharp but cautious, always observing before speaking.
Robert clapped Hosteen on the shoulder with the force of a mailed gauntlet. "How fares the Lord of Oldstones?"
Hosteen half-turned, his stillness not broken but warmed by a flicker of amusement. "Well enough, Lord Robert. And perhaps better now that I see you've survived the feasting. I expected to find you face-down in a boar's carcass."
Robert guffawed. "Nearly! If the cooks had brought one more roasted pig, I might've met the Stranger himself, fat and smiling, although I shouldn't spoil my body to much."
Hosteen gave a short, rare laugh. "And your companions? You've brought the North with you today."
Eddard offered a respectful nod as he stepped beside them. "Lord Hosteen. It's good to see you again. My father sends his regards."
Hosteen inclined his head. "Lord Rickard's presence at our wedding was an honor I will not forget. I count it a blessing that he bore witness to our vows."
Eddard's expression softened. "He was proud to stand beneath the heart tree with you. Few in the South seek such rites. Rarer still to see them kept with such reverence."
Hosteen turned his gaze back to the field and gestured subtly with his chin. "She's down there—Alysanne. Hiding behind that bulky knight in the bronze plate."
Robert followed his gaze, squinting. "Seven hells, she is! Hard to miss, really—tall as a tower, that one. And that bow... gods, is that weirwood?"
"It is," Hosteen replied. "Carved in the style of the old kings.."
Robert let out a low whistle. "You've got yourself a wild one, eh? Like mine. Lyanna'd string me up from the rafters if she caught me calling her that, but gods be good, she'd make a lady to fear even for the stormlords."
"Then she'll suit you," Hosteen said dryly. "The world has no shortage of lords who need fearing."
Robert grinned wolfishly and elbowed Eddard, who had been watching Alysanne with quiet curiosity.
"And if I saw right, your sister wasn't the only one dancing last night," Robert said, tone loud enough for nearby nobles to glance over. "You and Lady Ashara Dayne, eh? I've seen dockhands less graceful."
Eddard's composure faltered ever so slightly. A flush rose to his cheeks, and he looked away toward the range. "We danced. That's all."
"That's all, he says!" Robert bellowed with laughter. "He moved like a man possessed! Like some prince of Dorne come north in disguise. Tell me, Ned, do the Daynes teach swordplay and seduction in the same breath?"
Eddard said nothing, though the hint of a smile played at the corner of his lips. Hosteen raised an eyebrow.
"Lady Ashara is well-regarded," he said simply. "A proud House, with old blood. You could do far worse, Lord Stark."
Eddard's gaze lingered on the archers. "There's no courtship. Not yet."
Robert waggled a finger. "But there will be. I'd wager my warhammer on it."
"You'd wager your warhammer on your next cup of wine," Eddard said, though not unkindly.
The crowd roared as a clean bullseye was struck on the range, though none of the three lords paid it much mind.
Hosteen Mudd leaned forward in his seat slightly, the carved armrests of his chair creaking under the motion. He turned to Robert Baratheon with a subtle nod of acknowledgment, the sort that held both respect and reserved warmth.
"You mentioned it earlier let me say I've heard of your betrothal," Hosteen said, tone even but not without sincerity. "To Lady Lyanna. You have my congratulations. May the gods watch over the two of you. And may your future together be one of peace... and joy, if the world allows it."
Robert chuckled at that, but there was a flicker in his deep blue eyes—an emotion that passed too quickly to name. He scratched at his beard, then offered a broad smile that didn't quite reach his temples.
"Peace and joy, eh? You sound like a septon," he said, waving a hand as if brushing away solemnity. "But I'll take it, Lord Hosteen. She's fierce as the North, and I love her for it."
Hosteen gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment. "Fierce wives are the best kind. They won't let a man grow soft or meekly bow down to him."
Robert's grin widened, and for a moment the tension seemed to ease between them. Eddard Stark, still quiet but less withdrawn now, shifted slightly in his seat.
He spoke then, his voice quiet but firm. "Will you take the field, Lord Hosteen? In the melee? Or the joust?"
Robert immediately leaned forward, his interest piqued. "Yes—tell us! I'd wager there are few in this realm who'd care to meet you in the lists. Or on foot, either."
Hosteen exhaled slowly, then shook his head. "No, I'm no tourney knight. Never was. I've seen real battle. Tournaments... they don't stir my blood the same way. And what would those others even fear, my wealth or the fact that I participated in a siege and a battle afterwards that is nothing to fear in a joust."
He paused, glancing out toward the lists, where a squire had just loosed a fine shot.
"I'll cheer for others. There's more joy in watching those with something to prove."
Eddard arched a brow. "Anyone from your household competing?"
"Aye," Hosteen replied. "My friend and landed knight—Edric Fisher—he'll ride in the lists. Might take part in the melee, too. He's keen for it."
"Fisher?" Eddard echoed. "Would that be kin to the Fishers of the Stony Shore?"
Hosteen shook his head once, the movement deliberate and final. "No. A different line altogether. His folk hail from the mouth of the Trident. Near Maidenpool and Darry. His ancestors were kings, once."
Robert let out a booming laugh that drew the glances of three ladies and a hedge knight seated below.
"Gods alive, is there a single Riverlord who doesn't claim some dusty old crown?" he said, throwing up his hands. "Every time I turn around, there's another king of the forks or lord of lost waters telling tales of glory."
Hosteen smirked faintly. "The Riverlands remembers. That's all and we certainly weren't as united as the rest of the Kingdoms."
"Aye, they remember, all right. Every hedge knight and bannerman dreaming of rivers made of gold and blood." Robert leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head as he stretched. "Well, I've no claim to kingship yet, but I will fight. I've signed for the melee, and I mean to win it. Might even split a few helms for sport."
Eddard gave him a sidelong glance. "You'll break more bones than helms, if your last melee was anything to judge by."
"That was one time!" Robert barked, pointing accusingly at his friend. "And that sellsword cheated. Swore on his mother's grave he was a septon's son. Then gut-punched me and ran."
Hosteen chuckled under his breath. "You're well-matched, you two. The hammer and the frost."
Robert gave a proud sniff. "I've been trying to drag this one into the melee for years. Still haven't succeeded."
He turned to Eddard again with theatrical exasperation. "What do you say, Ned? You and me, side by side. I take the left flank, you the right. We bring down the whole damned field."
Eddard's face remained solemn, though his eyes glinted with dry amusement. "That won't happen."
"Oh, come on!" Robert threw his hands up. "You'd rather sit here and brood while boys with half your sword-arm prance around in silk and polish?"
"I'd rather leave the prancing to the boys," Eddard said calmly. "And the boasting to you."
Robert stared at him for a beat, then exploded into laughter so loud it sent a nearby flock of pigeons fluttering off the rooftop. "You're lucky I love you, Stark! Else I'd throw you into the field myself."
Hosteen shook his head with a trace of mirth. "If you try, I'll help him throw you back."
That earned another bellowing laugh from Robert, who thumped both men on the shoulders with a kind of rough affection.
"I knew I liked you, Mudd. Let the North keep its quiet men. I'll take the wild ones with swords and sharp wives."
Beneath them, the second round of archers began to line up, the herald's cry echoing over the fields.