The halls of Harrenhal stood as broken monuments to a long-dead dream. Even in ruin, they dwarfed the men who passed through them—reminders of fire and madness that could never be rebuilt. The stones still whispered of Balerion the Black Dread, and the scent of scorched ambition lingered in every cold corridor.
Edward Grafton walked these halls alone. His boots echoed in the half-collapsed passageways, the sound sharp against the silence of stone. He wore no colors, no crest, no cloak of heraldry. Only black leather, worn and immaculate. His sword, unadorned and silent at his hip, drew more fear than the jeweled blades of knights.
The tourney had elevated him. Four duels, four victories. A string of conquests ending with Ser Barristan Selmy himself falling before him. He had not humiliated the white knight—he had honored him in defeat. And in doing so, he had drawn the gaze of powerful men.
Among them, the lion of Casterly Rock.
Lord Tywin Lannister had arrived the day before in a procession of red and gold. He had brought with him no fanfare, no laughter—only control. Rumors had already begun to circle. Some said he had come to watch Rhaegar. Others whispered that he had come to measure the realm's pulse. Edward knew the truth: Tywin Lannister did not watch. He judged. He chose. He planned.
It was near sunset when Edward entered the long feast hall where Tywin held court. The golden lion's banner hung behind the high table. Around him sat knights and lords from the Westerlands, each draped in crimson and adorned with lion brooches. The table was laid with delicacies, but few dared speak too freely. Tywin's presence was not one of warmth—it was gravity.
Edward paused near the entrance. A Lannister guard took a step forward.
"Your name, ser?"
Before he could answer, Tywin Lannister lifted a hand without looking. "Let him pass."
The room fell still. Conversation halted. All eyes turned.
Edward strode forward, composed and silent, until he stood five paces from the lion himself.
"Lord Tywin," he said.
"Edward Grafton," Tywin replied, voice crisp, almost bored. "Your arrival has been expected. Sit."
There was no offer, no courtesy—only command.
Edward sat. The chair was of hard oak, carved and old. A servant moved to pour wine, but Edward waved him off. Tywin watched this small refusal with interest.
"You declined to wear your house colors," Tywin said.
"I represent myself."
"And yet you bear the name of Gerold Grafton."
"Names are not allegiance."
A pause. Then a slight nod.
"What do you want, Lord Grafton?" Tywin asked. The question was not casual.
"Opportunity."
"In the midst of games and pageantry?"
"It is the perfect time."
Tywin leaned back. "Explain."
Edward turned his head slightly, glancing at the nobles along the table. None dared interrupt.
"The Targaryens grow brittle. Rhaegar walks as if already crowned. Aerys stews in his own mind. The realm watches. The wolves gather, the stag roars, and the lions prepare. The dragon… fractures."
Tywin said nothing. A candle flickered.
"And what of you?" the Lord of Casterly Rock asked. "You have beaten knights. You carry no sigil. You whisper of crumbling kings. What use are you to me?"
Edward met his gaze. "I have no illusions of heroism. I have no love for crowns or thrones. But I can see the currents. And I move quietly in deep water."
Tywin's lips twitched—a near-smile, or the shadow of one. "And what do you want in return for this… movement?"
"A place when the tide turns. Not in the light. In the shadow."
Tywin studied him. "The Stark boy admires you. The Baratheon boar praises your arm. You flatter none. You fear none."
Edward said nothing.
"You don't intend to win this tourney."
Edward inclined his head. "Winning it would draw too much attention."
"And yet you humiliated three knights and disarmed the greatest swordsman of our time."
"I needed the realm to watch. Not remember."
Tywin refilled his goblet himself. He drank. "Very well. Say you have my attention. What would you have me do?"
"Watch. Wait. Remember me. When your moment comes, I'll already be there."
The silence between them was long and heavy. Then Tywin spoke.
"Many seek to carve glory. Few offer silence. You would live in the quiet corners of power."
"I would thrive there."
Tywin nodded slowly. "Then do so. But remember this: if you betray me, I will erase your name from the tongues of men."
"Then you will have to remember me yourself."
At that, Tywin actually smiled. It was a cold, amused expression. "Go, Lord Grafton. You may yet be of use."
Edward stood and bowed. The eyes of half a dozen knights followed him, wary and suspicious. But Tywin did not stop him.
As Edward stepped into the fading sunlight of the courtyard, he felt eyes still upon him. Wolves and stags may have called him ally, but lions did not grant favor easily. He had stepped into a den. Now he must remain useful enough to not be devoured.
Far above, banners of gold and red snapped in the wind. Below, the fires of feasting began to flicker. But Edward did not look back.
He had begun to play the real game.
And he had made his first move directly before the lion.
The tourney would end soon. The rebels would rise. The dragons would burn.
And Edward Grafton would walk the lines between it all—unbent, unreadable, and remembered by those who mattered.