A young, blond noble stepped out of the tailor's shop.
He wore a deep purple hunting coat sewn from velvet and damask, layered with a mantle woven of silver thread and soft red-gold silk draped over his left shoulder. A flamboyantly oversized lapel framed the contrast between the fine inner lining and the lavish outer fabric, displaying the craftsmanship in full.
At his waist hung a gilded belt embroidered with floral motifs, and a fine sword bearing the Lannister sigil swung from it.
This hunting coat was said to have once belonged to a sworn knight of House Harroway. Now, it hung for sale in a tailor's shop under the direct ownership of Lady Harroway herself—a testament to the cruel whimsy of fate.
Since House Harroway had been granted the lands of Harrenhal in 281 AC, they had once stood among the most prominent lords of the Riverlands—indeed, its most powerful bannermen.
That same year, Lord Harroway hosted a grand tourney at Harrenhal, where Prince Rhaegar Targaryen—brother to Daenerys—emerged victorious in the jousting.
But then he did the unthinkable.
He rode past his own wife, Princess Elia of House Martell, and placed the crown of winter roses—symbol of the Queen of Love and Beauty—upon the lap of Lyanna Stark, who was already betrothed to Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End, the man who now sat upon the Iron Throne.
A scandal erupted.
Not long after, rumors of Lyanna's abduction by Prince Rhaegar spread like wildfire. Her father and brother, seeking justice, perished at the hands of the Mad King, Aerys II.
In 282 AC, the Rebellion began—a war that reshaped the fate of Westeros. Jon Arryn of the Vale raised his banners, naming Robert Baratheon the leader of the uprising. The North, the Riverlands, and Storm's End rallied behind him, and within two years, the Targaryen dynasty—after nearly 300 years of rule—fell.
House Harroway had backed the wrong side.
Their downfall was swift. Now, Lady Harroway, mistress of Harrenhal, could barely keep a fraction of her great hall functioning, with fewer than a hundred men under her command.
Much of their former wealth—knightly arms, ladies' gowns, fine jewelry—was now scattered across various properties, sold off piece by piece in shops like this one, just to patch the holes in their coffers.
To purchase the tailored coat and belt, Ian had spent 5 gold dragons and 180 silver stags. Praise be to the Old Smith.
In short, he had burned through most of his funds just to make himself look like a nobleman.
Which left him in a bit of a bind when it came to getting a better horse.
Leading his current steed toward Harrenhal's stables, Ian began to wonder if he could bluff his way into borrowing a finer horse by flashing his Lannister identity.
After all, House Lannister was the wealthiest in all of Westeros, and their motto—A Lannister always pays his debts—was known far and wide. If he promised a generous reward, perhaps he could indeed "borrow" a good mount.
Showing his Lannister credentials to the guards at the stable gates, Ian was granted entry.
As he stepped into the vast, echoing stables of Harrenhal, a strange sense of melancholy settled over him.
The building was enormous—its layout and number of stalls suggested it could once have housed a thousand horses. But now, only about thirty remained, corralled in a corner. A mere shadow of the castle's former might.
Ian had once visited a medieval stable during a trip to Europe. The tour guide had described how noble stables were equipped with rooms for storing specialized hunting outfits, riding boots, fine wines, vinegar, olives, oils, and healing salves. Other rooms were reserved for barding and caparisoned cloth bearing family sigils, hunting bows, and other weaponry.
The warhorse wings had winter heating via oil lamps, high-grade wheat for feed, and even bedding fit for knights.
Such stables were like miniature military outposts—where noblemen could suit up and even rest between sorties.
This… was not that.
A stable hand, in the middle of pouring water into a trough, noticed Ian's presence. He set the bucket down and hurried over.
"Hey, you're not suppo—Oh, I mean, good day, ser!" The man's tone changed the moment he got a better look at Ian's outfit. "My apologies, ser. This is Lady Harroway's private stable. Outsiders aren't permitted here."
"Oh, I'm well aware," Ian said, turning slightly as if inspecting a nearby brown gelding—but in truth, he wanted the stablehand to get a clear look at the sword on his hip.
"Ah… yes, of course, ser," the stablehand stammered, suddenly remembering the guards outside. If this knight had made it in, that meant he had official permission.
"I am Ser Lucien Lannister, son of Ser Damian Lannister," Ian introduced himself, adopting a new persona on the fly. When dealing with non-players in this world, he had far more freedom to improvise.
"Of course, Ser Lucien," the man bowed deferentially, though he'd never heard of any such knight. Still, a Lannister was a Lannister.
"I'd like to board my horse here for the time being," Ian said, pointing to the docile gelding he'd brought. "Naturally, I'll pay for the service."
"It would be an honor, ser! I'll make sure it receives the best care," the stablehand replied enthusiastically. Looking after the mounts of passing nobles was part of the job—and they usually paid well above the upkeep costs.
"I also need to borrow a horse," Ian added casually.
"Of course, ser. Please, right this way." The man led him toward the stalls without hesitation. Why would a Lannister noble lie? He even left his own horse behind—it didn't look like a scam.
"I'm riding to Maidenpool for Lord William Mooton's hunt," Ian said as they walked, scanning the horses within.
Most were simple riding horses, but a few true destriers—warhorses—stood out, hulking and proud.
One, in particular, caught Ian's eye: a tall white steed, standing at least 16.5 hands. Next to it, his own Riverlands mare—barely 14 hands—seemed almost... cute.
"That one," Ian said, pointing. "How about it?"
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