The great hall of Harrenhal thrummed with the exuberance of the tourney feast, its vaulted ceilings—scarred and blackened from ancient dragonfire—echoing with the swell of lutes, pipes, and the rhythmic stomp of dancers on the rush-strewn floor. Torches flickered in iron sconces along the walls, casting golden light over tables laden with roasted boar, honeyed dormice, and flagons of Arbor gold. Cersei Lannister sat at the high table, her sharp gaze fixed upon the Crown Prince You across the hall. As the dance brought them together, she curtsied deeply, her crimson gown pooling like spilled blood around her feet, rising with a smile that curved her lips in calculated warmth. "The tourney has been a marvel, my prince, yet the true splendor of Harrenhal lies in its guests. I have watched the lists with great interest—your house's banners fly highest, as they should."