The aftermath of the tournament spreads across King's Landing like wildfire. In the Red Keep, behind closed doors and veiled words, the nobility murmurs with disdain, suspicion, and no small amount of fear. But beyond the stone walls and silken halls, in the streets, the alleys, and the taverns, the name of the Crimson Knight—the Reaper—is spoken with awe, like a spark lighting dry kindling.
Varys
Varys sits silently in the Small Council chamber, his long fingers draped over one another, listening more than speaking as the nobility argue around him.
"The gall of him," Ser Barristan says, voice like tempered steel. "Crowning a peasant girl—at a royal tourney!"
"Symbolism," Varys hums softly, drawing their eyes. "A statement to the people that he is not one of us… and never intends to be."
"He dares mock our traditions," Grand Maester Pycelle croaks. "The nobility cannot let such disrespect stand."
"Disrespect?" Littlefinger says, amused. "No, no. That was theater. And the people are always eager for a good performance."
Varys remains quiet, but in his mind, he sees every ripple. The sigil of a reaper's scythe, burned into memory. The whispers from his little birds growing louder, more frequent. The Sons of Westeros now have a face. A name. A knight who crowned a commoner and made fools of lords.
He thinks of Rhaegar Targaryen and the tourney at Harrenhal.
He wonders what story history will write this time—and who will survive to read it.
Petyr Baelish
Littlefinger watches the council bicker and calculates the angles. Chaos, as always, is his ladder.
A mysterious knight wins the tourney. Crowns a lowborn girl. Earns the love of the smallfolk and the hatred of the lords. Perfect.
"He's clever," Littlefinger murmurs later that night in his chambers, swirling a glass of Arbor gold. "He knows how to inspire. How to threaten. How to charm."
And the boy has presence. Charisma. A plan.
He decides then and there—if Darian Snow is playing a game, he wants to know the rules. Or break them.
Ned Stark
Back in his chambers, Ned writes in silence, pausing only once to glance out the window at the Red Keep's towering spires. Somewhere, he tells himself, that boy is out there. The one he saw in the crowd—the one he thought he knew.
Darian.
Ned shakes his head thinking It impossible.
But the rumors are undeniable. Reports of villages defended, nobles raided, grain stores redistributed, and brutal knights left dead in their armor. The Sons of Westeros are no longer shadows in the north—they have roots in the capital. And this knight, this… Reaper, has revealed himself before the king's court.
He remembers what Robert said after the joust.
"I like him. Bold. Dangerous. Could've used him in the rebellion."
Ned said nothing then. But now he wonders what rebellion is stirring in the shadows of this city.
The Streets of King's Landing
The baker's boy tells the tale with wide eyes to every customer who comes to the stall.
"He rode out like a storm, he did! Red armor gleamin', a scythe on his shield! Knocked the Hound from his horse like a giant swattin' a fly!"
The fishmonger nods. "Aye, and they say he crowned a girl who scrubs floors at the Sept. Can you believe it?"
"About time someone remembered us," a washerwoman mutters, tucking a copper into her purse.
Children draw the reaper's sigil in the dust. Street singers craft songs by firelight.
"The Crimson Reaper rides againFor every starving child and manNo gold, no name, no lord's decreeCan break the chains and set us free…"
They hum it in alleyways. Whisper it in taverns. The legend grows.
Tywin Lannister
Far from the capital, in the cold halls of Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister reads a raven's scroll without blinking.
"Crimson knight… Sons of Westeros… peasant girl crowned…" he repeats, his voice void of emotion.
Beside him, Kevan Lannister looks uncertain. "Do you think it's true? That the knight is tied to the rebels?"
Tywin folds the parchment carefully.
"If it is, he has declared war in the most theatrical way possible."
Kevan hesitates. "Should we… act?"
Tywin turns, his eyes sharp as daggers.
"We watch. We learn. And if he becomes a threat to order, we erase him."
Commoners' Taverns, Whispers Across Westeros
From the Reach to the Riverlands, rumors of the tournament spread. Of a knight in red who speaks for the people. Of raids where no women were harmed, no crops burned, and only cruel lords killed.
"Maybe he's a hero," a girl in Flea Bottom whispers.
"Maybe he's a madman," says an old man with no teeth. "No one fights the lords and lives."
But even he listens to the song again.
And again.
Renly Baratheon
Watching the flames flicker in his chamber, Renly speaks to Loras.
"He's smart," Renly says. "And dangerous."
Loras, bandaged but proud, scoffs. "He bested me. Fair and square."
"I'm not talking about the joust," Renly mutters. "He's building something. Something big. And if the people love him now…"
Loras frowns. "Do you think the Reaper is a threat to the throne?"
Renly doesn't answer.
He doesn't need to.