Dawn came thin and grey. In the shelter of the Stark pavilion, Dacey checked buckles with a soldier's patience while Lyanna stood still as a post.
"Lift your arm," Dacey ordered, tightening the last few straps. "I'll say it once more, please reconsider. I'll fight in your place if it keeps you safe."
Lyanna lifted. The half-plate creaked. "No. I need to do this. All my life, people have done things for me. I'm ready to fight for myself."
"So be it." Dacey sighed. "Who knew guarding a lady would be this stressful?" She slid two fingers under the strap, loosened it a hole, and nodded.
Howland waited by the tent flap with a cloak over his worn green leathers. Benjen paced like a boy about to dare the icy pond. The painted shield leaned against a chest: light green with a white weirwood face and a wide red smile. The grin had started as a jest. Now it felt like a promise.
Outside the canvas, Winter stamped and blew steam, iron-grey hide speckled with snow flurries. Lyanna had raised her from a bottle-fed foal, broken her herself in the Wolfswood, and taught her the touch-speech of knees and hands. The mare was steady in long journeys, quick over bad ground, and clever enough to choose her own footing when Lyanna's eyes were busy. Of all the companions she'd brought south, Winter was the one that never failed her.
Dacey set the helmet in Lyanna's hands and met her eyes. "You can still change your mind."
"I won't," Lyanna said.
"Then hear me," Dacey said. "You ride the horse, not the roar of the crowd. Tune out the noise or your armor will be the thing singing. If you lose the lance, keep the shield high and stay tight to the saddle. As long as you stay mounted, you can't get too hurt."
Lyanna smiled despite the copper taste in her mouth. "You sound like your cousin. When did you learn so much about jousting?"
"I've fought in the saddle." Dacey said. Then, softer, "I trust you. Those southern boys won't know what hit them."
Winter turned one ear toward her and lowered her head for the bridle. "All right, girl," Lyanna murmured, palm to the warm velvet of her nose. "Let's make them remember."
Lyanna set the helm and pulled the visor down. The world narrowed to a slot of light. The Laughing Tree took her arm when Dacey buckled the last strap and set the shield in place. She swung into the saddle as if she had been born there.
They walked to the lists with Howland and Benjen on either side. The field crews were still raking churned soil from yesterday's matches. A few early risers lined the rails. Word ran faster than any horn. Heads turned. The green surcoat and smiling shield drew looks and whispers, then silence.
Lyanna reined in before the stewards. She cleared her throat, then called out in a voice deep as she could manage. "I hereby challenge Ser Donnel Haigh, Ser Jahaerys Frey, and Ser Benard Blount to a trial of honor."
The Haigh colors fluttered from a tent by the rail. Donnel ducked through the flap with his armor half on and his hair uncombed. He was young, with the air of a boy too eager for men to call him man. When he saw the mask, his lip curled.
"You," he said, loud enough to carry. "What do you want, hedge rat."
"I am the knight who stands for a man you kicked while he prayed," Lyanna answered. "You, Jahaerys Frey, and Benard Blount. Three against one. Is that the code you bought into?"
A rumble ran the rail. Jahaerys pushed through the Haigh men with his harness half buckled, jaw set against the bruise she had given him the day before. "You think my spurs were bought," he snapped. "I earned them on the Trident, keeping smugglers from stealing my lord's toll. Ask Ser Boros Blount. I was his squire."
"Then show me the worth of them," Lyanna bellowed. "One by one. Begin with the boy who kicks when overseen."
Donnel's face went red. He snatched a lance and swung into the saddle. The stewards set the tilt bar. A trumpet called a short note. Lyanna guided her horse to the line. She breathed once. She felt the weight of the lance and the weight of the shield and set both where they belonged. When the flag fell, she moved with the mare's first step, not before it.
Donnel came on hard, hips high, lance wagging with his haste. His point drifted, uncertain of where to aim. She did not chase it. She let the horse carry her straight and brought her own point to meet the line on his shield seam.
Wood struck bronze. Her lance shattered in a clean burst, the force kicking up her arm. The opposing lance missed her entirely. Donnel's shield blew back into his own chest. He pitched sideways and hit the dirt hard enough to knock breath and pride out in one grunt.
Silence held a beat, then the rail broke into cheers and laughter. A coin or two tinked against the fence. Lyanna turned and saluted the steward with the broken haft. She did not look at Donnel as his men dragged him from the lane.
"Haigh falls," Benjen crowed under his breath, barely holding back a shout. "Gods, Lya. You actually did it."
"Next," Lyanna said.
Jahaerys mounted without a word. He set his lance with care, hips square, seat low. They took the line. Worry tried to climb into Lyanna's chest and make her grip too tight. She breathed it down. The flag fell.
The Frey rode cleaner at the start. His point held true for three strides as he leaned his weight into the wood. He would not topple easily, but Lyanna did not flinch. At the last instant she leaned a little to the side, a small turn of shoulder that let his point skate along her shield's rim. He struck first, but the lack of bite threw him off balance.
Her own lance found the center of his coat of plates. A killing blow, if in a deadly battle, but here it was a hard, honest hit. The sound rang like a bell. Jahaerys rocked back, then spilled. He rolled, came up to a knee, staggered, and sat in shock.
The rail roared. Frey men shouted. Many of the spectating river men banged cups, taking joy in Frey failure. Dacey's laugh cracked across the list. Lyanna eased Winter along the boards and lifted her broken shaft in salute, calm as if she'd only tapped a practice quintain.
"Your armor for ransom," she called to Jahaerys, by long custom of the lists.
A muscle worked in his jaw. Pride warred with sense. At last he called a servant to collect a chest from his tent. "You will rue this," he said, the old insult worn thin by use. Howland nimbly retrieved the chest, peeking at the substantial wealth inside.
"Perhaps," Lyanna said. "But not today."
The commotion drew more than commoners. Silk and brocade spilled from the higher tents. A cluster of white cloaks moved along the far end. Then the noise fell in ripples as a thin man with wild hair and sunken eyes took a seat under an awning as if it were a throne.
King Aerys had come to watch.
Lyanna felt Winter's ears flick. Even the horse knew a dangerous gaze when it felt one. Aerys leaned forward, hands on the rail, eyes bright. Lyanna could see his mouth moving, but his mumblings were too quiet amid the cheering to understand.
Benard Blount lurched from the shade with a cup still in his fist. He was thick of waist while young of age, his belt askew and his beard damp. He threw the rest of the wine down his throat and flung the cup aside. A Frey page scrambled to throw on his helm the right way round. The king's gaze never left the smiling shield.
Lyanna took the line again, jaw tight. Benard's destrier snorted, unhappy with his intoxicated rider. The trumpet called. They moved.
Benard's seat slid at the second stride. At the third, his lance tip dropped and scraped. At the fourth, the wood caught earth and jammed. The haft snapped with a sound like an old bow drawn too tight. Jagged splinters leapt up from the break and skipped along the packed ground, quick as a darts. One kissed the eye slit of Benard's visor and vanished inside.
He toppled backward with a choked cry, landing on his back. The horse checked and shied, almost stepping on his own rider. Lyanna hauled her mare wide and abandoned her own attack. The railings surged with panicked spectators. Guards ran. Pages screamed. Someone shouted for a maester. Benard thrashed, helm clattering, hands clawing at his face. Blood splattered when the helmet finally came off.
Aerys stood, thin hands gripping the rail till the knuckles shone. His voice cracked the air. "Plot," he cried, high and shrill. "Murder in motley. Tear the mask. Show me the traitor's face."
Steel rasped. A ring of many colored cloaks began to push toward the lane.
Lyanna did not wait. She wheeled Winter around and put heels to her. The Laughing Tree flew along the boards, past the baffled stewards and the scattered pages. A spear butt jabbed. She slipped by it and felt the wind of it on her knee. A hand caught at the reins; she snapped the leather free and let the hand keep a discarded strap.
"Godswood" she told Winter with a tap behind the right ear. Over the years of training Lyanna's steed picked up more than the simple commands used for horses. Their bond went deeper, allowing subtle gestures horses wouldn't usually learn. The mare found the path on her own, while Lyanna brushed obstacles and footmen aside with lance and shield
Behind, the king's voice climbed into a keening wail. "Stop him. Unmask him. I will see the face that mocks me."
Lyanna did not look back. The tents blurred, then the hedges, then the first shade of the trees. She lowered her head to the mare's neck, felt the rhythm of the stride, and rode towards the forest that called to her. She could not say if it was to run, hide, or fight, but the woods beckoned and she followed.