The feast had long since broken. The songs were softer now, the fires burning low. Harrenhal slept fitfully beneath the weight of its towers, but not all within its shadow rested easy.
Beneath the ancient trees near the tourney grounds, away from the warmth of noble pavilions, something far uglier unfolded.
Howland Reed of Greywater Watch gasped as a heavy boot drove into his ribs, knocking him to the ground.
"Swamp rat," one squire spat, sneering down at him.
"Crannog filth," said another. "What business has your kind here, in a hall of knights?"
"He's lucky we even let him breathe southern air," added a third. "The North breeds half-men who sleep with bogs and frogs."
They laughed harshly, the sound carrying in the cold spring air.
Howland, slight of frame and alone, tried to rise, but another boot found his side, forcing him back into the dirt.
"Perhaps we should give him a gift," the tallest of them said, pulling a small dagger from his belt. "Let's carve a few of those weirwood faces he loves so much. Maybe his Old Gods will thank us."
The others jeered in agreement.
"A fine mark for a little Neckman. Something to remember his time in real company."
The dagger glinted as it was raised.
"Enough."
The voice cut through the air, steady, cold.
The squires froze and turned.
Lyanna Stark stood beneath the moonlight, her dark hair falling loose down her shoulders, a short blade glinting in her hand. Her face was still, but her eyes burned with controlled fury.
"Walk away," she said, her voice calm but edged. "Now."
The squires hesitated. Then one sneered.
"A Northern bitch? Stay out of this, girl. Go chase your dogs and eat your snow."
"You forget where you are," Lyanna replied. "You think because we wear furs and pray to trees that we're blind to filth. But we know filth when we see it."
One of the boys stepped forward, emboldened.
"Do you think your name frightens us?"
"No," came another voice, deeper, quieter, from behind them.
Benjen Stark stepped out from the shadows like a second wolf stalking the field. His eyes were cold, steady. His hand rested on the hilt of his short sword, but it remained sheathed, for now.
"But perhaps it should."
The leader's bravado cracked. For all their posturing, they were not knights yet. They were boys pretending to be strong, and now with others, it seemed more trouble than easy prey.
"There's others who'll hear of this," one squire hissed. "You'll regret interfering."
Benjen took a slow step forward.
"Let them hear. Let their lords hear. Tell them you preyed on a lone guest, a lordling in the night. Tell them you needed three to handle one boy half your size."
"You think anyone cares for swamp men?" another spat.
"We do," Lyanna answered simply. "He's Northern."
The squires looked between each other, their courage draining beneath the cold, quiet certainty before them. Their prey had been easy; these two were not.
"Come," the leader muttered. "He's not worth the trouble."
And like the cowards they were, they slipped into the dark.
When they were gone, Lyanna lowered her blade and stepped toward the boy in the dirt.
"Are you badly hurt?" she asked softly.
Howland coughed but shook his head.
"Nothing broken. Pride more than ribs."
Benjen offered his hand and helped pull him up.
"You've some courage, standing against them alone," Benjen said.
Howland managed a small, rueful smile.
"More stubbornness than courage, truth be told."
He stood unsteadily, brushing mud and blood from his tunic.
"You're Howland Reed, aren't you?" Lyanna asked. "From Greywater."
"Aye, my lady. My father sent me to see the world beyond the Neck... though tonight I find myself wishing I stayed beneath my reeds."
Benjen gave a faint grin. "The South isn't kind to strangers."
"Nor to Northerners," Howland added.
Lyanna's face tightened slightly, her anger lingering.
"They see us all as little more than wildlings. Beasts from beyond the Neck and the Wall. They forget who bled in the snow while they feasted beneath warm suns."
"That they do," Howland agreed softly. "But your being here… it seems the North stands for its own after all."
He offered a small bow, awkward but sincere.
"I owe you both more than I can repay."
Benjen shook his head. "You owe us nothing. You stood your ground. That's more than most would."
Howland glanced between them. "You've my gratitude regardless."
For a brief moment, silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, but full of a quiet understanding. Three young Northerners far from home, standing together beneath southern stars that did not welcome them.
"You'll sit with us tomorrow," Lyanna said finally. "No more wandering alone. The North remembers and so do we."
Howland's smile grew, just faintly.
"I would be honored, my lady."
A silence hung before Lyanna broke as they walked back, "And stop calling me a lady!"
The soft crunch of boots over damp earth marked their quiet return through Harrenhal's outer camp. The fires of the feast still glowed distantly behind them, but here beneath the Stark banners, the night was still.
Benjen walked ahead, eyes watchful. Lyanna moved beside him, her jaw tight with lingering anger. Howland Reed followed, keeping a respectful distance but matching their pace.
As they approached their tents, two shadows emerged from the firelight: Brandon and Eddard Stark, both waiting.
Brandon's arms were crossed over his chest, his expression dark. Eddard stood a few paces behind, silent, but his grey eyes were sharp and focused.
Benjen spoke first.
"We found trouble, but it's settled now."
Brandon's eyes narrowed.
"Trouble?"
Lyanna answered before Benjen could.
"A few southern squires found Howland alone near the woods. They thought him an easy target."
Brandon's face hardened instantly.
"They attacked him?" His voice sharpened, louder.
Howland stepped forward quickly, voice steady though quiet.
"I am unharmed, my lord. They hoped to shame me, not kill me. They lacked the stomach for a real fight once confronted."
Benjen's voice stayed even. "They scattered when they saw we wouldn't back away."
Brandon's breath came harder now, his jaw clenched.
"Cowardly southern dogs. They prey on boys and outnumbered men under moonlight. This is how they honor guests under their banners?"
His hands flexed at his sides, as though itching for his sword.
"Give me their names."
Howland hesitated.
"I did not know them, my lord. They wore no sigils."
Brandon's wolf-blood simmered.
"Then I'll drag them from their tents one by one until I find them."
His voice was thick with fury now, not mindless rage, but the rising heat of Northern pride.
"They think the North is weak? That we kneel before their honeyed words and empty smiles? I'll make them answer for this.."
"Brandon."
Eddard's voice cut clean through the dark.
He had not raised it, but the calm weight of his words pulled his brother's attention.
Brandon turned, chest heaving, but stilled when he met Ned's eyes.
Eddard's voice was cold, steady as falling snow.
"Not here. Not like this."
"You would have me do nothing?" Brandon snapped.
"I would have you be patient," Ned answered firmly. "We are surrounded by eyes. This is not Winterfell."
His gaze shifted briefly toward Howland.
"The South would turn your anger into an excuse to stain our house."
Brandon's fury did not fade, but for a moment it was checked.
Benjen spoke then, low but certain.
"We stood for him tonight. And we will stand for him still."
Lyanna nodded. "We're wolves. We do not let our own be taken alone."
Brandon exhaled sharply and looked back at Howland.
"You have a place under this banner, Reed. No one touches you again."
Howland dipped his head, voice full of quiet gratitude.
"You honor me, my lords."
Brandon's hand clapped firmly to Howland's shoulder.
"You're one of ours now."
The wind stirred softly through the camp, and for a moment, beneath the cold stars, five stood together, a pack formed not only by blood, but by choice.
In the South's great game, a quiet unity had been forged.
And soon, that unity would be tested far more than any of them could yet imagine.
Hours past.
The moon was high again when Lyanna slipped into the Stark tent, her steps quick, her eyes shining with something between mischief and steel resolve. Benjen sat sharpening a knife, while Howland tended to his bruised ribs, wrapping a length of cloth around his side.
They both looked up as she entered.
"I need your help," Lyanna said softly, her voice low but firm.
Benjen raised a brow immediately.
"What are you plotting now, sister?"
"Something they'll never forget."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice even more.
"Tomorrow. The joust. I'm going to ride."
Both Benjen and Howland froze for a breath.
"You're serious," Benjen said after a moment.
"Deadly," she replied.
"Lyanna, that's…" Benjen started, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.
"They mocked the North. They humiliated Howland. And they think no one noticed." Her eyes hardened. "Let them notice."
Howland spoke softly, uncertain.
"If they find out…"
"They won't," she interrupted. "I won't ride as myself."
Benjen shook his head slightly, rubbing a hand across his face. "Even if you ride masked, you'll need armor, a horse, and a shield."
"I've thought of that."
She reached into the small travel sack she'd carried and pulled out a rough drawing scratched onto a bit of hide, a design for her shield: a weirwood tree, its pale trunk bent in laughter, red leaves falling like drops of blood.
"The Laughing Tree," she said softly. "A mystery knight."
Benjen stared at her, exasperated but unable to hide a small smile.
"You're insane."
"You sound like Father."
Howland looked at the design, then at Lyanna, his expression slowly changing from caution to quiet admiration.
"The squires who attacked me serve knights who ride tomorrow, don't they?"
"They do, I saw them speaking to some Frey's," Lyanna confirmed.
"You plan to face their masters?" he asked.
"I plan to remind them that the North remembers."
Benjen shook his head again, torn between pride and anxiety.
"If you're caught…"
"I won't be," Lyanna insisted. "They won't expect it. No one will."
She looked to her younger brother.
"I need your help, Benjen. Yours too, Howland. The armor can be fitted. The horse is ready. I've trained for this."
Her voice softened now.
"Please."
There was a long silence as Benjen stared at her, not as his sister, but as the wolf-blooded Stark she was becoming.
Finally, he exhaled.
"If I'm damned for this, I'll haunt you."
"You already do," she smiled.
"And I'll see to your shield," Howland added, his voice steadier now, something like reverence in his tone. "The Laughing Tree will stand."
In that quiet tent beneath Harrenhal's towers, the conspiracy was born.
Tomorrow, a mystery knight would ride beneath the white face of the weirwood, and the realm would whisper for years afterward of the Knight of the Laughing Tree.