281 AC — The Year of False Spring
The morning sun gleamed off rows of polished plate and colorful banners rippling in the breeze. The lists at Harrenhal stood read, freshly raked earth, solid oak barriers, and thousands gathered in the stands.
This was not the spectacle of songs. This was the proving ground.
Knights from every corner of the realm had come to test their skill, and their ambition.
The opening tilts came swift, each clash of lances sending shockwaves through the stands.
Lord Jon Swann of Stonehelm unseated a Westerlander on his first pass, his aim true, his seat unshaken.
Ser Gwayne Corbray of the Vale displayed sharp skill, dispatching his opponent cleanly with textbook precision.
Lord Owen Merryweather's lance shattered on the shield of Ser Denys Marbrand, who remained firm in his saddle.
The names continued, smallfolk and nobility alike cheered for their own, yet the real whispers were saved for the lords yet to ride.
When the mystery knight rode forth, a hush swept across the stands.
No one knew who had entered the lists under the strange moniker.
The figure was not large, but rode with sharp control. The armor was plain, the shield unmistakable, a pale weirwood trunk, mouth open in a wide, eerie laugh, with red leaves like falling drops of blood.
Lyanna Stark sat straight in the saddle beneath the mask, her heart pounding, not from fear, but from the weight of the moment.
Her first opponent rode out: Ser Lucas Frey, whose squire had been among those who had tormented Howland.
The horn sounded.
Both lowered their lances and spurred forward.
The earth shook beneath pounding hooves. Lyanna's lance struck clean and hard, slamming into Ser Lucas's shield just below center.
The force of the impact lifted him from his saddle and sent him sprawling into the dust.
The crowd erupted.
Ser Lucas groaned as he was helped from the ground, clutching at his ribs. The mystery knight did not wait for celebration. The next match was already being called.
Her second opponent rode forth: Ser Ben Bushy, sworn sword to House Hayford, another knight whose squire had raised fists against Howland Reed.
Ben Bushy was broader, heavier, and came in low, seeking to batter rather than strike clean.
But Lyanna guided her mount with sharp discipline, keeping her lance steady. Timing the strike perfectly, she caught him square on the chest, just as his lance glanced harmlessly off her shield's edge.
The blow rocked him back, then unhorsed him completely.
Another roar from the crowd.
"The Laughing Tree rides strong!" the smallfolk cried.
The Southern lords exchanged looks of curiosity, irritation, or barely hidden concern.
"Who is this northern wraith?" some murmured.
Her third and final match was the most dangerous.
Ser Roderick Lychester, a knight of considerable skill whose squire had delivered the most blows to Howland that fateful night.
Unlike the others, Ser Roderick did not underestimate the Laughing Tree. His lance was perfectly balanced. His armor heavier. His posture flawless.
As they charged, Lyanna leaned into the run, breathing slow, steady.
Speed, not strength.
At the moment of impact, her lance caught the lower edge of his shield, slipping under just enough to shift his weight.
Ser Roderick wobbled.
Lyanna drove forward.
The force unseated him. He tumbled hard into the dirt, rolling once before landing still.
The crowd roared louder than before.
A hedge knight besting three sworn knights was unheard of.
The mystery knight dismounted and stood before the defeated knights, voice disguised but steady beneath the helm.
"You have lost your seats, armor and arms in defeat." the disguised voice rang out.
"But your shame is not for your own defeat, it is for the lessons you failed to teach your squires. Teach them right and all will be returned to you!"
Gasps rippled through the stands. The mystery knight continued, each word sharp and deliberate:
"Teach them honor. Teach them mercy. Teach them to strike only against those who are armed and willing. Teach them to be men worthy of the titles they one day hope to claim."
The nobles stiffened, some murmuring with anger, others with surprise.
The knights bowed their heads, whether from shame or from fear of public disgrace, none could say.
The crowd erupted with murmurs as the mystery knight withdrew from the field, the pale weirwood tree still grinning upon the shield like a secret that would not speak.
"Who is it?"
"A hedge knight from the Neck, perhaps? They're pretty short though I haven't known em to be good in the saddle."
"Maybe another Barristan the bold but from the north?."
"Or some outlaw given the lack of identity."
The speculation swept through the pavilions like wildfire.
Even among the high lords, no one knew.
Lord Hoster Tully leaned toward Lord Jon Arryn with furrowed brows, speaking in hushed tones.
"The North breeds strange men."
Jon Arryn only nodded, his face unreadable.
In the royal pavilion, King Aerys shifted uncomfortably.
"A mockery of the court," he hissed to no one in particular, his fingers flexing like claws against the armrest. "A masked knight who dares offer counsel from the field."
Lord Tywin Lannister's gaze remained steady, watching the field but showing no outward concern.
Prince Rhaegar sat silently, his eyes fixed on the departing mystery knight. But if he suspected the rider's identity, he gave no sign. His expression remained calm, though his mind worked behind those pale violet eyes.
Only Elia Martell, seated beside him, glanced briefly toward her husband. There was no accusation in her eyes, only quiet unease. She, too, felt the shifting of unseen pieces.
But no one guessed the truth.
Not a soul suspected the wolf-blooded girl beneath the armor.
Benjen watched from his seat, his expression carefully blank, though pride burned in his chest. Howland, sitting quietly behind the Stark family, dared not even glance toward Lyanna, who sat poised and innocent in her place.
The secret remained safe, for now.
The crowd still murmured as the mystery knight withdrew, but in the high seat, King Aerys II had grown stiff, his fingers gripping the carved wood of his throne. His eyes darted toward the place where the masked knight had disappeared behind the tents.
"A mystery knight..." Aerys muttered aloud, voice rising slightly. "A masked fool who dares speak of honor to my knights. Or perhaps not a fool, perhaps something far worse."
His gaze snapped toward his Kingsguard.
"Find them."
The white-cloaked knights shifted.
"Your Grace?" asked Ser Jonothor Darry, surprised.
"Find the knight," Aerys snapped, his voice sharpening into that high, thin edge that always followed. "Unmask them. I will not have traitors hiding beneath masks in my court. What assassin wears such false banners while the king sits so near? Find them!"
The murmuring in the stands died quickly, replaced by a chill. Some nobles exchanged glances; others looked away entirely.
The order spread rapidly through the knights, guards, and servants.
The hunt had begun.
Beneath one of the old stone towers, deep in the shadows of Harrenhal's ruin, Lyanna worked quickly.
The armor clanked softly as she slipped the breastplate free, fingers trembling slightly now, not from fear, but from urgency. Her shield leaned nearby, the weirwood laughing silently in the dim light.
I should have discarded this sooner.
Benjen and Howland had helped her slip away from the list grounds, but now she was alone. The southern guards had begun their search sooner than expected.
She stripped off the last of the plated greaves, pulling free the padded leather beneath. Sweat matted her hair. Her heart pounded.
Just a little longer. Just the helm left.
As she reached for the final strap beneath her chin, a soft voice spoke behind her.
"You rode well."
She froze.
Turning slowly, she saw him standing beneath the archway, calm, composed, and utterly impossible to mistake.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
His silver hair gleamed faintly in the moonlight, his pale violet eyes fixed on her, not unkindly, but with an unsettling calm.
Lyanna's hand hovered near her helm, unsure whether to rip it free or hold still.
"Your Highness," she managed, voice low but steady, carefully masking the panic rising within her.
Rhaegar stepped forward slowly, his movements gentle, as though approaching a frightened animal.
"You have nothing to fear from me," he said softly. "The King's men are scouring all around, in search of the infamous mystery knight, but they will not find you if I do not speak of it."
He paused, watching her carefully.
"Though I admit I am curious."
His eyes flickered to the shield, then back to her.
"You rode for justice. Not coin, not fame."
"You defended one who could not defend himself and taught knights what it means to hold up their duty.."
"That is rare here, Lady... whoever you are."
Her breath caught at the way he spoke the word lady, as though hinting he already knew of her.
She said nothing, but her eyes locked with his.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Finally, Rhaegar glanced again toward the shield, the laughing weirwood , and smiled faintly.
"A northern tree... a northern cause. But even trees laugh at southern games."
He took one step back.
"I saw nothing tonight, no mystery knight, no northern rose."
He inclined his head respectfully, his voice dropping lower.
"But be wary. The king's eyes are sharp when fear takes him. And his fear grows daily."
Without waiting for permission or response, Rhaegar turned and disappeared into the shadowed corridor, leaving her standing there, armor half-shed, heart still racing.
Moments later, Lyanna pulled free the final strap and slipped her helm loose. Cool air touched her flushed face.
The mystery knight of the Laughing Tree vanished into the night ,unseen by all but one.
The final day of the tourney dawned cold beneath thin clouds, the light pale as the first breath of winter. Harrenhal's broken towers loomed over the banners and pavilions like blackened teeth. The lists stood ready one last time.
There was no singing today. No idle chatter.
Only quiet expectation.
The best remained. The rest had already fallen.
The horn sounded, its long wail cutting through the morning air.
Ser Barristan Selmy rode first, as calm as still water, his white cloak trailing behind him like a banner of peace. His lance struck clean against his opponent's shield, driving the man from his saddle before the first pass was even complete. The crowd gave quiet applause, respectful, almost reverent. They had seen Ser Barristan ride before. He made no mistakes.
Next rode Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, clad in pale silver plate, the dawn-star of House Dayne shining bright on his cloak. His tilts were graceful and effortless, like a sword cutting silk. Each pass ended the same, his opponents unseated, their pride bruised but their lives unharmed.
Then came the others.
Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard, skillful, but outmatched.
Lord Jon Mooton of Maidenpool, unseated after two hard passes.
Lord Mark Ryswell of the North, given polite applause by the few northern lords present, but his seat did not hold.
The list grew shorter.
The crowd murmured.
"All fall before him! Ill bet a hundred gold dragons on the prince!"
"No one can stand against the prince in the joust it seems, like a man possessed."
When Prince Rhaegar Targaryen entered the field, the world seemed to still.
His armor gleamed black as polished stone. The red three-headed dragon of his house burned bright against his breastplate. No feathered crest, no flourish, only purpose.
The sun broke briefly through the clouds as he took his place, a single ray striking his armor, making the prince seem like some cold figure of legend, not flesh.
His first opponent fell after a single pass, his lance striking clean and true, breaking beneath the force of impact but unseating the man entirely.
The second was much the same. And the third.
Each tilt was not just skill. It was control. Precision.
The prince never rushed. Never wasted, never seemed to strain.
"He rides as though the lists were made for him," someone whispered.
Others watched more carefully, lords exchanging glances, seeing not just skill, but the growing aura of something else entirely: power.
Only two remained, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Ser Barristan Selmy, the realm's arguably finest knight only compared against Ser Arthur Dayne.
The stands grew deathly still. Even the laughter in the royal pavilions faded.
In the northmen's box, Brandon, Eddard, Benjen, and Lyanna sat quietly, their eyes fixed ahead. Lyanna more interested in a individual than the event itself.
King Aerys leaned forward in his high seat, his pale hands gripping the dark wood like talons. His lips twitched, as if he feared and craved what was coming.
The horn sounded with a booming announcement!
Both horses surged forward, hooves pounding like drums.
For the briefest of moments, the riders seemed as one, black and white, death and dawn racing toward impact.
The lances struck hard and forceful.
Ser Barristan's lance veered wide, deflected by the smallest shift of Rhaegar's shield.
Rhaegar's lance struck center-mass with brutal precision, splintering against Selmy's shield and throwing the knight from his saddle.
The Sword of the Morning stood quickly, brushing dirt from his cloak as the crowd burst into cheers.
He bowed to the prince, a silent, unspoken acknowledgment of his defeat.
"Victory to Prince Rhaegar!" the herald called.
The Crown of Love and Beauty
The cheering continued, but underneath it was a growing murmur, as if the air itself knew something was coming.
The Queen of Love and Beauty must be named.
All eyes turned naturally to Princess Elia Martell, regal, composed, beautiful in her Dornish silks, seated quietly beneath the king's banner.
But Rhaegar did not move toward her.
Instead, he turned away.
He walked past the Martells. Past the great houses. Past the banners of Baratheon, Tully, Lannister, Arryn, and Tyrell.
His boots struck the earth softly, but every step resounded louder than a warhorn.
He stopped before the northern box.
Before Lyanna Stark.
The crowd gasped.
Lyanna's back straightened, but she did not move. Her grey eyes locked on the prince, confusion flickering beneath her composed face.
Brandon sat stiff as stone, his teeth clenched, hands gripping the armrests with white knuckles.
Benjen's breath caught in his throat.
Eddard's face was carved from ice, still, silent, but his eyes burned like cold embers.
Even Robert Baratheon, sitting nearby, leaned forward, his earlier cheer drowned beneath a rising storm inside him.
Rhaegar reached beneath his cloak and withdrew the circlet, a crown of pale blue winter roses.
The scent drifted faintly on the breeze, cold, sweet, northern.
He lowered it into Lyanna's lap with slow, deliberate care.
"To the Queen of Love and Beauty," Rhaegar declared, his voice calm and steady impassive to the growing stares.
The silence that followed was unnatural, brittle.
Eyes darted between nobles, between princess and prince, between wolf and dragon.
Princess Elia lowered her eyes, her hands folding tightly in her lap, the smile she had prepared vanishing like morning mist.
King Aerys sat unmoving, but his fingers twitched against the armrest, his breath shallow as his grin stretched at the growing chaos.
The applause that followed was hesitant, forced.
In the noble pavilions, whispered conversations broke out behind guarded smiles.
"What does he mean by it?"
"This I'd surely a slight against Dorne."
"An insult? Or something forthcoming?"
Southern lords whispered and murmured among each other. The Martells sat like statues. The Lannisters remained impassive. The Tullys glanced nervously toward the Starks.
"The prince crowns a northern maid in feont of his wife," they whispered.
And among the northern lords, fury brewed like a gathering storm.
Brandon Stark whispered into his hands, "Damn fool."
Eddard's cold stare never left the prince.
Robert Baratheon's face darkened, rage coiling like a serpent in his chest.
In that one moment, the wheel had turned.
The cracks that would tear kingdoms apart had begun to splinter.
The tourney had ended.
The embers of resentment and rage began to rise.