Lyanna barely heard the herald call the next match. Her eyes lingered on Ser Barristan, on the shadow that clung to him despite his victory.
The crowd stirred as two figures stepped into the lists — no lady's favor upon their lances, no token streaming from their helms.
Rhaegar Targaryen gleamed in black armor chased with red, his pale hair unbound without a helmet. Across from him, Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard sat tall in luminescent plate, the white of his cloak bright as winter snow. They exchanged no words, only a nod.
The crowd roared as equals clashed, pass after pass, until at last Rhaegar's lance struck true. The cheers swelled, but Arthur smiled as though the defeat meant little.
Rhaegar circled his horse, offering his friend a hand. "Another time, perhaps."
"Another time," Arthur agreed.
The two men rode from the lists together, sunlight flashing off their armor, each with the air of one who had won something the crowd could not see.
For a moment, the grounds buzzed with laughter and chatter, servants weaving through the crowd with wine and meat, banners snapping in the wind as the lords and ladies stretched their legs. Children darted between long benches, chasing each other with carved wooden swords. The air felt looser now, uncoiling from the tense silence that had gripped the spectators through every pass of the tilt.
Then came a commotion at the edge of the lists. Brandon. Lyanna's brother rode in at last, late as ever, a blizzard in human form. His cloak flared in the wind, dark hair wild, grey eyes sweeping the stands like a wolf hunting prey.
And just behind him, louder still, was Robert Baratheon. His booming laugh carried even over the noise of the crowd, a great barrel of a man in black and gold, already with a flagon in hand though the day was young. He strode toward the highborn benches as though they were his by right, slapping shoulders, calling greetings, demanding wine. Lyanna's cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment on behalf of her betrothed.
Brandon dropped into his seat with unshakable confidence, calling out, "I hope we've not missed the best of it, sister!"
"No," she muttered under her breath, though her lips curled into a wry smile despite herself. "Only most of it."
Brandon clapped Benjen on the back. "Good, I thought we'd missed it," he said, grabbing a cup of wine from a passing servant. "How was it?"
"Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur," Benjen reported dutifully. "They went three passes before Rhaegar unhorsed him."
"Ha! Trust Dayne to draw it out." Brandon leaned forward, half-grin flashing. "And Rhaegar to preen like a peacock when he won, no doubt."
Robert arrived then, voice booming. "Don't lie to me, Stark, I know you loved every heartbeat of it!" He dropped heavily onto the bench above the wolves, sloshing wine as he did. His smile seemed to devour the world. "A prince and a sword legend, knocking each other about? If I'd been here sooner, I'd have begged for a tilt myself."
"You'd have begged for the wine tent first," Brandon shot back, earning laughter from those around. Robert laughed with them, unbothered.
"Aye, and then I'd have broken every lance they gave me. Nothing like the lists to whet the blood for battle, eh?" He turned suddenly, fixing his betrothed with that electric smile. "You'll see for yourself soon enough, sweetheart, when I ride in honor of my lady wife."
The warmth leached from Lyanna's skin. She forced a smile, her fingers curling tight into her skirts.
She tried to listen as Brandon and Robert roared their boasts, but her heart beat a different rhythm altogether.
The trumpet blared again. "Finals! Prince Rhaegar against Ser Barristan the Bold!"
Lyanna leaned forward, gaze fixed on the field, though she already dreaded what the end of it might bring.
Her gaze followed the two knights as they rode onto the lists, banners streaming behind them. Rhaegar — reckless, helmetless — his silver hair glinting in the sun against black armor chased with rubies. Ser Barristan, older and grizzled, but still sitting atop his white destrier with the bearing of a man who had rarely known defeat.
They saluted to the disheveled king scab, then leveled their lances.
The first pass was thunder. Hooves pounded, lances shattered, and wood flew through the air. Both men reeled but kept their seats, and the stands roared approval.
"By the Old Gods," Dacey murmured, her hands clenched white around the rail.
The second pass was tighter, more precise. The crash of wood on steel rang in Lyanna's bones. Rhaegar's lance struck Barristan's shoulder, spinning him slightly in the saddle. The older knight corrected, iron control born of decades in the lists.
By the third tilt, sweat gleamed on both their brows. Yet something in Ser Barristan's charge struck Lyanna as different. His lance found its mark, but his body sagged, just slightly. The strength behind the blow seemed less than it should have been. Rhaegar's strike landed harder, and the crowd roared, but unease pulled at her.
"Do you see it?" She asked quietly. Benjen only whooped in reply, too caught up in the clash to notice.
The fourth pass ended it. Barristan's lance splintered harmlessly against Rhaegar's shield, while the prince's blow drove him from the saddle in a spray of dust.
The stands erupted. Flowers rained down, men shouted themselves hoarse, Robert bellowed with excitement, slapping Brandon on the back so hard his wine spilled.
But Lyanna's eyes stayed on Barristan. He knelt in the dirt, pulled off his helm, and bowed wearily toward the prince with a faint, wry smile.
Rhaegar dismounted with easy grace, offering him a hand. They clasped forearms, the crowd screaming its adoration of the prince's victory. Yet for some reason, it seemed like King Aerys was scowling.
Then the trumpets blared again. The crowning of the Queen of Love and Beauty.
Rhaegar was resplendent astride his white stallion, silver hair flowing like a banner in the sunlight. In his hands he carried the champion's crown: a circlet woven of winter roses, blue as the coldest skies.
The stands erupted in cheers, garlands rained down, the air thick with dust and crushed flowers. He rode the length of the lists with perfect grace, and all eyes followed, certain of where the crown would go: to Princess Elia of Dorne, his dark-haired wife waiting in quiet dignity.
But Rhaegar did not stop.
He passed her by.
Lyanna's heart lurched as he turned his horse, guiding it toward her. The world seemed to narrow to the clink of the horse's armor, the rustle of roses shifting in his hands.
And then the circlet descended, cool and fragrant, settling in her dark hair.
For an instant she could not move. Could not breathe. She wanted to shrink into nothingness, to vanish beneath the stares of thousands.
The silence was absolute, until King Aerys broke it with his shrill, mad cackle from the dais. His laughter cut jagged through the air, twisting the crowd into awkward applause.
Rhaegar said nothing. He did not speak to anyone. He only reined his horse, turned, and rode away with the same calm as before, leaving the weight of the crown behind him.
Lyanna sat frozen, her face burning. Beside me, Benjen was pale as milk. Brandon's jaw worked in tight concern, lips pressed thin.
Robert, shockingly, grinned wide, nudging her with an elbow. "Your beauty's no secret now, eh, little wolf?" he laughed, loud enough for those nearby to hear. He seemed almost proud, as though the prince's gesture somehow confirmed his own claim.
But Lyanna's hands trembled in her lap, her stomach roiling. The winter roses smelled too sweet, cloying in her hair. She had never wanted anything less in all her life.
The stands began to empty in a slow, uneasy tide. Nobles drifted down, voices buzzing with speculation. Lyanna pulled away from her brothers and Robert, ignoring Benjen's worried glance and pulling out of Brandon's grasp on her arm. She kept her head down, the circlet's thorns prickling her scalp.
Lyanna found Elia of Dorne seated near the royal pavilion with her ladies. Her dark eyes were steady, her posture regal though she looked tired. So fragile, like porcelain. The sight of her made Lyanna's throat ache.
Lyanna hesitated, then pushed forward, weaving through silk and velvet until she stood before her. She knelt, lowering her gaze as she lifted the circlet from my hair. The scent of winter roses rose between them, sharp and cold.
"My lady," Lyanna whispered, her voice barely holding. "This was meant for you. I—I am sorry. Truly. I wanted no part in… in this."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Elia's hand — warm, impossibly gentle — closed around the roses. She took them without haste, her fingers brushing against Lyanna's trembling ones.
"I know, child," she said, her voice lilting with her Dornish accent, a blend of kindness and sorrow. "This was not of your choosing. But the eyes of the realm are sharp. Take care you do not stumble beneath them."
Lyanna swallowed hard, her chest aching. She dared to glance upward and found no anger in the princess' gaze, only weary understanding.
"Thank you, princess," she murmured, bowing her head.
Lyanna turned quickly, heart hammering. The absence of the circlet left her hair strangely light, but the smell of roses clung to her no matter how far she walked, no matter how badly she wished it gone.
The murmurs of the crowd swirled like storm winds as she slipped away, eyes stinging. Lyanna wanted nothing more than to vanish into shadow, to lose herself in the cool stone of Harrenhal. But at the bottom of the steps, she collided squarely with a familiar chest.
"There you are!" Lyanna blurted, startled, then flooded with relief at the sight of her brother's steady grey eyes. "Where have you been? I looked everywhere. You're supposed to be the reliable sibling."
Ned's cheeks colored, his composure cracking to reveal the youth beneath. "I—I was… I was with Lady Ashara," he admitted, voice low enough not to carry.
She blinked, her turmoil forgotten for a moment. "Ashara Dayne?" she pressed, lowering her own voice as they stepped aside to let knights and ladies pass. "Arthur's sister?"
He nodded, and the faintest, uncharacteristic smile tugged at his lips. "She is… kind. And graceful. I have not met another like her." He glanced down, embarrassed, but warmth lit his tone in a way Lyanna had never heard before.
Despite everything, her own mouth curved in a smile. "You're smitten," she teased, nudging him with her elbow.
"Perhaps," Ned admitted softly. Then, after a pause: "When we return to Riverrun, I hope to ask Father's leave. If he will allow it, I… I would wed her."
Lyanna's heart swelled, pride and sorrow twisting together. For a moment, she let herself imagine it: her quiet, dutiful brother finding happiness, even love. How different that was from the path laid before her.
"That would make me glad, Ned," she said, her voice thick but steady. "Truly glad."
Together, they stepped out from Harrenhal's shadow, the evening air cooler on their cheeks. Behind them, the feast and the whispers churned on, more tense than ever before. The wolves walked side by side, speaking in low tones of home, of family, and of futures not yet written.