Spring, 281 AC, the tourney grounds at Harrenhal.
The sunlight was especially dazzling on the second day of the tourney.
Leon sat in the Lannister stands, shading his eyes with a hand as he looked toward the field.
At that moment, something caught his attention...
Something was wrong with King Aerys today.
In the royal stands, the Mad King sat in a gilded chair, his fingers tapping nervously on its armrest.
His gaze kept drifting toward the figure in white standing behind him.
Jaime Lannister, his new white cloak dazzling in the sunlight.
But there was no pride in the king's eyes, no satisfaction.
Only... fear.
Leon's [Eye of Insight] activated instinctively.
He saw the dark red mass of light in Aerys's chest fluctuating violently. It was panic, the lingering fright of someone terrified by his own stupidity.
What was wrong with him?
Beside him, Tyrion whispered, "The king looks as though he's seen a ghost today."
"He has," Leon said softly. "Himself."
[Eye of Insight] operated at full strength...
Time turned back to the previous night.
Harrenhal's banquet hall blazed with light as the great houses drank together, celebrating the opening of the tourney.
Robert Baratheon's voice drowned out three bards, while Eddard Stark shook his head helplessly beside him.
The Dornish sat in a corner, Oberyn's gaze roaming through the crowd like a viper.
But King Aerys could not eat a thing.
He sat at the head of the hall, the golden plate before him piled with delicacies, yet he had not touched a bite.
His fingers gripped his wine cup tightly, his knuckles white.
Grand Maester Pycelle asked cautiously, "Your Grace, are you feeling unwell?"
Aerys did not answer. His gaze passed over the crowd and settled in one direction.
The Lannister seats.
Tywin Lannister sat upright among them, speaking quietly with Kevan.
His bearing was composed, his expression calm, as though everything were under control.
Of course he was composed.
The thought suddenly struck Aerys.
His son stood right behind me, holding a sword. With me day and night.
Cold sweat trickled down the king's back.
He recalled his decision that day: to have Jaime join the Kingsguard, depriving Tywin of his heir and thereby humiliating the old friend he both relied upon and hated.
What an exquisite move! What satisfying revenge!
But now that the deed was done, he finally realized what he had done.
He had personally led a lion's cub into his own den.
Jaime Lannister-Tywin's son, the future hope of the Westerlands-stood behind him at that very moment, less than three feet from his back.
If that sword shifted just a little...
Aerys abruptly tightened his grip on his cup, splashing wine onto his purple robes.
I was mad, he thought. I truly was mad.
He did not sleep a wink all night.
Leon withdrew his gaze with a cold smile. "Fate always catches people off guard..."
Meanwhile, Brandon Stark rode a gray warhorse, his black hair unruly, waving to the noble ladies in the stands.
Robert Baratheon carried his warhammer on his shoulder, laughing and talking loudly with Ned.
On either side of the lists, the spectators could hardly wait to see the first match.
Jaime stood behind the king, gazing eagerly toward the field.
He was supposed to compete today.
As a newly knighted man, as a Lannister, he longed to prove himself on these ancient tourney grounds.
Arthur Dayne had already agreed to mentor him, and Ser Barristan Selmy had praised his skill with a lance.
This was the glory he deserved.
"Ser Jaime."
The king's voice came from in front of him, shrill and taut, like a string stretched to its limit.
Jaime stepped forward and knelt on one knee. "Your Grace."
Aerys did not turn.
His eyes remained fixed on Tywin in the distance, but his words reached Jaime's ears:
"You need not compete today."
Jaime froze.
"Your Grace?"
"I need you to return to King's Landing immediately."
Aerys spoke faster and faster, increasingly nervous. "Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys have no one to protect them in the Red Keep.
"The duty of the Kingsguard is to protect the royal family, not waste time at a tedious tourney like this."
Jaime's heart sank.
"But Your Grace, today is the first match..."
"Did you not hear me?" Aerys whipped his head around, his purple eyes burning with a sickly light. "Immediately! Now! Go back to King's Landing!"
The entire grounds fell silent for a moment.
Nearby nobles turned to look, whispering among themselves.
Robert Baratheon's laughter stopped abruptly, and Eddard frowned.
Tywin sat motionless in the stands, but Leon saw his father's fingers clench around the armrest.
Jaime remained kneeling, his face pale.
He understood.
In that moment, all his dreams, all his glory, all his expectations burst like bubbles.
The king had never regarded him as a knight.
The king had chosen him not for his valor, not for his loyalty...
Only to deprive Tywin of his heir.
Only to humiliate the man he envied so insanely.
And he, Jaime Lannister, was merely a pawn in that humiliation.
He slowly rose, his head lowered, his voice hoarse. "As you command, Your Grace."
He turned and left.
His white cloak lifted in the morning breeze, like a pale shadow.
As he passed the Lannister stands, his eyes met his father's.
Tywin's face showed no expression.
But deep within those green eyes, something was there, a deeper, heavier... fracture.
Jaime opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but no sound came out.
He lowered his head and kept walking.
As he passed Leon and Tyrion, a hand gently touched the hem of his cloak.
Leon.
Jaime looked down and saw his younger brother's pale purple eyes looking up at him.
There was only understanding in those eyes.
"You'll be back," Leon said softly.
Jaime paused, then smiled bitterly.
"Perhaps," he said.
He left.
The white cloak disappeared beyond the crowd.
After Jaime left, Tywin rose.
He did not look at the king, or at anyone else.
He simply walked to the edge of the stands and stood there, looking toward the Gods Eye.
Kevan came to his side and said quietly, "Brother..."
"Don't speak," Tywin interrupted.
His voice was flat, as flat as stagnant water beneath the ice.
Kevan fell silent.
Leon and Tyrion sat in the back row, neither moving.
They watched their father's back.
That back, always straight, always cold and unyielding, always like a mountain, now seemed just a little... stooped.
Tyrion said softly, "Father..."
"He knows," Leon said. "He's known all along."
Tyrion looked at him.
"He knows Jaime was made a Kingsguard to humiliate him."
Leon's voice was very soft. "But he didn't stop it. Because he thought Jaime would at least gain glory. Now even that is gone."
Tyrion fell silent.
In the distance, a horn sounded on the field.
The first match was about to begin, but no one's thoughts were on the tourney.
Leon withdrew his gaze and looked toward the royal stands.
King Aerys sat in his gilded chair, laughing nervously.
His laughter was shrill and broken, like glass scraping across stone slabs.
"Good!" He clapped his hands. "Now, let us see some true knights! Brandon Stark! Robert Baratheon! Let them fight! Let them bleed!"
The entire grounds were utterly silent.
Only the king's laughter echoed in the morning breeze.
The horn sounded again.
Brandon Stark rode onto the field.
He wore gray-blue armor, a silver-gray direwolf's head cast upon his pauldrons, his cloak in the gray and white of House Stark.
He rode a tall gray warhorse, and the moment its hooves struck the field, the ruggedness and pride of the North came sweeping toward the spectators.
Cheers rose from the stands.
Especially from the young ladies.
Brandon waved to them, his wild smile bringing blushes to several noble maidens' faces.
His opponent was Robert Baratheon.
The Lord of the Stormlands wore heavy plate armor, a crowned stag embossed upon his breastplate, his black warhorse standing a full head taller than Brandon's gray.
He lacked Brandon's elegance, but he possessed something else... the oppressive presence of a wild beast.
The two riders took their places at opposite ends of the lists.
The horn fell silent.
The warhorses thundered forward.
Both lances thrust out at once and shattered at once, wooden splinters spraying like snow.
Brandon's lance tip grazed Robert's pauldron, while Robert's struck the center of Brandon's shield. Bang!
The tremendous impact made Brandon sway in the saddle, but he did not fall.
Deafening cheers erupted from the stands.
"Good!" Robert laughed as he reined his horse around. "Again!"
Brandon shook out his numb arm and laughed too. "Come on, then!"
The second pass, the third, the fourth...
After five passes, both men discarded their lances at the same time. Brandon drew his longsword, and Robert raised his warhammer.
This was against the rules of the joust, but no one stopped them. Everyone watched, everyone roared, everyone went wild for this savage contest.
In the end, Robert's warhammer shattered Brandon's longsword, while Brandon held his broken blade before Robert's throat.
A draw.
The crowd erupted.
Leon watched the two laughing men on the field, one black-haired, the other brown-haired.
One was wild as a storm, the other untamed as a direwolf.
They slapped hands, embraced, then left the field with their arms around each other's shoulders, like brothers who had fought their fill.
He recalled his analysis of Robert and Ned yesterday.
They were a heavy, powerful warhammer and the hand that wielded it.
But when the warhammer was too heavy, even the hand would tire.
The seed of the rift lay not in the present, but in the future.
He withdrew his gaze.
Beside him, Tyrion said, "Did you see that?"
"See what?"
Tyrion lowered his voice. "Rhaegar."
Leon followed his gaze.
Rhaegar Targaryen stood at the edge of the royal stands.
He was not looking at the victor in the arena or the cheering crowd.
He was looking in just one direction...
The Stark stands.
The figure in the gray cloak.
Lyanna Stark.
Leon's heart skipped a beat.
He remembered how Robert had glanced in that direction when he entered the arena.
It had not been a deliberate, ostentatious look, but an unconscious one.
Now Rhaegar was looking too.
Two men, two different gazes, directed at the same girl.
And that woman... Leon followed her gaze.
She was looking into the arena, at the two men leaving side by side.
Her gaze lingered on Robert for a moment, then moved away.
It settled on Rhaegar.
But she seemed to sense something.
She turned her head, her gaze passing over the crowd and meeting Leon's.
Purple eyes met gray eyes.
Lyanna looked at him and gave a slight nod.
Then she turned and disappeared into the crowd.
After the match ended, the spectators were still savoring that stunning lance strike and hammer blow, but the tourney would not stop.
The horns sounded a second time.
"Next match-!"
The herald's voice held a trace of confusion. "The challengers:
The Knight of the Laughing Tree versus Ser Walder Frey!"
A low murmur spread through the crowd.
The Knight of the Laughing Tree? Who was that?
A sigil no one had seen before appeared in the lists.
On a red shield was painted a white weirwood with a twisted, laughing face, baring stark white teeth.
The rider wore a mismatched suit of armor, with a helmet covering his entire face, leaving only two slits for his eyes.
His build was slender, shorter than most knights, but his seat in the saddle was remarkably steady.
"Who is that?" Tyrion frowned. "I've never seen that sigil."
Leon's [Eye of Insight] worked at full power.
He stared at the rider: the build, the posture, the rhythm of breathing...
Then he saw it.
Beneath the helmet, those eyes were gray-the gray of the North.
Lyanna Stark.
His heartbeat suddenly quickened.
On the other side, Ser Walder Frey rode into the arena.
He was a son of House Frey, young and arrogant, wearing a flashy suit of bright blue armor, with the blue towers of the Twins emblazoned on his shield.
He caught sight of his opponent's ridiculous laughing-face shield and scoffed.
"The Knight of the Laughing Tree?" His voice was loud, deliberately pitched for everyone nearby to hear. "Is this some circus clown?"
A few people in the crowd laughed along, but more simply watched.
This mysterious rider dared to use such a sigil at the Tourney at Harrenhal; he was either mad or truly skilled.
The horn fell silent.
The two riders charged at each other.
Walder Frey thrust his lance, fast and vicious, aiming for his opponent's chest.
But the Knight of the Laughing Tree twisted aside at the last moment, and the lance tip scraped across the armor.
At the same time, her lance darted out like a venomous snake, striking precisely at the edge of Walder's shield.
It was not brute force against brute force, but deftly applied strength.
Walder swayed in his saddle, nearly losing his balance. Furious with embarrassment, he wheeled his horse around and charged again.
The second pass.
The Knight of the Laughing Tree still did not meet him head-on.
She let the lance tip pass, then gave it a gentle nudge with her own lance shaft, guiding Walder's lance off course.
Walder struck empty air, pitching forward and nearly falling from his horse.
Laughter began to rise from the stands...
They were not laughing at the Knight of the Laughing Tree, but at Walder.
"That clown has some skill!"
The third pass.
Walder was already beside himself with rage. He abandoned all technique and thrust fiercely with brute strength alone.
At the last moment, the Knight of the Laughing Tree ducked, pressing herself almost flat against her horse's back. At the same time, her lance tip swept upward, striking Walder squarely in the visor.
Clang!
The sharp ring of metal striking metal.
Walder's helmet twisted, blocking his vision. His startled warhorse charged straight out of the lists.
He tumbled ignominiously to the ground, his helmet rolling away to reveal a face contorted with fury.
The Knight of the Laughing Tree wheeled her horse around and came to a steady halt in the middle of the lists.
The entire crowd fell silent for a moment.
Then thunderous cheers erupted!
They were not for the young lord of House Frey, but for the mysterious, supremely skilled knight with the ridiculous laughing-face sigil.
"The Knight of the Laughing Tree! The Knight of the Laughing Tree!"
Leon saw Brandon Stark's mouth fall open in the Stark stands, before he suddenly burst out laughing and clapped vigorously.
Eddard was clapping too, but his expression was complicated, as though he knew some secret he could not reveal.
Robert Baratheon stood up and roared louder than anyone, "Well done, lad! What lance work!"
Only Leon knew that "lad" was actually a woman.
He watched Lyanna ride a circuit of the arena, waving to the spectators.
Her movements were effortless and assured, as though she had been born to stand here.
Then her gaze swept across the stands and met Rhaegar's once more.
This time, it lingered longer.
The tourney continued, but Leon's mind was no longer on it.
He looked at Lyanna in the arena, then at the silver-gold figure in the royal stands, replaying those two exchanges of glances over and over in his mind.