On the final day of the tourney, the sun still shone brightly, but a strange cloud hung over the lists.
The herald's horn sounded, yet no one entered.
"The Knight of the Laughing Tree!" the herald called again. "Let the Knight of the Laughing Tree enter the lists to face his opponent!"
The entire arena was silent.
Leon sat in the Lannister stands. His [Eye of Insight] had already swept the entire staging area.
There was no green shield, no grinning weirwood, no slender figure.
Lyanna Stark was gone.
In the royal stands, King Aerys rose to his feet, a sickly light flickering in his purple eyes.
His fingers drummed nervously on the railing, his voice shrill and piercing:
"Where is that fool? Where is the fellow who insulted my knights with that smiling face? Find him! I will remove his helm myself and see who dares play tricks at my tourney!"
The Kingsguard exchanged glances.
Gerold Hightower said something quietly, and several of the Kingsguard left at his command.
But Leon knew they would not find him.
Lyanna Stark had already changed back into women's clothing and was sitting quietly in House Stark's stands, like a noble lady who had never left her seat.
Leon turned toward the Stark stands.
Sure enough, Lyanna was there, wrapped tightly in a gray cloak, her face bearing just the right degree of confusion, as though she truly had no idea what had happened.
But Leon's [Eye of Insight] caught the mass of light in her chest... pale blue, its edges fluctuating violently.
That was nervousness. And a trace of... amusement.
Brandon Stark sat beside her, seemingly casual, but Leon saw his hands gripping the railing tightly, his knuckles white.
He knew. He must have known what his sister had done last night.
Ned was there too, his expression much calmer, but Leon noticed him glancing at Lyanna from time to time, as though checking that she was still there.
Robert Baratheon sat in the Baratheon stands, loudly complaining to those beside him that the Laughing Knight had been a poor sport, running off after winning.
His voice was loud enough for the entire arena to hear, but there was nothing unusual in his expression.
He didn't know. He knew nothing.
Leon looked away, a complicated mix of feelings rising within him.
The woman Robert loved was risking herself for another man. And he knew nothing about it.
The search lasted a full hour before finally ending in failure.
King Aerys flew into a rage and smashed three wine cups before Gerold Hightower finally persuaded him to return to his seat.
The Knight of the Laughing Tree became an enduring mystery.
Only a handful of people knew the truth.
Leon was one of them.
The disappearance of the Knight of the Laughing Tree was soon forgotten.
For the contests that followed made everyone hold their breath.
Rhaegar Targaryen entered the lists.
Today, he rode a tall black warhorse. His silvery-white armor dazzled in the sunlight, the three-headed dragon of his sigil inlaid with rubies, its eyes gleaming like real flames beneath the sun.
His long, silvery-white hair fell over his shoulders. He wore no helm, and his face, too handsome to seem mortal, bore a rare, almost solemn calm.
His first opponent: Earl Bronze Yohn Royce.
The horn fell silent.
The two riders charged at each other.
Yohn thrust his lance, faster, fiercer, more accurately.
Crack!!
The bronze shield shattered.
Yohn fell from his horse and hit the ground hard.
A deathly silence fell over the arena.
Rhaegar wheeled his horse around, dismounted, and offered Yohn his hand.
There was no smugness on his face, no pride, only calm, more frightening than any display of triumph.
Yohn took his hand, stood, and shook his head with a wry smile.
"Dragon Prince, that lance work of yours... I concede."
Rhaegar inclined his head slightly, mounted, and waited for his next opponent.
His second opponent: Ser Jon Darry.
A member of the Kingsguard, a veteran of many battles.
His swordsmanship might not have been as dazzling as Arthur Dayne's, but jousting was his strength.
Three passes. Just three.
Jon Darry's shield was knocked away, his lance flew from his hand, and he hung precariously from his horse.
Rhaegar did not press the attack. He merely reined back and waited for the judge to announce the result.
The crowd began to erupt.
His third opponent: Barristan Ser Selmy.
Widely acknowledged as one of the strongest knights in the Seven Kingdoms, a perennial victor in the joust.
He was forty-five that year, but no one dared underestimate the lance in his hand.
Five passes.
Twice, Barristan's lance tip grazed Rhaegar's helm. Once, it nearly struck his throat.
But Rhaegar narrowly avoided it every time, as though he could anticipate his opponent's every move.
On the fifth pass, Rhaegar's lance tip struck the lower edge of Barristan's shield, the weakest point of the entire shield.
The shield shattered. Barristan lost his balance and fell from his horse.
He lay on the ground, gazing at the sky, then suddenly laughed.
"Fine lance work," he said. "Better than mine when I was young."
Rhaegar dismounted and offered him his hand.
Barristan took it and stood.
Thunderous cheers erupted throughout the arena.
Not for Barristan's defeat, but for the brilliance of this clash between the finest.
His fourth opponent: Brandon Stark.
Brandon rode his gray warhorse, a defiant grin on his face, but his grip on his lance was tighter than usual. He knew what he was facing.
Two passes.
On the first pass, Brandon's lance tip struck Rhaegar's shield, leaving a deep dent. Rhaegar's lance tip grazed Brandon's shoulder plate.
On the second pass, Rhaegar's lance tip struck the center of Brandon's shield-the tremendous impact sent Brandon flying straight off his horse and crashing to the ground.
He lay in the dust, gasping for breath, then suddenly burst into laughter.
"Fuck," he said. "Now that's the kind of fucking fight a knight should have!"
Rhaegar dismounted and offered him his hand.
Brandon took it, stood, and clapped him hard on the shoulder.
His fifth opponent: Ser Oswell Whent.
His sixth opponent: Ser Gerold Hightower.
His seventh opponent: Arthur Dayne.
The Sword of the Morning. The strongest knight in the Seven Kingdoms. Rhaegar's best friend.
The two looked at each other from opposite ends of the lists.
The entire arena was utterly silent.
Arthur raised his lance in salute to Rhaegar. Rhaegar raised his own lance in return.
The horn fell silent.
The two riders charged at each other.
It was the most beautiful sight Leon had ever seen: two lances crossing, parrying, thrusting through the air, every exchange as though rehearsed a thousand times.
The galloping horses, the knights' breathing, the paths of their lance tips-all were as perfect as a carefully choreographed performance.
Ten passes.
Twenty passes.
Thirty passes.
No one could count how many times they had clashed.
Each time, everyone thought it would end, only for another pass to begin.
Finally, on the forty-third pass, Rhaegar's lance tip struck a gap in Arthur's shoulder armor, the tiniest gap, too narrow even for a finger.
Arthur's lance flew from his hand.
He froze.
Then he smiled, and there was nothing but pride in that smile.
"You won," he said.
Rhaegar dismounted and walked over to him. The two men embraced tightly.
The entire crowd rose to its feet, applauding thunderously.
Rhaegar Targaryen, champion of the joust.
The sun sank westward, its golden afterglow spilling over the tourney grounds.
Rhaegar stood in the center of the field, surrounded by mountains of flowers and cheering crowds.
He had just defeated all his opponents, including four members of the Kingsguard, Brandon Stark, Yohn Royce, and Arthur Dayne.
The herald knelt before him on one knee, holding a crown woven from blue winter roses.
By tradition, the champion was to present this crown of the "Queen of Love and Beauty" to the lady he held in highest esteem.
Usually, his wife or his beloved.
Every gaze turned toward the royal stands.
Elia Martell sat there in a red-and-gold Dornish gown, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders.
Her expression was calm, and there was even a faint smile on her lips.
Beside her, Oberyn Martell leaned against the railing, toying with a small knife, his thoughts unreadable.
Rhaegar accepted the crown.
He did not walk toward the royal stands.
He turned and passed through the crowd, walking step by step in another direction.
Toward House Stark's stands.
At that moment, Leon's [Eye of Insight] operated at full strength.
He saw Brandon Stark's smile freeze on his face, his fists slowly clenching, veins bulging on the backs of his hands.
He saw Ned Stark's expression freeze, a flicker of disbelief passing through his gray eyes.
He saw Robert Baratheon rise, his wine cup slipping from his hand and shattering on the ground.
There was no anger on his face, only blankness, the uncomprehending blankness of someone struck by lightning.
He saw that Elia Martell's smile did not change in the slightest, but Leon caught the fleeting, minute fracture deep in her eyes.
He saw Oberyn Martell's fingers tighten around the small knife, his knuckles turning white.
He saw Mad King Aerys rise, his purple eyes widening, then burst into laughter.
That cackling laughter, shrill, broken, and mad, sounded like glass scraping over stone, especially piercing in the silent arena.
Rhaegar stopped before Lyanna Stark.
She rose to her feet, her gray eyes filled with shock.
Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
Rhaegar gently laid the crown woven from blue roses in her lap.
"Lady Lyanna Stark," his clear voice carried through the silence of the arena, "you are the most beautiful sight I have ever seen."
The entire arena was deathly silent.
Then an uproar erupted.
Not cheers, but murmurs, gasps, the sound of countless mouths opening at once.
Some stood, some pointed, some were angry, some confused, some excited, some afraid.
Leon remained seated, utterly motionless.
His [Eye of Insight] was still working, still capturing, still recording.
Brandon Stark had already risen, and Ned was holding him back with all his strength.
Robert Baratheon still stood there, motionless, his face flushed crimson, the fury in his eyes almost bursting forth, his entire body trembling.
Elia Martell was still smiling, nodding to those around her as though nothing had happened.
But Leon saw her fingers clenched tightly inside her sleeves, her nails almost digging into her palms.
Mad King Aerys rocked back and forth with laughter, tears streaming from his eyes.
He pointed at Rhaegar, then Lyanna, then Tywin, then everyone, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
"Good!" he shrieked. "Good! My son! My good son! That is a dragon! That is a Targaryen!"
No one answered him.
Everyone was looking at Rhaegar, at Lyanna, at the crown woven from blue roses.
Leon suddenly felt a chill.
That crown, those blue roses, were breathtakingly beautiful in the setting sun.
But he knew those roses would soon be watered with blood.
That night, the banquet hall at Harrenhal blazed with light, but the atmosphere was strange and suffocating.
Rhaegar did not appear.
Neither did Elia.
Some said they had each returned to their rooms, some said Rhaegar had gone to House Stark's camp, and others said Lyanna had locked herself in her room and refused to see anyone.
Robert Baratheon did not appear either.
The sounds of things being smashed came from his tent, along with the low voices of his confidants talking.
Brandon Stark appeared, but he drank three bottles of spirits by himself and glared daggers at anyone who tried to approach him.
Mad King Aerys did appear. He sat at the high table, laughing nervously, eating and drinking as though this were the happiest day of his life.
Leon sat among the Lannisters, the food before him untouched.
Tywin sat beside him, likewise leaving his cutlery untouched.
After a long while, Tywin spoke.
His voice was so quiet that only Leon could hear him:
"Did you see clearly?"
Leon nodded.
"What did you see clearly?"
Leon was silent for a moment, then said, "The price of power."
Tywin looked at him, a glimmer of something complicated flashing through those emerald eyes.
It was approval, relief, and a deeper, heavier sort of... resonance.
"Go on."
"Rhaegar won the tourney and everyone's adoration." Leon's voice was quiet. "But he also won their hatred. Brandon hates him, Robert hates him, the Dornish hate him, and perhaps even more people will come to hate him. With a single crown, he set a pile of dry wood ablaze."
Tywin inclined his head slightly.
"What else?"
"You..." Leon paused. "You knew all along that this would happen?"
Tywin did not answer.
He merely gazed into the distance, at the clamorous crowds, at the false smiles, at the scheming hidden behind wine cups.
"Power," he finally said, "does not let you gain what you want. It lets you lose what you do not want."
He rose, turned, and left.
At the door, he stopped without looking back.
"Leon."
"Father?"
"Remember tonight," he said. "Remember the expression on every face. Because one day, when you have the chance to stand at the center of power, you will need these memories."
He pushed the door open and left.
Leon remained seated, watching his figure disappear into the night.
In the distance, the clamor in the banquet hall continued.
The Mad King's laughter, the clinking of wine cups, and hushed whispers wove together into a strange and mad melody.
Leon closed his eyes.
[Eye of Insight] replayed the scenes from that evening in his mind.
Brandon's fury, Robert's blank stare, Elia's composure, the Mad King's wild laughter, and that crown woven from blue roses, gleaming in the setting sun.
He opened his eyes and took the gold dragon from inside his clothes.
Rhaegar's face flickered in and out of view in the candlelight.
He remembered what Rhaegar had asked him five years ago at the Saltwater Cod Tavern:
"You're still young. You can take your time thinking."
He was eight now.
He was still thinking.
But some things no longer needed any thought.
He put the coin away, rose, and walked toward Harrenhal in the darkness.
Within the castle, those ancient whispers remained.
They said: this was a False Spring...