"Haigh falls," Benjen crowed somewhere above the noise, voice full of bright disbelief. "Gods, Lya. You actually did it."
"Next," Lyanna said, and it came out colder than she felt.
Jahaerys mounted without a word.
He set his lance with care. Hips square. Seat low. He checked his straps twice, then once more. His horse stood steadier. His hands were steadier. He had been drinking at the table, but he was not drunk now. Not enough to be careless.
Lyanna watched him across the lane and let herself admit a thin sliver of fear. Haigh had been a fool playing at knighthood. Frey was a man who had real training in the lance.
The trumpets sounded again. The noise at the rail sharpened, as if the crowd felt the shift too.
They took their lines. Winter's ears flicked. Lyanna scratched the mare's neck once, small and quick, a promise between them.
The flag fell.
Frey rode clean. His lance point stayed true for three strides, then five. He leaned his weight into the wood the way a man leans into a door he means to break. He aimed for her shoulder, the place most knights chose. A safe target. A reliable one.
Lyanna rejected safety and reliability.
At the last instant she shifted her upper body just enough to change the angle, but not enough to throw her off balance. Frey's point struck first, but it skated along her shield rim with a harsh scrape.
The lack of bite threw him off by a fraction. A fraction was all she needed.
Her lance found the center of his coat of plates, and the impact rang like a bell.
Frey rocked back. He fought for his seat. For a heartbeat it looked like he might stay mounted. Then his horse's stride hit a rut, his weight tipped, and he spilled. He rolled hard, came up to a knee, staggered, and sat in shock with both hands braced on the ground.
The rail roared.
Frey men shouted in fury. Riverlords banged cups and laughed. Northmen whooped. Someone began a chant of "Laugh-ing Tree!" that spread like fire.
Lyanna eased Winter along the boards and lifted her broken shaft in salute. She kept her head steady, as if she had only struck a practice dummy. Inside the helm her heart hammered like a drum.
"Your armor for ransom," she called to Jahaerys, by the old custom of the lists.
A muscle worked in his jaw. Pride warred with sense. He looked up at her mask, then at the stewards, then at the watching eyes on the rail. At last he jerked a hand toward a page. "Fetch the chest," he snapped.
Howland appeared at the lane's edge like a shadow made solid, quick hands taking the offered coffer. He did not open it here. He did not need to. The weight alone said it held real coin.
"You will rue this," Jahaerys said, the insult worn thin by use.
"Perhaps," Lyanna said. "But not today."
The commotion drew more than commoners and boys hungry for stories. Silk and brocade spilled from the royal tents. A cluster of white cloaks moved along the far end of the stands. Men stood. Women shifted to see.
Then the noise softened in ripples.
A thin man with wild hair and sunken eyes took a seat under an awning as if it were a throne.
King Aerys had come to watch.
Lyanna felt Winter's ears flick. Even the horse knew a dangerous gaze. Aerys leaned forward, hands on the rail, eyes too bright. His mouth moved as if he spoke to himself, words lost under the murmur of the crowd.
Lyanna did not let herself look away. Not from him. Not from the white cloaks near him. Not from the way men made room as if fear had a smell.
Benard Blount lurched from the shade with a cup still in his fist.
He was thick of waist and young enough that his beard still looked like it had been glued on. His belt sat askew. His cheeks were wet with wine. He drained the last of his cup and flung it aside. A page scrambled to shove his helm on straight. Blount slapped the page away and laughed, loud and ugly.
The king's gaze never left the smiling shield during the commotion.
Lyanna took her position again, jaw tight beneath the mask.
Blount's destrier snorted, unhappy with its intoxicated rider. It stamped and tossed its head. Blount yanked the reins like a man wrestling an enemy, not guiding a mount. The horse protested with another toss. Blount nearly lost his seat before the trumpet even sounded.
The stewards looked at one another. One opened his mouth as if to object at the horsemanship. Then his eyes flicked toward the king, and his mouth shut.
The trumpet called. The flag fell.
Lyanna urged Winter forward, controlled, careful. Victory was almost here. She could end it fast and leave with her head held high.
Blount's seat slid at the second stride.
At the third, his lance tip dipped and scraped the packed earth.
At the fourth, the wood caught and jammed.
The haft snapped with a sound like an old bow pulled too tight. A jagged splinter leapt up from the break, skipped along the ground, and kissed the narrow eye slit of Blount's visor.
It vanished inside.
Blount toppled backward with a choked sound that was more surprise than pain. His horse checked and shied, almost stepping on its own rider. Lyanna hauled Winter wide and abandoned her own attack, throwing her broken lance aside.
The rail surged with panicked spectators. Guards ran. Squires screamed. Someone shouted for a maester.
Blount thrashed on the ground, hands clawing at his face. Blood splattered when a steward finally ripped the helm free. The splinter was buried deep. Blount's one remaining eye rolled white. His mouth worked soundlessly.
King Aerys stood.
His thin hands gripped the rail until the knuckles shone. His voice cracked the air, sharp and shrill. "Plot," he screamed. "Murder in motley. Tear the mask. Show me the traitor's face."
Steel rasped. A ring of multicolored cloaks began to push toward the lane, men who had been laughing a moment ago now eager to prove loyalty.
Lyanna did not wait.
She wheeled Winter and put heels to her, hard.
The Laughing Tree flew along the boards, past baffled stewards and scattered pages. A spear butt jabbed toward her. She slipped by and felt the wind of it on her knee. A hand caught at the reins; she snapped the leather free and let the man keep a strap torn loose.
"Godswood," she told Winter, low and fierce.
Over years of stolen practice, the mare had learned more than simple commands. Winter found the path on her own, cutting between tents where a larger horse would balk. Lyanna brushed obstacles aside with shield and shoulder, not striking, only refusing to be stopped.
Behind her, the king's voice climbed into a keening wail. "Stop him. Unmask him. I will see the face that mocks me."
Lyanna did not look back.
Tents blurred into hedges. Hedges blurred into the first shade of trees. The roar of the lists fell away behind the leaves, but the danger did not. It rode her heels as surely as any pursuer.
She lowered her head to Winter's neck and felt the rhythm of the stride, felt the mare's steady will under her own.
She could not say if she rode to hide, to fight, or to pray.
Only that the woods beckoned.
And she followed.