Ashford Meadows rang with the noise of steel, cheers, and the bright summer laughter of the great and the small alike.

Ser Lyonel Baratheon sat at first among the high seats like a storm given flesh, broad as a tower, golden stag upon his breast, one gloved hand resting on the head of his warhammer. He had watched many a fine bout that day. He had seen Ser Duncan the Tall fight with a courage that pleased him. He had seen knights with prettier cloaks and finer heraldry fall in the dust. But it was the stranger in dark armor who drew his eye most keenly.

They came and went from the lists like a shadow at dusk.

No trumpet announced them. No eager cousin shouted their name from the rail. Their tent lay far from the rest, as though they preferred the company of canvas and silence to laughter and song. Their face never showed, hidden always behind their helm, and their armor was plain enough that no man could name the house that had sent them. Yet when they stepped into the lists, the mystery ended and the work began. They won. Again and again. Cleanly, coldly, without flourish.

The crowd had begun to call them the Phantom.

When the Phantom defeated another challenger with a sharp, merciless stroke, Lyonel rose to his full height. The chatter around him died at once. He threw back his head and let his voice roll over the meadow like thunder. “Phantom! If you are ghost or man, come answer me.”

Heads turned. Lords leaned forward. Boys climbed onto benches. Even the trumpets seemed to hush. Lyonel pointed toward the lists. “I wish to face you myself in a friendly duel.” A murmur rippled through the gathered folk. Some laughed. Some cried out in excitement. A few of the more prudent men looked as though they had just seen a stag step into a lion’s den.

Below, the Phantom stood still. Then, slowly, they turned their helm toward the high seats.

For a long moment they did not move. Lyonel could not see their eyes, but he felt them all the same, measuring him, judging the shape of his challenge. Then the Phantom gave a single nod.

A roar rose from the stands.

He climbed down from the galleries with the easy stride of a man who had never once doubted he belonged wherever he stepped. His gold-and-black armor caught the sun as he passed through the press of onlookers. Men made way for him. Women craned to see. Boys elbowed one another and whispered the name of Baratheon as if it were already a song. At the edge of the lists, a squire hurried to meet him with a bladed practice sword. Lyonel took it, weighed it once in his hand, and smiled a fierce, bright smile.

At the foot of the lists, Lyonel took his place and waited.

The Phantom approached without ceremony, carrying their sword in one gloved hand. Up close, they seemed even less like a man and more like a rumor given shape, silent, patient, impossible to read.

“Will you name yourself?” Lyonel asked.

The stranger gave a small shake of the helm.

“No?” Lyonel said, and a grin tugged at his mouth. “Then I suppose I must earn it from you.”

The Phantom raised their blade in salute.

Lyonel answered with a laugh that rolled across the meadow like distant thunder.

The trumpets sounded.

“Come then,” Lyonel said, lifting his blade. “Let us see what kind of ghost you are.”