Winterfell's Great Hall, heated by hundreds of tallow candles and roaring fireplaces, was a boisterous and sweltering furnace.
The air was filled with the greasy scent of roasted wild boar, mixed with the sour smell of spilled ale.
And, of course, the strong perfumes of noble men and women.
These scents together formed a dizzying warm current.
The lutes of the bards were torn to shreds by King Robert's crude laughter and the lords' loud toasts.
Stout warriors, bare-chested, embraced delicate prostitutes.
Lynn, holding a cup of ale, stood in the most inconspicuous corner of the hall.
The stone pillar behind him was cold, blocking out most of the heat.
Lynn watched the grand and hypocritical scene before him like a ghost, indifferent.
Ned Stark sat in the place of honor.
He drank cup after cup with Robert.
Only, the smile on his face was as stiff as a mask.
Lady Catelyn, meanwhile, mingled among the Southern noblewomen.
Her demeanor was impeccable, but the hint of worry deep in her eyes flickered in the candlelight.
Soon, Catelyn left; she needed to help Sansa tidy her appearance.
Tonight, Sansa would be the center of attention, and she didn't want those Southern noblewomen to laugh at her.
Lynn's gaze swept over the crowd.
He saw Jaime Lannister.
The Kingslayer was whispering something to his sister, Queen Cersei, drawing a charming chuckle from her.
Only, no one noticed.
Their beauty, in this chaotic environment, seemed so out of place, and so dangerous.
Lynn drained the ale in his cup.
The spicy liquid slid down his throat, but it couldn't dispel the chill in his heart.
He turned and left the clamor.
Passing through a corridor hung with antler chandeliers, the cold air outside cleared his muddled head considerably.
A suppressed, faint murmur of conversation came from a window ledge not far ahead.
It was Lady Catelyn and Sansa.
Sansa's voice held a trace of urgency, steeped in wine and fantasy.
Her sky-blue gown glowed softly in the moonlight, and her pretty face was filled with a maiden's longing for the future.
"Prince Joffrey is so handsome, so brave!"
"I will be his Queen!"
"When will we marry?"
"Now or later?"
Although he didn't see Lady Catelyn, Lynn could imagine the expression on her face at that moment.
Weariness, worry, and a touch of helplessness.
"Sansa, listen."
Catelyn's voice was soft, yet it carried an undeniable seriousness.
"Don't get excited; your father hasn't agreed yet."
Sansa asked, puzzled.
"Then why won't he agree?"
"He'll soon be the Hand, second only to the King."
At this, Sansa broke into an excited smile.
Catelyn's face was bitter.
"Then he'll have to leave his home."
"And he'll leave me."
"Of course, you'll also leave home."
Sansa's expression showed a hint of confusion.
"Didn't you also leave your home to come to Winterfell?"
"And I, one day, will become Queen."
Sansa suddenly turned her head.
"Please, make father agree!"
Catelyn wanted to say something more.
But she was interrupted by the eager Sansa.
"Please, marrying a prince is my lifelong wish."
Catelyn looked at her daughter's longing gaze, remained silent for a long time, and then slowly spoke.
"This isn't one of those songs sung by the bards of the North."
"Becoming a Queen isn't just about wearing pretty dresses and attending balls."
"You..."
"I understand!"
Sansa interrupted her mother, her voice rising slightly, tinged with the grievance of being misunderstood.
"I'll be a good Queen, just like Queen Nymeria in the myths!"
"I'll bear him golden-haired princes."
"Mother, please, make father agree quickly!"
"I don't want to stay in Winterfell anymore; it's cold and boring here!"
The maiden's plea, like a delicate needle, pricked Lady Catelyn's heart.
Lynn's face was devoid of expression.
He had no sympathy, nor contempt.
He merely watched, like the calmest chess player, as a piece destined to be sacrificed on the board gleefully walked into a trap.
Sansa's fate, from this moment on, was inextricably linked to that blood-stained Iron Throne.
And he was powerless to stop it, nor did he wish to.
Sansa had been blinded by power.
Ned Stark had to go South.
This was the King's command, a dear friend's request, and even more, a responsibility he, as Warden of the North, could not shirk.
Trying to stop Ned was like a mantis trying to stop a chariot.
Lynn's gaze pierced through the window, looking towards the depths of the courtyard.
There, an ancient, abandoned tower stood in the night.
Like a broken tusk.
A thought flashed through Lynn's mind.
If the inevitable tragedy could not be prevented.
Then, before the tragedy struck, he would seize the greatest benefit for himself!
Lynn silently retreated, melting back into the shadows, and left the corridor.
He didn't return to his room.
Instead, he crossed the bustling courtyard, heading towards the other side of the castle.
There, far from the lights of the main keep, only the torches of the patrolling Guards cast flickering patches of light in the darkness.
The air grew colder.
The wind carried the scent of ice and snow.
Lynn arrived beneath the abandoned tower.
The First Keep.
The oldest part of Winterfell.
He looked up, gazing at the crumbling walls.
He knew that soon, right here.
Bran Stark, the boy who loved to climb, would fall from a height.
He would see what he shouldn't see.
Jaime and Cersei's secret!
And this secret would be like a stone thrown into a lake, stirring up monstrous waves!
Save Bran.
As soon as this thought appeared, it took root frantically in Lynn's heart.
This wasn't out of any noble morality.
Lynn had no morals to speak of; he wasn't a pedantic Stark.
This would be a precise calculation.
What would a healthy, uninjured Bran Stark mean to House Stark?
What would he, who saved the Duke's second son at a critical moment, gain?
That would no longer be simple trust.
It would be a favor significant enough to change Lynn's destiny.
A bargaining chip that could truly free him from his prisoner status and secure him a place.
This was the first, and most crucial, chess piece he could place in this game of power.
Lynn wouldn't allow himself to miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
He had to act.
But not recklessly.
He couldn't just rush up and tell everyone there was a problem in the tower.
That would only get him labeled a madman.
He needed a perfect timing, an undeniable excuse.
A plausible reason that would allow him to appear at the 'scene of the incident' just at the right moment.
Lynn's gaze began to scan the surrounding environment.
Below the tower was a forgotten clearing.
Overgrown with weeds, scattered with some discarded stone materials.
It was very secluded here.
Almost no one would come by.
Except for... the boy who loved to climb everywhere.
And, of course, the incestuous siblings, Cersei and Jaime.
The corner of Lynn's mouth curved into a cold arc.
He needed to observe.
He needed to understand Bran's habits, his climbing routes, the times he usually frequented the area.
Starting tomorrow, this place would become his 'training ground'.
He would practice his sword here.
Day after day.
Until that day.
The boy, and the golden-haired siblings, appeared together in this tower.
Lynn withdrew his gaze, turned, and left.
His footsteps, firm and steady, echoed on the cold flagstones.
Behind him, the clamor of the feast had been carried away by the night wind.
Ahead, was boundless darkness.
But in Lynn's eyes, a flame called ambition burned.
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