Before Marto the Bonebreaker ever stepped into the arena, he dreamed of glory.
He believed his massive frame and monstrous strength would earn him gold and fame. And in his first match, when his warhammer crushed an opponent's skull — when blood and bone exploded in front of the screaming crowd — he thought he'd found it.
But after a few fights, his employer told him not to win so easily.
"No suspense," they said. "No showmanship. People bet on you because they know you'll win — which means they stop spending on drinks, on food… on us."
So, for months, Marto had been forced to lose — to "sell" his fights and act weak so his owners could keep the crowd gambling.
It had gnawed at him. He wanted to fight for real. He wanted to kill again.
And now, finally, his master had given permission.
"Tomorrow, go all out," the man had said.
Tonight would be a real fight.
Marto charged across the arena, excited — thrilled, even. The crowd's roar thundered in his veins as he swung his warhammer, expecting the small black-haired man before him to crumble in one blow.
According to the plan, Lynn was supposed to panic, dodge poorly, and die with a convincing scream.
Everything was set — his own bet on himself, the audience following his lead, and Viserys's big gamble resting on his corpse.
But Lynn didn't dodge.
When the hammer came down, he moved.
He wasn't clumsy or desperate this time — his movements were sharp, measured, unnatural. The hammer slammed into sand where he had just been, the ground shaking from the impact.
And before the dust even settled, Lynn's short sword flashed like a serpent's strike — straight at Marto's heart.
Clang!
The sound cut through the arena like metal splitting bone. The shock of it made Lynn's arm tremble violently.
Up in the stands, Viserys went pale, spitting curses under his breath.
"That worthless beast! Why can't you just die when you're told?"
Meanwhile, Marto's employer smirked and leaned back in his seat.
"Your warrior," he said to Viserys with quiet amusement, "doesn't seem very obedient. But don't worry — I came prepared too."
Below them, Marto grinned through bloodstained teeth. He swung a massive fist that caught Lynn square in the chest, throwing him back into the wall like a rag doll.
Pain washed through Lynn's body — a brutal, rattling shock that left his lungs burning. He tasted iron as blood rose in his throat but forced it down.
Then he saw it — the glint of metal beneath torn leather.
"Steel armor," he realized grimly. His short sword couldn't pierce it.
"You move quick, little bug," Marto snarled, rolling his shoulders, "but it won't matter."
He charged again, warhammer swinging in wide, thunderous arcs. Each strike carried enough force to snap a man in half.
Viserys was on his feet now, screaming silently from the stands. His face twisted with rage, spittle flying as his fortune — and control — began to slip away.
"Kill him! Marto, crush him! Crush that filthy traitor!"
The crowd was in chaos — shouting, gambling, cheering. Sweat and blood made the pit slick, the air heavy.
Lynn's breathing slowed. Every nerve in his body felt raw, alive. Pain sharpened him, burned away hesitation.
Another hammer strike came down — and this time, he was already moving. He slid along Marto's side, so close he could smell the iron and sweat. As they crossed paths, Lynn's blade sliced for the inside of Marto's elbow — a weak point where armor joined flesh.
The edge bit through leather but stopped again with a dull scrape. Hidden metal. Another plating.
Marto roared and swung back in fury, barely missing Lynn's head. The next swing cut air where he'd been a heartbeat before.
"Come out and fight!" Marto bellowed, red-faced and gasping. His wild, wasted swings began to slow.
Every miss drained more of his strength. The crowd could sense it — each exchange pulling them tighter into the storm.
Lynn felt it too: the rhythm of the fight, the pulsing energy inside him, that old, searing power waking again in his blood.
Then he saw it — the opening.
When Marto raised the hammer high, his arm lifted, exposing one unprotected spot beneath the armpit.
Now.
"I'm not dying here," Lynn hissed.
Golden light flickered in his eyes. He lunged, ducking another blow and driving his sword up toward the gap.
Marto saw the motion too late. He tried to pull his arm down — but the hammer's weight slowed him.
Lynn's blade struck.
Thud — a perfect, sickening impact. The blade sank a third of the way in. Marto froze, eyes wide with disbelief.
Then Lynn kicked.
His boot caught the sword's hilt, driving it home — all the way to the guard.
Blood spurted. The giant's knees buckled. He toppled like a fallen tree, shaking the sand floor beneath him.
Silence.
The entire arena went still. Only the crackling of torches and the slow drip of blood filled the emptiness.
Lynn stood over the body, breathing hard, his face spattered with crimson.
In the seats above, Viserys's expression shattered. The joy drained from his face, replaced by horror, then fury.
"You— you traitor! How dare you—"
Lynn lifted his head and looked up at him.
The crowd melted away. The noise, the gamblers, the guards — none of it existed anymore.
Just that stare.
Cold. Defiant. Final.
It wasn't the gaze of a servant anymore — it was the gaze of a man free.
Lynn turned, grabbed a heavy pouch of winnings from the nearest betting table, and slipped it into his belt.
By the time Viserys's guards rushed the pit, he was gone — vanished into the chaos of the mob that had erupted into riotous cheers.
He found the shadows, moving fast through the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the arena. Behind him, he could hear shouts — Viserys's voice shrieking orders, men scrambling after him. But Lynn never slowed.
He burst into the streets of Pentos, kept to the narrow lanes, and disappeared into the docks as dawn crept over the sea.
There, amid crates and shouting sailors, he handed over every last coin he'd earned to a grizzled merchant in exchange for passage on a small, weather-worn supply ship.
The vessel groaned as it prepared to launch.
Lynn clutched the railing, breathing hard, watching the city lights fade in the distance. Somewhere among them, a silver-haired girl held a small pouch and a spark of faith he'd lit within her.
The ship turned toward the open sea. Toward the west.
Toward Westeros.
And on the horizon — the frozen edge of the world, beyond the Wall.