The next few days at Winterfell were chaos—a rare, booming kind of chaos that filled every hall, field, and courtyard.
King Robert Baratheon was coming.
Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn had been in constant motion, overseeing hunts, feast preparations, and the endless stream of supplies being hauled through the gates. Nothing short of a royal spectacle would do.
Wagons clattered across the courtyard, heaped with barrels of wine, sacks of flour, and cuts of venison. There was beer from White Harbor, fruit from the Vale, and even a small caravan of painted courtesans trailing behind the royal train.
The North hadn't seen indulgence like this in a generation.
Eddard Stark himself had been forced to lead a hunting party into the Wolfswood just to keep up with the feast's demand for meat.
When the first horns sounded at the gate, the people of Winterfell gathered at the walls to watch.
The royal procession rolled through in a blaze of banners and metal—three hundred strong, a river of gold, silver, and steel. Banners rippled in the wind—the Baratheon crown-stag shining bright against the gray sky.
Lynn stood off to the side, among the guards at the gate, his eyes scanning the long column as it entered. He recognized them instantly:
The golden knight at the head of the guard—Jaime Lannister, his hair bright as sunlight.
The burned man in the hound-shaped helm—Sandor Clegane.
And trailing behind, small but impossible to miss, the imp himself—Tyrion Lannister, eyes sharp and amused.
Then came the King.
Robert Baratheon rode at the center of it all, a man so broad and heavy that his armor seemed ready to burst at the seams.
Once, so the stories said, he had been the North's favorite southerner—a towering warrior, strong, handsome, hammer in hand and fire in his heart.
Now the years and the throne had crushed that man.
Robert dismounted with a grunt and a burst of laughter, pulling Eddard into an embrace so fierce it drew startled glances from the guards.
"Ned!" he boomed, voice rolling through the courtyard like thunder. "Gods, it's good to see you! North of the Neck and still breathing—ha! A miracle!"
Eddard's answering smile was faint but real. "You look… well, old friend."
Robert laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "And you look frozen stiff, as always."
They studied each other quietly—two men who had shared wars, victories, and losses too deep for words.
Eddard saw at once how much his king had changed. The glorious young warrior of Rebellion's days had gone to seed. Beneath the beard and bluster was a man worn down by women, wine, and the weight of rule.
"Come," Robert said, still half-laughing. "Take me to your crypts, Ned. Let me pay my respects."
He started forward—but a cool, dissatisfied voice stopped him.
"Must we, dear husband?"
Queen Cersei Lannister appeared with a toss of her golden hair, eyes green and cold. "We've been riding a month. The dead will still be dead tomorrow."
Robert's expression darkened just slightly, a storm shadow across his easy smile. Jaime Lannister moved without a word, taking the queen's hand to still her temper before she could say more.
Robert grunted. "Later, then."
He turned back to Eddard, his mood already shifting again. "Come, my friend. Show me your North."
And just like that, the king and the lord of Winterfell walked together into the courtyard's light, leaving the Lannisters and their procession to scatter.
Inside the keep, servants scrambled to prepare rooms for the royal family and their retinue. Lady Catelyn directed the chaos, her voice steady, her eyes sharp.
Elsewhere in the courtyard, the Stark children romped through the snow, their direwolf pups tumbling around their boots.
Laughter and song drifted from the hall—drunken knights already beginning the feast ahead of schedule. The air reeked delightfully of roasting meat, spiced ale, and woodsmoke.
For most of Winterfell, it was a celebration.
For Lynn, it was an escape.
He found himself drawn to the forge, where the steady rhythm of hammer and flame drowned out the noise of the revelers.
The heat struck him as soon as he entered. Sparks flew like gold flecks in the air.
"Eh?"
Mikken, Winterfell's blacksmith, looked up from his work. His sweat-shined face broke into a grin when he saw who it was.
"Well, if it isn't the young dragon-slayer. The whole castle's half drunk, and yet you come here. What, don't fancy free ale and pretty company?"
Lynn smiled faintly, shaking his head. "Ale can wait. I heard you're one of the best smiths in the North, Master Mikken. I want to learn. To forge a real sword."
The smith blinked, startled. "Learn smithing? Boy, you've got odd hobbies for a warrior. Why in seven hells would you want that?"
"I've fought with many blades," Lynn said, his tone thoughtful. "But I want to understand one—from the first spark in the forge to the moment it draws blood. Knowing its birth might help me understand how to wield it properly."
Mikken's expression softened. He liked this strange young southerner with the calm eyes and the quiet voice.
"Well then," the man said, reaching for a glowing steel bar. "That's a fine answer. Come closer, and watch."
He held the metal over the roaring heart of the forge. "The first lesson's simple: temperature and patience. Too little fire, and it bends. Too much, and it cracks. Wait until the color turns like the edge of a sunset—but never, never let it go white."
When the hue was perfect, he pulled the steel from the heat and laid it on the anvil.
"Now the hammer," he said, swinging once, twice, rhythm crisp as a drum. "You don't beat the metal — you shape it. Beat out the impurities. Let the steel tell you when it's ready. You listen."
The sound filled the forge: clank… clank-clank… clank.
Lynn's keen eyes followed every strike, every angle, every tremor in the bar. His mind — and something deeper inside of him — seemed to sense the structure of the metal, the way the fire and hammer infused it with life.
Step by step, he watched Mikken turn chaos into perfection: tempering, quenching, polishing, fitting.
When the smith finally handed him the blade, it gleamed faintly red from the heat.
"Here," he said, proud. "A hand-and-a-half sword. Perfect balance between strength and grace. Give it a feel, lad."
Lynn took it reverently. The weapon fit his grip as if it had been waiting for him all along. He swung once—and felt the blade sing through air, smooth and responsive.
"Magnificent," he breathed.
Mikken chuckled. "Good arm. Now, let's see what you can make."
He shoved a new steel bar across the table.
It took hours—fire, hammer, sweat—but by evening, Lynn had shaped his first weapon. It wasn't flawless; the surface bore marks, the edge uneven. But it was his.
Mikken turned it in his hands, examining. "Huh. Not bad for a first try. A lesser smith'd call this good work."
Lynn smiled. "I'll keep improving."
"Keep that up, and I might just have to start charging the castle for your work," Mikken said, laughing.
From that day forward, whenever he wasn't training, Lynn spent his hours in the forge. The clang of steel and the hiss of quenching water became his rhythm.
The other smiths joked that Mikken had found an apprentice from another world — and perhaps, in a way, they weren't wrong.
For Lynn Auger, every hammer strike was something more: a conversation with fire, a communion with strength, and the slow, careful forging of destiny itself.