At last—after days of forging and sleepless effort—Lynn's work was complete.
Before him rested a hand-and-a-half sword, the first blade wholly his own.
Its length exceeded a standard knight's sword by several inches, balanced to match his reach and strength. Folding and hammering had given the blade a rippling pattern, like water under sunlight.
The crossguard was a simple design, carved into the abstract shape of a wolf's head — an homage to the North.
The leather-wrapped hilt fit perfectly in his palm, weight and balance meeting in quiet harmony.
Strength and precision, joined in one.
Mikken, the master smith, examined it with a craftsman's envy. "A fine sword, lad," he said proudly. "It suits you well."
Later that evening, a message summoned Lynn to Lord Eddard Stark's solar.
The light of the hearth painted a tired glow over the Lord of Winterfell's face. His expression was solemn, heavy with thoughts too great for rest.
"Lynn," he began slowly, "the king has asked me to ride south with him. To King's Landing. He wants me to serve as his Hand."
Lynn's heart sank. So it begins…
The wheel of fate had started to turn.
He knew what awaited Eddard Stark in the south — deceit, poison, and tragedy. If he wanted to change anything in this world, the moment was now.
He couldn't let the man who had sheltered him march willingly to his own death.
"This is a great honor, my lord," Lynn said carefully.
"Honor?" Ned gave a humorless laugh. "A golden cage, perhaps. The Starks have no roots in the south. Winterfell is my duty, not the court in King's Landing. And with winter coming, the North may need me more than Robert ever will."
He paused, the firelight flickering in his eyes. "The Wall has fewer than a thousand men. I fear the Night's Watch will not hold forever."
The two men spoke quietly for a while — of duty, the coming cold, and the uneasy silence from beyond the Wall.
But Ned hadn't brought him here for counsel, not really. The man just needed someone to listen.
When their conversation lulled, Stark said in passing, "Robert insists I go hunting with him tomorrow — down south of the keep. Says he wants to relive 'the good old days.'"
Hunting.
Lynn's mind went cold.
He remembered this moment from the story he once knew: the day Bran Stark discovered the queen and her brother in the old tower. The push, the fall, the boy's broken body — the beginning of the tragedy that shattered House Stark.
If fate had brought him here, perhaps this was his chance to change everything.
He was no longer content to be a mere "bodyguard" in Winterfell.
He had power — and foreknowledge. He could act.
Odin's words echoed faintly in his memory: Some things awaken because of you.
Then I'll choose what wakes, he thought grimly.
The Starks were honest. Straightforward. Loyal.
They were the allies he needed — and the family this dying world could not afford to lose.
---
When the hunting party rode out the next morning, Lynn did not accompany them.
He had a different hunt to attend.
Within Winterfell's stone walls, he moved with purpose. His name had been entered on guard duty for the youngest Stark, who had grown restless since the king's arrival.
Bran Stark had a climber's heart, and he had been seen near the ruined tower more than once. The perfect cover for Lynn's plan.
He reported to Lady Catelyn that he would personally keep an eye on the boy. She, tangled in the demands of the visiting southern ladies, gratefully agreed.
By midday, Lynn was already waiting at the tower's base. The wind swept through the old stones, carrying the faint murmur of voices above.
He'd tied a rope along the inner wall — a small precaution, a bridge against fate.
Then it happened.
A noise above — raised voices, muffled argument — then a child's frightened cry.
Lynn's eyes went wide. He dashed up the worn steps two at a time.
Through the half-open door, he caught sight of them: two figures locked in panic and scandal — Queen Cersei Lannister and her twin brother Jaime — and the terrified boy they'd cornered against the tower window.
Jaime's hand was on the boy's arm, ready to shove him into silence.
"Stop!"
Lynn's shout cracked through the room like thunder. The door slammed open.
Cersei gasped, startled beyond reason. For a moment, shame and rage warred in her eyes. She turned instinctively, clutching at the silk of her gown—too late.
The sunlight spilled across her like molten gold, outlining every cruel, divine curve.
If she was the queen of the Seven Kingdoms, then the gods themselves had sculpted her as a weapon. Beauty flecked with venom. Power borne of sin.
Even so, Lynn couldn't help but let out a breath. "Not bad," he said dryly. "I see why the Kingslayer risks royal scandal."
Cersei froze, her face twisting in fury.
Her body was no longer her armor — but her humiliation. Rage flickered like wildfire in her green eyes as she pulled the torn fabric against her skin.
Jaime stepped between them, his expression as sharp as his nickname. "You shouldn't have come here, boy."
Lynn smirked. "What were you planning? Toss the child out and hope no one asks why the queen's brother was the last face he saw?"
Jaime's jaw tightened.
"Do it," Lynn taunted. "Then tomorrow every tavern from Dorne to the Dreadfort will be singing about the Lions of Casterly Rock—their incest and their cowardice. The Kingslayer who kills children to hide his sister's sin. I wonder how that will sound to King Robert's ears?"
The words cut deep. Jaime faltered—just for a moment.
Cersei hissed, "Shut up, both of you!" She reached for the boy again—just as Bran slipped, his small hand missing hers.
The child screamed as his fingers lost their grip.
"Seven hells—!"
Without thinking, Lynn hurled himself forward, catching the rope he'd anchored earlier and diving through the window.
The air howled past his ears. The world tilted, spun—then weight and muscle collided as his fingers caught Bran's arm mid-fall.
The shock tore through his shoulders. The rope snapped taut, wrenching both of them sideways into the rough stone wall.
Pain exploded through his body, but he held fast.
For one excruciating heartbeat, everything stilled.
And in that frozen instant, Lynn felt it—an otherworldly chill, distant but aware.
A gaze colder than death itself, peering through the veil of time, watching him with quiet curiosity.
Then, like dawn breaking through darkness, the pain returned. The wind roared. Bran whimpered weakly in his grasp.
Lynn gritted his teeth, clutching the boy tighter against the wall.
"Got you," he rasped. "Not today."
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