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The tower smelled of dust and forbidden lust.
Cersei leaned against the cold stone, her golden hair a tangled halo across her shoulders. Her gown was bunched at her waist, a ruin of silk and velvet.
Jaime Lannister didn't make love. He conquered. His hands roamed her pale skin, rough calluses against royal softness.
"Faster, Jaime," Cersei hissed, her voice tight with pleasure and panic. "If we're found..."
"No one will find us."
Jaime lifted his head. Sweat slicked his handsome face. He silenced her protests with a kiss that tasted of wine and arrogance.
Outside, the wind howled.
Bran's fingers ached. The climb had been harder than usual, but curiosity was a powerful itch. He hooked his small hands over the window ledge and hauled himself up.
He looked inside.
He saw the Queen.
He saw the Kingslayer.
Bran's eyes went wide. They were wrestling? No. Hugging?
Cersei's eyes snapped open. She saw the face in the window.
"Stop!"
Jaime froze. He followed her gaze, his neck snapping around.
Gray eyes met emerald green. Shock met cold fury.
"The Seven Hells," Jaime muttered, his passion instantly replaced by a soldier's calculation. "How did the boy get up here?"
Cersei scrambled back into the shadows, frantically smoothing her skirts. "He saw us! Jaime! He saw!"
Jaime moved with the speed of a striking viper.
He crossed the room in two strides and looked down at the small figure clinging to the stone, shivering in the wind.
"You've got a good grip, lad," Jaime said, his voice conversational, terrifyingly calm. "How old are you?"
Bran's teeth chattered. "Ten... I'm ten."
Jaime's eyes narrowed. Ten was old enough. Old enough to know. Old enough to talk.
"What did you see?"
Bran opened his mouth, but fear stole his voice. He wanted to back away, but behind him was nothing but a hundred-foot drop.
Jaime glanced at the distant hunting party on the horizon, then back at the boy. The wind whipped his golden hair.
"I think you know exactly what you saw."
Jaime straightened. He looked back at Cersei, who was trembling in the dark. He sighed, a sound of genuine regret.
"The things I do for love."
He shoved.
"NO!"
Bran's scream tore through the silence of the Broken Tower. He tipped backward, flailing, plummeting into the void.
Below.
Now.
Lynn had the trajectory mapped in his mind before the scream even started.
The moment the boy fell, Lynn dropped his practice sword. He didn't run. He exploded into motion.
Bran was a ragdoll in the air, tumbling, the crows above scattering in a black cloud.
Lynn could have caught him with his hands. Cleanly. Safely.
But that wasn't the play.
He didn't just need to save the boy. He needed the Starks to bleed with gratitude. He needed a spectacle.
Lynn launched himself off the ground, throwing his body into the boy's path like a human shield.
THUD.
Meat hit meat. Bone hit bone.
Bran slammed into Lynn's shoulder and back.
The impact was heavy, knocking the wind out of him, but his conditioning held. They hit the gravel together, rolling in a tangle of limbs and dust.
Summer, Bran's direwolf, howled—a sound of pure anguish—and circled them frantically.
Lynn checked Bran instantly. Alive. Broken, but alive.
Then he checked himself.
Damn it. Nothing broken. Just bruises.
Not good enough.
Lynn gritted his teeth. He scrambled up, grabbed Bran, and staggered back. He needed to sell this.
He threw himself backward, slamming his spine into the rough stone of the tower base.
CRACK.
Pain exploded up his back. Numbing, white-hot pain.
Perfect.
Now half his body felt like it was packed in ice. He slumped down, gasping, turning to the boy in his arms.
Bran's eyes were closed. His face was the color of old milk. His legs and left arm were twisted at sickening angles.
But his chest rose and fell. Shallow. Weak. But there.
Lynn let out a ragged breath. "Help!" he roared, his voice raw. "Someone help! It's Bran!"
The castle woke up. Guards, servants, stable boys—they came running like ants to spilled honey.
High above, Jaime watched the dust settle.
He saw the black-clad figure rise, stumble, and fall again.
"Is he dead?" Cersei whispered, peering over the ledge.
"No." Jaime's jaw tightened. "Someone caught him."
"Who?"
"A Crow. A man in black." Jaime stepped back, his face darkening.
"We have to go," Cersei hissed.
"No." Jaime's hand went to his dagger. "I should go down there. Finish them both."
"Are you mad?" Cersei grabbed his arm, her nails digging in. "A fall is an accident! If they find a throat slit, it's murder! That is Ned Stark's son!"
Jaime looked down. The courtyard was filling up. Lynn's shouts had drawn a crowd. Too many eyes.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. The window of opportunity had closed.
"Deny everything," Jaime said, turning away from the window. "We were never here."
Lynn watched the figures blurring in his vision. The pain in his back was a dull, throbbing bass drum.
Job done.
He let the darkness take him.
He woke to the sound of a crow cawing.
Caw. Caw. Caw.
Annoying.
Lynn opened his eyes. The sound vanished.
Oak beams above. The smell of sour poultice and burning herbs.
"You're awake."
Maester Luwin sat by the bed, a heavy book in his lap. He closed it with a soft thump.
Lynn tried to sit up.
AGONY.
It felt like a hot iron rod had been inserted into his spine. He collapsed back onto the pillows, groaning.
"Don't move," Luwin said, his voice stern but kind. He stood and adjusted Lynn's blanket. "Your spine took a massive impact. No fractures, by the grace of the gods, but the bruising is severe. You're bedbound for days."
Lynn rasped, his throat dry. "Bran... How is the boy?"
Luwin's face fell. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened.
"Alive. A miracle, truly." The Maester sighed. "But he hasn't woken. His legs... his arm... they're broken. If you hadn't cushioned his fall, he'd be with his ancestors now."
Lynn closed his eyes.
"The King and Lord Stark are returning," Luwin continued. "Winterfell is in chaos. Lady Stark is..."
The door creaked open.
Catelyn Stark entered.
She looked like a ghost. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen from hours of weeping. Her auburn hair, usually immaculate, was fraying at the edges.
She hadn't slept.
Luwin bowed low and slipped out of the room, closing the door with a soft click.
Silence stretched between them.
Catelyn walked to the bedside. She looked down at Lynn, her blue eyes swimming with a storm of emotions. Grief. Fear. And overwhelming gratitude.
She bowed deeply.
Lynn's heart skipped a beat. "My Lady, please! You shouldn't—"
She didn't stop. Tears finally spilled over, tracking through the dust on her cheeks.
"Thank you."
Her voice broke.
"Thank you for saving my boy." She covered her mouth, stifling a sob. "If not for you..."
"My Lady," Lynn said, keeping his voice low, mystical. "I pay a price to see what others cannot. I felt the shadow looming over the tower."
He looked her in the eye.
"I was too late to stop the climb. But I was in time for the fall."
Catelyn shook her head vigorously. "No. Don't diminish this. Not everyone has the courage to catch a falling stone."
She wiped her face, composing herself with the iron will of a Tully.
"Lynn."
"House Stark owes you a life."
She stepped closer, her presence filling the room.
"I swear by the Seven and the Old Gods. As long as I draw breath, House Stark is your shield."
"What do you desire?" She asked, her voice trembling with intensity. "Gold? A title? Honor? Name it. If it's in my power, it's yours."
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