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Lynn watched her go.
He had gambled. And he had won.
That promise from Catelyn Stark was worth more than a vault of gold dragons.
"My Lady," Lynn had said, his voice a whisper. "I ask for nothing. To serve House Stark is my duty."
Catelyn had frozen. She hadn't expected that. In a world of mercenaries and climbers, selflessness was a rare coin. She looked at Lynn's calm eyes in the candlelight, and her respect deepened into something solid.
"Rest assured," she said, straightening her back. "Ned will see you rewarded fairly. Rest now. If you need anything, command the servants."
She gave him one last, lingering look of gratitude, then turned and left.
The door clicked shut.
Lynn let out a long, slow breath. His muscles, coiled tight as a spring, finally relaxed.
Success.
He had secured the trust of House Stark. Specifically, the trust of the mother.
This was the keystone of his plan.
He needed the world to know he was the Starks' savior. It was political armor. If the Starks ever decided to turn on him later, they would have to weigh the cost of betraying their own hero. In the North, honor was currency. To bankrupt that honor was social suicide.
But Lynn didn't get time to enjoy his victory.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Heavy. Authoritative. Not a servant's knock.
"Enter," Lynn said.
The door pushed open.
Gold spilled into the room.
Jaime Lannister walked in like he owned the castle. His armor was polished to a mirror sheen, untouched by the grime of travel or the blood of battle.
A smirk played on his handsome face—a mix of amusement and cruelty.
He closed the door with a casual flick of his wrist and walked to the bedside. He looked down at Lynn, his green eyes scanning him like a horse trader inspecting a lame mare.
"I've heard the tales," Jaime said. His voice was rich, magnetic, and utterly insincere. "Caught a falling boy with your bare hands. Truly... heroic."
"You must be Ser Jaime," Lynn said calmly.
Jaime's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Then it widened, becoming sharper. Dangerous.
"You know me."
"What are you doing here?" Lynn asked, ignoring the implied threat.
"Visiting the hero of Winterfell, of course."
Jaime pulled up the chair Maester Luwin had vacated and sat down. He crossed his legs, leaning forward slightly. The lion closing in on the prey.
"I'm curious," Jaime said softly. "Why were you at the Broken Tower? It's a ruin. Abandoned."
His eyes bored into Lynn's. He was peeling back the layers, looking for a lie, looking for fear. He wanted to know what Lynn had seen.
Lynn didn't flinch. He didn't need to.
"I like the quiet," Lynn said. His voice was muffled by the pillows, but steady. "It's remote. No one bothers me there. Good place to train."
Simple. Direct. Unbreakable.
Jaime's smile didn't waver, but the scrutiny in his eyes intensified.
"Training?" Jaime dragged the word out, mocking it. "A young man, alone in a ruin? Most men your age would be in a brothel, sharpening their spear in a warmer sheath. But you... you chose the cold wind and a heavy sword. How... diligent."
Lynn shifted his gaze from Jaime's face to the pristine golden armor.
"In the North," Lynn said, "laziness is a death sentence."
He stated it like a fact of nature. Like saying snow is cold.
Jaime's smile faded a notch.
He searched Lynn's eyes for fear. He found none. Only a stillness like a frozen lake.
It annoyed him. It was like punching smoke.
Jaime dropped the interrogation. He knew he wouldn't get a confession today. Lynn's alibi was ironclad.
His eyes drifted to the head of the bed.
Lynn's sword lay there.
It was a standard-issue blade. The grip was worn smooth by use, the scabbard scratched.
Jaime stood. He reached out and took the sword.
It looked like a toy in his golden gauntlet.
SHING.
Jaime drew the blade. The steel hissed against the leather. It caught the candlelight, gleaming cold and sharp.
He flicked the flat of the blade with a fingernail.
PING.
A clear, high ring.
"Decent steel," Jaime mused. "The Northern smiths haven't lost their touch."
He turned the point toward Lynn. The playful look was gone.
"Ever used it on a man?"
Lynn didn't blink.
"I have."
"Many?"
"Enough." Lynn's smile was faint. "They wanted to kill me. So I killed them."
Jaime chuckled. A dark, dry sound.
He slid the sword back into its sheath and tossed it onto the bed.
"My first kill was at fifteen," Jaime said, his voice conversational. "An outlaw on the Kingsroad. He tried to take my horse."
Jaime looked at his hands—strong, clean, deadly.
"I put my sword through his throat. His blood sprayed all over me. Warm. Salty."
"I vomited all night," Jaime continued, looking back at Lynn. "I thought I'd never forget his face."
He paused.
"But I have. Can't remember him at all. I've killed too many since then. Battlefields. Tourneys. Alleys."
"Killing... it's like breathing to me now."
Jaime leaned over the bed, looming over the injured man.
"Men are just sacks of meat, Lynn. You poke a hole in them, and the life leaks out. Not hard to kill."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"The hard part is making people believe it was necessary. The easiest way? Make sure they draw their sword first."
Lynn almost laughed.
It wasn't a story. It was a warning.
Jaime Lannister was telling him: I am a butcher. Cross me, expose me, and I will end you.
He was saying that if Lynn became a problem, Jaime would claim self-defense and cut him down without losing a wink of sleep.
Don't worry, Kingslayer, Lynn thought. As long as you don't draw on me, you get to keep your head.
Jaime straightened. The mask of the arrogant knight slid back into place. Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room.
The door hadn't been closed for ten seconds before a shadow fell across the threshold again.
An elegant figure stood in the doorway.
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