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Dawn at Winterfell was a blade of ice.
The courtyard was a chaotic sea of men and horses, their breath mingling in great clouds of steam.
Two columns were forming.
One faced South, banners snapping in the wind. They surrounded the King and his new Hand, a glittering procession of power and pomp.
The other faced North. Smaller. Darker.
A hundred elite Stark cavalrymen sat their horses in grim silence. No banners. Just steel and fur.
Ned Stark, wrapped in heavy wolfskins, walked up to Lynn. The noise of the courtyard seemed to fade away.
"My Lord," Lynn said, his voice low. "Remember my words."
"You're the Hand of the King, but in King's Landing, you're naked. The Gold Cloaks serve the coin. The court serves the power."
"If you start asking questions now, you're sticking your head in a lion's mouth and hoping it won't bite."
Ned's face was etched with worry. He knew Lynn was right, but honor was a hard habit to break.
"So I do nothing?" Ned asked, frustration leaking into his voice. "I just wait?"
"You do nothing," Lynn confirmed. "Or rather, you do worse than nothing."
"Be the simple, honorable Northern fool they think you are. Let them underestimate you. Let them think you're blind."
"The more incompetent you seem, the more they'll relax."
"That's how you survive the Viper's Nest."
Ned took a deep breath. To play the fool went against every fiber of his being. But he looked over at Sansa, eyes shining as she watched Prince Joffrey. He looked at Arya, bouncing on her toes beside Lynn, Needle at her hip.
For them.
"I understand," Ned rasped. "I'll be... careful."
He gripped Lynn's shoulder, his hand heavy and warm.
"My daughter is in your hands. And Jon... his blood draws enemies. Watch over him."
"Bring Arya back to me."
"I swear it, My Lord," Lynn said.
A horn blasted.
"NED!" King Robert's voice boomed, impatient and hungover. "Get your arse in the saddle!"
Ned gave Lynn and Arya one last look. Then he turned and marched toward his fate.
Lynn watched the royal procession snake out of the gates, a long ribbon of color disappearing into the grey horizon.
He turned to his own party.
Jon Snow, silent and brooding. Benjen Stark, the First Ranger. Arya Stark, vibrating with energy. And an unexpected guest—Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, nursing a wineskin on a pony.
"Time to go," Lynn said.
"Finally!" Arya cheered. She scrambled onto her mare, looking like she was ready to conquer the world.
Lynn mounted his warhorse. Behind him, a hundred Stark soldiers mounted in unison. The sound of leather and steel was a satisfying crunch.
These men were his now.
"Ride!"
Lynn kicked his horse. The Northbound column moved out.
The Kingsroad stretched before them, a scar of mud cutting through the snow-covered wilderness. The trees stood like silent sentinels, their branches bare and black against the sky.
Arya was a whirlwind. She rode up and down the line, asking a thousand questions.
"Lynn, what's beyond the Wall?"
"Have you seen a giant?"
"Can we hunt a bear?"
Jon rode beside Lynn, his eyes fixed on the vanishing silhouette of Winterfell.
"Thinking about home?" Lynn asked.
Jon shook his head. "It's not my home. Not really."
"Lady Stark gave you a cold farewell?"
Jon looked down. "She didn't say a word. Just looked at me like I was a disease."
"The Wall doesn't care about your mother," Lynn said. "Or your father. The Watch is a brotherhood. You earn your place with steel, not blood."
Jon looked up, surprised.
"Tyrion was right," Lynn added, nodding toward the dwarf who was currently toasting the air with his wineskin. "Wear your bastard name like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."
Jon nodded slowly. The words hit harder now, out here in the open.
The sun began to dip, painting the snow in shades of purple and blue.
"Halt!" Lynn ordered. "We camp here."
They chose a sheltered hollow beneath a ridge. The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, tents rising and fires crackling within minutes.
Lynn sat by a fire, roasting a haunch of venison. The smell of searing meat and woodsmoke filled the air.
He handed a chunk to Arya. She tore into it like a starving wolf, grease running down her chin.
"By the Gods, Lynn!" she mumbled through a mouthful. "You cook better than the castle chef!"
Suddenly, the thud of hooves broke the rhythm of the camp.
A scout rode in from the darkness, pulling his horse up sharply before Lynn.
"My Lord."
The scout's face was grim.
"Five miles up the road. A caravan."
"Merchants?" Lynn asked, wiping his hands.
"Aye. But they're in trouble. Their wagons are stuck in the mud."
The scout hesitated.
"And there's blood. A lot of it. Looks like a slaughter."
Lynn stood up. The firelight danced in his eyes.
"Saddle up," he ordered, his voice cutting through the camp chatter.
"Looks like the North isn't as empty as we thought."
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