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Lynn sheathed his dagger.
Warm blood flecked his hand. He didn't flinch. He wiped it casually on a corpse's tunic.
The camp smelled of copper, burnt flesh, and pine.
The Stark soldiers had cut the survivors loose. The merchants huddled together, shivering from cold and shock. They looked at the bodies, then at Lynn, with eyes wide with awe and terror.
The fat merchant Lynn had saved earlier dragged his broken leg forward.
"My Lord!"
He wept, pressing his forehead into the bloody mud.
"You saved us! My life, everything... it's yours!"
He fumbled a heavy purse from his robes and held it up like an offering to a god.
"My life savings. Please, take it!"
Lynn's eyes flicked over the gold, then back to the man's desperate face.
"I accept your gratitude," Lynn said, his voice flat.
He ignored the purse. He turned to Torren.
"Calculate their losses. Compensate them from the bandits' loot. Anything left over goes to the company fund."
The merchants gaped. Torren blinked, then snapped to attention.
"Yes, My Lord!"
Lynn bent down and hauled the fat merchant to his feet.
"Under the Stark banner, no one preys on the innocent. Clearing the filth is our duty."
He turned and walked away without looking back.
Jon Snow followed silently. He watched Lynn's black cloak snap in the wind. For the first time, he didn't just see a deserter or a schemer. He saw a leader.
Dawn was breaking when they returned to camp.
Arya was the first to spot them. She sprinted from her tent, eyes scanning the rescued merchants and the extra wagons.
"Lynn!"
She ran to his horse, practically vibrating.
"Did you save them? Did you get the bad guys? Did you kill them all?"
Lynn dismounted and ruffled her hair.
"Yes. Problem solved."
Arya beamed. To her, this was a storybook come to life. The hero rode out, killed the monsters, and saved the day.
Jon approached. He saw the easy way Lynn handled Arya. He wanted to say something, to bridge the gap, but the words stuck in his throat. He and Lynn were both outsiders, in a way. He hoped Lynn would keep rising.
"Impressive."
A voice dripped with sarcasm.
Tyrion Lannister waddled out of his tent, wine cup in hand. His shadow stretched long in the morning light.
"A classic Northern justice, I hear. Swift. Brutal. Final."
Tyrion looked up at Lynn, his mismatched eyes gleaming with intelligence.
"But I'm curious. Why the personal touch? Why kill them one by one yourself? Surely your men could've handled the... cleanup?"
Lynn met Tyrion's gaze.
"In the North, the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."
Tyrion chuckled. "Ned Stark's way. I know it. But you're not a Lord, Lynn. You're... a soldier."
He took a sip of wine.
"Was it to frighten your men? Or did you just... enjoy it?"
Lynn didn't answer. He just stared at the dwarf.
Silence stretched.
Tyrion shrugged, breaking the stare first. "Fine. Keep your secrets. A puzzle's only fun if it takes time to solve."
He waddled back to his tent.
Night fell again.
The campfires crackled. The merchants were praying for their dead. Lynn planned to escort them to the nearest holdfast. It was good PR. Rumors traveled faster than ravens.
Lynn found Benjen Stark by a fire.
The First Ranger was polishing his longbow. It was yew, old and scarred, just like its owner.
"Lord Benjen," Lynn said, sitting opposite him.
Benjen looked up. "Lynn."
"Teach me archery."
Benjen paused. He studied Lynn.
"The sword's a knight's weapon. The bow's a Ranger's tool."
"But," Benjen continued, "you've got the eye for it. I saw you in the fight. You're calm."
He stood up and nocked an arrow. He didn't aim at anything in particular. He just drew.
The wood creaked. His arm was rock steady.
"Shoulder. Arm. Back. One line," Benjen instructed. "Draw with your back, not your bicep. Feel the power rise from the earth into your fingers."
Thwip.
The arrow vanished into the dark.
Lynn picked up a spare bow. He mimicked the stance.
Draw. Release. Draw. Release.
Archery wasn't for the weak. It required immense strength to pull a war bow repeatedly.
Sweat beaded on Lynn's forehead. His muscles burned. But he focused on the mechanics, on Benjen's voice.
[Through diligent practice and expert guidance...]
[New Skill Unlocked: Archery (Novice) 1/10]
Lynn smiled faintly.
Got it.
But it wasn't enough. Jon's swordplay was redundant. The guards were average. He needed more. He needed the Wall.
The next day, the column pushed North.
The Kingsroad was a grey scar on the white world.
At noon, a scout galloped back.
"My Lord! Riders ahead! Black banners!"
Benjen frowned and spurred his horse. Lynn followed.
A group of thirty men appeared on the horizon. Dust-caked, weary, dressed in black.
"Yoren!" Benjen shouted.
The leader, a hunched, grizzled man, looked up. His face split into a rotten-toothed grin.
"Benjen Stark!"
They met in the middle of the road. Yoren slid off his horse and embraced the First Ranger.
"Thought you'd be freezing your balls off at Castle Black by now."
Yoren was a Wandering Crow, a recruiter for the Watch. He scraped the dungeons of King's Landing for fresh meat.
"Escorting my nephew," Benjen said, pointing to Jon.
Yoren eyed Jon, then his gaze drifted to Lynn, Arya, and the hundred armored Stark soldiers.
"And this?" Yoren asked, confused.
His eyes lingered on Lynn. He recognized the face. The deserter. Or so the stories went.
"Lord Stark's Hand of the King now," Benjen explained. "This is his daughter's guard. And Lynn commands them."
Yoren spat on the ground.
"A deserter commanding a Lord's guard? The world's gone mad."
But he didn't reach for his sword. Not with a hundred Stark men watching.
"Well," Yoren grunted. "Road's safer with more steel. We'll ride with you."
Lynn watched the new arrivals.
Among the recruits, he spotted a few familiar faces.
A bull-headed boy with thick black hair. Gendry. Robert's bastard.
And a slender, pretty boy who looked too soft for the Wall. Or maybe... a girl?
Interesting, Lynn thought. The cast's assembling.
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