"It should be held by someone who can make it shine again."
Mormont extended both hands.
Solemnly, he lifted the longsword from the chest.
Step by step, he walked toward Lynn.
"Lynn."
"This sword is yours."
Lynn's heart slammed against his ribs like a war drum.
Here it is.
The Valyrian steel blade he'd dreamed of.
"Lord Commander, this... this is too much."
"It's your family's heirloom. I'm just an outsider. A Night's Watchman. I can't—"
"Family heirloom?!"
Mormont's roar cut through Lynn's protest.
"My family was shamed the moment my son fled!"
The Old Bear's eyes bulged. That iron presence—the authority of a Lord Commander—surged forth.
"I said it's yours!"
"This isn't a reward. It's not a transaction!"
"This is an old man thanking the person who saved his life!"
"And a Lord Commander placing his faith in his finest warrior!"
"Take it!"
Mormont shoved the sword into Lynn's hands.
Cold. Heavy. The weight pressed into his palm.
Like gripping winter itself.
With this blade, the next wight won't stand a chance. One swing. Cut clean in half.
"Lord Commander, I—"
"Say 'no' one more time and I'll throw you off the Wall myself!"
Mormont glared, impatient.
He looked at Lynn. Paused. Then added:
"But the pommel. That bear's head is House Mormont's sigil."
"Doesn't suit you."
Mormont rummaged in his cloak and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth.
He unwrapped it. Inside was a wolf's head carved from pale weirwood.
Lifelike. Fierce.
Two red garnets were set into the eye sockets, glinting like fresh blood in the light.
"I had Maester Aemon commission this overnight."
"You saved a Stark boy. You serve the Starks now. You're half a Stark yourself."
"Swap it out."
"A direwolf. Fitting."
Mormont placed the wolf's head into Lynn's palm.
Lynn stared at the weirwood carving. Then at Mormont's weathered face, lined with sincerity.
He understood.
This old man truly saw him as hope.
As someone worthy of inheriting everything.
That trust—heavy, unspoken—was worth more than the Valyrian steel itself.
"I..."
Words caught in Lynn's throat. A thousand things to say, but only two came out.
"Thank you."
He'd treated everyone in this world like NPCs.
Treasures were loot. Skills were upgrades. Tools for leveling up.
But now, holding this sword, the thrill faded.
He felt the weight behind it.
Responsibility.
Lynn didn't refuse again. He pocketed the wolf's head carefully.
Then he bowed. Deep.
"Lord Commander. I promise you."
"This sword will never be shamed in my hands."
"I'll use it to bring the dawn. For the Night's Watch. For the North."
Mormont looked at him. Nodded. Satisfied.
"Good. Good."
He clapped Lynn's shoulder—hard—then turned and strode from the room without looking back.
That hunched, aging frame somehow seemed towering.
The next day at noon, the mess hall at Castle Black buzzed with rare energy.
Last night's terror still clung to the air, but the living had to eat.
Night's Watchmen clustered in small groups, gnawing on hard black bread and muttering about what had happened.
"You hear? Othor's corpse came back to life. Right in the Lord Commander's quarters."
"Of course I heard! I was outside! Sounded like they were tearing the place apart!"
"Then what? What happened?"
"Lynn! That Lynn burst in! And Jon—the bastard!"
"I heard the thing was unstoppable. Lynn killed it with one stab. One dagger!"
"Seriously? That strong?"
"Swear it! And then Maester Aemon's chambers caught fire. Jafer's body came back too. Lynn's men burned it alive!"
The whispers swirled—awe, fear, curiosity—all aimed at Lynn.
The man who'd once been a deserter was now a legend overnight.
Alliser Thorne sat alone in the corner.
Face dark. Silent.
He could feel it. The men who once groveled before him now looked at him with distance. Disdain, even.
And then Lynn walked into the hall.
The room fell silent.
Every eye turned toward him.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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