King Robert's promise spread through the Red Keep like wildfire.
A crow from the Wall—granted royal permission to enter the Hand's Tournament. Worse, allowed free access to the armory and stables to choose the finest equipment.
The knights and squires sneered.
A crow? Grasping at knightly glory?
A joke. Nothing more.
Lynn didn't hear them. Or didn't care.
The Red Keep's armory lay beneath Maegor's Holdfast.
The air reeked of whetstone and oil. Rows of steel gleamed in the torchlight—the finest arms the realm had seen since the Targaryen conquest.
The keeper was a smith named Donal. Face like crumpled leather. Arms thick as a normal man's thighs. Rumor said he'd forged armor for Prince Rhaegar once.
Lynn handed over the letter. Ned Stark's signature, clear as day.
Donal didn't even look. Just snorted. Sized Lynn up with rheumy eyes.
"You're the crow?"
He spat on the floor.
"King's taste gets stranger every year."
Lynn's voice stayed flat. "I need full plate for the joust. Light armor for melee."
"The plate needs to be solid. Joints flexible—especially wrists and waist. I don't want to be strangled by my own shell when I charge."
"The light armor, as light as possible. Breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, greaves. Mail underneath. That's it. Protection, not burden."
Donal's sneer faded.
Those eyes sharpened.
This crow knows his steel.
The demands were precise. Brutal. The words of someone who'd actually bled, not some tourney peacock who wore armor like jewelry.
"Follow me."
They walked deeper into the armory.
Plate after plate hung in the shadows. Each had belonged to a knight whose name once meant something.
Lynn's gaze swept past the ornate pieces—the engraved crests, the gilded nonsense—and stopped on a suit of black plate.
No decoration. Just clean lines. Cold. Hard. Built for killing.
"Good eye."
Donal's voice carried approval for the first time.
"Fits your frame, too. Just needs some padding inside."
"King's Landing steel. Forged to mimic Valyrian techniques. Shame nobody knows the fire magic anymore. Or has dragonflame. Would've made it even better."
"But as it is? This is as good as it gets."
Lynn stepped forward. Tapped the breastplate with one knuckle.
THUD.
Heavy. Solid.
"I'll take it."
Donal nodded. "I'll adjust the fit."
A small head poked out from behind a weapon rack.
Arya.
She'd ditched her needlework lesson the second she heard Lynn was in the armory. Her eyes were huge.
Lynn had sensed her the moment she'd snuck in. He didn't say anything.
He picked up a practice sword. Flicked his wrist.
CLANG.
The wooden blade's tip struck the vambrace of a nearby suit of armor. Light touch. The whole arm shook.
Arya's mouth fell open.
Syrio had taught her that move. Wrist control. Precision.
But Syrio used a light rapier. Lynn was holding a wooden longsword.
"Seen enough, little troublemaker?"
Lynn's voice carried a smile.
Arya stuck out her tongue. Ran out from behind the rack. Her grey eyes sparkled.
"Lynn! You're really entering the tourney?"
"Yes."
"The joust?"
"Yes."
"Will you win? Will you beat the Knight of Flowers? And the Kingslayer?"
Her voice bubbled with excitement. Like she was the one about to ride.
Lynn smiled. Didn't answer.
He crouched down. Met her eyes.
"What did your dancing master teach you?"
Arya straightened. Mimicked Syrio's accent. "See with your eyes. Calm as still water. Quick as a deer."
"He left out the most important part."
"What?"
Lynn tapped his temple. Then hers.
"This. This is your strongest weapon."
He stood. Unhooked a small sheath from his belt. Handed it to her.
A dragonbone dagger. Shorter than Needle. Thinner. Black as night. Sharp as winter.
Valyrian steel. He'd carried it since the Wall.
"Borrow it."
Arya's breath caught.
She took the dagger like it was made of glass. Drew it. The blade sang in the firelight.
"I..."
She looked up. Wanted to say something. Couldn't find the words.
"Remember."
Lynn ruffled her hair.
"If something happens to me, go back North. King's Landing isn't safe."
"This blade's easier to hide. Might save your life when it counts."
He turned away. Followed Donal toward the light armor section.
Arya stood frozen. The cold steel burned in her palm.
Even now—before the tourney—he was thinking of her.
Her chest felt warm.
Next: the royal stables.
The stablemaster had his orders. He'd lined up the best warhorses in the realm.
A snow-white Arabian. Elegant. Fast.
An Andalusian stallion. Muscle like coiled rope. Endurance for days.
A Dornish sand steed. Built for speed.
Each worth a fortune.
Lynn's eyes went to the corner.
A black mare. Penned alone.
A Shire mare. Pure black. Massive—bigger than any warhorse here. Legs like tree trunks. Muscles bunched under her coat. She looked like a black bull.
She pawed the ground. Snorted hot breath. Her black eyes burned with wildness.
"My lord, Storm's too wild. She's thrown half a dozen knights. Injured them. And as a warhorse, she's... not ideal."
The stablemaster's tone was apologetic.
Lynn ignored him. Walked straight toward the pen.
He wanted this mare. The one nobody believed in.
He had plenty of other choices. Better choices. Horses bred for war.
But he wanted Storm.
The mare sensed him. Reared up. Shrieked. Front hooves lashed out.
The grooms scrambled back.
Lynn didn't blink.
He just stood there. Locked eyes with the beast.
Storm's hooves hung in the air.
The fury in her eyes flickered. Faded.
Confusion. Then submission.
She lowered her hooves. Bowed her proud head. Nuzzled his palm.
The stable went silent.
Everyone stared like they'd just watched a man tame a dragon.
"This one."
Lynn swung into the saddle. Smooth. Easy.
Black horse. Black armor. Black sword.
Man and beast, one shadow.
He rode Storm out of the stables.
This Shire mare was different. Her speed—usually a weakness—was almost matched by raw power. Lynn could feel it. She could carry heavy plate without slowing.
He met them at the gate.
Jaime Lannister. Loras Tyrell. Beric Dondarrion trailing behind.
The Kingslayer and the Knight of Flowers. The two brightest stars in the Seven Kingdoms, walking side by side.
Their smiles dimmed when they saw Lynn.
Loras looked curious. Appraising.
Jaime's gaze was more complicated. Searching.
He remembered Lynn. Their meeting at Winterfell.
He hadn't expected the crow to rise this fast.
Petyr Baelish rushed past toward the stables. Didn't even glance at Lynn. Like he had urgent business.
Lynn didn't acknowledge Jaime or Loras.
But he watched Littlefinger. His eyes gleamed with amusement.
Then he rode past them.
For a moment, as the horses crossed paths, Lynn felt their stares on his back.
Sharp as swords.
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