The tourney was close.
King's Landing swelled like a bloated corpse.
Knights from all Seven Kingdoms. Sellswords. Merchants. Gawkers. They poured into a city already bursting at the seams.
The air—already a cocktail of sea rot, shit, and cheap perfume—fermented under the southern sun. Got thicker. Fouler.
Lynn led Storm through the stinking streets.
The black Shire mare. His new companion.
He'd spent the last few days training. Getting used to the armor. The horse. This was his first time wandering the city.
Two figures trailed behind him.
Arya. Eyes bright. Fascinated by everything.
Sansa Stark. Blue dress. Prim. Uncomfortable. Her pretty face tight with unease.
Ned had found out about Arya's "dancing lessons." His solution? Force Sansa to chaperone her wild sister.
"Sisters should spend time together."
Translation: Use Sansa's ladylike behavior to rein in the feral child.
Arya thought it was stupid. Sansa hated it.
She'd rather be in the Red Keep doing needlework with her ladies. Not walking these filthy streets. Enduring the stares of commoners.
At least Lynn was with them.
With him around, they avoided most of the trouble.
A gilded carriage stopped at the corner.
The door opened. A blond boy in fine clothes jumped out.
Prince Joffrey.
He'd heard Sansa was out. Couldn't miss the chance to play hero.
Behind him: Sandor Clegane. The Hound. Built like a bull. Face like a nightmare.
"Sansa!"
Joffrey spotted her instantly. His face lit up.
Sansa's eyes sparkled. Her cheeks flushed. She lifted her skirts. Curtsied perfectly.
"Prince Joffrey."
Joffrey basked in the attention. Especially hers.
He reached for her hand—
A drunk stumbled into him. Clutching a wine jug. Didn't even see who he'd hit.
"Outta the way, boy!"
Slurred. Oblivious.
Joffrey's smile froze.
He'd never been shoved. Not once in his life.
Especially not in front of Sansa.
"Hound!"
His voice went cold.
Sandor didn't bother drawing his sword.
He stepped forward. Grabbed the drunk's head with one massive hand. Lifted him like a chicken.
Slammed him into the wall.
CRACK.
The sound silenced the crowd.
Blood streamed down the bricks. The drunk twitched twice. Went still.
"Ah!"
Sansa screamed. Short. Sharp. Her face went white.
She didn't like the drunk. But watching a man die like that—right there—made her stomach churn.
Arya's hand flew to the dagger Lynn had given her. Her face twisted with rage.
For bumping into him? He deserves to die for that?
He was drunk! At least wait until he's sober! At least give him a trial!
You can't just kill people in the street!
Joffrey looked pleased.
He glanced at Sansa's pale face. Didn't comfort her. This was his moment. Time to show his strength.
He walked to the corpse. Still twitching. Lifted his boot. Ground it into the bloody mess.
"That's what happens when you offend a prince."
He turned to Sansa. Smug.
"Don't be afraid, Sansa. I'm here. No one will hurt you."
Sansa stared at the red matter on his boot. Her stomach heaved.
It was cruel. Disgusting.
But he was the prince. Her future husband.
She had to support him.
She swallowed the bile. Forced a smile.
"You're... very brave, Your Grace."
Joffrey's smugness doubled.
He reached for her hand again—
THWIP.
A crossbow bolt screamed out of a second-story window across the street.
Aimed at Joffrey's back.
No warning. No time.
The crowd erupted in screams.
Sansa's pupils shrank. Her mind went blank.
Sandor spun. Tried to shield the prince with his body.
Too late.
The bolt was already past him.
Blood was about to spray—
A flash of steel.
Faster than human.
Lynn.
His body—already beyond normal limits. His mind—always alert.
The moment the bolt left the string, he moved.
Drew his sword.
Intercepted.
CLANG!
The bolt veered. Grazed Joffrey's cheek.
THUNK.
Buried itself in the wall behind him. The fletching still vibrating.
Joffrey hit the ground. Didn't move.
He'd just felt death brush past his face.
"ASSASSIN!"
"PROTECT THE PRINCE!"
Gold Cloaks swarmed. Drew swords. Panicked. Surrounded Joffrey and Sansa.
The Hound charged the building.
Lynn stood. Closed his eyes.
Greensight.
Activate.
The world blurred. Time rewound.
He needed an anchor.
The bolt. In the wall.
HUMMM—
His consciousness rode the bolt's trajectory backward.
He saw it.
Second-story room. A figure in black. Face covered. Fired the bolt. Dropped the crossbow. Jumped out the back window.
Lynn's mind didn't stop. Kept going.
Who hired you?
The vision jumped.
Last night. A dark alley in King's Landing.
The assassin knelt. A man with a goatee stood over him. Handed him a heavy purse. Gold dragons. His lips moved silently. Giving orders.
No sound. But Lynn saw the face.
A face he knew well.
Petyr Baelish.
Littlefinger.
Lynn's eyes snapped open.
Clever bastard.
Brilliant move.
Whether the bolt hit or not, chaos would follow.
If Joffrey died? Robert and the Lannisters would blame Ned Stark. The assassination happened right in front of his daughters.
If Joffrey lived? The Starks, Lannisters, and Baratheons would be at each other's throats.
And Littlefinger—Master of Coin—would profit from the chaos.
Poisonous.
Good thing Lynn's instincts had kicked in.
He needed stability right now. He couldn't afford variables.
He'd been careful with his mental energy. Saved it.
Littlefinger's last scheme had failed. Now he'd bared his fangs again.
"I... I'm fine..."
Joffrey climbed to his feet. Pale. Shaking.
He stared at the bolt in the wall. Then at Lynn.
His blue eyes—usually full of cruelty and arrogance—now held only gratitude. Almost worship.
"You! You saved me!"
He grabbed Lynn's arm. Frantic.
"You saved my life!"
Sansa came back to herself.
She looked at Joffrey—unharmed. Then at Lynn—standing tall as a pine.
The crow from the North. The man her father trusted. He'd saved her prince.
Like a hero from the songs.
A familiar figure pushed through the crowd.
Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger.
His expression was perfect.
Shock at the assassination attempt. Fury at the assassin. Concern for the prince.
Flawless performance.
"Seven save us! Prince Joffrey, are you hurt?"
Lynn looked at him. Face blank.
He could smell the cheap brothel perfume on the man.
"Father! I need to see my father!"
Joffrey finally found his voice.
He pointed at Lynn. Shouted at the Gold Cloaks.
"He saved my life! I want Father to reward him! I want him as my personal guard! I want him to be the most honored knight in the realm!"
The boy's voice echoed through the chaotic street.
Lynn looked down at Joffrey's flushed, excited face.
Then up. At Littlefinger. Wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. Looking relieved.
An idea formed in Lynn's mind.
You like games, Littlefinger?
You like targeting the Starks?
Fine.
I'm in.
Let's see how you look when your schemes become my stepping stones.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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