Once Arya opened the floodgates, there was no stopping it.
Word spread through Winterfell faster than wildfire: the mysterious foreigner Lynn Auger had forged a light, elegant sword for the little wolf girl.
Before long, another visitor appeared at the forge — one Lynn hadn't expected.
Lady Sansa Stark.
She stood at the doorway in a gown of deep blue velvet, her hair brushed and gleaming like polished copper, her brows drawn slightly together as if regretting every breath of smoky air.
For a moment, she simply hesitated at the entrance, unsure how to begin. Then the door creaked open.
Lynn stepped out, shirtless, sweat still glistening on his skin after hours at the furnace.
Sunlight spilled across the forge, tracing every hardened line of his body, every scar earned in silence.
For a heartbeat, Sansa forgot herself. The image of the flawless, courtly princes she'd dreamt of suddenly faltered — replaced by something rougher, realer, and dangerous.
Lynn blinked, surprised. "Lady Sansa?" he asked quickly, reaching for his shirt and pulling it on.
"I—apologies," she stammered, face burning. But she straightened almost instantly, voice regaining the measured grace her septa had drilled into her.
"Lynn," she said coolly, "I've seen what you've done for Arya, for Robb, even Jon Snow. Surely, as a daughter of House Stark, I deserve something as well."
Lynn froze halfway through buttoning his tunic. "Something… as in?"
"A weapon," Sansa said matter-of-factly. "If Arya can have one, then I should too."
He rubbed the back of his neck, already sensing trouble. "My lady, weapons aren't fitting gifts for someone of your station."
Sansa's eyes narrowed. "And why not?" she countered sharply. "Do you think I'm less capable than my sister? Or do you simply think I'm not worthy of one of your creations?"
She stepped closer, her voice low, her tone laced with the same quiet blade her mother sometimes used. "If Father were to hear you were forging weapons in secret for his daughters, what do you suppose he'd say?"
Lynn sighed inwardly. Clever girl.
"All right, Lady Sansa," he said at last, smiling faintly. "What sort of weapon would suit you, then?"
Her small victory smiled bloomed instantly. "Not a sword," she said, shaking her head. "Something smaller. A dagger, perhaps — slender, elegant, with a gemstone in the hilt. Something... beautiful. Like those noblewomen carry in the songs."
Lynn nodded. "I can do that."
Compared to longswords, daggers were child's play. His hammer rang through the forge, iron singing under his rhythm. By sundown, a gleaming blade rested in his hand — the edge traced with faint ripples, the hilt inlaid with a small sapphire that shimmered like her eyes.
Sansa gasped softly when he presented it. Her reflection wavered on the blade's polished surface — and when she looked back up, there was the barest flicker of humility in her gaze.
"Thank you, Lynn," she said quietly, curtsying before retreating, her cheeks still warm.
---
On his way back to the yard, Lynn nearly bumped into Jon Snow.
"Lynn!" Jon grinned, slinging an arm over his shoulder. "Stop hiding in the forge. There's sparring on the green today—boys from the capital want to test their mettle."
"The princes?"
"Aye. Come on. You don't want to miss it."
By the time they arrived, the training ground was alive with laughter and shouts.
Bran, recently recovered, stood in padded armor, dwarfed by the sheer size of it. His opponent, Prince Tommen, was roughly the same massful shape in his own armor — two round, overstuffed boys swinging blunted swords at one another like angry rabbits.
Arya pouted from the stands. "I could beat both of them with one hand," she muttered.
When Bran finally managed to knock Tommen off his feet, Ser Rodrik Cassel clapped his hands. "Enough! Take off those helmets before you drown in sweat. Good strikes, lads."
Then his eyes shifted. "Lord Robb! Prince Joffrey! Would either of you like to go next?"
"Gladly," Robb said, snatching up a practice sword with eagerness. His face flushed with the thrill of challenge.
But Joffrey only smirked, arms folded. His golden hair flashed smugly in the sun.
"Ser Rodrik," he said lazily, "this is child's play. I don't spar with sticks."
Theon Greyjoy barked a laugh. "Hate to break it to you, Your Grace, but that's exactly what you are—a child playing with sticks."
Joffrey sniffed. "I'm the crown prince. I don't spar—I fight. If I'm to test myself, it'll be with real steel."
"Real steel?!" Robb shot back, unable to resist. "What's wrong, Your Highness? Afraid to bruise your royal pride?"
"Oh, how terrifying," Joffrey mimicked in a pout. Then, turning to his guards, added mockingly, "Hear that? The wolf pup thinks he can bite."
His Lannister companions laughed on cue.
Ser Rodrik stepped in quickly. "That's enough, boys. My rule stands—no sharp blades. The training yard is not a battlefield."
Something in his tone made Lynn chuckle under his breath, though he felt oddly singled out.
A hulking figure stepped forward then—the Hound, Sandor Clegane—burned half-face and all, his presence as heavy as the sword at his side.
"Watch your tongue, old man," he growled. "You're speaking to the prince."
"And you're standing in my yard," Rodrik shot back. "So you'll show respect while you're here. Sandor Clegane or no."
Jon leaned toward Lynn and whispered, "That's The Hound—a killer in a kennel. Mad as they come."
Clegane ignored them both. His burnt lip curled into a sneer as he looked Robb over. "So you're the wolf pup? Fourteen and yapping already?"
Robb's glare tightened. "Fourteen, and still fighting men with honor."
"Oh? I killed my first man at twelve," Sandor bragged, grinning wolfishly. "Didn't use a toy sword, either."
He took a step forward, towering over the boy. "I heard the North breeds fighters. All I see are puppies with milk on their breath."
Robb's jaw clenched. "Then maybe I should prove you wrong."
Ser Rodrik barked, "No! This isn't a one of your brawls, Sandor. He fights with dulled steel and not a drop of blood spilt."
The Hound turned aside. "Then maybe when he grows up, he can come find me. Assuming he still remembers how to hold a sword."
Joffrey laughed, already turning away. "Come, brother. Let's leave the kennel boys to their games."
He was halfway toward the gate when a quiet voice cut through the yard:
"Your Highness—wait."
The laughter died. Even the Hound stopped mid-step.
It was Lynn.
He stood at the edge of the yard, calm and unwavering, eyes locked on Joffrey's smug face.
"Surely the future king wouldn't walk away from a friendly match before his subjects."
The tension hit like lightning.
Joffrey turned slowly, smile fading into a snarl. "And who, exactly, are you to question me?"
Lynn straightened slowly, the hand-and-a-half sword gleaming at his side.
"Just a humble servant of House Stark," he said evenly. "But even a servant knows that honor should never retreat from steel." f