"Your Grace—please wait!"
Lynn's voice cut across the yard like a drawn blade. The crowd turned as one.
The young Northerner now stood in full training gear, sword at his side, calm and unflinching. He had stepped forward without hesitation — the kind of courage that ignored titles and danger alike.
The Hound's burned face twisted in scorn. "And who the hell are you to call out the prince's name?"
"I am a sworn guard of House Stark," Lynn said evenly. "Lynn Auger." He bowed slightly, but his gaze never dropped. "Since His Highness wishes to see real swords, perhaps I might offer him entertainment. I'll cross blades not with the prince—but with his loyal protector."
Heads turned. Even the sun seemed to hold its breath.
Joffrey smirked, insult curling at the edge of his mouth. "My protector against you? That's amusing."
The Hound's laughter came out as a low, rasping growl. "You're challenging me, boy? With what—courage or stupidity?"
"Both, perhaps," Lynn said.
Amusement flickered in Joffrey's eyes. He looked from the scarred killer to the quiet Northerner and smiled the smile of a child who'd just discovered a new way to break a toy.
"Interesting," he drawled. "Sandor, what do you think? This little wolf wants to play with you."
The Hound stepped forward, his shadow swallowing Lynn whole. "He's not challenging me. He's insulting me."
He stared down, voice dripping menace. "If we fight with real blades… then it's to the death."
The four words dropped like stones.
The yard fell silent. Even the wind died.
"Lynn, don't!" Arya's voice broke the quiet, panicked. Jon caught her arm, pulling her back.
Robb moved forward at once. "This isn't—"
"I approve," Joffrey interrupted, eyes bright with cruel delight. "Yes. By all means—let's have a real duel. The Northern hero versus the royal Hound. No rules. No mercy."
Then he leaned forward, sneering. "Of course… if you'd rather kneel and beg forgiveness right now, I might let you live."
Lynn met his gaze, expression calm and controlled. "It's an honor, Your Grace, to fight in your presence."
He turned and bowed to Robb. "My lord, permission to use your yard?"
Robb hesitated. Worry flashed in his eyes—but he nodded once. "Be careful."
The courtyard filled quickly. Soldiers and servants gathered in a tight circle, the murmurs of nervous excitement growing louder by the minute.
Jon guided Arya to a safe spot, muttering orders to a few guards. "If the Hound loses his mind, you stop him. No hesitation."
Sandor Clegane strode to the weapons rack, selecting an enormous two-handed greatsword. He swung it once. The air itself seemed to flinch.
Only men built like monsters could wield such a weapon freely.
Across the circle, Lynn drew his hand‑and‑a‑half sword—the one he had forged himself. His expression was neutral, breathing slow, alert.
Joffrey clapped his hands, grinning. "Begin!"
The Hound moved instantly.
His massive blade crashed down like a falling barn door, raw power and fury combined. Stones shattered, dust burst upward.
But Lynn wasn't there.
He'd already sidestepped, his boots sliding smoothly over the dirt. The giant sword cut nothing but air. As it passed, Lynn's own blade flashed and kissed the Hound's arm—a shallow cut, but enough to draw blood.
Sandor glanced down, seeing the line of red. A strange thrill lit his remaining eye.
"Good," he rasped. "Now it's interesting."
Then the real fight began.
Each of Sandor's blows came like thunder, carving trenches into the ground. But Lynn's movements flowed around them—precise, patient, always half a breath ahead. He never met strength with strength. He let rage burn itself out and struck where it hurt most.
A nick on the thigh. A cut on the shoulder. Another under the ribs. All small, all steady.
"You just gonna dance all day?" the Hound snarled, panting. "Stand and fight!"
Lynn said nothing. When words would do nothing, silence had its own weight.
Sandor bellowed and swung wide—too wide.
Lynn ducked under the swing, pivoted, and struck the back of his knee with the blunt of his hilt.
The Hound roared in pain and dropped to one knee.
He started to rise—only to freeze as the cold steel of Lynn's sword touched his throat.
One inch. That was all the distance between life and death.
Sandor's breath came in ragged gasps. Blood dripped freely from his cuts into the dust.
From his seat near the ring, Joffrey's shrill command broke the silence:
"Kill him! That's an order!"
Lynn didn't move. The yard waited.
Then he withdrew the blade and, with calm strength, offered the Hound a hand.
Sandor stared up at him for a heartbeat, then took it. Wordless.
He limped away, silent as a beaten bear.
Joffrey's face twisted into something ugly—shame, anger, confusion. He looked around at the Northern soldiers, who were all staring at Lynn with newfound reverence. The prince had been upstaged—by a nobody.
The humiliation burned.
Then he forced a smile, forced his voice steady. "Well done," he muttered. He pulled a heavy purse from his belt and tossed it at Lynn's feet. The coins jingled sharply against the stone.
"At least Lord Stark hires brave dogs," he sneered. "Consider it your reward."
Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked away. The Hound followed, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
Only when they were gone did the crowd exhale as one.
The yard erupted in cheers. Soldiers surged forward, clapping Lynn's shoulders and back, laughing, cursing in admiration.
Arya came running through them, eyes huge. "That was amazing! How did you do that? He's so big, and you—"
"—are done," Robb cut in, though he couldn't hide his grin. He looked at Lynn with a fighter's respect. "You didn't have to risk that. If he'd struck clean—"
"He wouldn't have," Lynn said simply.
Jon approached then, his usual quiet humor alive in his eyes. "You calculated all of it," he guessed. "Even Joffrey's reaction."
"Kings and cowards both crave the same thing," Lynn replied, sheathing his sword. "An audience. And an excuse to save face."
He bent down, picked up the prince's dropped purse, and weighed it in his hand. "Besides, it'd be rude to reject royal generosity."
The laughter that followed was quick and honest.
"Drinks on me," Lynn said.
Later, as the crowd dispersed, Arya lingered. "Will you teach me how to fight like that?" she asked softly. "Not with brute strength—just… that kind of movement."
Lynn smiled. "Maybe one day. For now? Ask Ser Rodrik for more footwork drills. And promise me you won't stab anyone before supper."
Arya rolled her eyes. "Maybe."
By sunset, the training yard was empty again. Lynn and Robb walked back toward the keep, the fire of victory fading into the calm of companionship.
At the steps they crossed paths with Sansa.
"Father's meeting with the king," she said softly. "Dinner's been delayed."
Robb's jaw tightened. "He means to ask Father to go south, doesn't he?"
She nodded.
Then she turned to Lynn. "You… you're all right?"
"I'm fine, my lady."
Sansa's cheeks colored faintly. She nodded too quickly, curtsied, and hurried inside.
Robb watched her go and chuckled under his breath. "Huh. Maybe one of the girls does like soldiers after all."
Lynn shoved him lightly. "You're seeing ghosts."
"Perhaps." Robb's grin spread. "Come on. Before supper, tell me what you really think about the Wall. If Father leaves, the North will need every sword—and mind—it can keep."
Lynn's eyes followed the fading light beyond Winterfell's walls.
"I'll be here," he said quietly. "Always."