The scent of "Northern Forest" still hung in King's Landing, drifting through marble halls and silk‑lined corridors like stolen winter air, when Lynn began packing for the road.
The North needed him.
Mance Rayder needed his messenger.
And somewhere beyond the Frostfangs, a secret waited beneath the ice—a dragon's graveyard seen only in dreams.
And beyond that, always at the edge of his thoughts, a silver‑haired girl across the Narrow Sea.
If all went well, by season's end, he'd have the coin and the plan to bring her to safety.
The perfume trade, now running smoothly under Lady Catelyn and Sansa's hands, could survive on its own.
Lynn had done his part.
Or so he thought.
Because the day before he was to depart, news arrived that shattered all plans.
The king had heard of him.
No one quite knew how. Perhaps some lady boasting of her "Northern fragrance" also boasted of the northern man who made it. Perhaps one of Varys's little birds whispered his name to the Red Keep.
However it began, the result was the same.
Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, had taken an interest in the man who'd beaten the Hound.
And the king wanted to see him.
More precisely—he wanted him to fight.
In the Tower of the Hand, Eddard Stark delivered the news with a grim expression.
"Robert insists you enter the tourney," he said. "Officially, it's to celebrate my appointment as Hand. In truth, he's bored and wants blood."
Lynn frowned. "I'm not a knight. I don't hold the right to compete."
"He'll make an exception," Ned replied. "He's the king. Rules bend when he leans on them."
He paused, lowering his voice. "But I suspect there's more. Certain lords have been whispering—that the Starks consort with wildlings, that you've broken age‑old orders of the Watch. Robert doesn't believe it, not yet. He means to see for himself what kind of men stand at my side."
"And if I refuse?"
Ned's sigh was heavy. "You can't. A royal 'invitation' is no such thing. And—"
He turned to the window, looking out at the crimson roofs of the Red Keep. "This could serve us as well. Win the king's favor, and the court's wagging tongues will still. In this city, prowess speaks louder than truth."
Lynn was silent a long moment.
He thought of Ser Rodrik's lessons. Of the Hound's flaming blade, of Tormund's bellowing fury. A tournament wasn't war, but danger hid behind every polished helm. Accidents happened. Sometimes on purpose.
Especially when certain Lannisters might prefer to see him dead.
"The Hound," he said quietly. "He'll compete?"
"Almost certainly," Ned said. "He's sworn guard to the prince. And men say he's been training harder than ever."
Lynn nodded. A rematch was inevitable.
"When?"
"In seven days."
"You'll need a horse," Ned added, "and armor worthy of a royal field. You'll also need a squire—by the rules, even commoners must name one. I can help with that."
He hesitated, then smiled faintly. "How about Arya? She knows her way around steel and saddle, and the poor girl could use a healthy distraction."
By sunset, Lynn was testing his mount in the practice yard behind the Tower.
The horse was a Northern stallion—massive, thick‑necked, skin the color of storm‑clouds, its breath curling white even in the southern heat.
When Lynn swung into the saddle, the beast snorted but did not resist. Some instinct passed between them. The dragon‑blood in his veins hummed, and the stallion bowed its head ever so slightly.
Arya stood nearby, clutching his half‑sword, eyes blazing with both worry and excitement.
"You're really going to fight?" she asked. "Everyone's talking about it. The Hound's been in the yard every morning, smashing dummies and shouting that he'll grind some northern boy into dust."
"Let him try," Lynn said, taking the sword from her hand. The ripples in the steel caught the dying light, glimmering like a frozen river.
Far ahead, the Red Keep glowed red‑gold in the sunset. On the open fields below, carpenters were raising the tournament stands. Banners snapped in the wind.
The city was already alive with wagers and gossip, the air tense with anticipation.
Lynn watched the scene, feeling the faint thrum in his blood—a deep, ancient echo answering the call of challenge.
It wasn't fear. It was hunger.
"Seven days," he murmured.
Seven days to prepare.
Seven days to remind this city that the North was still strong.
That evening, after Arya ran off to boast about her "knight," Lynn led the stallion toward the empty stables.
Even without seeing them, he felt it—the eyes watching.
Varys's little birds. Spies from every faction. Since his arrival, the city had closed around him like a net.
From the training yard alone, he'd counted at least seven pairs of unseen watchers. Lannister eyes, Tyrell eyes, maybe even Petyr Baelish's invisible fingers.
He could sense their gaze the way a wolf smells rain.
Inside the stall, he stroked the horse's neck and whispered, "Let's give them something worth watching."
Closing his eyes, he summoned the fire within. His pupils flared gold, veins glowing faintly beneath the skin.
Heat radiated down his arm, into his palm, and into the beast's brow.
The stallion reared with a cry, hooves smashing against the stall door. Muscles bulged beneath its hide, veins glowing briefly like molten metal before fading.
When the fire dimmed, Lynn exhaled slowly and smiled. "Good," he whispered. "You'll need this more than me."
He wiped the sweat from his brow, stepping back to admire his work. In the faint lantern light, the great gray horse pawed the straw, stronger, faster, breathing like a newly forged blade.
"Not bad for a northern brute," Lynn said softly. "Let's see how you handle lances."
Outside, the Red Keep's towers glimmered like molten gold against the creeping night.
Somewhere within its shadows, seven unseen eyes kept watching.
And one pair—the green of a lion—narrowed in calculation.
They were readying for the tournament, too.
Because in King's Landing, no spectacle stayed simple for long.