Dawn broke over King's Landing in a haze of lead‑gray clouds.
The air was heavy, damp, and clinging—nothing like the cutting wind of the North.
By the time light crept through the windows of the Tower of the Hand, Eddard Stark was already at Lynn's door. Two guards followed behind him, bearing a broad oak chest between them.
"No time to commission new work," Ned said as they set it down.
When he lifted the lid, a full suit of gray‑black plate gleamed in the dim light. It was plain—no gilding, no jewels—built for endurance, not display.
"I had this refitted from my own armor," Ned explained. "She's not as fine as the Lannisters' peacock plating, but every link's been forged for war, not parades."
Lynn ran a hand across the cold steel.
It was simple—but perfect. No ornate engraving, just the dense clink of iron and leather. The steel plates curved into one another with a fighter's logic, the kind born of necessity: angles that would turn blades, joints that would move yet never leave the body exposed. The inside was padded with thick blue velvet, sweat‑absorbing and soft against the skin.
"It's magnificent," Lynn said softly. "It breathes like skin."
"My own smith from Winterfell worked on it," Ned said with faint pride. "He knew it was for you. Said he wanted to protect the man who protected my son."
He hesitated, then added, "Your first match is against Ser Bryce's second son—a braggart, nothing more. But don't take him lightly. Here in the capital, every knight fights with ghosts in his shadow. You never know whose coin rides with his lance."
Lynn fastened the chestplate into place. Beside him, Arya worked silently, fingers deftly tightening buckles and adjusting straps. The girl had learned well from the armory yards of Winterfell.
When the last clasp locked with a metallic click, the armor fit like a second body.
Arya stepped back, grinning. "You look like a real knight—" she paused, "—even if you're not one."
"Knighthood isn't about the armor," Lynn replied, checking the weight of his gauntlets. "It's about the man inside it."
---
The tournament grounds spread wide outside the Red Keep—a sea of banners and gold‑threaded tents, all circling the long field of tilting lances.
The royal dais towered above, crowded with silk, trumpets, and drink. Robert Baratheon sat enthroned in the center, his crown glaring bright under the dim sun, a flagon already at his feet. Beside him sat Queen Cersei, a still statue in emerald silk. Prince Joffrey looked bored; the Hound stood behind him, silent as a drawn sword.
When Lynn rode into the field astride his gray northern stallion, a murmur rippled through the stands.
His armor was dull steel among glittering gold. Amid peacocks, he was a hawk—untamed, severe, and alien.
"Is that him? The one who beat the Hound?"
Robert shaded his eyes, squinting down the lists. "Not so big as they said," he muttered, taking another swallow of wine.
"Winter giants tend to shrink under the southern sun," said Petyr Baelish, lounging a few seats away with his usual fox‑like smile.
The horns sounded. The first match began.
Ser Bryce's son rode in on a horse decked with crimson ribbons, waving to the queen before lowering his lance. His form was flawless—straight, elegant, textbook.
But he lacked a killer's instinct.
Lynn lowered his own lance, no flourish, no salute.
When they thundered toward one another, iron shook the air.
In that split second of passing, Lynn read the young man's angle, the shield tilt, the imbalance of his leg. His own strike snapped forward like lightning.
The tip of his lance slammed against the upper rim of the other man's shield, twisting the younger knight's torso sharply off balance.
The crash echoed.
The boy flew from his saddle, armor clanging, his helm rolling halfway across the field.
For a heartbeat, the stands went still. Then came the roar—Robert's booming laugh rolling over the crowd like thunder.
"Quick and clean!" the king bellowed. "By the gods, the North still breeds good men!"
On the royal stands, Catelyn Stark exhaled shakily, gripping Sansa's hand.
Arya punched the air, earning a sharp glance from her mother.
But the day had only begun.
By dusk, Lynn had won three matches.
Each fight ended the same way—no wasted motion, no spectacle, only precision and timing. Every strike landed exactly where it must: swift, final, unshowy.
The spectators began to notice that this quiet, rough‑edged northerner didn't fight like a court knight. He fought like a man whose life had actually depended on his blade.
The betting houses adjusted swiftly. Odds on the "Northern Blackhorse" dropped with every victory.
That evening, as he stripped out of his armor inside his tent, a visitor slipped through the flap.
He was slender, dressed in velvet the color of dusk, expression pleasant and insincere.
Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger.
"An impressive day, my northern friend," he said smoothly, his voice low and musical. "Especially for a man without spurs."
Lynn didn't look up. "What does the Master of Coin want with a common fighter?"
"Opportunity," Littlefinger replied simply. He stepped closer, the faint smile never leaving his lips. "Tomorrow you face Ser Loras Tyrell—the Knight of Flowers. Golden boy of the lists. He wins today, I win heavily. But if you should… slip—say, lose gracefully—I could see to it that you earn far more than a champion's purse."
He leaned in slightly. "Besides, it would spare you the trouble of making enemies among powerful families. Accidents happen, you know."
Lynn's eyes narrowed. "You want me to throw the match."
Littlefinger smiled wider, hands lifting innocently. "Such ugly phrasing. Let's just say, the game of thrones pays better than the game of honor."
"I'll pass," Lynn said flatly. "I fight my own battles."
For a flicker of a second, the man's smile cracked, cold calculation surfacing beneath. "Shame," Littlefinger whispered. "Sometimes an honorable man lives longer when he doesn't insist on winning."
He turned to go, pausing at the entrance. "Oh, and a friendly word—your horse. Northern breeds don't fare well in southern heat. They… agitate, if neglected."
The tent flap closed behind him.
---
Lynn stood motionless for several breaths. Then he moved.
Outside, the camp was quiet, torches flickering low.
He found his horse tied near the fence and began inspecting the tack piece by piece: reins, stirrups, girth strap… nothing.
Until his fingers brushed a small, unnatural ridge beneath the saddle.
He loosened the cinch, flipped the padding, and found it—an iron nail, no longer than a finger, embedded between the leather layers. Its point aimed upward.
If he'd ridden full tilt tomorrow, the nail would've driven through the padding and into the horse's spine. The pain would send the beast rearing midcharge—and throw its rider like a ragdoll.
Lynn's jaw tightened.
He plucked the nail free and turned it between his fingers. It glittered faintly in the lantern light like a tiny blade.
He could still hear Baelish's honeyed warning echoing in his mind:
> "Horses here tend to grow… restless."
Lynn smiled thinly.
"Not mine."