By sunrise, the lists were buzzing like a hive.
When the day's match schedule was posted, the crowd erupted.
Lynn's next opponent was not the expected young Loras Tyrell.
It was Ser Jaime Lannister—the Kingslayer himself.
The shift set the betting halls ablaze. Jaime was the kingdom's most famous knight, a man whose reputation for brilliance had survived every scandal. He hadn't competed in years, but his name alone was enough to tilt every wager in the city.
"Littlefinger," Ned murmured darkly when he found Lynn before the match, "bought off the officials. He's laying heavy coin on Jaime—and spreading word you won't last three passes."
Across the tourney ground, Jaime Lannister gleamed like a fallen sun. His gold‑plated armor caught every spark of light, blinding to look at. His white warhorse stamped the ground, impatient but controlled.
Behind him, Queen Cersei watched with a cool smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Prince Joffrey cheered, all arrogance and noise.
When Lynn mounted his own gray stallion, he felt the familiar pulse of the creature's strength—the same horse he'd fortified with dragon blood in secret. The beast's breath smoked against the heat. Its ears flicked forward, alive with tension.
He'd checked the saddle thrice that morning. The hidden spike Littlefinger arranged now rested safely in Lynn's pouch, not the horse's back.
The horns sounded.
The field fell silent. Even the flies seemed to vanish.
Two riders faced each other down the length of the arena, sunlight flashing off steel.
A signal banner snapped.
Both horses lunged forward.
Jaime's white destrier exploded out of the gate like a thunderbolt. His first charge was textbook—spear steady, knees pressed tight, balance flawless.
Lynn's horse started slower, its stride heavier, but the gray's power built like rolling thunder.
They met in the middle.
The air cracked.
Lynn's shield shuddered under the impact, his left arm numb from the shock. Jaime hit like a hammer—but his own shield veered slightly on recoil, white marks gouged across the gold filigree.
The crowd gasped.
The first tilt was a draw.
They turned their horses.
Second pass.
Jaime adjusted his aim this time—lower, eyes locked on Lynn's midsection, the weak seam beneath the rib plating. If he struck true, the force would flip a man clean backward.
As they thundered closer, Lynn felt the angle. At the final heartbeat, he shifted his body left, tilting the shield just a fraction.
Steel screamed.
Jaime's lance scraped the edge of Lynn's shield, shearing splinters but glancing off harmlessly.
Lynn's own lance, however, hooked upward. A subtle deflection, born of instinct and precision.
It struck not the shield's center, but the upper rim—sliding under it, knocking it skyward.
For an instant, Jaime's vulnerable neck was exposed. Lynn didn't aim there. He let the lance's momentum carry through to the shoulder.
The blow landed solidly.
"Ugh!"
Even through armor, the impact numbed the Kingslayer's arm. His grip faltered.
They swept past again.
By the third tilt, Jaime's movement had stiffened, his shield arm slower, balance off‑center.
Lynn knew that rhythm. It was the rhythm of fatigue—a heartbeat too long, a breath too short.
He lowered his lance, exhaled, and let go of everything else.
The gray stallion surged forward with a roar. The power in its stride shook the ground.
At the last instant, Lynn drove the weapon straight and true.
The collision echoed like thunderclap.
Jaime's shield disintegrated—splinters of gold and oak showering the field. His body lifted from the saddle in a brilliant flash of motion, armor scattering clods of mud as he crashed backward.
His white horse toppled, sprawled in the dirt beside him.
The Kingslayer lay in a pool of mud, his golden hair matted, eyes wide with disbelief.
For a moment, no one breathed. Then—
"HAHAHA!"
Robert Baratheon's laughter crashed over the silence like storm waves.
"Look at him! A golden lion in the dirt!" the king howled, slapping his knee. His crown slipped sideways, wine spilling down his jerkin. "By the gods, I haven't felt this alive in years!"
The queen's smile froze, her hands clenched so tight on her seat rail that her jeweled rings cut her skin.
Prince Joffrey turned crimson with fury, screaming at the guards behind him.
And on the far side of the royal tier, Petyr Baelish sat utterly still. The pleasant smile he wore like armor had vanished.
He watched the gray‑armored northerner dismount and pull off his helm, golden dust clinging to his hair. The calm in Lynn's eyes was colder than steel.
Lynn walked to Jaime, offered his gauntleted hand.
For a heartbeat, the Kingslayer only stared at it—mud dripping from his armor, pride clashing with pain. Then, slowly, he smiled—a wry, rueful twist.
"Not bad, boy," he rasped, gripping Lynn's hand. "Not bad at all. Next time—let it be steel, not sticks."
"Anytime," Lynn answered.
As he turned to leave, he could feel the weight of every gaze on him—astonished, admiring, envious, and murderous.
From Ned Stark's quiet pride; from Catelyn's trembling relief; from young Arya's barely contained jump of joy—held down only by her mother's warning glance.
And from Littlefinger's slit‑green stare, colder than poison.
Lynn touched his breastplate, where the iron nail rested inside his tunic, and murmured under his breath:
"The game's begun."
High above, Robert Baratheon was still laughing, roaring until tears ran into his beard.
"By the gods, Ned!" he bellowed, pounding the nearest guard on the shoulder. "Where'd you find that lad? I'll have him ride my horse in the next round—my lance, my armor, the works! I want that boy to win it all!"
The order went out immediately.
And as the king slumped back, flushed and grinning, he muttered thickly, "Ned, you serious old fool… how do you keep finding treasures in that cursed snow?"
That evening, joy returned—briefly—to the Stark household.
"A single pass!" Arya cried. "You knocked him flying, mud and all!"
Ned chuckled, still half‑amazed. "I didn't imagine I'd see such a blow landed on Jaime Lannister. You've a gift, lad."
Across the table, Catelyn's face had hardened again. "Gifts draw envy," she said quietly. "Littlefinger went white as bone when Jaime fell. Word is he wagered half his fortune on the Lannister's victory."
Ned nodded grimly. "He'll have to earn it back. And he'll use more than gold next time."
He looked at Lynn over the rim of his cup.
"Guard yourself, son," he said. "You've just made enemies in every corner of this city—and some wear crowns of their own."
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