Rain fell that morning—thin, cold, relentless.
Not even the storm kept the crowds away. The stands around the tourney field overflowed, nobles huddling under silks and cloaks, commoners shouting from behind wooden rails. Flags drooped heavy with water, but the air thrummed with anticipation.
The final duel was about to begin.
Lynn swung himself onto Shadow, the black warhorse Robert Baratheon had gifted him. The animal looked better than last night—steady, alert—but still sluggish beneath the damp. Inside Lynn's own body, dull cramps twisted through his gut. No more than seventy percent of his usual strength remained.
Across the field, Sandor Clegane, the Hound, waited in the rain.
He wore full black plate, polished until it gleamed like oil, scarred from a hundred battles. No sigils, no color—just steel and scars. His great stallion stamped the mud, nostrils flaring, both horse and rider shrouded in shadow.
The horn blared.
On the first charge, Lynn felt it immediately—something different. The Hound didn't fight like a tourney knight.
He fought like a man on a battlefield.
His lance didn't aim for the center of the shield; it hunted for cracks—between breastplate and pauldrons, the shallow seam at the ribs. He cared nothing for balance or clean form. Every strike sought blood.
Their lances splintered mid‑charge. The shriek of scraping metal drew gasps from the stands.
Lynn saw a bright gouge carved into his shoulder plate—a hand's breadth from piercing through.
When he wheeled his horse, his eyes flicked upward, toward the royal dais.
There sat Littlefinger, smiling faintly as he whispered into another man's ear. And when their eyes met, Petyr's smile shifted—full of contempt, of expectation, of the cold satisfaction of a man watching his plan unfold.
He knows, Lynn thought. Knows about the drugged feed, the poison, the trap. But he doesn't know why I'm still standing.
He's waiting for me to fail.
The second tilt came faster.
The Hound rode like an avalanche. At the last heartbeat, he reached out—grabbed for Lynn's lance with his left hand. It was madness, raw street‑fighter instinct.
Lynn wrenched his body aside. The two horses crashed shoulder to shoulder; his stallion staggered but kept its feet.
The third pass, Lynn made his choice. No tricks. No defense. Pure force.
He leaned forward, focused every drop of strength into the lance and slammed it—not at Sandor, but down.
The blow came like a hammer strike to the Hound's mount.
The beast squealed, stumbled, and collapsed onto its knees, saving its rider from being unseated but killing his momentum entirely. Mud spattered, the crowd roared.
Sandor's rage kindled into something feral.
He threw away restraint, spurred the wounded horse, and charged again. Through the slit of his helm, Lynn saw it—the eyes burning red beneath the rain: fury, humiliation, and that strange sorrow that haunted the Hound wherever he went.
The final pass.
Lynn felt the distant tremor of thunder and loosened his grip.
At the last second, he let go of the reins. His body dropped low, hanging half‑off the saddle, his weight balanced by instinct alone.
Sandor's lance stabbed into empty air.
Lynn's own struck upward in a single, perfect motion.
The point slipped beneath the black knight's shield, angled through rain and armor, and drove hard into the seam between chest and hip.
The Hound grunted—half pain, half surprise—as momentum lifted him clear off his horse. He crashed backward into the mud, rolling twice before he stopped, armor sinking into the soaked ground.
Lynn jerked his mount around and brought his lance down again—its tip pressed against the Hound's throat.
Silence.
Only the rain. Only the thunder of hearts.
Then King Robert's roar split the air.
"YES! Gods be good—THAT'S a fight!" His laughter rang across the stands, booming even in the storm. "That's what I call steel and blood! That's warriors!"
The Hound lay flat, breath rasping. Slowly, he released his sword.
"You win," he rasped through the rain. "Now kill me or get out of my sight."
Lynn lowered the lance, dismounted, and walked forward.
He offered his hand.
For a long, tense moment, Sandor only stared at it. Then, wordless, he rolled to his knees and pushed himself up, limping out of the field without a backward glance.
Only then did the cheers explode.
Northern banners waved wildly in the wet wind.
Never before had a man from the frozen North taken the title of tourney champion in the South.
Arya screamed herself hoarse. Sansa clutched her mother's hand. Even stoic Ned Stark, beside the king's seat, was smiling openly.
Robert came striding down from the royal stand, cloak drenched, crown crooked, grin blazing like a bonfire.
"Kneel, boy!" he bellowed, sword already drawn.
Lynn knelt.
The steel touched his left shoulder, then the right, each point a promise of blood and duty.
"In the name of the Warrior, I command you to be brave."
The blade glided against wet armor.
"In the name of the Father, I command you to be just."
"In the name of the Mother, protect the innocent."
"In the name of the Maiden, keep your heart pure."
"In the name of the Smith, defend your home."
"In the name of the Crone, seek wisdom."
"And in the name of the Stranger," Robert's voice thundered above the rain, "fear nothing—not even death."
He raised the sword high. "Rise, Ser Lynn of the North! For your courage, for your triumph, for fighting alone and standing tall—"
He swept his arm to the heavens.
"—I name you the Lone Wolf of the North!"
The crowd erupted, the chant rolling like thunder.
"Lone Wolf! Lone Wolf! Lone Wolf!"
He rose slowly, rain streaking over the burnished gray of his armor. He bowed his head. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Robert laughed, clapped him hard across the shoulder.
"Well fought, lad! Feast with me tonight. You'll sit at my right hand!"
He winked, already half‑drunk on victory and rain. "And bring me some of that perfume you make! Cersei won't stop complaining the city stinks."
The king stomped off, trailing laughter and applause in his wake.
Lynn remained standing in the rain, head tilted to the sky, feeling the weight of the sword's touch still on his shoulder.
From the stands, Littlefinger had vanished.
Eddard approached through the mud, eyes full of something that mixed pride, fear, and a quiet, unspoken awe.
"You did it," he said softly. "And not just the tourney."
The rain kept falling, washing away blood and dirt and the last echoes of the roar.
Somewhere in the shadows of the Red Keep, a dozen spies and schemers were already writing down his name. Some would look to use him. Some would fear him. Others would wish him dead.
But for now, Lynn simply closed his eyes and felt the dragon heat still pulsing through his veins. Every drop of power burned hot beneath the skin, every heartbeat a reminder that he had survived again.
Fame and coin—the two pillars of survival in this world.
Now he had both.
The Starks of the North were bound to him through trade and blood, and through them, the Free Folk would have their chance at peace.
And as thunder cracked beyond the city walls, Lynn Auger—the Lone Wolf of the North—stood in the rain and made his silent vow:
To grow his name.
To sharpen his claws.
To be ready for the storm that was coming.
Because in this game of thrones, survival was the only victory that ever truly mattered.
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