The celebration roared through the Great Hall like a storm in a barrel.
Casks of Arbor wine lay half‑empty, spilled across red‑and‑gold carpets; the air shimmered with torch smoke and laughter. On the dais, King Robert Baratheon sat sprawling in his chair, crown crooked, drink dripping from his beard.
Each time he shouted, the hall trembled with cheers, the sound rising like the crash of hammers on shields.
At his table, Lynn Auger sat uneasily.
He had been placed in the seat three down from the king—closer than any newly knighted commoner had a right to be. To his left sat Eddard Stark, grave and silent. To his right, Lord Mace Tyrell, smiling politely over his goblet. Across from him, Renly Baratheon toyed with a knife, eyes cool and measured.
Every gaze that landed on Lynn held something different: curiosity, envy, calculation.
And then Robert's booming voice cut through the din.
"Boy! Get over here!"
Lynn rose as quietly as he could; every conversation near him stopped.
The king threw a heavy arm around his shoulders, nearly choking him in the embrace. Hot wine breath hit his face.
"That fight today—by the gods!" Robert bellowed. "The look on Jaime's face when he hit the dirt—ha! I haven't laughed like that since the rebellion!"
He roared with laughter again, then squinted down at him, suddenly half serious. "They tell me, lad, you're not just good with a sword. You've got a head for trade, too?"
Lynn's stomach tightened.
Robert raised something in his hand—a small glass vial, silver‑bound and delicate. It glittered in the candlelight like pale gold. The faint scent of pine and honey filled the air: Northern Forest.
"The queen's court has gone mad for this stuff," Robert said, shaking the bottle. "Varys tells me it's selling for twenty golden dragons a vial on the black market."
He leaned closer, voice dropping low but still loud enough to reach the neighboring tables.
"And my spymaster says the workshop's in the west quarter—some widow managing it, fallen nobility, very proper. But the real owner…" Robert's grin widened. "That's you, isn't it?"
Eddard Stark frowned slightly. "Your Grace, Ser Lynn—"
"No, Ned, I'm not accusing him of theft." Robert waved a careless hand. "Just curious! A man who can fight, parley with wildlings, and start a business that drives noblewomen insane—ha! Tell me, where do you find time to sleep?"
"I only do what I can for the North, Your Grace," Lynn answered carefully.
"For the North?" Robert laughed again. "For your purse, more like! But that's all right. The North deserves a little gold in its coffers again."
He rolled the vial between his fingers. "Here's the thing, lad. From now on, the royal household wants twenty bottles a month—your finest. Exclusive."
Robert's tone left no room for debate.
But then, unexpectedly, the king winked. "And don't look so grim. The crown pays fair coin—eighty percent of market price. The rest, consider it your 'royal discount,' eh?"
Lynn bowed. "Your generosity honors me, sire."
It was, in truth, far better than he expected.
Yet Robert wasn't finished. He leaned in once more, the wine‑soaked cheer fading for a heartbeat. "You're wasted in the snow, boy. A mind like yours—the Wall doesn't deserve it. Ever think of staying here? I could find you work in the Red Keep. No shortage of titles for clever men. Maybe captain of my guard—or even a seat on the small council. What do you say?"
The hall fell silent around them. A hundred conversations paused mid‑word. Even the musicians hesitated over their strings.
It was an invitation no one refused.
Lynn could feel the weight of every glance—Cersei's calculating stare from the high table, Renly's cool amusement, the empty seat left conspicuously for Littlefinger, who was "unwell." No doubt he was off somewhere counting what Lynn's victories had cost him.
"I'm honored by Your Grace's offer," Lynn said at last, steady and clear. "But my duty lies in the North. The wildlings' settlement is only beginning; beyond the Wall, greater dangers stir. Robb Stark is young—he'll need steady hands beside him. My loyalty is to House Stark, and to the realm's defense."
A long pause followed.
Then Robert exploded with laughter, loud and genuine. He turned to Ned and slapped his old friend's back. "By the gods, Ned—you breed strange men up there! A knight who refuses the king himself! Ha! There's one for the bards!"
Everyone laughed because the king did. But Lynn could hear the strain behind the mirth—the faint edge of bruised pride.
"Well said," Robert declared finally. "Loyalty's a rare wine these days. Keep it vintage." He leaned close, voice dropping lower. "Just remember—there are men in my council who'd rather see your northern friends swing than settle. You've started something new with those wildlings. Make sure it doesn't turn against you—or against Ned."
It was a warning wrapped in camaraderie.
"I understand, Your Grace," Lynn said.
---
When the feast finally bled away into drunken chaos, Ned Stark found him in a quiet corridor.
"Walk with me," the Hand murmured, motioning for the guards to stay back.
The colored moonlight spilled through a stained‑glass window, scattering across the floor like shards.
"You did right to refuse him," Ned said softly. "This place devours decent men. Robert's favor burns bright, but it burns fast—and it draws eyes. You're marked now, by every snake in this castle."
He paused, rubbing a hand over his temple. "Robert means no harm. But his generosity makes others dangerous. Cersei, Jaime, even Baelish—they'll be watching you. Waiting."
"I know," Lynn said quietly. Too well, he thought.
In his mind he counted the enemies: the queen and her brother, desperate to bury their secret; Littlefinger, nursing the wound of his own losses; even Varys, whose friendly smiles hid too many intentions.
And beyond them, darker currents stirred—Jon Arryn's death, Lysa Tully's mysterious letter, the invisible thread tightening between the Starks and the Lannisters.
Ned's voice pulled him back. "You should return north soon," he said. "Before you become another piece in their game. But before you go… there's something you must hear."
He looked around the hall, then leaned close enough that Lynn could feel the weight of his breath.
"The king's planning something across the Narrow Sea," Ned whispered. "Varys brought him word—Daenerys Targaryen has married a Dothraki warlord. Robert's sending assassins. He believes she's a threat to his throne."
Lynn froze.
The rain outside whispered against the stone, and for a moment, time itself seemed to stop.
He knew that name—knew it better than perhaps any man in this castle.
Daenerys Targaryen. The girl with silver‑gold hair and violet eyes.
The one he had sworn, however silently, to find.
Under the fractured light, the Hand of the King looked weary beyond his years.
"Whatever comes, leave this city," Ned said gently. "Save your strength for the North. You have your own battles to fight. Leave the South to its poisons."
But Lynn barely heard him.
Eastward, across oceans, in a world of red sands and dragons' shadows, the future he'd hoped to avoid was already gathering storm.
The wolf had earned his honor.
Now, the dragon would need saving.