Overnight, King's Landing seemed to transform.
The news that the Queen was confined to Maegor's Holdfast, guarded jointly by the Kingsguard and the City Watch, spread like fleas with legs, reaching every corner of the Red Keep overnight.
Although the King had issued a gag order, how could such a shocking secret possibly be kept under wraps?
It had already been passed around privately; it was no secret at all.
The nobles whispered amongst themselves, their gazes towards members of the Lannister family imbued with an indescribable expression.
Early the next morning.
Ser Lynn was in the tower courtyard, getting accustomed to the pitch-black plate armor.
This armor, meticulously crafted by Master Donal, while not as light as valyrian steel, offered far superior protection and joint flexibility compared to ordinary knight's armor.
"Storm" also seemed to sense the impending battle; it paced restlessly nearby, snorting occasionally.
Just then, a figure appeared at the courtyard gate.
The newcomer wore a low-key gray robe, had a neatly trimmed goatee, and a perfectly appropriate smile on his face.
Petyr Baelish.
Behind him followed two servants, carrying a heavy chest.
"Ser Lynn, it seems your health has recovered well."
Littlefinger's voice carried his characteristic oily tone.
He did not mention the thrilling assassination from yesterday.
However, his gaze immediately fell upon the black Shire horse, "Storm."
In the depths of his eyes, a flicker of imperceptible heat flashed.
"Thanks to you, Lord Baelish."
Lynn stopped his movements, took off his helmet, his face devoid of expression.
"I'm just a crude man, used to dealing with wildlings beyond the Wall; my body is still quite robust."
"Haha, Ser, you are too modest."
Littlefinger waved his hand, signaling the servants to open the chest.
"Clatter—"
A whole chest of gold dragons reflected dazzling light in the morning sun.
That golden glow was enough to drive any mercenary or knight mad.
"I heard, Ser, that you came from the North and had a hard journey."
Littlefinger's smile was full of allure.
"King's Landing is expensive; please accept this small token, Ser."
Lynn glanced at the chest of gold, his eyes showing no fluctuation.
"Lord Baelish, you and I have no acquaintance; I cannot accept this money."
"No, no, no, today we shall be acquainted."
Littlefinger walked beside "Storm," extending his hand, seemingly wanting to stroke the wild horse's mane.
But a snort from "Storm" startled him, making him retract his hand.
"What a temper!"
He praised genuinely, though a hint of disdain flashed in his eyes.
"A magnificent physique, it certainly matches your demeanor, Ser."
He changed the subject, finally revealing his true intentions.
"It's just… jousting emphasizes instantaneous burst and charging speed."
"While Shire horses have good stamina, they are ultimately a bit inferior in speed."
"I happen to know a horse merchant from Dorne who has a purebred sand steed."
"Its speed is simply like the wind."
"Ser Lynn, if you ride it into the arena, the championship title will be as good as yours."
"As for your 'Storm'…"
Littlefinger pointed to the chest of gold.
"Although it's not suited for jousting, I personally quite like such unruly wild horses."
"I am willing to pay this price to buy it, considering it as making a friend with you, Ser, what do you say?"
His words were airtight.
He pointed out "Storm's" "shortcomings," offered Lynn a "better" option, and finally presented himself as "taking a loss to make a friend."
Any unsuspecting person would likely be tearfully grateful for this "timely help" of friendship.
At the very least, they would feel a sense of goodwill.
But Lynn already knew what kind of person Petyr was.
Lynn looked at him, nearly laughing aloud in his heart.
This old fox really thought he was a bumpkin from the North.
"I appreciate your kind offer, Lord Baelish."
Lynn put his helmet back on, his voice sounding somewhat muffled behind the iron face.
"It's just that I have a flaw; I'm wary of strangers."
"My horse also has this flaw; it's also wary of strangers."
"Since it followed me, it is my companion, not merchandise to be casually traded."
Littlefinger's smile froze on his face.
He hadn't expected that, despite offering such generous terms, the other party would refuse without hesitation.
A Night's Watchman, a crow who could die beyond the Wall at any moment, he was indifferent to a whole chest of gold dragons?
This was illogical!
Did he know something?
"Ser Lynn, won't you reconsider?"
Littlefinger's tone grew a few shades heavier.
"This chest of gold is enough for you to buy a mansion in the best part of King's Landing, surrounded by the most beautiful courtesans."
"Or, you name your price."
"Oh?"
Lynn turned around, looking at him through the cold faceplate.
"Really, any price?"
"Of course." Littlefinger regained his confidence.
He didn't believe there was anyone in this world who didn't love money.
Lynn held up one finger.
"One million gold dragons."
"Plus all your brothels in King's Landing."
The air instantly solidified.
The smile on Littlefinger's face vanished completely.
His eyes, which always sparkled with shrewd calculations, now stared intently at Lynn, as if looking at a madman.
One million gold dragons?
And all his businesses?
This was no longer a refusal; it was outright humiliation!
"Ser Lynn, are you joking?"
Littlefinger's voice turned cold.
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
Lynn retorted.
He took a step forward, his tall figure casting a huge shadow over Littlefinger.
"Lord Baelish, my horse is not for sale."
"If you have nothing else, please leave; I need to train."
Lynn dismissed him.
Littlefinger's face alternated between green and pale, looking extremely displeased.
He gave Lynn a deep look, then glanced at the snorting black horse.
Finally, he left without a word, flicking his sleeve.
The two servants carrying the gold also scurried away behind him.
Watching Littlefinger's crestfallen back, Lynn felt incredibly pleased.
Old fox, you want to use me as a pawn and take advantage of me?
Just wait until the tourney begins, then you'll cry… In the afternoon, Sansa Stark came again.
She wasn't carrying a tray; she merely held something wrapped in plain linen cloth in her arms.
The young girl's cheeks were a bit red, as if she had mustered great courage to come here.
"Ser Lynn." Her voice was as faint as a mosquito's buzz.
"I… I heard your original cloak was lost beyond the Wall."
"So… I… I made one myself…"
"I haven't had a chance to thank you."
"Thank you for saving Bran, and for taking care of Arya along the way…"
Sansa handed over the item in her arms.
Her blue eyes were filled with anticipation and unease.
Lynn took it.
The wrapping opened to reveal a black cloak.
It was made of the finest Southern silk, cool and smooth to the touch.
On the hem of the cloak, a lifelike Direwolf was embroidered with silver thread, stitch by stitch.
The wolf's posture, its proud gaze, was identical to the Stark family sigil.
The stitches were fine and dense, showing the immense care the maker had put into it.
Varys's little birds had indeed not lied.
"I like it very much, Miss Sansa."
Lynn put the cloak on; the black silk blended with the pitch-black armor.
"Thank you."
Lynn's voice, muffled by the faceplate, didn't betray much emotion.
But Sansa's eyes instantly lit up.
She looked at the man before her, clad in black battle armor and a black cloak.
He wasn't as handsome as the princes in songs, nor as romantic as the Knight of Flowers.
But just standing there, he was like an unshakeable mountain.
Bringing an indescribable sense of security.
This was a true hero.
Sansa's heart beat rapidly.
"The Tourney… you will definitely win, won't you?"
She asked softly.
"Of course."
Lynn's answer was simple and direct… Two days later, the Hand's Tourney officially began.
The entire King's Landing was plunged into a sea of revelry.
The jousting arena, built by the Blackwater Rush, was packed with people, and colorful flags fluttered.
King Robert sat on the high platform.
Beside him was no longer Queen Cersei, but the Hand of the King, Ned Stark.
Prince Joffrey sat on the other side.
His gaze feverishly followed the figure at the arena entrance.
Knights from all over the Seven Kingdoms, wearing their magnificent armor and riding splendid warhorses, entered one by one.
Jaime Lannister, in golden armor, was so dazzling in the sunlight that one dared not look directly at him.
The Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell, with golden roses carved into his silver armor, drew screams from countless noble ladies.
Gregor Clegane, "The Mountain," his mountain-like physique, merely by appearing, made the air solidify… When it was Lynn's turn, there was a slight stir in the crowd.
Pitch-black plate armor, a pure black Shire horse, a black banner without any emblem.
And… the black cloak, embroidered with a silver Direwolf, flapping in the wind.
"Who is that?"
"A knight without a title?"
"He's riding a Shire horse? Isn't that horse for plowing?"
Whispers and undisguised mockery arose from the audience.
Only Ned Stark, on the high platform, subtly shifted his gaze upon seeing the cloak, which then turned into an imperceptible sigh.
Meanwhile, Petyr Baelish, sitting on the other side, held a glass of wine, a cold smile playing on his lips.
Bumpkin.
Riding a plowing horse and expecting to win the jousting tournament?
Just wait to be disgraced.
He had arranged everything, just waiting to watch the show.
Lynn was oblivious to the discussions around him.
He calmly rode "Storm" to the center of the arena, raised his lance towards the King's platform.
His gaze swept over everyone, finally landing on Littlefinger's face.
Despite the long distance and the cold faceplate, Littlefinger felt as if that gaze was a dagger, sending an inexplicable chill down his spine.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn luffy1898