Night fell quietly over Winterfell.
The candles in Ned Stark's solar flickered as Lynn stood before the pale lord of the North, feeling the weight of that gray gaze pierce through him.
"There's no one else here," Ned said at last. "Drop the story. You and I both know Bran didn't simply fall."
Lynn felt a chill crawl down his back. The Warden of the North wasn't just honorable—he was shrewd. The eyes that ruled the coldest lands missed nothing.
"You kept silent in the hall," Ned continued, his tone low but sharp. "That means whoever caused this was there. Now tell me—who?"
Lynn hesitated only a breath before lowering his head. "As you guessed, my lord—it was someone among them. If I'd spoken in front of Robert, it would have torn the realm apart before anyone believed me."
At Ned's urging, he told the full truth: Bran had witnessed the queen and Ser Jaime together, their incestuous secret, and Jaime had tried to kill the boy to protect it.
When Lynn finished, Ned was motionless. Only the fire crackled between them.
"I knew Cersei's pride was boundless," he murmured finally. "But Jaime…" He shook his head, disbelief warring with anger. "His twin. Gods."
"That's why I said nothing," Lynn explained quietly. "No one would believe it—not without proof. And if I accused them openly, the king's wrath would destroy the Starks as surely as the Lannisters would."
Ned exhaled slowly. Logic and restraint—the twin wolves of the North—returned to his eyes.
"You thought ahead," he admitted. "More than I expected."
He turned toward the window, looking out into the cold black night. "But the Lannisters won't forget this. They're proud, and they play a long game. I can't risk Bran again."
He turned back, his decision firm. "From tonight onward, you will not leave that boy's side. Not in daylight. Not after dark. I trust no one else."
"Yes, my lord," Lynn said simply.
Midnight crept through Winterfell.
The room where Bran slept glowed faintly with firelight. Lady Catelyn sat beside her son's bed, her eyes red from exhaustion. At last, unable to fight her fatigue, she dozed in the chair, still clutching his hand.
Footsteps—soft, deliberate—approached the door.
The latch lifted. A shadow slipped in, silent as smoke.
The intruder wore rough brown clothes that reeked of horse sweat and grease. His eyes gleamed with malice as he drew a dagger.
He moved for the bed.
But the rustle of leather woke Catelyn in an instant.
"Who are you?" she shouted, lunging forward.
The man twisted, snarling, and shoved her hard to the floor. His dagger flashed toward the bed—
—and the blankets exploded upward.
There was no Bran beneath them. Only Lynn.
In a blur, his boot struck the man's chest. Bone cracked with the sound of breaking wood. The assassin reeled back, gasping for air.
Lynn was already moving, blade drawn, the forged half-sword singing in his hand. One strike carved through air and tendon alike. The man collapsed, his limbs useless.
Lynn stepped forward, sword tip pressing to the man's throat. "Talk. Who sent you?"
The killer met his gaze with cold defiance—and bit down hard. His mouth foamed black.
"He's poisoned himself," Lynn said grimly, lowering his blade. "He never planned to leave here alive."
By the time Ned arrived with Jory Cassel and the guards, the assassin was already dead.
Catelyn struggled to her feet, still shaking. Ned caught her in his arms.
"Forgive me," he whispered. "I shouldn't have left you undefended."
She clung to him, then turned toward Lynn with tearful gratitude.
"You saved Bran's life. Again."
Lynn bowed his head. "Only doing my duty, my lady."
From that night, his place in House Stark became unquestionable.
---
When word spread through Winterfell that Lynn had once again protected Bran from death, the household's young wolves looked at him with new awe.
Robb Stark and Jon Snow, already fond of their sparring companion, grew closer still. The three trained together daily until sweat steamed in the cold air. Even the usually reserved Ned half-smiled when he watched them from afar.
At Lynn's forge, he crafted gifts for them both—twin longswords of his own design. The blades bore the faint rippled patterns he had perfected, identical in weight but balanced to each wielder's hand.
"They're beautiful," Robb breathed. "Truly."
Jon swung his own through the air. "It moves like it's part of me."
Word of those creations spread quickly through the castle.
Before long, a sharp, spirited voice rang out behind him in the training yard.
"Lynn! Robb says you make the best blades in the North!"
He turned to find Arya Stark standing there, eyes full of mischief and fire.
"I want one too!" she declared. "Not a heavy sword. A quick one. Something thin, light—like a sewing needle!"
She mimed a stabbing motion for emphasis, deadly serious in her small frame.
Lynn blinked. "My lady, that's not quite proper. You're—"
"A lady?" She scowled furiously. "I don't want to be some stupid lady. I want to learn the sword. Like my brothers!"
A laugh drifted from across the yard—Robb, returning with Jon. "Better agree," he said wryly. "She'll hound you all week otherwise."
Jon unsheathed his blade with a grin. "She only needs something that fits her hands. Maybe a sword made for precision, not strength."
He looked at Arya kindly. "Promise you won't use it to get in trouble—and I'm sure Lynn will help."
Arya's whole face lit up.
Lynn sighed in surrender. "All right, my lady. I'll craft a sword that's thin and light—quick as a needle's bite. But remember, it's designed for thrusting, not hacking. Speed and control, not brute force."
Arya's grin could have lit the yard. "That's exactly what I want!"
She spun on her heel and dashed off toward the stables, already imagining battles yet to come.
As Lynn watched her go, he couldn't help but smile. The North might have been cold, but here in this stone fortress were hearts that burned with their own kind of fire.
Protecting them was no longer duty alone.
It was purpose.
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