"You little bastards!"
Jaime Lannister's furious voice thundered from the tower above. He leaned out the broken window, eyes blazing as he saw the two figures still alive at the base. His beautiful face twisted in fury.
"Damn it!" he spat, grabbing his sword and storming for the stairs.
Behind him, Queen Cersei's voice tore through the air, shrill with fury and wounded pride. "Don't let them live, Jaime! Don't you dare let them live!"
Her rage burned not just from fear of discovery but from humiliation — the memory of that young Northern guard's bold, audacious gaze still seared into her mind like fire.
Below, Lynn used the rope to lower himself and Bran to the ground.
The boy clung to him, shaking uncontrollably. Lynn barely had time to unhook the rope before Jaime came charging around the corner, sword drawn, his golden armor catching the afternoon light.
"You should've died with him!" Jaime snarled. "I'll see your eyes out with my blade!"
The Kingslayer's sword slashed through the air, fast and lethal — the kind of skill that came from decades of battle and arrogance.
But Lynn was no longer a raw fighter relying on brute strength. Under Ser Rodrik Cassel's relentless instruction, discipline had joined instinct.
He pushed Bran gently behind him, raised his own half-sword — the one he had forged with his own hands — and met the attack head-on.
Steel clashed against steel in a burst of sparks.
Jaime pressed hard, his movements precise, elegant, deadly. Lynn met blow after blow, adjusting his grip, absorbing each strike through balance rather than force. When openings appeared, he struck swiftly — not wildly, but with intent.
They circled each other in the dirt like predators.
Jaime's golden eyes narrowed in disbelief. The boy was faster, stronger than he had any right to be. His swordsmanship wasn't polished, but it was brutally efficient. Every motion was stripped of vanity — all purpose, no flourish.
Then, in a single heartbeat, Jaime overreached.
Clang!
Lynn's blade hooked under his guard, twisting sharply. Jaime's sword jerked free from his hand, spinning through the air before stabbing into the ground several feet away.
By the time he looked up, the edge of Lynn's sword was at his throat, a thin ribbon of blood already glistening where the tip had nicked his skin.
The infamous Kingslayer froze — stunned, humiliated. He, one of the finest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, had been disarmed by a nameless Northern guard.
"Listen closely," Lynn said, voice calm but edged with iron. "I don't care about your filthy court secrets. But House Stark gave me shelter. I won't stand by while you harm one of their children."
Jaime's lips curled in disgust. Before he could move, movement flashed behind Lynn — Cersei, breathless and trembling, her gown hastily laced, fury still rising behind cold composure.
Seeing Jaime bested, she forced her tone smooth, sharp as a dagger hidden in silk.
"Guardsman," she said softly, "you've done your duty protecting your lord's blood. Now do yourself a favor and end this. Release him. Whatever you want — gold, title, women — I can give you double what Eddard Stark ever will. Just walk away. Forget what you saw."
Lynn believed her. She could deliver riches beyond imagining — and a knife between the ribs the moment his back was turned.
He smiled faintly. "A tempting offer, Your Grace. But I'm uninterested in lions' gold."
He stepped closer until the cold blade pressed harder against Jaime's throat. "I want only one thing: you leave the Stark boy alone. Ever again, and this little secret of yours becomes a song sung in every tavern from the Wall to Dorne."
Cersei glared, hatred burning bright enough to sear stone.
"...We swear it," she hissed finally, her voice trembling with fury.
Lynn held her gaze, reading the bitterness behind her begrudging promise. Then he lowered his sword — slowly.
"Remember your oath," he said. "Now get out of my sight."
He shoved Jaime back with a sharp kick.
The Kingslayer caught himself, breath ragged, shame twisting his features. For a moment, something unreadable flickered in his eyes — rage, respect, or both. He retrieved his sword in silence, sheathed it, and walked off with the queen into the shadow of the ruined tower.
Only when their silhouettes vanished did Lynn finally exhale, realizing his back was drenched in cold sweat.
He turned back to Bran, who still stood unmoving, eyes wide and unfocused.
"It's all right, young master," Lynn said gently, kneeling.
But Bran didn't answer. His pupils had gone glassy, his mind pulled somewhere far beyond the here and now.
Then that presence came — invisible, heavy. The same vast, ancient awareness Lynn had felt once before in the dark woods beyond the Wall.
The Three-Eyed Raven.
It was reaching through Bran, clawing at the edges of fate—to fix the story that Lynn's interference had just broken.
"Not this time," Lynn growled.
Golden fire flickered in his pupils as the dragon's power awoke. A pulse of force rippled outward, unseen but immense.
"Get out," he commanded, and the word struck like thunder through the air.
Bran gasped, the trance snapping. The boy slumped forward, weak but breathing, alive and whole. His eyes cleared, confusion shining there instead of the void.
Miles away, deep in the Wolfswood…
King Robert's hunting horns echoed faintly among the trees. The king rode laughing at first, a few bloody rabbits hanging from his saddle.
Then a Stark guard galloped from the distance, panic etched on his face. He whispered hurriedly to Lord Eddard, words so dire that Ned's blood froze mid-ride.
Without a second's pause, Eddard turned his horse hard, shouting over his shoulder, "It's Bran—he's fallen!"
He whipped his mount into a gallop, the rest of the party thundering after him.
Robert frowned, watching his old friend vanish through the trees. "Bran? Fallen? Gods…" He spat and waved to his men. "What are we waiting for? Ride! Let's go!"
---
By the time the royal host poured back into Winterfell's gates, chaos filled the courtyard.
In the great hall, Eddard knelt with his arms around his youngest son, pale and trembling but alive. Maester Luwin hovered nearby, checking the boy's breathing.
And Lynn stood off to the side, silent, waiting for the storm to fall.
Ned looked up sharply, voice raw. "Lynn! What happened? How did Bran end up on the old tower?"
From across the room, two pairs of eyes burned like poison—Cersei's and Jaime's. Both watched him carefully, ready to pounce on a single wrong word.
Lynn met Ned's gaze and bowed.
"My lord. Your Grace." He kept his voice calm, steady. "I was patrolling near the ruined tower when I saw Lord Bran climbing the wall. He slipped, lost his hold. By chance, there was a rope fastened nearby, and I—well—managed to catch him before the fall could kill him."
Ned exhaled slowly, his brow loosening. Everyone in Winterfell knew of Bran's love for climbing. The story fit perfectly.
"Thank the gods," Ned murmured, embracing the boy tighter. "And thank you, Lynn. You've saved my son's life."
Robert clapped a heavy hand on Lynn's shoulder.
"Ha! The North breeds tough men. If the boy's as brave as you are, I'll make a knight of him one day myself!"
At that, Cersei's painted smile returned. Jaime's unreadable stare slid away, his knuckles still white around his sword hilt.
And Bran, still dazed, blinked at them all. Whatever he'd seen in the tower—or in the void behind his eyes—had vanished into silence.
Fate had been rewritten.
Lynn could feel it in the air, a subtle shifting of the world's rhythm.
The game of thrones had changed its opening move—
and somewhere in the dark between life and death, the forces that watched from beyond stirred uneasily.