King Robert's promise, like a royal decree, spread swiftly through the Red Keep.
A Night's Watchman from the Wall had not only received the King's special permission to enter the upcoming Hand's Tourney, but had even been granted free rein of the royal armory and stables to choose the finest equipment.
When the news broke, the high-born knights and squires of the Red Keep scoffed.
A crow, dreaming of knightly glory?
It was the greatest joke they had ever heard.
Lynn turned a deaf ear to the gossip.
The armory of the Red Keep was located beneath Maegor's Holdfast.
The air here was thick with the scent of grindstones and oil.
It housed the finest arms and armor collected by the royal family since the Targaryen dynasty.
The man in charge was a master armorer named Donal.
His face was a map of wrinkles, and his arms were as thick as a normal man's thighs. It was said he had forged armor for Prince Rhaegar in his youth.
"King's orders."
Lynn handed over the letter signed by Eddard Stark.
Donal didn't even bother to look at it. He snorted through his nose, sizing Lynn up with cloudy eyes.
"You're that crow?"
He spat on the ground.
"The King's tastes grow stranger by the day."
Lynn didn't get angry. He simply spoke calmly:
"I need a full suit of plate for jousting, and a set of light armor for melee combat."
"The plate must be solid, but the joints flexible. Especially the wrists and waist."
"I don't want to be bound by a pile of iron when I charge."
"The light armor should be as light as possible. Breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, greaves, with a mail hauberk underneath. That is all."
"I want protection, not a burden."
The scorn on Donal's face receded slightly, and a flicker of surprise passed through his cloudy eyes.
This crow was no amateur.
His demands were precise and exacting, sounding like they came from someone who had truly seen battle, not the peacocks who only knew how to show off fancy armor in the lists.
"Follow me."
Donal said no more, leading Lynn deeper into the armory.
Rows of cold armor reflected the dim light of the torches.
These were the best of the best, each piece having once belonged to a renowned knight.
Lynn's gaze swept over the armor engraved with ornate sigils, finally stopping on a suit of pitch-black plate.
It had no superfluous decoration. The lines were smooth and cold, as if born for slaughter.
"Good eye."
For the first time, Donal's voice held a note of approval.
"This was forged from the finest steel in King's Landing, mimicking the techniques of Valyrian steel. A pity no one knows the legendary fire magic anymore, nor do we have dragonfire to forge it."
"Otherwise, the protection of this plate would be even better."
"But even so, it is a rare masterpiece."
Lynn stepped forward and tapped the breastplate lightly with his finger.
Thud.
A dull sound.
Heavy and solid.
"I'll take it."
Just then, a sneaky little head poked out from behind a weapon rack.
It was Arya.
She had just finished her "dancing" lesson with Syrio and heard the news about Lynn being in the armory. Abandoning her needlework lessons, she had sneaked over.
Her eyes were wide and round.
Lynn had sensed her presence long ago but hadn't called her out.
He turned, took a wooden practice sword from the rack, and casually flourished it.
Clack.
With a crisp sound, the tip of the wooden sword tapped precisely on the vambrace of a nearby suit of armor.
The force wasn't great, but it made the entire metal arm guard vibrate.
Arya's mouth fell open slightly.
Syrio had taught her this move too.
It emphasized wrist power and precise control.
But Syrio used a light bravos blade, while Lynn held a relatively heavier wooden sword.
He made the heavy seem light.
"Seen enough, little troublemaker?"
Lynn's voice carried a hint of a smile.
Arya stuck out her tongue and ran out from behind the rack, her grey eyes shining.
"Lynn! Are you really going to fight in the tourney?"
"Yes."
"The joust?"
"Yes."
"Will you win?"
"Will you beat the 'Knight of Flowers'? And the 'Kingslayer'!"
Arya's tone was full of excitement, as if she were the one competing.
Lynn smiled but didn't answer directly.
He walked over to Arya and crouched down until he was at eye level with her.
"What did your dancing master teach you?"
Arya blinked, instinctively straightening her back and mimicking Syrio's tone.
"Look with your eyes. Calm as still water. Quick as a deer."
"He didn't teach you the most important line."
"What?"
Lynn reached out a finger, tapping his own temple, then Arya's.
"This is your strongest weapon."
He stood up, unfastened a small leather sheath from his waist, and handed it to Arya.
It contained a small dragonbone dagger. Shorter and thinner than "Needle," the blade was dark and glinted coldly.
It was a Valyrian steel dagger he always carried.
"For you."
Arya's breath stopped.
She took the dagger carefully.
Unsheathing it, the blade flashed sharply in the firelight.
"I..."
She looked up, wanting to say something, but didn't know what to say.
"Remember." Lynn ruffled her hair.
"If something happens to me, you need to return to the North immediately. King's Landing is not safe."
With that, Lynn ignored the stunned Arya and turned to follow Donal to the section where the light armor was kept.
Arya stood dazed, clutching the cold dagger, her palm burning hot.
---
After selecting his armor, Lynn went to the Royal Stables.
The stablemaster had already received orders and brought out the best warhorses, lining them up.
There were snow-white, graceful Arabians.
Muscle-bound Andalusians with incredible stamina.
And Sand Steeds from Dorne, known for their speed.
Each was a priceless treasure.
But Lynn's gaze remained fixed on a corner of the stable.
There, a black giant of a horse was kept alone in a stall.
It was a pure black Shire mare, the only mare in heat here.
She was a size larger than ordinary warhorses, with thick legs and rippling muscles, like a black ox.
She pawed the ground impatiently, snorting hot breath from her nostrils.
Her black eyes were full of wildness and defiance.
"My Lord, 'Storm' is too spirited. She's already injured several knights who tried to break her."
The stablemaster warned kindly.
Lynn walked straight towards her.
Sensing a stranger's approach, the black mare named "Storm" let out a violent whinny.
She reared up, hooves slashing the air, threatening to crush him.
The surrounding grooms retreated in fear.
Lynn didn't even blink.
He simply stood there, his black eyes locking with the wild mare's.
Soon, Storm's raised hooves froze in mid-air.
The violence and defiance in her eyes faded visibly.
Replaced by confusion, and finally, submission.
She slowly lowered her hooves, bowing her proud head to gently nuzzle Lynn's palm.
This was the confidence brought by his Riding skill; it made Lynn intimately familiar with mounts.
Silence fell over the stable.
Everyone stared dumbfounded at the scene, as if watching an unbelievable mime show.
"She's the one."
Lynn vaulted onto her back, his movement fluid and effortless.
Black horse, black armor, black sword.
Man and horse seemed to merge into one.
Lynn rode Storm slowly out of the stable.
This Shire horse was different from her kin. She was strange; her usual weakness, speed, was almost compensated for by her immense strength. Lynn could feel her carrying capacity was incredible.
Even in heavy plate, she would carry him with ease.
Before long, he ran into Jaime Lannister and Loras Tyrell, followed by Petyr Baelish.
The "Kingslayer" and the "Knight of Flowers," the two most dazzling knights of the Seven Kingdoms, were walking side by side, discussing something.
When they saw Lynn, the smiles on their faces dimmed.
Curiosity and scrutiny flashed in Loras's eyes, while Jaime's gaze held a more complex inquisitiveness.
Clearly, Jaime remembered Lynn.
They had a brief private meeting back in Winterfell.
He hadn't expected Lynn to qualify to compete against him in such a short time.
Littlefinger, however, hurried toward the stables without even glancing at Lynn, as if he had urgent business to attend to.
Lynn ignored them, simply urging his horse past.
In the moment they crossed paths, he could clearly feel the sharpness of the gazes fixed upon his back.
---