Catelyn's sobbing was like a dull knife, repeatedly scraping against the taut nerves of everyone present, grating and unpleasant.
But no one could say anything.
Old Hoster was her biological father, after all.
The debt of birth and raising was greater than the heavens, and she was suffering more than anyone else there.
Robb clenched his fists, his young face filled with fury.
He wanted to draw his sword, summon his vassals immediately, rush to Riverrun, and chop both his insane aunt and the damned old Frey into mincemeat.
But he knew he couldn't.
War was not a minstrel's song.
Acting solely on passion without any preparation would only lead everyone to ruin.
"Lynn..."
"What should we do?"
Lynn did not answer immediately.
He walked over to Catelyn.
"My Lady, tears solve nothing."
"Vengeance must be sought, and people must be saved. But not by falling into disarray like this."
He glanced around the room.
His gaze swept from the grief-stricken Catelyn and the furious Robb to the tired and guilty face of Ned.
"What you need to do now is not sigh and lament here, but take immediate action."
Lynn's voice immediately galvanized everyone.
"Robb."
Robb instinctively straightened his back.
"Immediately issue a summons in the name of Winterfell to all vassals of the North."
"Tell them Winter has come and the Long Night is approaching, and I need them to bring sufficient provisions to Winterfell to attend the 'Harvest Council.'"
The Harvest Council?
Robb was stunned for a moment but nodded in agreement immediately.
He knew this was just an excuse.
An excuse to mobilize all the military strength of the North in the shortest possible time.
Although the internal power of the North was stronger than elsewhere, it was inevitable that some bad apples would be hidden among them.
What Lynn needed to do was get them to come first.
Once they arrived, they would have no choice.
"Lady Catelyn."
Lynn turned to Catelyn, who was still sobbing.
"You are a daughter of House Tully, and many vassals in the The Riverlands remain loyal to House Tully, loyal to your father."
"I need you to write to them immediately."
"Tell them everything that has happened at Riverrun, tell them of Lysa's madness and Frey's conspiracy."
"But remember, do not let them act rashly; just have them guard their castles and await my signal."
Catelyn raised her tear-filled eyes, looked at Lynn, and nodded heavily.
She could not stand by and watch her family suffer disaster.
But if she could contribute to the vengeance, she was willing to do anything.
"Lord Ned."
Lynn looked at Ned last.
"You just returned; rest well."
"Tomorrow night, you need to hold a feast to entertain all the vassals who arrive early."
"At that time, I will tell you the complete plan."
These few brief words instantly dispelled the gloom shrouding the main hall.
Sadness and anger were transformed into concrete goals and actions.
Ned looked at the young man before him, his heart filled with mixed emotions.
He seemed to see a born leader, calmly directing his fleet toward the only correct course as the storm approached.
Perhaps entrusting the future of the North, and even all of Westeros, to Lynn was truly the correct choice.
At least it was far better than supporting an idiot like Joffrey... The commotion in the main keep gradually faded away.
Jaime Lannister walked alone in the courtyard of Winterfell.
The air in the North was cold and clean.
Breathing it in felt like washing away the stench of ambition and decay mixed in the air of King's Landing.
He felt like an anomaly.
A Lannister, walking freely within a Stark castle?
Everything here was different from Casterly Rock.
There was no golden extravagance, only the steadfastness of grey stone.
There was no flattery or calculation in people's eyes, only a simple wariness and curiosity.
Because he had followed Lynn north to fight Lysa, the Starks had set aside their prejudice against Jaime the Lannister and treated him with courtesy instead.
This left him somewhat flustered.
Jaime couldn't help but recall everything that had happened recently.
That foolish woman named Lysa, driven mad by a dead man, dragged her entire family down with her.
This made him inevitably think of Cersei.
His sister, his former lover.
She was also mad.
For the iron throne that did not belong to her, and for the son who was not Robert's blood at all.
She had tied the entire House Lannister to an out-of-control chariot.
And he was the fool driving that chariot for her.
Jaime gave a self-mocking laugh.
He looked up and saw two small figures playing in the training yard nearby.
They were the two youngest sons of House Stark, Bran and Rickon.
Bran Stark?
Jaime stopped walking.
He remembered that unusual day.
Right there, in that abandoned high tower at Winterfell.
If not for Lynn's sudden appearance.
This lively boy might have already become a cold corpse.
Or perhaps... he would have been crippled and paralyzed for life.
And he would have added the crime of "harming a child" to his infamous title of "kingslayer."
No, regardless of the outcome, the act of harming a child was already etched onto his pillar of shame; that fact had not changed.
Every time he thought of that possible future, cold sweat broke out on Jaime's back.
In the training yard, Bran was holding a small practice bow, trying to hit a scarecrow dozens of paces away.
"Whoosh—"
The arrow traced a weak arc and softly landed in the snow several meters away from the target.
"Hahaha, you missed again!"
The younger Rickon clapped his hands and laughed beside him.
"You're so much older, but you still can't shoot as straight as me!"
Bran's small face flushed red.
Feeling slightly indignant, he nocked another arrow, trying hard to pull the bowstring back the way Ser Rodrik had taught him.
"I'll definitely hit it this time!"
"If I miss... I'll have Arya come teach you a lesson, since you dare to keep making fun of me!"
"Whoosh—"
As a result, this arrow missed even more wildly, flying directly over the training yard fence.
Rickon shouted excitedly.
It seemed he wouldn't have to face his terrifying sister after all.
Bran lowered his arms in frustration; perhaps his talent really did follow his uncle Edmure.
His archery was utterly dreadful.
It was a good thing House Stark didn't use the water burial of House Tully, or he would truly be Edmure the Second... Just then.
"Your elbow is too low."
A voice suddenly came from behind him.
Bran and Rickon jumped in surprise, and they whirled around.
They saw a man wearing black leather armor and possessing dazzling golden hair.
"You're... the kingslayer, that Jaime!"
Bran pointed and shouted.
The corner of Jaime's mouth twitched.
He probably wouldn't be able to shake off that nickname in this lifetime.
Bran examined the legendary figure before him with wide, curious eyes.
Unlike others who looked at him with fear or contempt, those grey eyes were filled only with a child's curiosity and admiration.
That day, to avoid too much entanglement, his memory had long been erased by the "cowardly" Three-Eyed Raven.
In Bran's view, falling from the high tower had just been an accident.
But in Jaime's eyes, he felt a certain dread.
He was actually afraid that Bran would open his mouth and accuse him.
But seeing the confusion in Bran's eyes, had he forgotten that detail?
Jaime didn't dwell on it.
After all, Bran was only seven at the time; he simply assumed Bran was a forgiving child, or perhaps forgetful, just like Myrcella and Tommen had been initially.
But this only made him feel even more guilty.
"Everyone in Winterfell says you are the fiercest knight in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Are you better than my father?"
"Have you two ever fought?"
Jaime smiled, then shook his head.
"Your father is a hero; how could I possibly defeat him?"
Jaime then walked up to Bran and looked at the small bow in his hands.
"Give me that little bow."
Bran hesitated for a moment but obediently handed it over.
Jaime took the bow.
The bow, which required Bran to use all his strength to draw, felt like a toy in his hands.
Jaime didn't look at the distant target; he merely felt the strength of the cold wind blowing on his face, then casually drew the string and released it.
"Whoosh!"
The arrow made a crisp sound as it cut through the air.
Like a grey bolt of lightning, it struck the scarecrow dead center with perfect accuracy.
The fletching was still trembling slightly.
Bran and Rickon's mouths dropped open.
"Wow—"
Countless little stars seemed to burst into existence in Bran's eyes.
The way he looked at Jaime was like seeing his most admired hero.
"You're amazing! How did you do that?"
Looking into the boy's clear, unblemished eyes, Jaime's heart was gently touched by something.
How long had it been since he had seen eyes like that?
In King's Landing, people looked at him with either fear, flattery, or contempt.
He had forgotten.
He, too, had once been a youth harboring the dream of knighthood.
He had also once looked up to legendary knights with such admiring eyes.
Including the idol in his heart, the Sword of the Morning.
"You are standing incorrectly."
Jaime's voice unconsciously softened slightly.
"Your feet should be shoulder-width apart, like this..."
He walked behind Bran, reached out, and gently adjusted Bran's posture.
His hands were large and warm.
Even through the thick leather clothing, Bran could still feel the sense of strength belonging to a powerful man.
"Keep your back straight and your shoulders level."
"When drawing the bow, don't just use the strength of your arms; use the strength of your entire back to feel the tension of the bowstring."
Jaime's voice was calm, every word perfectly clear.
He was like the most rigorous yet patient teacher, imparting his years of experience unreservedly to the boy he had once harmed.
Bran held his breath and nocked an arrow again, following Jaime's guidance.
He felt completely different.
The bowstring seemed to become an extension of his arm, and he could clearly feel the latent power of the arrow ready to fly.
"Eye, string, arrow tip, target—align them."
"Then, let go."
"Whoosh!"
The arrow left the string!
This time, it did not trace a crooked arc but flew straight toward the target!
"Thwack!"
Although the arrow did not hit the bullseye, it was firmly embedded in the scarecrow's chest.
"I hit it! I hit it!"
Rickon's mouth was also wide open.
"Old Gods above, Bran actually hit it..."
Bran jumped up excitedly, his small face flushed red with thrill.
He looked back at Jaime, his bright eyes shining with the purest joy and gratitude.
"Thank you, Ser Jaime!"
In this moment, he called him "Ser," not "kingslayer."
A simple yet incredibly weighty title.
Jaime looked at the cheering boy before him, and the block of ice in his heart seemed to quietly melt away a corner.
He thought of Joffrey.
The nominal prince, his biological son.
Joffrey also liked bows and arrows, but he never enjoyed the process of practice.
He only liked using the most expensive bows to shoot small animals that were tied up and unable to fight back.
He never cheered for hitting a target; he only laughed cruelly at the miserable screams of his prey.
And he would certainly never say "thank you" to anyone.
Jaime's gaze fell back upon Bran.
This boy was healthy, lively, well-mannered, and his heart was full of yearning for honor and martial skill.
This was how a nobleman ought to be.
If... if Robert had married Lyanna Stark instead of Cersei all those years ago.
If the one sitting on the iron throne was a Baratheon with Stark blood.
Would this kingdom be a different place?
And would he himself not have to bear the infamy of kingslayer, nor be entangled in that incestuous, forbidden love with his sister?
But instead, could he have fulfilled his childhood dream of becoming a true knight, protecting a king worthy of protection?
"Ser? Ser?"
Bran's voice pulled Jaime back from his chaotic thoughts.
"Will you... will you teach me again?"
Bran looked up, his eyes carrying a hint of pleading and anticipation.
"I also want to learn sword fighting!"
"Lord Lynn said you are currently the strongest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms!"
Jaime looked at him, and for the first time, a genuine smile appeared on the face that was usually marked by cynicism and indifference.
He did not answer.
But he knew that something had changed.
He might never be able to wash away the stain of kingslayer, but perhaps he could... become a knight again?
A true knight!
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn luffy1898