Jorah and Daenerys were nothing. Two homeless strays. But a dragon? An Unsullied legion?
Those words chilled hearts more than the charred wight.
Robert Baratheon—moments ago brimming with zeal to march north against the dead—froze. His smile vanished. He turned slowly. Bloodshot eyes clouded with danger. Locked on Lynn.
Suspicion. Darkness.
"Is it true?" Robert's voice dropped. Terrifying. Like an enraged lion's final growl before striking. "Lynn. Where's your dragon? Explain. Now."
The hall's temperature plummeted.
Ned Stark's heart sank. His worst fear realized. Robert's state was wrong. Erratic. Mercurial. He'd been like this more and more. If Lynn couldn't explain—today wouldn't end well.
Ned wanted to speak. Found no words. Just hoped Lynn had a solution.
All eyes—some gleeful, some fearful—focused on Lynn again. Waiting to see how this northern boy would face the king's lethal question.
Lynn stayed calm. Didn't even glance at Littlefinger in his wheelchair, wearing a victor's smile. Just met Robert's murderous gaze. Nodded calmly.
"Yes, Your Grace. I have a dragon."
He admitted it. So easily. So bluntly.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
"And I have eight thousand of the world's finest soldiers. They're called Unsullied."
Lynn's second statement made every heart skip.
Mad! This northerner's mad! Admitting to such a powerful private army before the Iron Throne!
"Everything I did was for you, Your Grace. For the realm." Lynn's voice echoed through the silent hall. Clear. Firm.
"Your Grace, you saw it—one wight. One scout from the army of the dead. Beyond the Wall, hundreds of thousands. Maybe millions! How do we fight them? With the realm's scraped-together army that can't even feed itself through winter? With unreliable sellswords? No, Your Grace. Not enough!"
"We need an army that doesn't fear death. Obeys absolutely. So I brought you the Unsullied! We need flames to burn all evil. So I brought you a dragon!"
Lynn's gaze burned into Robert's dark face. "The Unsullied will fight for Your Grace! My dragon's flames will burn only for you! They're not my property, Your Grace. They're your sharpest sword against the Long Night!"
Robert's expression didn't change. He pressed: "What about Jorah and Daenerys? A damned slaver and a Targaryen remnant. Are you trying to replace House Baratheon?"
Lynn remained unhurried. "Ser Jorah Mormont is the son of former Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. Jeor saw me as his successor. Gave me the family sword Longclaw. Our relationship runs deep. But that's not why I'd pardon him—that would be favoritism."
"When I first arrived in Essos, Ser Jorah sought me out. Tried to atone. Serve the Seven Kingdoms again. He could've fled. He didn't. He risked hanging to find me. Jeor Mormont guarded the Wall for years. I believe Jorah's sins are paid. Your Grace should give him a chance to redeem himself."
Lynn's words danced around the issue. Robert grew impatient. He didn't care about Jorah. He wanted to know about the other one. Daenerys! The other Targaryen remnant!
Lynn seemed to read Robert's mind. "As for Daenerys... I originally planned to bring you her head too. But I decided to spare her."
Robert's eyes bulged. Next second, he roared: "Lynn, do you know what you're doing?!"
Lynn, unruffled: "Of course, Your Grace. As everyone knows, dragons are the Targaryen symbol. Historically, only Targaryen blood can control these powerful magical creatures. Even Targaryens sometimes couldn't restrain these proud beasts."
"Kill Daenerys, the dragon dies too. But keep Daenerys—we can watch her. End her restoration hopes. Cut off the pure Targaryen bloodline. Most importantly: it makes the dragon controllable. Useful to the Seven Kingdoms. Multiple benefits. Doesn't Your Grace want a dragon to conquer for the realm?"
Robert's face twitched. His paranoid brain raced. What king could refuse a dragon's loyalty? He'd dreamed of owning one! That was Aegon the Conqueror's glory!
But reason warned: dragons were uncontrollable. A massive threat to his rule!
As Robert warred with himself, Lynn shifted tone. "Of course, Your Grace. Armies and dragons need feeding. And I hear the realm's finances are... tight."
He glanced meaningfully at Littlefinger. Petyr Baelish's smile stiffened.
Lynn drew a small white silk pouch from his coat. Under confused stares, he climbed the steps to the Iron Throne.
"Stop!" Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, instinctively reached for his sword. Robert's glare stopped him.
Lynn approached Robert. Presented the silk pouch respectfully. Robert took it suspiciously. Opened it. Inside: powder white as snow, fine as silk, glittering in torchlight.
"What is this? Some Lysene poison?" Robert growled.
"No, Your Grace. White sugar from Astapor." Lynn smiled. "Taste it."
Then Lynn paused, as if remembering. "Oh, wait. For Your Grace's safety, someone should test it first. After all, hearts are hard to read."
Lynn's gaze landed precisely on Petyr Baelish in his wheelchair. "Lord Littlefinger just questioned my loyalty most. Surely he cares most for Your Grace's safety. Why not let Lord Littlefinger taste this for Your Grace? Prove its purity?"
Instantly, all eyes shifted from the pouch to Littlefinger's face. Petyr's smile vanished completely. He felt like a snake had him cornered.
Robert blinked. Then burst into crude laughter. The suggestion was brilliant! "Yes! Exactly! You—come here! You're so good at solving my problems? Solve this one! Taste it!"
Petyr's face went from white to green to purple. Gold Cloaks wheeled him to the throne. He stared at Lynn's half-smile, wanting to flay him with his eyes. But he had no choice.
Trembling, he pinched a bit of white powder from Robert's pouch. Finer than anything he'd seen. He closed his eyes. Steeled himself. Put it in his mouth.
Instantly—Petyr's eyes shot open! Pure, dominating sweetness exploded in his mouth! Not honey. Not any sweet he'd tasted. A flavor that would drive every noble mad!
He wasn't stupid. He grasped its value instantly! A gold mine that could overturn Westeros's entire trade structure! And Lynn controlled it!
Robert hesitated. Looked at Lynn's calm eyes. Finally extended a thick finger. Pinched some. Put it in his mouth.
That instant—Robert Baratheon's eyes bulged! His bloated face showed incredible delight! Seven hells! What was this taste?
Pure sweetness! Like summer's sweetest berries. Spring's richest honey. Exploding on his tongue! Sweetness to make the soul tremble!
Westerosi nobles loved sweets. Here, sugar production was difficult, labor-intensive, expensive. Commoners couldn't afford it. Nobles displayed wealth through sweets. At social events, sweets showed status, welcomed guests. Owning and eating sugar was a status symbol.
He'd lived half a lifetime. Drunk bitter Dornish wine. Eaten honey-roasted boar. Never tasted such incredible sweetness! He grabbed another handful. Shoved it in his mouth. Chewed like a greedy bear.
"Seven hells..." Robert mumbled, eyes shining.
"It's called white sugar, Your Grace." Lynn's voice carried seduction. "It'll become more precious than gold. I control its exclusive production in Astapor. I'll supply the royal house at cost. Whether you resell it or not, the wealth it brings will fill every treasury deficit. Arm ten armies against the White Walkers!"
"Your Grace, worried about war funds? I've brought you an inexhaustible gold mine!"
Robert was stunned. Mind roaring. Dragon. Army. Wealth. This boy had packaged everything he'd dreamed of. Delivered it to his feet!
Robert suppressed his joy. Feigned seriousness. Asked the most lethal question: "Lynn. Will you give the dragon to King's Landing?"
A win-win move. Not surrendering the dragon proved disloyalty. Surrendering it proved loyalty—and Baratheon gained a dragon free.
Lynn's expression turned odd. People still wanted to raise dragons? Did they want to be the next Robb? Someone willing to raise his dragon for free—especially "money-is-no-object" and "face-obsessed" King's Landing—he couldn't ask for better. He'd agree with both hands and feet!
Lynn said immediately: "Of course no problem. When I return to Essos, I'll send the dragon as soon as possible. Though I still have other uses for Daenerys..."
Robert gave a knowing male grin. He knew: Lynn had given enough. Pushing further would make him the next Mad King.
"HAHAHA!" Deafening laughter exploded through the Iron Throne room! Robert threw an arm around Lynn's shoulders. His massive hand pounded Lynn's back.
"Good lad! Ned! Look at this boy you raised! He's worth more than a whole ship of Varys and Petyr combined!"
Robert, flushed with excitement, held the sugar high. Roared at his shocked court: "See this? You cowards who gossip behind backs! While you squabble over coppers, this young man conquered a city for me! Brought a gold mine!"
He jabbed a finger at Littlefinger. Eyes full of contempt. "Petyr! You told me he's a threat! A traitor! Bullshit! He's my finest hero!"
Littlefinger's smile died. Replaced by ashen despair. He couldn't understand—his lethal strike had become this?
Robert's mind raced. He had to bind this young man, this dragon, this gold mine to his chariot! With the strongest chains!
"Marriage!" The word popped into Robert's brain. "Yes! Marriage! The best way!" He slapped his thigh excitedly.
Cersei Lannister's face went white.
"My daughter! Myrcella!" Robert bellowed. He remembered—his daughter was under Lynn's "protection." "The Seven arranged this fate! Lynn! You'll marry my daughter, Princess Myrcella Baratheon!"
A marriage princess could secure one domain's loyalty. But marrying Lynn was different. His dragon could conquer two domains. Maybe more. He understood that much.
BOOM! The Iron Throne room exploded! Lynn marrying the king's only princess?!
"Your Grace! This won't work!" Grand Maester Pycelle was first to object. "He... as I understand, Lord Lynn is already betrothed to a Stark daughter!"
"Betrothal?" Robert laughed like he'd heard a joke. "So what? Did you forget what I said? Lynn can marry as many as he wants! Even a hundred! I approve! He'll marry my daughter and the Stark girl! Myrcella first, then the Stark! Decided!"
Robert grinned at stunned Lynn. "What, boy? Unwilling?"
What could Lynn say? He slowly knelt on one knee. "It's my honor."
Outside the door, a small figure heard everything. Arya Stark. She leaned against the cold wall. Her small body trembling slightly.
Lynn succeeded. He survived. Father couldn't stop their marriage now. Huge joy surged—then another name stabbed her heart like a needle. Myrcella. That blonde girl in pretty dresses. Like a doll. The Lannister girl.
Lynn would marry her first. Sour jealousy flooded uncontrollably.
Lynn looked at Robert's satisfied face. Then at Cersei and Jaime in the corner, faces livid. Finally, his gaze landed on the utterly defeated Littlefinger.
Lynn gave him a meaningful smile. Since Baelish insisted on seeking death, don't blame him for being ruthless!
Then Lynn surveyed the throne room. Declared loudly: "Lord Baelish's information network is impressive. But what you know is only surface matters. I never deliberately hid them. However, I know some of Lord Baelish's unknown secrets. Or... past events. Such as the true cause of Lord Jon Arryn's death. Lord Baelish—how do you explain that?"
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