The Iron Throne room spiraled into chaos.
Ladies' screams nearly tore the Red Keep's roof off. Some courtiers collapsed outright, piss-stink spreading from their breeches.
The usually arrogant Lannister guards went pale. Swords trembling in their hands.
They'd never seen such a monstrosity! Arm severed—still vicious! The severed hand on the floor kept clawing at stone. Scritch-scratch-scritch. Like the limb had its own life!
They'd never witnessed anything so unnatural. Paralyzed with terror.
"Burn it! Use fire!" Ned—who'd learned from Lynn how to kill these things—reacted first. Drew his sword. Shielded Robert. Roared at the guards.
But fear had robbed them of thought.
"Move." Lynn pushed past frozen guards. Took a burning torch from the wall.
Walked slowly toward the wight still slamming the cage.
The wight sensed the flame's threat. Ice-blue eyes locked on Lynn. Its remaining hand shot through the bars—grabbed for Lynn's face!
Lynn didn't dodge. Just poured prepared oil over it. Then gently pressed the torch forward.
WHOOSH!
Flame met withered flesh. Like hot oil meeting sparks. Ignited instantly!
Black fire raced up its arm. Consumed its entire body. The wight shrieked—inhuman, piercing—thrashing and rolling in the cage.
A nauseating stench—burnt meat and rot—flooded the hall.
Lynn, expressionless, brought the torch to the crawling severed hand. Under the flames, it charred to ash. Finally still.
Minutes later, the shrieking stopped. The wight was now just a smoking, blackened skeleton.
The Iron Throne room: deathly silent.
All eyes—awed—shifted from the smoking cage to Lynn. The man holding the torch. Who'd anticipated everything.
Robert Baratheon's drunken rage had evaporated. Replaced by shock. Confusion. His massive body trembled on the cold throne.
"What... what the hell was that thing?"
His voice had lost all arrogance.
"The threat to all living." Lynn returned the torch to the wall. Turned. Met every gaze.
"Wights. Dead soldiers. Reanimated by creatures we call White Walkers. They feel no pain. Never tire. Normal steel can't kill them. Only fire. Or dragonglass. They're the vanguard of the Long Night. Heralds of winter. Your Grace—this is our true enemy."
"Nonsense!" Grand Maester Pycelle tottered forward. His old face flushed with agitation. "White Walkers... wights... old tales to frighten children! Disproven by the Citadel!"
"The southern Citadel presumes to disprove?" Lynn smiled. Pointed at the charred skeleton. "You should visit beyond the Wall yourselves. Maester—if this is nonsense, explain with your Citadel knowledge why that corpse just moved."
Pycelle's lips quivered. No words came.
"Your Grace." Lynn ignored the old fool. Looked back at Robert. "Beyond the Wall, every dead person—killed by sword, frozen, starved—gets turned into these monsters. Even corpses buried for centuries. Even bare skeletons. All can be raised."
"They're not just killing, Your Grace. They're recruiting. Every warrior we lose becomes their soldier. How do we fight that?"
Robert's breathing grew heavy. As a warrior, he grasped the horrifying implication instantly. An army that grows with every kill!
"What's this got to do with wildlings?" Renly Baratheon frowned.
"Everything." Lynn's gaze swept him. "Because those wildlings aren't our enemies. They're refugees fleeing this disaster. I let them through the Wall for four reasons."
Lynn raised one finger. "First: If I don't let them in, they die beyond the Wall. Then those dead wildlings join the wight army. Every wildling I brought in means one less unkillable monster we face later—and one more ally against the dead. Simple math."
Suppressed gasps rippled through the hall. The logic was brutal. Irrefutable.
Lynn raised a second finger. "Second: What did we gain? Eighty thousand warriors trained to fight in ice and snow. They know the White Walkers better than us. They've battled these things for centuries. When the Long Night comes, when the wight army marches, they'll stand with us. Fight for Your Grace. Fight for this realm!"
Robert's eyes lit. Eighty thousand!
Third finger. "Third, Your Grace: The North is harsh. The Gift has been barren for centuries. Now, hundreds of thousands of wildlings mean what? Those wastelands will be reclaimed before winter. Northern grain production will double. They'll provide taxes. Labor. Soldiers! They're no longer savages. They're your subjects! A strong, prosperous North only strengthens your rule!"
Ned Stark stared at Lynn. His grey eyes filled with shock and relief. He'd only seen the trouble wildlings brought. But Lynn had already planned a future that would transform the entire North!
"Fourth." Lynn raised his last finger. "If we don't let them in, what happens? We guard the northern border forever against a hundred-thousand-strong army. They'll raid constantly. Try to breach the Wall. Draining our manpower and resources."
"Or worse—" Lynn's gaze returned to the cage. "We wait. Wait for the White Walkers to turn a hundred thousand wildling warriors, two hundred thousand women and children, into wights. Then we face an army suddenly three hundred thousand strong! Oh, and these dead don't understand chivalry. They don't fear. Don't show mercy. They'll just turn every living thing into one of them."
Lynn's words fell. The Iron Throne room: silent as a tomb.
Everyone was shaken by the vast, terrifying picture Lynn painted. Courtiers who'd been gleeful earlier—ready to watch Lynn's downfall—now wore only gravity.
They realized: Lynn wasn't hoarding power or plotting treason. He was saving the entire kingdom his own way!
"Seven hells..." Robert muttered. He descended the throne. Step by step. Walked to the cage. Stared at the blackened skeleton.
Fear. Excitement. Fervor... Countless emotions swirled in his clouded eyes.
As a warrior, he hated court intrigue. Loathed endless ledgers and meetings. But now—a true enemy worth swinging his warhammer against had appeared!
"Army of the dead..." Robert spun around. His fat face showed a flash of youthful vigor!
"HAHAHA!" He roared with laughter, echoing through the hall. "Now this is a war fit for a king!"
He strode to Lynn. His massive hand clapped Lynn's shoulder. "Good lad! Well done! You brought me the Targaryen bastard's head and an eighty-thousand-strong army!"
"King-Beyond-the-Wall? Fuck that title!" Robert waved grandly. Voice booming. "I promised you something. Bring back a Targaryen head, I'd grant you lands. Release you from your Night's Watch vows! I keep my word!"
"From today, the Gift is your domain! You'll hold it as an earl. As Ned's vassal. Serve the realm better! You'll be my first line against the Long Night! The Watch's vows won't bind you. You can marry. Have sons. Marry a hundred wives if you want! Your eldest will inherit forever!"
"I hear you're the new Lord Commander. But breaking vows won't sit well. Step down. Choose another from the Watch."
The hall erupted in shock!
Ned's mouth hung open. Unbelieving. Renly looked stunned. Cersei's eyes flashed confusion.
What favor! Robert granted Lynn the Gift—management rights, revenue rights. Ned would provide protection. Lynn, as vassal, owed military service. When Ned waged war, Lynn must bring his soldiers. In special cases—knighting Ned's heir, marrying off his daughter, ransom—Lynn would pay aid. He'd attend Ned's court. Advise. Participate in judgments.
Lynn knelt. This time, smiling faintly. Earl and lands secured. Honestly, his first thought was his promise to Arya at Winterfell. His goal. He'd finally crossed class barriers. Could prepare to marry Arya...
"I live to serve Your Grace."
"Good! Good! Good!" Robert repeated thrice. He'd never felt this exhilarated. Like he was young again—smashing Rhaegar Targaryen's chest at the Trident.
But just as king and subject reached peak harmony—an untimely voice drifted up.
"Your Grace, perhaps you should calm down."
All eyes turned. The speaker: "Littlefinger" Petyr Baelish in his wheelchair. His face wore its harmless smile. But his glittering eyes hid chilling coldness.
"Lord Lynn's vision is indeed inspiring. Only—" Petyr's tone shifted. Gaze landed on Lynn. "Ravens brought word. Lord Lynn, you didn't just kill Viserys Targaryen in Essos. You liberated Astapor. Took eight thousand Unsullied. Forged them armor. That fugitive Jorah Mormont lingers at your side. You took in that Daenerys woman. And... you personally hatched a dragon."
Littlefinger's voice was cold water. Dousing Robert's rekindled passion instantly.
The hall's atmosphere froze again. If wights were a distant threat, dragons and Unsullied were swords at their throats!
Pentos was an intelligence hub. Ravens everywhere. Countless eyes had watched Lynn journey to Essos. Littlefinger—a master player, no fool—getting firsthand news was unsurprising.
Robert's smile vanished. He slowly turned. Clouded eyes boring into Lynn.
"Is it true? Lynn. Where's your dragon?"
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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