The Iron Throne room's clamor was sealed behind heavy oak doors. In the corridor, torchlight stretched two shadows—one tall, one short—tightly intertwined.
Arya gripped Lynn's sleeve. Silent. She had many questions. Where he'd been this month. What he'd done. Why he had a dragon. Why Astapor.
But all questions became one name. Like a fishbone lodged in her throat. Choking her.
Myrcella. That golden-haired Baratheon princess.
Arya looked up at Lynn's smiling face, his eyes gentle in firelight. Her suppressed grievance surged again. She pouted. Said nothing. Just pulled Lynn toward the Hand's Tower kitchen.
The kitchen steamed with activity. Cooks preparing the evening feast. Seeing Arya and Lynn, they stopped. Bowed respectfully.
Arya grabbed a dripping roast chicken from the spit, two loaves from a basket. Pulled Lynn into a small spice storage room. Narrow space. Warm scents of cinnamon, cloves, pepper.
Reminded Arya of when Lynn taught her swordplay. Hiding behind doors together.
Arya shoved the chicken and bread at Lynn. Curled in the corner, knees hugged. Like a wounded little beast.
Lynn tore off a drumstick. Bit down. Oil-rich flavor. "Not eating?" He offered her the other leg.
Arya shook her head. Buried her face deeper.
"You..." Her muffled voice came from between her knees. "You're really marrying her?"
"Who?" Lynn played dumb.
"Myrcella Baratheon!" Arya's head shot up. Grey eyes red-rimmed. Like an angry rabbit. "That blonde princess!"
"The king's command. I couldn't refuse before everyone, could I?" Lynn shrugged helplessly.
"But you shouldn't have agreed!" Arya's voice cracked. "You... you promised Father you'd marry me..." Her voice dropped. Face flushed.
Lynn watched her—angry, anxious, shy. Couldn't help smiling. He set down the chicken. Leaned close. Pinched her puffed cheeks. "Jealous?"
"Who... who's jealous?!" Arya swatted his hand like a cat with its tail stepped on. Wouldn't meet his eyes. "I just... think Lannisters are all terrible!"
"Mm, you're right." Lynn nodded seriously. "That's exactly why I'm marrying her."
Arya froze. Didn't understand.
"Think about it," Lynn coaxed. "The king's only daughter. Lannister's precious jewel. Married to me—the King-Beyond-the-Wall from the North. What does that mean?"
"It means even if the Lannisters hate me, they must publicly accept this relationship. They can't stab me in the back. Must pray I stay healthy. Because if something happens to me, their precious princess becomes a widow."
Arya blinked. That... made sense.
"It's called a hostage." Lynn used the crudest term to explain this political marriage's essence. "Like I'm keeping Joffrey's sister in the North. Now Tywin Lannister—that old lion—can't touch me. I have time to develop in peace. After all, those freedmen are waiting to be fed."
Arya nodded, half-understanding. But the sour feeling lingered. "But... you're still marrying her first."
"That's just procedure, Arya." Lynn's voice softened. He pulled her into his arms. "I promise—once King's Landing business is done, I'll take you back North. Then, in Winterfell, before the heart tree, witnessed by all northerners, I'll marry you."
Arya's body stiffened. She buried her face in Lynn's chest. Felt that familiar warmth. Tears fell despite herself. "You said that..."
"I did." Lynn cut her off. Kissed the top of her head.
Hearing his promise, Arya finally giggled through tears. Still on her lashes—looking pitiful yet adorable. She looked up. Suddenly bit his shoulder. Not hard. Not soft.
"That's punishment! For agreeing so readily!" she declared fiercely.
"Alright, my fault." Lynn smiled. Ruffled her hair. Watching the girl regain her spirit, tearing into the drumstick ravenously, Lynn smiled. But his gaze drifted through the small window. Toward the Eyrie.
Littlefinger demanding trial by combat—that piece was spent. He'd hoped Littlefinger would muddy the waters. Didn't expect him to be so useless. Causing trouble repeatedly. No need to keep him.
He needed someone obedient and controlled. Not a mad dog trying to bite him. And that eagle Littlefinger manipulated was probably going mad too.
The Eyrie. High on the Giant's Lance. Lady Lysa Arryn shook her frail son with near-manic force.
"Petyr... Petyr's going to die! He's going to die!" Her once-pretty face twisted with terror. Voice shrill as a crow's wail.
"Mother... I can't breathe..." Robert Arryn—the boy who never grew up—turned purple. Cried in fear.
"Shut up!" Lysa shoved him away. Let him fall. Her gaze fixed on the raven scroll from King's Landing. Every word made her soul tremble.
Petyr accused of poisoning Jon Arryn! Demanded trial by combat! His opponent—that demon Lynn from the North! Petyr's champion—the Mountain!
Lysa didn't know their skill levels. But she knew: Petyr was finished! That Lynn—like an all-knowing god—exposed all Petyr's schemes to sunlight! Even detailed how she poisoned her husband!
Petyr was her only support. Her future hope. The man she'd betray everything for! Now he'd die! And she—the husband-killer—would soon face reckoning!
"No... no..." Lysa tore at her hair. Paced frantically. She couldn't wait for death! She'd save Petyr! She must!
Right! The army! The Eyrie had the Vale's finest knights!
"Send word!" she shrieked at the door. "Summon all vassals! I'm marching! To King's Landing!"
Guards and servants exchanged glances. Didn't dare respond. Send troops to King's Landing? On what grounds? Attack the king? Not funny.
"My lady, calm down!" Old Maester Colemon shuffled in. Face full of worry.
"Calm? How?!" Lysa grabbed his collar. Nails nearly piercing flesh. "They're killing Petyr! My love!"
Colemon looked at the maddened Lysa. Deep helplessness welled up. The Vale would be dragged into the abyss by this madwoman.
Night deepened. Lynn's room—Ned's former study in the Hand's Tower. He didn't sleep. Sat by the window. Watched sleeping King's Landing.
Knock, knock, knock. Light, urgent knocking.
Lynn didn't turn. Just said flatly: "Come in."
The door opened. A black-cloaked figure slipped in. Quickly shut the door. She removed her hood. Revealed a pale, beautiful face in moonlight.
Cersei Lannister. The Seven Kingdoms' most beautiful woman. No queen's gown. Just dark, practical clothes. But her innate pride remained.
"You're calm." Cersei's voice carried mockery. She surveyed the Stark study. Like inspecting her domain.
"What else?" Lynn turned. Set his dagger on the table. "The queen visiting late at night—surely not for a drink?"
"Don't call me queen!" Cersei's voice spiked. Green eyes blazed. "What queen am I before you?"
She advanced like an enraged lioness. Step by step. Her heaving chest made one dizzy. "You destroyed Jaime's confidence. Ruined Petyr. Played Robert—that fool—like a puppet. Now you're marrying my Myrcella! Lynn! I want to split your skull open. See what's inside!"
Lynn looked at Cersei. Still calm. "What I wanted, Your Grace already gave. A marriage. An ally."
"Ally?" Cersei laughed bitterly. "You trample Lannister honor. Call that ally?"
"Still an ally." Lynn's gaze held amusement. "At least publicly, we're family now. Aren't we?"
"You..." Cersei choked. Couldn't speak. She breathed deeply. Forced calm. She knew anger was useless against Lynn.
"Myrcella... what will you do to her?" Her real reason for coming.
"She'll be my wife. Future Lady of the North. Enjoy all due honors." Lynn's answer: flawless.
"Why should I believe you?"
"You have no choice." Lynn stood. His tall shadow engulfed her completely. He walked close. Leaned down. Almost whispered in her ear: "Because I know your little secret."
Cersei's body froze. "You... what do you want?"
Her queenly pride shattered.
"Nothing." Lynn stepped back. Restored distance. "Just reminding you, Cersei. We're allies. Act like it. Control your father. Your brother. Yourself. No more petty tricks. Otherwise, I don't mind letting all Seven Kingdoms know whose blood flows in King's Landing's princes and princesses."
Cersei's face turned ashen. She looked at Lynn. Felt unprecedented helplessness.
Finally, she found her voice. "The duel... you'll win, won't you?"
No longer questioning. A hint of hope she didn't recognize. If Lynn won, Petyr would die. That schemer who knew too many secrets, who tried to destroy her—would vanish forever.
"You want me to win?" Lynn smiled.
Cersei didn't answer. Just looked at him deeply. Her gaze infinitely complex. Hate. Fear. Humiliation. Even something she couldn't name.
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