A few days passed.
Winterfell was like a disturbed beehive, completely abuzz with activity.
The king’s royal retinue had already reached the White Knife!
This news accelerated the steps of everyone inside the castle.
The fires in the blacksmith’s forge burned day and night, the clanging of hammers almost drowning out the sounds of drills in the courtyard.
In the kitchens, Gage, the fat cook, was shouting at the top of his lungs, directing the kitchen hands as they hauled barrel after barrel of ale down into the cellars.
The rich scent of roasted meat mingled with the aroma of freshly baked bread, drifting far across the icy air.
Lynn sat on the low stone wall leading to the Godswood.
He no longer required a guard to watch over him.
That bloody battle and his fulfilled prophecy had earned him this limited measure of freedom.
Though Lynn was a brother of the Night’s Watch, Ned had temporarily kept him at Winterfell because he proved useful.
Still, Lynn would eventually be sent back to the Wall.
Under Maester Luwin’s care, Lynn’s wounds had scabbed over.
The newly growing flesh at the edges of the wounds throbbed with a faint itch, bringing a tangible sense of returning life.
Lynn simply watched in silence.
He watched Robb and Theon sparring under the direction of Ser Rodrik Cassel, practicing harder than ever before.
Wooden swords struck each other with dull, heavy thuds.
He watched Sansa Stark selecting fabrics for the feast, accompanied by her mother, Catelyn.
Sansa’s face bore the starry-eyed longing of a young girl dreaming of southern grandeur.
He watched Jon Snow.
He remained in that secluded corner, alone, swinging his practice sword over and over again.
Sweat soaked the dark hair on his forehead, but he paid it no mind, as if venting all his energy into those silent, repeated strikes.
Everyone was busy.
Busy preparing to welcome a grand honor.
Only Lynn knew that they were busy welcoming a storm that would sweep across the entire Seven Kingdoms.
A light set of footsteps approached from behind.
Lynn did not need to turn around to know who it was.
Over the past few days, Arya had been pestering him constantly.
“They’re all so stupid,” Arya said, a trace of disdain in her voice.
She copied Lynn, scrambling onto the low wall to sit beside him, her legs swinging back and forth against the stone.
“Sansa only thinks about her prince, and Theon just wants to show off his fighting skills in front of the king.” “Mother wants me to learn embroidery.
She says the ladies from the South will be watching me.” Arya mimicked Lady Catelyn’s high-pitched tone, making it sound somewhat comical.
Yet there was not the slightest hint of a smile on Arya’s face.
“I don’t want them watching me sew.” “I don’t want to sew.” Lynn turned his head and looked at her.
The little girl’s face was filled with a stubbornness far beyond her years.
“Then practice swordplay,” Lynn said.
He felt a genuine fondness for Arya.
“Ser Rodrik won’t teach me.
He says swords are for boys.” Arya’s voice dropped, thick with grievance.
“Father said after winter ends, Bran and Rickon can start learning.” “Just not me.” Lynn said nothing.
He simply pulled a thin stick from inside his cloak and drew a crude, wobbly stick figure in the dust on the wall.
“Let me tell you a story,” Lynn said softly.
“In the far East, far beyond Essos, there was once a girl.” “Her country was invaded by enemies.
Her father was old and frail, unable to go to war.
So, she cut off her long hair, put on her father’s armor, and joined the army in his place.” …
Arya’s eyes grew brighter and brighter as she listened.
She stopped swinging her legs, completely absorbed in the tale.
Only when Lynn finished did she ask impatiently, “Did no one find out she was a girl?” “They did,” Lynn smiled.
“But by then, through her wisdom and bravery, she had already earned legendary military glory.
She had become a hero revered by every soldier.” “In the end, she defeated the enemy and saved her kingdom.” Lynn used the stick to draw a small crown on the stick figure’s head.
“What was her name?” Arya pressed, her eyes shining like starlight.
“Mulan,” Lynn whispered the name.
“Mulan…” Arya chewed on the unfamiliar pronunciation.
This story was unlike the knightly tales Ser Rodrik told, nor was it like the dull, ancient myths Old Nan babbled about regarding the Children of the Forest.
There was no magic in this story, nor any dragons.
There was only a girl and her sword.
Yet it made her heart surge more than any story she had ever heard.
“Do you know many more stories like that?” Arya looked up at Lynn, her grey eyes reflecting his calm face.
“I know many.” “Qin Liangyu, Joan of Arc, Florence Nightingale, Mu Guiying, Fu Hao…
all of them were grand heroes among the best.” “Then will you tell them all to me from now on?
Please?” “Alright,” Lynn agreed with a nod.
The bustle in the courtyard seemed to fade away from them.
Sunlight broke through the clouds, spilling over the two of me and bringing a touch of warmth.
Arya remained silent for a long moment.
She looked at Lynn—at his perpetually calm eyes, and at the faded black cloak he wore.
He was different from everyone else in Winterfell.
Her father loved her, but wished for her to become a lady.
Her mother loved her, but wished for her to be as graceful as Sansa.
Her brothers loved her, but treated her like a little sister who needed protection.
Only Lynn.
Only he treated her like a warrior capable of picking up a sword.
Only he would tell her the story of Mulan.
He understood her.
“Lynn.” Arya’s voice suddenly turned very serious.
Lynn turned to look at her.
“When I grow up, I want to marry you.” There was not a trace of jest on the little girl’s face.
The smile on Lynn’s face slowly froze.
*A young girl, huh…* *Well…
it’s not impossible…* *Did a single simple story really sweep off the Duke’s daughter?* In truth, it wasn’t that Arya lacked restraint; rather, the story of Mulan spoke directly to her heart.
It was a classic tale from an entirely different civilization—how could a young girl from this world possibly resist it?
Lynn looked at Arya.
*Arya seems a bit young…* *Still, that can wait until she grows up.* Right now, he desperately needed a solid foothold.
An alliance with House Stark through marriage would be his absolute best option.
Granted, there was a slight hurdle.
After all, Arya belonged to House Stark, the family that had ruled the entire North for thousands of years.
She possessed the bloodline of the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and she was his most beloved little princess.
As for Lynn, he was a newcomer with no background or power—a nobody, a deserter from the Night’s Watch, and a prisoner who had barely secured his safety through a prophecy.
Marry him?
To any outsider, it was an absurd match.
However, Lynn was not afraid.
For a traverser, breaking through social strata was hardly an impossible task.
Without that ambition, what would be the point of crossing over in the first place?
“Alright.” Lynn reached out and ruffled Arya’s messy hair, as he often did.
A smile returned to his face.
“But you’re still young.
We’ll talk about it when you’re older.” *Gotta wait a few years at least…* The moral concepts from his past life were deeply ingrained.
Even in this world, Lynn felt a bit hesitant facing such a young girl.