Dawn was barely breaking.
The courtyard of Winterfell was already filled with the whinnying of horses and the eager barking of hounds.
Servants breathed plumes of white vapor as they led restless steeds by their reins.
Knights laughed and talked loudly, inspecting their saddles and bows.
The air was thick with the crisp scent of leather, horse sweat, and early morning frost.
King Robert Baratheon still wore the puffiness of a hangover around his eyes, yet he was in high spirits.
To him, nothing could dispel the tedious gloom of Winterfell better than a roaring hunt.
“Ned!” Robert’s booming voice roared above the din of the courtyard.
“Stop dawdling!
The Northern boars won’t wait for us!” Robert threw a heavy arm around Ned’s shoulder.
The force of it almost made Ned stumble.
Ned Stark had dressed in functional leather armor, a look of quiet resignation on his face.
He had little enthusiasm for the hunt, but he could not refuse the king’s vigor.
Sweeping his eyes over the crowd, he quickly spotted the figure standing in the shadow of a pillar.
Lynn.
Draped in a dark hooded cloak with a longsword at his waist, he stood as still as a stone.
Ned walked over to him.
After their secret conversation last night, his view of the young man had transformed completely.
No longer was he merely a protector and prisoner; a subtle, reliant trust had taken root.
“Lynn.” Ned’s voice was steady.
“Come with us.
A day on horseback is better than moping in the castle.
Besides, with you along, I’ll feel more at ease.” That last sentence held his true intent.
Lynn raised his head.
He looked into Ned’s sincere gray eyes and noticed King Robert casting a curious glance from a short distance away.
Lynn shook his head gently.
“Thank you for the offer, my lord.
It’s just that my old wounds from fighting off the bandits are still throbbing.” He gestured to his ribs and arm.
“A long ride on horseback might be too much for me right now.
I’d prefer to stay in the castle and do some recovery drills.” The excuse was perfectly reasonable while highlighting his diligence as a warrior.
The invitation in Ned’s eyes turned to understanding.
He nodded.
“Very well.
Take care of yourself.” Ned clapped Lynn heavily on the shoulder, turned, and caught up with the king’s party.
Horns sounded once more.
The massive hunting party streamed through the gates of Winterfell.
The clatter of hooves and baying of dogs gradually receded.
In an instant, quiet settled over the courtyard.
As the bustle faded, a vast silence blanketed the castle.
The calm expression on Lynn’s face melted away as the final rider vanished from sight.
He didn’t return to his room.
Instead, sword in hand, he traversed the empty courtyard toward the forgotten tower.
The First Keep.
Wind whistled through the ruined battlements like a faint wail.
Lynn chose a sheltered spot out of the wind.
The location offered a wide view while remaining secluded enough to avoid drawing eyes.
Lynn drew his longsword.
Under the pale gray sky, the blade sliced cold arcs through the air.
Thrust.
Block.
Dodge.
He appeared completely focused, as though he were truly nothing more than a diligent warrior practicing his swordsmanship.
Yet his ears caught every faint sound in his surroundings, and his gaze subtly remained anchored to the ancient tower.
He was waiting.
Waiting for a boy, and a pair of siblings.
Waiting for an opportunity powerful enough to alter the fate of the North—and the Seven Kingdoms.
Time drifted by to the monotonous rhythm of swinging steel, until a small figure clad in a gray tunic darted into his field of vision.
Lynn lowered his sword.
Bran Stark.
The boy was running around the empty castle like an energetic young wolf pup.
With his father and brothers away on the hunt, he had been left behind.
Bored out of his mind, climbing was his only entertainment.
Bran’s eyes were quickly drawn to the oldest structure in Winterfell.
The First Keep.
The First Keep, which he had scaled countless times.
Yet the boy’s face still lit up with eager excitement.
Lynn monitored Bran’s every move.
As Bran prepared to climb, his direwolf, Summer, sat on the ground, tilting his head and letting out anxious whines.
Here they come.
Almost simultaneously, another tall, golden-haired figure glided silently out from the direction of the Great Keep.
Jaime Lannister.
He wasn’t wearing his gleaming golden armor, only a subtle hunting tunic.
His steps were light and alert, his eyes constantly scanning his surroundings.
Once sure no one was watching, he slipped into the shadows of the First Keep.
Right after him, Queen Cersei appeared as well.
Covering her brilliant golden hair with a hood, she hurried after Jaime.
One after the other, their figures vanished into the dark archway of the tower.
Lynn allowed himself a faint smile.
Everything was unfolding exactly as he remembered.
Bran had already begun his ascent.
Like an agile monkey, he used hands and feet to find footholds in the weathered stone walls, climbing steadily higher.
Lynn eased his breathing until it was almost silent.
He halted his blade exercises.
He began shifting his position, casually drifting closer to the base of the tower.
Every step was precisely calculated.
He needed to be in a position where he was “coincidentally” passing by.
He had to react with pure “instinct” the moment the boy fell.
Not a second too early, nor a second too late.
The wind carried a faint, hushed gasp down from the tower window—gasping that did not belong to a child.
Lynn glanced up.
He saw the small figure perched near the upper levels of the tower.
The top floor of the First Keep had been abandoned for ages.
A high window frame was broken.
Cold wind gusted inside, stirring up dust from the floor.
Sunlight speared through narrow arrow slits, carving bright shafts through the air that illuminated dancing dust motes.
This was the most secluded corner of Winterfell.
Cersei Lannister leaned back against the cold stone wall.
Her gorgeous silk gown was pulled casually off her shoulders.
Her cascading golden hair sprawled untamed against the dusty stone.
Jaime Lannister had stripped off his cumbersome cloak, wearing only a plain white tunic.
Matching golden hair, matching emerald eyes.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Cersei panted, her voice tinged with a thrilling edge of danger.
“It’s too dangerous.” “Dangerous?” Jaime looked up, his face wearing its usual smirking disregard for the world.
“Robert and his Northern pigs are probably chasing a hind’s arse right now.
Who’s going to care about us?” Jaime reached out, trailing his fingertips lightly along Cersei’s quivering skin.
The touch was possessive and intimate.
“I’ve waited a month.
The journey gave us no chance.” Jaime’s voice turned thick and raspy.
He drew Cersei close, leaning down to inhale the scent of her hair.
“A whole month.
I’ve been going mad.” Cersei let out a soft, stifled groan.
The cold stone wall contrasted sharply with their burning bodies.
Dust swirled wildly in the sunbeams.
Muffled, hushed sounds echoed intermittently through the forgotten keep.
And just outside the tower, a small, slender figure was scrambling up the ancient stone walls using hands and feet.
It was Bran Stark.
He loved climbing.
He loved the feeling of having all of Winterfell under his feet.
Today, the king and his father were out, and Ser Rodrik wasn’t around to scold him.
It was the perfect opportunity.
He was going to climb the First Keep, the tower no one dared scale.
The wind whipped across his cheeks, bearing biting cold that only fueled his excitement.
Familiar stones, sturdy handholds.
Like an agile monkey, he darted quickly across the sheer wall.
Higher and higher.
The people in the courtyard shrank into tiny dots.
Just then, Bran heard a sound coming from the window near the top of the tower.
It wasn’t the wind.
It was a strange sound, almost like someone crying.
Curiosity urged him to climb faster.
He pulled himself up onto the window sill.
And then, Bran saw.