Lynn looked at her.
He knew his gamble had paid off.
A promise like this was far more precious than gold.
“My Lady,” Lynn said softly, “I ask for nothing.
Serving House Stark is my duty.” Catelyn froze, completely unprepared for such an answer.
Looking into Lynn’s eyes, which shone with serene calm under the flickering candlelight, her respect for him deepened.
“Rest assured, Ned will see to a fair arrangement for you,” Catelyn said, straightening up.
“Focus on recovering from your injuries.
If you need anything at all, tell the servants directly.” Giving Lynn one final look, she turned and left the room.
The moment the door clicked shut, the tension in Lynn’s body dissolved completely.
He had succeeded.
He had won the absolute trust of House Stark—and Catelyn Stark in particular.
This was the most critical step of his plan: making it public knowledge that he was the Starks’ savior.
Should House Stark ever turn against him in the future, they would first have to consider whether they could withstand the backlash of public opinion, especially here in the North.
Yet before Lynn could catch his breath, there came another knock at the door.
This time, the knock was firm and heavy.
“Come in,” Lynn said.
The door swung open, revealing a glittering golden figure.
Jaime Lannister.
He was still clad in his gleaming golden armor, unblemished by a single scratch.
A playful, dangerous smile hovered on his handsome face.
Jaime shut the door behind him and walked straight to Lynn’s bed.
Looking down at Lynn, his blue eyes scrutinized the young man like an interesting object.
“I’ve heard of your grand heroics,” Jaime began, his magnetic voice trailing with deliberate nonchalance.
“Catching a child falling from the sky with your bare hands…
A remarkable feat.” “You must be Ser Jaime,” Lynn replied calmly.
The smile on Jaime’s face faltered for a fraction of a second before deepening into something far more predatory.
“So you know who I am.” Lynn paid the reaction no mind.
“What brings you here?” “To visit the hero of Winterfell, of course.” Jaime dragged over the chair Maester Luwin had used and sat down.
Crossing his legs, he leaned forward slightly.
“I’m curious,” Jaime said, his eyes probing to tear open Lynn’s skull and see what thoughts lay inside.
“Why were you beneath that abandoned tower in the first place?” He wanted to know how much Lynn truly understood.
Lynn did not shift his posture.
“I prefer quiet.” His voice sounded somewhat muffled from lying flat.
“That place is remote enough that no one bothers me.
It’s a good place to practice with a sword.” The explanation was simple, direct, and utterly devoid of flaws.
Jaime’s smile remained fixed, but the scrutiny in his eyes intensified.
“Practicing swordplay?” Jaime repeated the phrase, drawing out the final word with a hint of mockery.
“A man who doesn’t spend his time warming his spear in a whorehouse, but instead runs off into the freezing cold to swing a sword…
How surprisingly diligent.” Lynn shifted his gaze from Jaime’s face to the light reflecting off his gilded breastplate.
“In the North, slacking off gets you killed.” Lynn spoken in a flat tone, as if stating the most ordinary fact in the world.
The smile on Jaime’s face finally flickered.
He could find no trace of fear in Lynn’s eyes—only a stillness like stagnant water.
It rankled him, like throwing a punch into a pile of loose wool.
Jaime stopped pressing.
He knew he wouldn’t gain anything more; Lynn’s answers were airtight.
Shifting his eyes away from Lynn’s face, Jaime noticed the longsword resting on the bedside table.
It was a standard-issue weapon, plain and unremarkable.
The hilt was worn smooth from use, and the scabbard bore a few faint scratches.
Jaime stood up, reached out, and picked up the blade.
Its weight was a trivial thing in his grip.
*Clang—* Jaime drew the steel.
The blade reflected a sliver of cold light under the dim illumination of the candle.
He flicked the flat of the blade with a finger, producing a crisp metallic hum.
“A decent sword,” Jaime evaluated.
“It seems the Northern smiths haven’t lost their touch.” His eyes snapped back to Lynn, turning sharp and cold.
“Have you used it to cut anyone down?” Lynn didn’t blink.
“I have.” “Many?” Jaime’s mouth twitched upward into a faint smirk.
“How does it feel to kill a man?” Lynn smiled faintly.
“No feeling at all.
They wanted to kill me, so I killed them.” Jaime chuckled softly.
Sheathing the sword, he tossed it carelessly onto the bed.
“The first time I killed a man, I was fifteen,” Jaime said evenly.
“An outlaw on the Kingsroad.
He tried to steal my horse.
I drove my sword through his throat, and his foul blood sprayed all over my face.” Jaime looked down at his own hands—the clean, strong hands of a knight.
“I threw up all night.
I thought I’d remember his face forever.” He paused, looking back at Lynn.
“Now, I can’t even remember what he looked like.
I’ve killed far too many since then.
On the battlefield, in the tourney grounds, in dark alleys…
Killing, to me, is as natural as breathing.” Jaime stepped closer to the bed, looking down at Lynn from above.
“A man is like a ragged sack of grain.
Give him a gentle poke, and he bleeds to death.
Killing isn’t difficult.
What’s difficult is making others believe you were justified in doing it.” “And the easiest way to do that…
is to make sure he draws his sword on you first.” Lynn almost laughed out loud.
He knew Jaime Lannister wasn’t making idle small talk.
This was a warning.
Jaime was telling Lynn that he was a ruthless butcher, and anyone who crossed him would face his unyielding wrath.
Even if Jaime wasn’t sure whether Lynn knew the truth, he was marking his territory, telling Lynn not to look for trouble.
Inwardly, Lynn added a line of his own: *Rest easy, Jaime.
As long as you don’t draw your sword on me first, you won’t have to die either.* Jaime turned and left without another word.
Shortly after he departed, an elegant figure appeared at the threshold of the door.