Overnight, King's Landing seemed to change its face.
The news of the Queen's confinement in Maegor's Holdfast, guarded by both Kingsguard and Gold Cloaks, spread like fleas with legs, reaching every corner of the Red Keep by morning.
Though the King had issued a gag order, how could such a monumental scandal be kept secret?
It was whispered in every corridor; it wasn't a secret at all.
Nobles gossiped in hushed tones, their glances at members of House Lannister filled with indescribable expressions.
Early the next morning.
Lynn was in the tower courtyard, familiarizing himself with his black plate armor.
Forged by Master Donal, this suit wasn't as light as Valyrian steel, but its protection and joint flexibility far exceeded ordinary knightly armor.
"Storm" seemed to sense the coming battle as well; she paced restlessly beside him, occasionally snorting.
Just then, a figure appeared at the courtyard gate.
The visitor wore a modest grey tunic, sported a neatly trimmed goatee, and wore a smile that was just right.
Petyr Baelish.
Behind him were two servants carrying a heavy chest.
"Ser Lynn, it seems you have recovered well."
Littlefinger's voice carried his characteristic oily tone.
He didn't mention yesterday's thrilling assassination attempt.
His gaze immediately fell upon the black Shire mare, "Storm."
Deep in his eyes, a flicker of heat passed unnoticed.
"Thanks to your blessings, Lord Baelish."
Lynn stopped moving, removed his helmet, and looked at him expressionlessly.
"I'm just a rough man used to dealing with Wildlings beyond the Wall. My body is sturdy enough."
"Heh, you are too modest, Ser."
Littlefinger waved his hand, signaling the servants to open the chest.
Clatter—
A chest full of golden dragons reflected a dazzling light under the morning sun.
The golden brilliance was enough to drive any sellsword or knight mad with greed.
"I hear you have come all the way from the North. A hard journey."
Littlefinger's smile was full of temptation.
"Expenses in King's Landing are high. Please accept this small token of my regard."
Lynn glanced at the gold, his eyes showing no fluctuation.
"Lord Baelish, we have no friendship. I cannot accept this money."
"No, no, consider us friends starting today."
Littlefinger walked up to "Storm," reaching out as if to stroke the mare's mane.
But a sharp snort from "Storm" made him withdraw his hand in fright.
"Quite a temper!"
He praised sincerely, though a hint of disdain flashed in his eyes.
"A magnificent build. Matches your temperament well, Ser."
He changed the subject, finally revealing the fox's tail.
"However... the joust relies on instant explosive power and sprinting speed."
"Shire horses have good endurance, but in terms of speed, they are ultimately inferior."
"I happen to know a horse merchant from Dorne who has a purebred Sand Steed."
"Its speed is like the wind itself."
"Ser Lynn, if you ride it into the lists, the champion's purse will be as easy as taking something from your own pocket."
"As for your 'Storm' here..."
Littlefinger pointed at the chest of gold.
"Although she isn't suited for the joust, I personally have a fondness for such spirited beasts."
"I am willing to pay this price to buy her from you. Consider it a gesture of friendship, what do you say?"
His words were impeccable.
He pointed out "Storm's" shortcomings, offered a "better" choice for Lynn, and finally posed as someone willing to take a small loss to make a friend.
Anyone else unaware of the truth might be moved to tears by such "timely help."
Or at least feel goodwill.
But Lynn knew exactly what kind of trash Petyr was.
Lynn looked at him, almost laughing out loud.
This old fox really took him for a country bumpkin from the North.
"I appreciate your kindness, Lord Baelish."
Lynn put his helmet back on, his voice muffled behind the iron visor.
"But I have a flaw. I'm wary of strangers."
"My horse has the same flaw. She's wary of strangers too."
"Since she follows me, she is my partner, not goods to be traded casually."
The smile froze on Littlefinger's face.
He hadn't expected the other party to refuse such a generous offer without hesitation.
A Night's Watchman, a crow who could die beyond the Wall any day—how could he be indifferent to a chest full of gold dragons?
This defied logic!
Did he know something?
"Ser Lynn, won't you reconsider?"
Littlefinger's tone hardened slightly.
"This chest of gold is enough to buy a mansion in the best district of King's Landing, surrounded by the most beautiful whores."
"Or, name your price."
"Oh?"
Lynn turned around, looking at him through the cold visor.
"Really? Any price?"
"Of course." Littlefinger regained his confidence.
He didn't believe there was anyone in the world who didn't love money.
Lynn held up one finger.
"One million gold dragons."
"Plus all your brothels in King's Landing."
The air froze instantly.
The smile vanished completely from Littlefinger's face.
His eyes, always glinting with shrewd calculation, now stared dead at Lynn as if looking at a madman.
One million gold dragons?
And all his businesses?
This wasn't a refusal; this was a naked insult!
"Ser Lynn, are you jesting?"
Littlefinger's voice turned cold.
"Do I look like I'm jesting?"
Lynn countered.
He took a step forward, his tall figure casting a huge shadow over Littlefinger.
"Lord Baelish, my horse is not for sale."
"If you have no other business, please leave. I need to train."
Lynn issued the eviction order.
Littlefinger's face went from green to white, looking utterly ugly.
He took a deep look at Lynn, then at the snorting black mare.
Finally, without a word, he flicked his sleeves and left.
The two servants carrying the gold slunk away behind him like beaten dogs.
Watching Littlefinger's retreating figure, Lynn felt incredibly satisfied.
Old fox, trying to use me as a spear and take advantage of me?
Just wait until the tourney starts. You'll be crying then.
---
In the afternoon, Sansa Stark came again.
She carried no tray, only a bundle wrapped in plain linen in her arms.
The girl's cheeks were flushed; it seemed she had mustered great courage to come here.
"Ser Lynn." Her voice was as faint as a mosquito's hum.
"I... I heard you lost your cloak beyond the Wall."
"So... I... I made one myself..."
"I never had the chance to thank you properly."
"Thank you for saving Bran, and for taking care of Arya along the way..."
Sansa handed over the bundle.
Her blue eyes were full of anticipation and anxiety.
Lynn took it.
Unwrapping it, he found a black cloak.
Made of the finest southern silk, it felt cool and smooth to the touch.
On the hem, embroidered stitch by stitch with silver thread, was a lifelike direwolf.
The wolf's posture and proud gaze were identical to the Stark sigil.
The stitching was dense and fine; clearly, the maker had poured great effort into it.
Varys's little birds hadn't lied.
"I like it very much, Lady Sansa."
Lynn fastened the cloak around his shoulders. The black silk blended seamlessly with his dark armor.
"Thank you."
Lynn's voice was muffled by the visor, revealing little emotion.
But Sansa's eyes lit up instantly.
She looked at the man before her, clad in black armor and a black cloak.
He wasn't handsome like the princes in songs, nor romantic like the Knight of Flowers.
But just standing there, he was like an immovable mountain.
Giving off an indescribable sense of security.
This was a true hero.
Sansa's heart beat fast.
"The tourney... you will win, won't you?"
She asked softly.
"Of course."
Lynn's answer was simple and crisp.
---
Two days later, the Hand's Tourney officially began.
All of King's Landing was immersed in a sea of revelry.
The tourney grounds by the Blackwater Rush were packed with people, colorful banners fluttering in the wind.
King Robert sat high on the royal dais.
Beside him was not Queen Cersei, but the Hand of the King, Eddard Stark.
Prince Joffrey sat on the other side.
His gaze followed the figure at the entrance with fanatical devotion.
Knights from all over the Seven Kingdoms, in splendid armor and riding magnificent horses, entered one by one.
Jaime Lannister in golden armor, dazzling in the sunlight.
Loras Tyrell, the "Knight of Flowers," with golden roses engraved on his silver armor, eliciting screams from countless ladies.
Gregor Clegane, "The Mountain," whose massive frame alone seemed to solidify the air.
...
When it was Lynn's turn, a small commotion rippled through the crowd.
Pitch-black plate armor, a pure black Shire horse, a black banner with no sigil.
And... a black cloak fluttering in the wind, embroidered with a silver direwolf.
"Who is that?"
"A knight with no name?"
"Is he riding a Shire horse? Isn't that for plowing fields?"
Whispers and undisguised mockery rose from the stands.
Only Ned Stark on the high dais flickered his eyes slightly upon seeing the cloak, then let out an imperceptible sigh.
On the other side, Petyr Baelish held a goblet of wine, a cold smile on his lips.
Bumpkin.
Thinking he can win the joust on a plow horse?
Wait for your ruin.
He had arranged everything and was just waiting for the show.
Lynn turned a deaf ear to the discussions around him.
He calmly rode "Storm" to the center of the lists, raising his lance towards the King's dais.
His gaze passed over everyone, finally landing on Littlefinger's face.
Even across the distance and through the cold visor, Littlefinger felt as if that gaze was a dagger, sending an inexplicable chill down his spine.
---