Several days passed, and Winterfell erupted in a frenzy like a disturbed beehive. The king's retinue had reached the White Knife—and the news quickened every step within the castle walls.
The blacksmith's forge blazed day and night, its clanging nearly drowning out the sounds of training in the courtyard. In the kitchens, Gage the portly cook shouted orders, directing his helpers to carry casks of ale down to the cellars. The aroma of roasted meat mingled with freshly baked bread, drifting far in the frigid air.
Lynn sat atop the low wall leading to the Godswood. He was no longer under guard—his bloody battle and fulfilled prophecy had earned him this limited freedom. As a man of the Night's Watch, Ned had kept him in Winterfell temporarily for his usefulness, but Lynn knew he would eventually be sent back to the Wall.
Under Maester Luwin's care, scabs had formed over his wounds, and the faint itch of new flesh brought a tangible sense of life returning. Lynn watched in silence: Robb and Theon sparred more rigorously than ever under Ser Rodrik's tutelage, their wooden swords clashing with dull, powerful thuds; Sansa Stark, accompanied by her mother Catelyn, selected fabrics for the feast, her face glowing with a maiden's longing for the prosperity of the South; and Jon Snow, as always, stood alone in a secluded corner, swinging his practice sword repeatedly. Sweat soaked his dark hair, but he paid it no mind, as if pouring all his energy into those wordless strikes.
Everyone was busy—busy welcoming a grand honor. Only Lynn knew they were bracing for a storm that would engulf the Seven Kingdoms.
A light patter of footsteps approached from behind. Lynn did not turn; he knew who it was. Arya had been clinging to him these past few days.
"They're all fools," Arya said, her voice tinged with disdain. She climbed onto the wall beside him, mimicking his posture, and dangled her legs over the edge. "Sansa only thinks about her prince, and Theon just wants to show off his strength to the king. Mother makes me learn embroidery—she says the ladies from the South will be watching me." She mimicked Lady Catelyn's tone, her voice high-pitched and absurd, but there was no trace of amusement on her face. "I don't want them watching me stitch. I don't want to embroider."
Lynn turned to her, seeing the stubbornness beyond her years etched on her small face. "Then practice swordsmanship," he said. He had always taken a liking to Arya.
"Ser Rodrik refuses to teach me," Arya's voice dropped, filled with grievance. "He says swords are for boys. Father says when winter ends, Bran and Rickon will start learning too. But not me."
Lynn said nothing, pulling a thin twig from his pocket. With his finger, he drew a lopsided figure in the dusty wall. "Let me tell you a story," he said softly.
"Far to the East, beyond Essos, there lived a girl. Her kingdom was invaded, and her father, now on in years, was too weak to fight. So she cut her hair, put on her father's armor, and went to war in his place."
Arya's eyes lit up more with each word. She stopped swinging her legs, listening intently. When Lynn finished, she pressed eagerly, "Did no one find out she was a girl?"
"They did," Lynn smiled. "But by then, she had achieved great deeds with her wisdom and courage, becoming a hero admired by all the soldiers. In the end, she defeated the enemy and saved her kingdom." He used the twig to draw a crown atop the lopsided figure's head.
"What's her name?" Arya pressed, her eyes shining like stars.
"Mulan," Lynn said softly.
"Mulan…" Arya murmured the unfamiliar name. Unlike the knightly tales Ser Rodrik told, or the tedious old myths of the Children of the Forest from Old Nan, this story had no magic or dragons—only a girl and her sword. Yet it stirred her heart more than any other.
"Do you know more stories like this?" Arya looked up at Lynn, her gray eyes reflecting his calm face.
"Many," he replied. "Qin Liangyu, Joan of Arc, Florence Nightingale, Mu Guiying, Fu Hao—all were among the greatest heroes."
"Will you tell me all of them? Please?"
"I will," Lynn nodded.
The courtyard's commotion faded into the distance. Sunlight broke through the clouds, casting a warm glow over them. Arya fell silent for a long while, studying Lynn—his always calm eyes, his faded black cloak. He was unlike anyone else in Winterfell. Father loved her but wanted her to be a lady; mother loved her but wished she were as graceful as Sansa; her brothers loved her but saw her as a little sister to protect. Only Lynn treated her as a warrior who could wield a sword. Only he told her stories like Mulan's. He understood her.
"Lynn," Arya said suddenly, her voice serious. Lynn turned to her. "When I grow up, I want to marry you." There was no hint of jest on the little girl's face.
The smile froze on Lynn's lips. A child… He had never been picky, but had he really won over the duke's daughter with such a simple story? He couldn't blame Arya for her boldness—Mulan's tale had spoken directly to her heart. After all, it was a classic from another civilization; a young girl from the North could hardly resist its allure.
He looked at Arya. She was far too young… but he could wait. He desperately needed roots in this world, and an alliance with House Stark would be his best option—though it would not be easy. Arya was of House Stark, rulers of the North for thousands of years, the blood of Winterfell's lord and Warden of the North, and his most beloved daughter. He, by contrast, was a newcomer, a nobody with no power or connections, a deserter of the Night's Watch, barely clinging to safety through a prophecy. To outsiders, they were utterly mismatched.
But Lynn was undaunted. Crossing class barriers was never an insurmountable feat for a transmigrator—without such ambition, what was the point of traversing worlds?
"Very well," Lynn said, reaching out to ruffle her messy hair as he always did, a smile returning to his face. "But you're too young now. We'll talk about it when you're older."
He needed to wait until she came of age—his modern sensibilities still lingered, making him uneasy at the thought of a girl so young.