The silence lasted only a heartbeat.
When Loras Tyrell's gleaming silver armor slammed into the mud—blood-soaked, shit-stained—the world held its breath.
Then it erupted.
"BLACK KNIGHT!"
"BLACK KNIGHT!!"
Someone screamed it first.
Then the roar came from everywhere. A tidal wave of sound that nearly tore the sky apart.
This wasn't cheering.
This was worship.
A nameless crow from the Wall. A country bumpkin on a plow horse. Mocked. Dismissed.
And he'd carved his way through them all.
He'd beaten the Frey pig with the dirtiest tricks.
He'd thrown the prince's Hound like a sack of grain.
Then—when everyone thought his luck had run out—he'd crushed the golden lion, Jaime Lannister, with raw, brutal force.
And finally, he'd shattered the golden rose with lance work so perfect it looked like art.
Every opponent a legend.
Every opponent a killer.
And he—a nobody—had won.
This was a miracle.
This was a tale bards would sing for a hundred years.
Lynn sat quietly on Storm's back.
He pulled off his helmet.
Let the deafening roar wash over him.
His gaze swept the Tyrell platform.
Garlan the Gallant stared at him like he'd seen a ghost.
Then he looked up at the high seats.
CRASH.
Petyr Baelish's crystal goblet slipped from his fingers. Shattered on the stone.
He collapsed into his chair. Spine gone. Face white as bone.
Wine soaked his fine robes. He didn't notice.
He just stared at the black figure in the arena. His lips moved soundlessly.
Like a fish drowning in air.
Lynn's gaze found the Stark platform.
"He won! Lynn won!"
Arya was bouncing in her seat. Face red. Voice hoarse.
She whirled around. Grabbed Ned Stark's arm.
Her grey eyes blazed with something fierce. Something final.
"Father!"
Her voice dropped. Crystal clear.
"I'm going to marry Lynn."
Ned's smile froze.
He looked down at his youngest daughter.
Those grey eyes—so unlike Catelyn's. Full of Northern stubbornness. Northern wildness.
He wanted to refuse.
This is madness.
Arya is a child. Lynn is a man of the Night's Watch.
But when his gaze returned to the arena—
—to that black figure drowning in cheers—
—the refusal died in his throat.
A man of the Night's Watch?
A man who'd crushed Jaime Lannister in single combat?
A man who'd made the king's son worship him like a hero?
A man who'd bankrupted the Master of Coin?
Ned's heart pounded.
A wild thought took root.
Lynn's strength. His cunning. His unfathomable ability to see ten moves ahead.
He wasn't just the North's blade.
He was House Stark's most unshakable ally.
Ned had survived King's Landing this long because of Lynn's counsel.
If he could bind that power to House Stark forever—
Ned's breath quickened.
He looked at Arya's stubborn little face.
It blurred. Became Lyanna's.
He looked at Lynn again.
Arya had already decided.
Even if he refused, she'd do what Lyanna did.
And this marriage—it would serve House Stark far more than it would cost.
The only obstacle was Lynn's vow.
But if the king spoke—
—the Night's Watch oath was nothing.
No one in the Seven Kingdoms had more authority than Robert.
Ned took a deep breath.
"Then we'll wait until you're older."
His voice was soft.
Heavy as stone.
Arya froze.
She'd regretted the words the moment they left her mouth.
But Father—
—he'd actually agreed?
Shock gave way to wild joy.
She threw her arms around Ned's neck.
"I knew it! You're the best, Father!"
Sansa sat frozen beside them.
Her hands twisted the silk of her skirt.
She'd heard it.
Father's promise.
It felt like a needle sliding into her heart.
Arya?
That wild, mad girl who only cares about swords—she's marrying Lynn?
The hero who saved the prince? Who beat Ser Jaime? Who the whole city worships like a god?
Sansa looked down at her spotless blue gown.
Then at the black cloak on Lynn's shoulders.
I sewed that. Stitch by stitch. A gift for a hero. Like in the songs.
And now Arya gets him with one sentence?
I'm the eldest daughter. The most beautiful lady in the North.
Why isn't the princess in the story... me?
Am I really going to marry that cruel, vicious Joffrey?
A commotion erupted from the high platform.
King Robert Baratheon was standing.
His massive bulk shoved past servants and nobles.
He stumbled down the steps. Toward the arena.
"HAHAHA! Did you see that, Ned?!"
"That's your Northern wolf cub!"
Robert's roar echoed across the field.
He stopped in front of Lynn's horse.
His eyes—clouded with wine—now burned with fire.
His hand slammed into Lynn's leg armor.
CLANG.
"Good lad! You've done Ned proud!"
"I've never seen a tourney this damn good in my life!"
Robert's gaze swept the Lannister seats.
Their sour faces made him grin wider.
He drew his sword.
The king's blade—jeweled, magnificent, gleaming with cold authority.
He pointed it at Lynn.
His voice rang like a bell.
"KNEEL!"
Lynn dismounted.
He knelt on the blood-soaked, shit-stained, glorious dirt.
The entire arena fell silent.
Every soul held their breath.
Witnessing history.
Robert laid the blade on Lynn's right shoulder.
"Lynn. In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave."
The sword moved to his left shoulder.
"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."
"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent."
"In the name of the Crone, I charge you to be wise."
"In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be strong."
"In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women."
"In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to face death without fear."
Robert lifted the blade. Tapped it three times on Lynn's shoulders.
He stepped back.
His fat face filled with royal authority.
"RISE!"
His voice shook the sky.
"Rise, knight of the Seven Kingdoms—Ser Lynn!"
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