"Rise, knight of the Seven Kingdoms—Ser Lynn!"
Robert's roar echoed in every ear.
Lynn stood.
Sunlight gleamed off his black armor like a badge of glory.
The cloak—embroidered with a direwolf—snapped in the wind.
A new legend had been born.
The arena exploded.
The crowd screamed "BLACK KNIGHT" like they wanted to carve the name into every brick in King's Landing.
"HAHAHA!"
Robert clapped Lynn's shoulder hard enough to dent steel.
"Tonight! A feast in the Red Keep!"
"For our new hero!"
The Feast
The banquet was more lavish than anyone expected.
Long tables groaned under roast suckling pig, honeyed ham, lamprey pie, buttered sweet corn.
Wine from the Arbor flowed like rivers.
Lynn sat at the high table. Between King Robert and Ned Stark.
The hero of the hour.
A seat higher than lords who'd held their titles for centuries.
Everyone came to toast him.
Knights who admired him. Nobles who wanted his favor. Royals who forced smiles and tried to charm him.
Lynn accepted every cup.
Took a sip. Nothing more.
His gaze swept the hall.
At the Tyrell table, Loras and Garlan whispered to each other. Their eyes kept flicking toward him.
Wary. Calculating.
Margaery Tyrell held her wine cup with perfect grace. Her beautiful eyes gleamed with something unreadable.
In a corner, Jaime Lannister sat alone. Drinking hard.
He'd changed into plain clothes.
But his arm still throbbed. The bandages on his chest told the story of today's humiliation.
And Petyr Baelish—who should've been one of the guests of honor—
—wasn't there at all.
Suddenly, gold cloaks entered the hall.
They escorted a group of plainly dressed merchants.
At the front was the fat merchant Lynn had saved.
His leg had healed. But he still limped. The injury had left its mark.
His face was flushed with emotion.
The moment they saw Lynn, they dropped to their knees.
"My lord!"
The fat merchant's voice cracked.
"I never thought I'd see you again in King's Landing!"
The hall fell silent.
Robert watched with interest. Ned gestured for guards to help them up.
"My lord, you may have forgotten us."
The fat merchant struggled. Refused to rise.
"But we will never forget what you did!"
"In the Wolfswood, we were ambushed by bandits."
"You, Ser Lynn, killed them all. You saved every one of us!"
His voice rang through the hall.
"You didn't take a single copper from us. You even gave us the bandits' stolen goods to cover our losses!"
"You said—in the North, under the Stark banner, hunting down bandits was your duty!"
The hall erupted.
If the tourney had made Lynn an idol—
—this made him a saint.
The nobles stared at each other. Disbelief in their eyes.
In King's Landing—where gold was god—
—a knight who asked for nothing?
The atmosphere shifted.
From wild admiration to something deeper.
Reverence.
Ned Stark looked at Lynn.
His grey eyes were complicated.
He knew.
Lynn wasn't just doing this for himself.
He was doing it for the North.
For House Stark.
Winning them honor.
"YES! That's what duty looks like!"
Robert slammed the table.
"That's what every knight in the Seven Kingdoms should be!"
He turned to Ned. Eyes shining.
"Ned, you've given the realm a true hero!"
The Next Day
The feast lasted until deep into the night.
By morning, all of King's Landing was singing the Black Knight's praises.
Not just his prowess in the lists.
But his righteousness in the Wolfswood. His refusal to take a single coin.
Lynn's reputation reached heights no one had ever seen.
But in the shadows, another story spread.
Master of Coin Petyr Baelish had gone bankrupt.
His betting pool at the tourney—designed to fleece the realm—had been destroyed by Lynn's upset.
He'd planned to rig the finals. Loras versus the Mountain. Easy money.
Then Lynn came out of nowhere.
Lynn had played weak. Kept the odds high. Waited until the final bout—when the bets were locked—
—and struck.
Nearly 200,000 gold dragons in debts.
It crushed him.
He didn't have the reserves to pay out.
The Fall of Littlefinger
Morning light streamed through the windows of the Master of Coin's office.
Once a symbol of power.
Now, just an empty shell.
Petyr Baelish sat slumped in his chair.
Still wearing yesterday's wine-soaked robes. Unshaven. Eyes bloodshot.
He looked ten years older.
On the table in front of him—
—deeds. Ledgers. Everything.
His brothels. His shipping business. His estates outside the city.
Fifteen years of scheming.
All of it. Gone.
The door opened.
Lynn walked in.
Two Northern guards behind him.
No armor. Just a black tunic. The direwolf cloak draped over his shoulders.
He looked at the broken man in front of him.
No pity in his eyes.
"Lord Baelish. I'm here to collect."
Littlefinger's body jerked.
He lifted his head slowly.
Those eyes—once sharp, calculating—now filled with nothing but fear.
"Who... who are you?"
Lynn didn't answer.
He walked to the table. Picked up a ledger. Flipped through it casually.
"I don't have that much gold."
Littlefinger's voice was a rasp.
"These... are all my holdings. Take them."
He stared at Lynn.
"I only have one question."
"How did you know?"
"How did you know about Loras's horse? How did you beat Jaime? How—"
His voice cracked.
The questions had tortured him all night.
Lynn's every move had been perfect. Like he'd read the script.
He'd stepped on every trap Littlefinger had laid.
It wasn't logical.
It wasn't human.
He wondered if Lynn was even a man at all.
Or a demon wearing human skin.
"You don't need to know."
Lynn closed the ledger. Tossed it on the table.
"You only need to remember one thing."
He leaned in close. Whispered in Littlefinger's ear.
"I know what you've done."
"Brandon. Joffrey. Lord Arryn. Your partner, Lady Lysa..."
"This is the first warning. And the last."
"Stay away from the Starks."
"Next time, I won't just take your money."
"Trust me, Lord Baelish. I have ten thousand ways to make you regret it."
His voice was soft.
Cold as the wind from beyond the Wall.
"Chaos is a ladder, isn't it, Lord Baelish?"
Littlefinger stared into Lynn's black eyes.
Bottomless.
He felt his soul laid bare.
He was terrified.
Every scheme he'd ever been proud of—
—looked like a child's game.
Lynn's tone softened.
"Relax, Lord Baelish."
"As long as you leave the Starks alone, I don't care what you do."
"I won't tell anyone what you've done."
He turned. Took the deeds and ledgers.
Left.
Petyr Baelish sat alone.
For a long time, he didn't move.
Then—
—a low, animal growl tore from his throat.
He swept everything off the table.
He'd lost.
Utterly.
He wouldn't touch the Starks again.
He wouldn't touch that demon again.
But he wouldn't surrender.
Littlefinger staggered to the window.
Looked out at King's Landing.
A sick, twisted smile crept across his face.
"Chaos... is a ladder..."
He whispered.
If the Stark path was closed—
—then let the King and the Lion tear each other apart.
He'd make all of Westeros pay for today.
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