Life in Winterfell was simple enough for Lynn Auger.
As one of Lord Eddard Stark's appointed retainers, his duties weren't the same as the other guards patrolling the walls. His role lay elsewhere — as the man who might someday help the North stand against what lay beyond the Wall.
But when he wasn't offering counsel or advising on defense, he trained.
Every dawn, before most of Winterfell had even stirred, Lynn joined Robb and Jon Snow at the castle's practice yard. There, under the hawk-eyed tutelage of Ser Rodrik Cassel, they learned the true language of the sword.
Ser Rodrik was a gray old knight whose beard was trimmed evenly despite his ever-rounder belly. Yet whenever he wrapped those thick fingers around a sword hilt, he became someone else entirely — a man carved from iron, eyes sharp, stance unyielding.
"All right then," he boomed one morning, his voice steady but amused. "Let's see what the man who slew a White Walker can do with a proper blade!"
Lynn nodded once and raised his practice sword. The morning light flashed along its edge as he swung with full strength — enough power to cut through two layers of chainmail.
But the old knight merely shifted his weight and turned his wrists. His sword caught Lynn's blow, redirected it harmlessly past his side, and — crack! — the wooden blade in his hand slapped Lynn smartly across the arm before the young man even realized what had happened.
"Dead," Ser Rodrik announced calmly, the point of his practice sword hovering inches from Lynn's throat. He was smiling the smallest of smiles.
Lynn frowned. His strength, his speed — both eclipsed that of the old knight. How could he lose so easily?
Reading the question on his face, Ser Rodrik chuckled. "Not satisfied? Try again, then. Let's see if muscle alone can buy victory."
Lynn grit his teeth and grabbed his sword again.
This time, he struck faster, harder, every swing whipping air into violent gusts. But Ser Rodrik barely moved. His blade danced with the effortlessness of a leaf drifting on water. Each of Lynn's attacks was turned aside, guided away by the smallest of motions.
Then — clang!
Another disarming twist sent Lynn's weapon flying. It spun through the air before landing point-down in the snow.
Panting, Lynn looked from his empty hands to the serene old knight who hadn't taken so much as a step backward. The humiliation burned hotter than his aching arm.
In Pentos, he had won seven matches in a row. He had survived beasts, blades, and even a creature of ice and death. Yet here, one old man had beaten him like a child.
"Frustrated?" Ser Rodrik asked, walking over.
He picked up Lynn's fallen sword and handed it back. There was no mockery in his tone — only quiet authority.
"Tell me, boy. What is battle to you? Who hits harder? Who shouts louder?"
Lynn stayed silent.
The knight pointed at his arm. "You're strong. Faster than most men half your age. By all the gods, you were born with a soldier's body."
That unexpected compliment caught Lynn off guard.
"But." The old man's tone hardened like forged steel. "You think fighting is just chaos and muscle. That's your flaw. Power without discipline is nothing but noise. Pour all your strength into one wild swing, and you'll lose before it even lands."
Ser Rodrik lifted his sword and demonstrated. One quick thrust — and then, mid-motion, he dropped his wrist, turning it into a downward cut so fluid it seemed almost like water.
"Did you see?" he asked. "Two attacks in one motion. A proper fighter breathes with his weapon — strikes, draws back, flows again. You waste no motion. You waste no strength."
He stepped closer, tapping Lynn's chest with the sword hilt.
"Combat isn't an arm-wrestle. You must read your foe — his stance, his intent, his distance. Save your strength for when it matters. Every wasted movement is a wound waiting to happen. Every bit of overconfidence? A crack in your armor."
He looked Lynn up and down like a smith inspecting raw steel. "You must control your strength — not let it control you. Discipline it, shape it, make it a weapon. Only then will your gift become skill. Otherwise, you're just a brute pretending to wield a sword."
Lynn let the words sink in.
He realized then that Alduin's blood — this raw power blazing inside him — was just a blade waiting to be forged. The bloodline's strength was his steel… but it was discipline that would forge the edge.
He tightened his grip and looked up. His eyes, sharp again, met Rodrik's.
"I understand, ser. Please — train me more."
Rodrik's lips curled into a smile. He clapped Lynn's shoulder with approval.
"Good. The first step of greatness is knowing your own weakness."
He circled Lynn thoughtfully. "With your strength and speed, an ordinary longsword limits you. You need a weapon that forces control."
He gave Lynn a meaningful look. "A two-handed sword. Heavy enough to test your discipline, yet precise enough to command your power. Learn to balance force and finesse. Once you've mastered that—"
He grinned under his mustache. "—then perhaps we'll test you with two blades."
Lynn blinked. "Two swords?"
"Why not?" Ser Rodrik said, stroking his beard. "Most men can't manage the weight. They opt for lighter weapons—twin daggers, matching axes. But you…" He eyed Lynn's lean, powerful arms. "If anyone could wield two longswords without losing speed, it's you. Do that, and you won't just fight—you'll become a storm of steel."
From that day on, Lynn trained like a man possessed.
The others would still be asleep when the first rays of dawn painted the sky, yet the clang of his blade already echoed across the courtyard.
He learned to move with his whole body — striking not from the arms but from the waist, the shoulders, the flow of his breath. When he swung, the air seemed to break beneath the weight of the blade.
One morning, a wooden target dummy split clean in two under a single strike.
Robb Stark yelped from his window. "By the gods! I thought lightning just hit the yard!"
When he leaned out, he saw Lynn standing alone in the morning light, two-handed sword poised in a clean perfect arc. The broken dummy lay at his feet like a felled tree.
Whether it was the dragon's blood singing in his veins or simple will, his progress was frightening.
In three days, his movements were already sharp, elegant, devastating.
Ser Rodrik Cassel simply nodded one morning, pride glinting in his sharp old eyes.
"With time," he said, "this lad won't just be a skilled swordsman. He'll be one of the best two-handed bladesmen in the realm—mark my words."
And as Lynn reset his stance under the pale northern sun, his twin shadows stretched long across the training ground, crossing like two blades ready to dance.