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Catelyn's sobs were like a blunt knife, repeatedly cutting the taut nerves of everyone present, grating on the ears.
But no one could say anything.
After all, Lord Hoster was her biological father.
The grace of birth and upbringing was greater than the sky; she was in more pain than anyone present.
Robb clenched his fists, his young face full of anger.
He wanted to draw his sword, wanted to summon his bannermen immediately, wanted to rush to Riverrun and chop that crazy aunt and the damned Old Frey into minced meat.
But he knew he couldn't.
War wasn't a bard's ballad.
Relying solely on hot blood without any preparation would only lead everyone to destruction.
"Lynn..."
"What should we do?"
Lynn didn't answer immediately.
He walked to Catelyn's side.
"My Lady, tears solve no problems."
"Revenge must be taken, and people must be saved. But not in this chaotic way."
He looked around.
His gaze swept from the grieving Catelyn to the angry Robb, then to Ned's face full of fatigue and guilt.
"What you need to do now is not sigh here, but act immediately."
Lynn's voice lifted everyone's spirits.
"Robb."
Robb instinctively straightened his back.
"Immediately issue a summoning order to all Northern bannermen in the name of Winterfell."
"Just say winter has arrived, the long night is coming, and I need them to bring enough grain to Winterfell to attend a 'Harvest Council'."
Harvest Council?
Robb was stunned for a moment, but immediately nodded in agreement.
He knew this was just an excuse.
An excuse to gather all the military forces of the North in the shortest time.
Although the internal forces of the North were stronger than elsewhere, there would inevitably be some rat droppings hidden among them.
What Lynn wanted to do was get them here first.
Once they were here, it wouldn't be up to them anymore.
"Lady Catelyn."
Lynn turned to Catelyn, who was still sobbing.
"You are a daughter of House Tully; many bannermen in the Riverlands remain loyal to House Tully, loyal to your father."
"I need you to write to them immediately."
"Tell them everything that happened at Riverrun, tell them about Lysa's madness and Frey's conspiracy."
"But remember, don't let them act rashly; just let them guard their castles well and wait for my signal."
Catelyn raised her teary eyes, looking at Lynn, and nodded heavily.
She couldn't watch her family suffer helplessly.
But if she could contribute to revenge, she was willing to do anything.
"Lord Ned."
Lynn finally looked at Ned.
"You just came back; rest well."
"Tomorrow night, you need to hold a feast to entertain all the bannermen who arrive early."
"At that time, I will tell you the complete plan."
A few brief sentences instantly dispersed the haze shrouding the Great Hall.
Grief and anger were transformed into specific goals and actions.
Ned looked at this young man before him, mixed feelings in his heart.
He seemed to see a born leader, calmly commanding his fleet to sail in the only correct direction when the storm came.
Perhaps, handing the future of the North, even the entire Westeros, to Lynn was truly a correct choice.
At least much better than supporting a fool like Joffrey.
...
The noise of the main keep faded away.
Jaime Lannister walked alone in the courtyard of Winterfell.
The air of the North was cold and clean.
Inhaling it into his lungs seemed to wash away the stench mixed with power lust and decay of King's Landing.
He felt like an anomaly.
A Lannister, walking freely in Stark's castle?
Everything here was different from Casterly Rock.
No luxury of gold, only the fortitude of grey stone.
There was no fawning and calculation in people's eyes, only a simple vigilance and curiosity.
Because he followed Lynn north to fight Lysa together, the Starks had abandoned their prejudice against Jaime the Lannister, treating him with courtesy instead.
This made him somewhat at a loss.
Jaime couldn't help but think of everything that happened recently.
That stupid woman named Lysa drove herself mad and dragged down her entire family for a dead man.
This made him involuntarily think of Cersei.
His sister, his former lover.
She was mad too.
For that Iron Throne that didn't belong to her, for that son who wasn't Robert's blood at all.
She tied the entire House Lannister to a runaway chariot.
And he was the fool driving for her.
Jaime smiled self-mockingly.
He looked up and saw two small figures playing on the training ground not far away.
Stark's youngest sons, Bran and Rickon.
Bran Stark?
Jaime's steps halted.
He thought of that unusual day.
On that abandoned tower in Winterfell.
If not for Lynn's sudden appearance.
This lively boy now might have long become a cold corpse.
Or... become a lifelong paralyzed cripple.
And he would add a crime of "harming a child" on top of the "Kingslayer" infamy.
No, regardless of the result, harming a child was already carved on his pillar of shame; this hadn't changed.
Whenever he thought of that possible future, Jaime's back would break out in cold sweat.
On the training ground, Bran was holding a small practice bow, trying to hit a straw man dozens of paces away.
Whoosh——
The arrow drew a weak arc, planting softly in the snow several meters away from the target.
"Hahaha, you missed again!"
The smaller Rickon clapped his hands and laughed aside.
"You're so big, yet not as accurate as me!"
Bran's small face flushed red.
Unconvinced, he nocked another arrow, trying hard to draw the bow, mimicking Ser Rodrik's teaching.
"I'll definitely hit it this time!"
"If I miss... I'll let Arya teach you a lesson; who told you to keep mocking me!"
Whoosh——
As a result, this arrow missed even more outrageously, flying directly out of the training ground's fence.
Rickon cackled excitedly.
It seemed he didn't have to face that terrible sister.
Bran dropped his arm dejectedly; perhaps his talent really followed his Uncle Edmure.
Archery skills stank to high heaven.
Good thing House Stark didn't use House Tully's water burial; otherwise, he'd be Edmure II...
Just then.
"Your elbow is too low."
A voice suddenly came from behind him.
Bran and Rickon were startled; they turned back abruptly.
They saw a man wearing black leather armor with dazzling golden hair.
"You are... the Kingslayer, that Jaime!"
Bran pointed at him and shouted.
The corner of Jaime's mouth twitched.
He probably couldn't shake off this nickname in his life.
Bran opened his curious big eyes, sizing up this legendary figure before him.
Unlike others carrying fear or disdain, those grey eyes were full of a child's curiosity and admiration.
That day, to avoid implicating too much, his memory had long been erased by the "timid" Three-Eyed Raven.
In Bran's view, falling from the tower was just an accident.
But in Jaime's eyes, he was somewhat fearful.
He was actually afraid Bran would open his mouth to accuse him.
But looking at the confusion in Bran's eyes, he seemed to have forgotten this point?
Jaime didn't think more.
After all, Bran was only seven then; he just assumed Bran was a child who didn't hold grudges, or had a bad memory; Myrcella and Tommen were the same back then.
But this made him feel even more guilty.
"People in Winterfell say you are the best knight in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Are you even better than my father?"
"Have you two fought?"
Jaime smiled, then shook his head.
"Your father is a hero; how could I beat him?"
Then Jaime walked to Bran, looking at the small bow in his hand.
"Give me that small bow."
Bran hesitated, but still handed it over obediently.
Jaime took the bow.
That bow, which required all of Bran's strength to draw, was like a toy in his hands.
Jaime didn't look at the distant target, just slightly feeling the force of the cold wind on his face, then casually drew the bowstring and released.
Whoosh!
The arrow made a brisk breaking air sound.
Like a grey lightning bolt, it nailed precisely into the exact center of the straw man.
The fletching was still trembling slightly.
Bran and Rickon's mouths opened wide.
"Wow——"
Countless little stars seemed to pop up instantly in Bran's eyes.
The look he gave Jaime was like seeing his most admired hero.
"You're amazing! How did you do it?"
Looking at the boy's clear eyes free of any impurity, Jaime's heart was gently touched by something.
How long had he not seen such a look?
In King's Landing, people looked at him either with fear, fawning, or disdain.
He had forgotten.
He was also once a boy with a knight's dream.
Also once looked up at those legendary knights with such admiring eyes.
Including his idol, the Sword of the Morning.
"You are standing wrong."
Jaime's voice softened unconsciously.
"Your feet should be shoulder-width apart, like this..."
He walked behind Bran, reached out, and gently adjusted Bran's posture.
His hands were big and warm.
Through the thick leather coat, Bran could still feel that sense of power belonging to the strong.
"Back straight, shoulders level."
"When drawing the bow, don't just use your arm strength; use the strength of your entire back to feel the tension of the bowstring."
Jaime's voice was calm, every word incredibly clear.
He was like the strictest and most patient teacher, imparting his years of experience unreservedly to this boy he once harmed.
Bran held his breath, re-nocked an arrow according to Jaime's instructions.
He felt completely different.
The bowstring seemed to become an extension of his arm; he could clearly feel the arrow's poised power.
"Eye, bowstring, arrowhead, target, in one line."
"Then, release."
Whoosh!
The arrow left the string!
This time, it didn't draw that crooked arc, but flew straight to the target!
Thud!
Although the arrow didn't hit the bullseye, it stuck firmly in the straw man's chest.
"I hit it! I hit it!"
Rickon also opened his mouth wide.
"By the Old Gods, Bran really hit it..."
Bran jumped up excitedly, his small face flushed red with excitement.
He looked back at Jaime; those bright eyes shone with the purest joy and gratitude.
"Thank you, Ser Jaime!"
At this moment, he didn't call him "Kingslayer," but "Ser."
A simple yet incredibly heavy title.
Jaime looked at this cheering boy before him; that block of hard ice in his heart seemed to quietly melt a corner.
He thought of Joffrey.
That nominal prince, his biological son.
Joffrey also liked bows and arrows, but he never enjoyed the practice process.
He only liked using the most expensive bow to shoot those small animals tied up and unable to resist.
He never cheered for hitting the target, only laughed cruelly because of the prey's screams.
He never said "thank you" to anyone.
Jaime's gaze fell back on Bran.
This boy, healthy, lively, polite, his heart full of yearning for honor and martial arts.
This was what a noble should be like.
If... if Robert had married Lyanna Stark instead of Cersei back then.
If sitting on the Iron Throne was a Baratheon with Stark blood.
Would this kingdom be different?
And he, would he not have to bear the infamy of Kingslayer, not fall into that immoral forbidden love with his sister?
But could fulfill his childhood dream, become a true knight, and protect a King worth protecting?
"Ser? Ser?"
Bran's voice pulled Jaime back from his chaotic thoughts.
"Will... will you still teach me?"
Bran looked up, a trace of pleading and expectation in his eyes.
"I also want to learn swordsmanship!"
"Lord Lynn said you are currently the strongest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms!"
Jaime looked at him; on that face always carrying mockery and indifference, a heartfelt smile appeared for the first time.
He didn't answer.
But he knew something was different.
He might never be able to wash away the Kingslayer's stain, but perhaps he could... become a knight again?
A true knight!