Night had fallen deep. Most of Winterfell lay shrouded in silence, broken only by the footsteps of patrolling guards echoing across the empty courtyards and the occasional neigh of a horse from the stables.
Lynn's chamber was situated on the side of the main keep, near the kitchens. The flames in the fireplace had dwindled to a small cluster of dark red embers, barely warding off the chill in the air. He sat cross-legged on the bed, with the longsword bestowed by Ned Stark resting across his knees. He was not asleep—he was waiting.
Tap-tap-tap. A soft knock, barely audible, sounded on the door.
Lynn opened his eyes, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He rose, slid back the bolt, and a small figure slipped through the crack like a cat. Arya Stark, clutching a practice wooden sword taller than herself, darted into the room.
She shut the door behind her, let out a long breath, and her face glowed with the excitement of a successful prank. "The guards think I'm asleep," she whispered triumphantly, setting the wooden sword down and brushing dust off her hands. In her eyes burned a longing hotter than the fireplace embers. "Do you remember our deal? Teach me."
Lynn wasted no words. He picked up his own sword and twirled it gracefully in the dim room; the steel hummed softly as it cut through the air.
"The Night's Watch swordsmanship has no name," Lynn said, fixing his gaze on Arya. "It serves but one purpose: to kill your enemy and survive, in the shortest time possible. It is not elegant. It is even ugly."
Arya nodded vigorously. "I know!"
Lynn moved to the center of the room, clearing a small space. "Watch closely." He assumed a standard sword-fighting stance, lowering his center of gravity with the blade pointing diagonally toward the ground—a posture that emphasized stability and explosive power above all.
"When an enemy swings at you…" Lynn mimicked a parrying motion. Instead of meeting the blow head-on with brute force, he used the angle of his blade to deflect the imaginary attack. With a flick of his wrist, he drove the tip of the sword forward in a swift, vicious thrust to the vital spot.
"Defense is always preparation for the next attack," Lynn said, sheathing his sword. "Wildlings beyond the Wall are often taller and stronger than us. If you contest strength with them, you will be the one to die."
Arya watched, transfixed. She lifted her wooden sword, trying to imitate his movement, but Lynn stopped her and handed her his own blade. "Wooden swords are children's toys. Use this."
Excitement flashed in Arya's eyes—it was her first time holding a real sword, the kind Catelyn had always forbidden her from touching. She took the heavy one-handed sword, let out a small cry, and stabbed forward. Her movement looked clumsy, weighed down by the sword's heft.
Lynn picked up her wooden sword to feed her moves. When she parried, her thin arms trembled from the impact; when she stabbed, her strikes lacked penetration. "No," Arya stopped, frowning in frustration. "I can't deflect like you do."
Lynn looked at her taut little face and trembling arms. He realized that though the Night's Watch swordsmanship emphasized skill, it was still rooted in the physical strength of adult males—too "heavy" for Arya. He needed to adapt it.
After a moment's thought, Lynn raised his sword again, but his movements shifted. He abandoned the focus on stable parries, instead prioritizing evasion and nimble counterattacks. The blade no longer made energy-draining straight cuts and thrusts; instead, it traced light arcs, targeting gaps in the enemy's defense. His movements were smaller, faster.
As Lynn immersed himself in crafting this lighter, tailored swordsmanship for Arya, a familiar blue interface materialized unbidden:
[By drawing on cross-disciplinary insights, Strength and Agility attributes met the requirements—new skill unlocked…]
[Congratulations! Learned new skill: Light Swordsmanship (Novice) 1/10]
A spark of realization ignited in Lynn. This "Light Swordsmanship," derived from but distinct from the Night's Watch style, was exactly what he lacked. Against strength-based opponents, his prized one-handed sword was inadequate; he could not match their power, only evade to drain their stamina before delivering a fatal strike when they weakened.
"Try this again," Lynn said, breaking down the rudimentary form of Light Swordsmanship into basic steps and thrusts to teach Arya. Her eyes lit up as she lifted the sword once more. This time, she did not attempt to parry—when Lynn tapped her blade lightly with the wooden sword, she stepped back half a pace and swept her sword upward at a tricky angle toward his "wrist."
"So fast!" Arya exclaimed in delight, feeling as free as a fish in water, unshackled.
Yet her excitement faded quickly. When she tried consecutive attacks, new problems emerged. Light Swordsmanship required little brute strength but demanded extreme coordination and precision—Arya's strikes missed their mark repeatedly. Gasping for breath, she stopped, her face flushed.
"Still no good," she said, slumping her shoulders in defeat. "My sword's too heavy." She stared at the steel blade in her hand, then at the wooden one in Lynn's. A harsh truth dawned on her.
"I… I'm a girl," her voice dropped, laced with reluctance. "No matter how hard I train, I'll never be as strong as Robb or Theon." She looked up, her gray eyes filled with confusion. "In the end, this swordsmanship still relies on strength to overpower others, doesn't it?"
Lynn fell silent. Arya's intuition was sharp—even Light Swordsmanship, in Westeros's battlefield logic, ultimately depended on strength to pierce armor or shatter bones. He knew Arya needed an entirely different fighting style, one that relied not on power but on speed and precision.
"You're right, Arya," Lynn said, patting her head. "You don't need to be the strongest. But you can be the fastest."
At that moment, chaotic footsteps echoed outside the door. "Over there! I thought I heard something!" It was the night guards.
Arya turned pale, clutching Lynn's sleeve. He blew out the tallow lamp in an instant, plunging the room into darkness, then pulled her into the shadow behind the door. The footsteps drew near, stopping at the threshold—Lynn could hear the guards' breathing clearly through the door. Arya held her breath, her cold little hands clinging tightly to him. At nine, two years younger than Sansa, she knew full well she should not be in a man's chamber at night.
After a long pause, one guard muttered, "Must've been hearing things. Let's go. This damn weather makes the wind sound like ghosts." The footsteps faded away.
Lynn and Arya exchanged a glance in the dark, both exhaling in relief.
"I should go back," Arya said, her voice trembling slightly. "Can I… can I come again tomorrow night?"
"Be careful," Lynn replied, tidying her disheveled hair. "The castle's swarming with people these days—the king's retinue will be here soon."
Arya nodded fiercely, then slipped away like a fawn, disappearing silently down the corridor.
Lynn closed the door and relit a candle. He stared at his sword, then at the [Light Swordsmanship (Novice) 1/10] on the interface. Arya had not mastered it, but he had gained far more. He knew he must strengthen himself quickly—the king's arrival meant the storm's center had shifted to Winterfell, and he was already standing in its eye.