Bold Arya

Several days passed.

Winterfell buzzed like a hive that had been struck.

The king's procession had reached the White Knife River!

The news put a spring in the step of everyone in the castle.

The forge fires burned day and night, and the ringing of hammers nearly drowned out the sounds of training in the courtyard.

In the kitchens, the fat cook Gage bellowed orders.

He directed the helpers as they carried barrel after barrel of ale into the cellar.

The rich smell of roasting meat mingled with the wheaty scent of freshly baked bread, drifting far through the cold air.

Lynn sat on the low wall along the path to the Godswood.

He no longer needed guards watching him.

That bloody battle, along with the prophecy that had come true, had earned him this limited freedom.

Lynn was a man of the Night's Watch. Seeing that he could be useful, Ned had allowed him to remain in Winterfell for the time being.

Eventually, Lynn would still be sent back to the Wall.

Under Maester Luwin's care, Lynn's wounds had scabbed over.

New flesh itched faintly around their edges, giving him a tangible sense of life returning.

Lynn simply watched in silence.

He watched Robb and Theon spar under the guidance of the master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik, their training stricter than ever before.

Their wooden swords struck together with dull, forceful thuds.

He watched Sansa Stark choose fabrics for the feast with her mother, Catelyn, beside her.

Sansa's face held a young girl's longing for the splendor of the south.

He watched Jon Snow.

Jon remained in that secluded corner, alone, swinging his practice sword over and over.

Sweat soaked the black hair over his forehead, but he paid it no mind.

It was as though he meant to pour all his energy into those silent cuts.

Everyone was busy.

Busy preparing to welcome a glorious occasion.

Only Lynn knew they were preparing to welcome a storm that would sweep across the Seven Kingdoms.

Light footsteps sounded behind him.

Lynn knew who it was without turning around.

Arya had been following him around for days.

"They're all so stupid."

A trace of disdain colored Arya's voice.

Copying Lynn, she climbed onto the low wall and sat beside him.

Her legs swung back and forth over the edge.

"Sansa thinks about nothing but her prince, and Theon just wants to show off his fighting skills in front of the king."

"Mother wants me to practice embroidery. She says those ladies from the south will be watching me."

Arya imitated Lady Catelyn's tone, her voice high and thin and rather comical.

But there was no hint of a smile on her face.

"I don't want them watching me embroider."

"I don't want to embroider."

Lynn turned to look at her.

The little girl's face was full of a stubbornness beyond her years.

"Then practice with a sword," Lynn said.

He was quite fond of Arya.

"Ser Rodrik won't teach me. He says swords are for boys."

Arya's voice grew quieter, full of hurt.

"Father says that once winter is over, Bran and Rickon will start learning too."

"But not me."

Lynn said nothing. He merely took a slender twig from inside his clothes.

With his finger, he drew a crooked human figure on the dusty surface of the wall.

"Let me tell you a story."

Lynn's voice was soft.

"In the distant east, farther away than Essos, there was a girl."

"Enemies invaded her country, but her father was old and frail and couldn't go to war."

"So she cut off her long hair, put on her father's armor, and joined the army in his place."

Arya's eyes grew brighter as she listened.

She stopped swinging her legs and gave him her full attention.

Only when Lynn finished did she ask eagerly.

"Didn't anyone discover she was a girl?"

"They did."

Lynn smiled.

"But by then, her wisdom and courage had already won her great victories."

"She became a hero admired by every soldier."

"In the end, she defeated the enemy and saved her country."

With the twig, Lynn drew a crown on the little figure's head.

"What was her name?"

Arya pressed him, her eyes shining like stars.

"Mulan."

Lynn spoke the name softly.

"Mulan..."

Arya rolled the unfamiliar sounds around in her mouth.

This story was nothing like the tales of knights Ser Rodrik told.

Nor was it like Old Nan's dull old myths about the Children of the Forest.

There was no magic in this story, no dragons.

Only a girl and her sword.

Yet it stirred her heart more than any other story.

"Do you know lots of stories like that?"

Arya tilted her head up to look at Lynn.

His calm face was reflected in her gray eyes.

"Lots."

"Qin Liangyu, Joan of Arc, Nightingale, Mu Guiying, Fu Hao... they were all heroes of the highest order."

"Then will you tell me all of them someday?"

"Yes."

Lynn nodded.

The clamor in the courtyard seemed to recede into the distance.

Sunlight broke through the clouds and fell over them, bringing a little warmth.

Arya was silent for a long time.

She looked at Lynn.

At his eyes, always so calm, and the black cloak he wore, faded from washing.

He was different from everyone else in Winterfell.

Her father loved her, but wanted her to become a lady.

Her mother loved her, but wanted her to be graceful like Sansa.

Her brothers loved her, but saw her as a little sister who needed protecting.

Only Lynn.

Only he treated her as a warrior who could take up a sword.

Only he would tell her the story of Mulan.

He understood her.

"Lynn."

Arya's voice suddenly grew very serious.

Lynn turned to look at her.

"When I grow up, I want to marry you."

There was not the slightest hint of a joke on the little girl's face.

The smile on Lynn's face slowly froze.

A little girl, huh...

I'm not exactly picky.

Hmm... it's not out of the question...

Had one simple little story really been enough to steal away this lord's youngest daughter?

It was not really that Arya lacked reserve. Mulan's story had simply spoken straight to her heart.

After all, it was a classic from another civilization. How could a little native girl like her possibly resist it?

Lynn looked at Arya.

Arya does seem a little young...

Still, I can wait until she grows up.

He urgently needed a foothold, and a marriage alliance with House Stark would be his best option at present.

It would be a little difficult, though.

After all, Arya belonged to House Stark, which had ruled the entire North for thousands of years.

She was the blood of the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, and his most cherished little princess.

Lynn was a newcomer with no roots or powerful backing, a nobody, a deserter from the Night's Watch, a prisoner who had barely secured some measure of safety through his prophecies.

Marry me?

To anyone else, they would hardly seem a suitable match.

But Lynn was not afraid.

For someone who had transmigrated, rising above class barriers was hardly impossible. Without even that much ambition, what was the point of transmigrating?

"All right."

Lynn reached out and ruffled Arya's slightly untidy hair, just as he always did.

A smile returned to his face.

"But you're still little. We'll talk about it when you're grown."

At least three years in prison...

The values of his previous life were deeply ingrained. Even in this world, Lynn still felt a little uneasy about a girl this young.