GOT: The Dangerous Traveler 1

Lyn Corbray

Year 281 a.C. – Harrenhal

A thin man with shoulder-length brown hair wiped the sweat from his face with a cloth. He was young, in his early twenties, and his features were attractive and elegant.

In front of the young man was a mirror, in which he gazed and admired his naked body. He had abs and a toned physique, more agile than strong.

After observing himself for a few seconds, his blue eyes turned toward a large bed, where, despite the dim light in the room, he could make out the silhouette of a woman, the woman he had spent the night with. Lyn Corbray couldn't remember her name.

"Hey," he said to the woman, shaking her leg to wake her up.

The woman slowly opened her eyes. At first, she seemed confused, but then a smile adorned her face; her eyes were fixed on Lyn.

"Hello, handsome," she said in a playful tone, but Lyn didn't return the smile.

"It's late. You should go back to your people. I don't want any trouble."

"Maybe you should've thought of that before… deflowering a maiden," the woman replied in a slightly dramatic and mocking tone.

The woman was very attractive, though in an unconventional way. She was tall, slender, and lanky. Her hair was dark brown, and her pale skin bore the traits of the First Men.

"No maiden sucks like you did," Lyn replied, finally cracking a small smile. The woman made a face but still seemed amused.

"I guess that'll be a secret we'll keep between us," the woman said, getting out of bed with energy. She was almost as tall as Lyn.

With impressive efficiency, the woman dressed quickly. Her attire was as unconventional as her toned and trained body. It looked quite masculine, in fact—the outfit of a warrior.

"Will I see you at the tournament?"

"What?" Lyn asked.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Corbray."

"I'll participate. But your words suggest that…"

"Oh, so I suppose the honorable knights of the Vale haven't heard of my humble family…" the woman said with feigned indignation. "On my island, women learn to wield a sword just like men. That's how it is on Bear Island."

At the woman's words, Lyn finally remembered her name; she was Dacey Mormont, the cousin of Jorah Mormont, one of the notable warriors present at the tournament. The young woman was no older than 20, Lyn guessed 17.

"It's a… strange island."

"I suppose it is, to many. But what can I say, we're good warriors. I think you can attest to that, can't you?"

"Yes, I can attest to that," Corbray laughed, but his smile vanished instantly in less than a second. "But I insist; leave."

Dacey made a slight face at the man's words, but she was already fully dressed. She left with a simple nod, leaving Lyn completely alone in his tent. The young man only hoped that the Mormont woman wouldn't be recognized, but who was he kidding? The Mormont women were perfectly recognizable, standing out more than a Targaryen in the middle of Flea Bottom.

Still, Lyn wanted to make sure no eyes were on the woman, so he lay back on his bed. His demeanor was calm, and despite his thoughts, he seemed to simply want to sleep. However, once he was fully lying down, he closed his right eye, only to open it three seconds later. The blue pupils had transformed, along with the rest of the eye, into a milky white color.

At the same time, the vision from his right eye moved outside his tent, where Dacey Mormont walked among the tents, trying to be as discreet as possible.

Lyn Corbray watched her from a position much lower than even a short human. Lyn was a rat. Gray with a pink tail. But at the same time, he was Lyn, as his left eye remained its normal blue color, with which he observed what was happening in his own body.

At first, it had been difficult to control two bodies at once—the man and the rat, or the man and the wolf, depending on the animal he was possessing—but hard work had paid off, and now he could do it with perfect control.

After confirming that, apparently, no one had noticed the Mormont woman, Lyn cut the connection while simultaneously getting dressed. Not that he had a problem with staying naked, though.

"Should I take a nap?" Lyn Corbray wondered, but then shook his head. The young man decided to get some fresh air, so he left the tent. He was in Harrenhal, the home of House Whent, where the recently announced Tourney at Harrenhal would take place.

Lyn couldn't remember what they were celebrating; he didn't care much, either. One went to a tourney to win prize money and bed the ladies accompanying the families competing. It was a rare occasion for so many noblewomen to gather in one place. It saved Lyn a lot of travel. At first, he had settled for prostitutes, the pretty ones, of course, but now that seemed too mundane. He deserved… something better.

'A princess, perhaps?' crossed his mind. Unfortunately, there were no princesses in the kingdom. Well, there was one; Rhaenys Targaryen. But the girl… was one year old.

Corbray wasn't discriminatory, of course, but a one-year-old… he might as well stick his penis in a man, and there'd be more flesh to grab. No, that was a hard no.

Lyn walked for a few minutes but then decided to head back to where his people were camped. Harrenhal, or what was left of it, wasn't too big. Well, it was—massive—but it wasn't a very welcoming place for visitors. Even the great lords had to stay in the surrounding areas of the castle, in different camps divided by region.

Most of the tents were quite similar, with banners bearing the sigil of each house. Still, it was easy to get lost, so Lyn was lucky that the gray tents of House Corbray, a fairly common color, were next to the only bronze-colored tents in the vicinity.

"Brother," he heard as he arrived, and saw his older brother looking at him with an annoyed expression.

"Lyonel," Lyn replied. His eyes fixed on his brother's doublet bearing the sigil of their house: three ravens carrying a red heart on a white background.

Beside Lyonel Corbray was a woman. She was somewhat plain, with nothing particularly special about her, except for an unpleasant belly.

Was she pregnant? That's what it seemed like to Lyn; the problem was that the woman had been pregnant for years—with triplets. She was Deana Hardyng, a woman with short blonde hair, a mole above her lips, and generally unfeminine features. She was… hard to look at. And her masculinity wasn't in a sexy way, like Dacey Mormont, but in a rough and… stocky way.

"I know what you did this morning," Lyn's brother said. His expression remained grave.

"You'll have to be more specific, little brother. I did a lot of things this morning."

"Don't play dumb, Lyn. I'm talking about the girl from the North," the man said, annoyed. He was four years older than Lyn, making him 24.

"The girl from the North?" Lyn asked, genuinely confused, then his expression shifted to feigned realization before returning to confusion once more. "But brother… that wasn't this morning, it was last night."

"You… are truly a lost cause, Lyn."

"I love you too, little brother."

"This isn't the first time it's happened, Lyn. These actions could bring consequences to the house. Serious consequences."

"But that won't be the case, brother. They're Northmen. You could bed one of their wives in front of the husband, and all they'd want is your head."

"And that seems like nothing to you?"

"Well…" Lyn said, his smile turning dangerous, very dangerous. "They can come and try to take it."

Lyonel could only shake his head. The heir of Lord Corbray knew his brother's martial prowess. If a Northman wanted his head, they wouldn't get it. Not in a duel, at least.

"You'd better win the tourney, Lyn."

"Isn't that the deal? Father's punishments always involve cutting the money I get when there are tourneys nearby. They're an incentive to try harder to win. Though it won't be necessary this time; this will be the first major tourney I'll participate in. I have enough incentive," Lyn said, thinking it was a shame he had been too young to participate in the Tourney at Lannisport held in honor of Viserys Targaryen five years ago. "Besides, the prize money is more than any father would give his second son."

An uncomfortable silence and slight tension filled the space between the two brothers after that comment.

"But… what does it matter?" Lyn suddenly added, trying to break the tension. "After all, a second son is what I am, and I love myself too much to believe any quality or trait of mine is a problem."

On that, Lyonel could agree; Lyn did indeed love himself very much, too much.

"Well, if that's all, I'm going to rest in my tent for a while. I didn't sleep too well last night," he said with a chuckle. "I think it's being so far from home," he added with a smile, as if he had told a joke only he could understand.

As he entered his tent again, he felt a headache—a sharp, sudden pull that made him sit down quickly on his bed.

"Again," the young man whispered, closing his eyes as he lay down. He couldn't hide the excited expression on his face.

When he opened them again, he was in a completely different place.

There was a strong smell of blood, screams of pain and rage filled the air, and… his balls were about to explode. They were full, to a point that felt uncomfortable to Lyn; he was used to emptying them constantly.

There were other changes that didn't seem as important to Lyn, like the fact that he was in the middle of a battlefield, with soldiers shouting and killing each other. The slaughter was so intense that the grass was red with blood.

"Gwayne Corbray," said a voice that felt all too familiar to Lyn. His eyes left the red field and settled on, where the eyes would presumably be, of the rider in front of Lyn. They were at the same height, meaning Lyn was also mounted on a steed—a white one, adorned with white fabrics that matched his armor.

"Daemon Blackfyre."

"The First of His Name," the man added with a hollow laugh that escaped from the holes in his helmet. The man was intimidating. He rode a black steed covered with a red cape, and his own armor was entirely black, with a helmet featuring two large bat-like dragon wings on the sides and three dragon heads in the center. He was a tall and powerful man, with broad shoulders. A few white locks escaped from his helmet.

"Does that even matter?" Lyn replied with a slight laugh, which confused Daemon. Just as Daemon was about to speak, Lyn interrupted him, mocking his voice: "Many men have died for it; it's no laughing matter."

What followed was an uncomfortable silence between the two, though the battlefield remained as violent as ever.

"I've had this conversation too many times, Black Dragon. Just draw your sword and let's fight. Let me defeat the Warrior."

"An Andal cannot defeat me; nor can a Valyrian."

"We'll see about that," Lyn replied. He wasn't interested in playing the role of the honorable Gwayne Corbray; he only wanted to duel Daemon Blackfyre once more.

Two swords were raised; Blackfyre and Lady Forlorn. The blades clashed, and the duel had begun.