GOT: The Dangerous Traveler 2
Lyn Corbray
Year ? A.C. – ?
Lyn Corbray felt fantastic. His sword moved at an almost supernatural speed, and his movements were fleeting and precise. He was overwhelming Daemon Blackfyre to the point where the outcome of the duel was evident to most.
The young man still remembered the first time he had been in that place. There hadn't been much shock; it wasn't the first time his mind… "traveled." He had played his role as he had done before, but the result had been humiliating. In less than five minutes, Blackfyre's sword had been thrust into his throat. Lyn had drowned in his own blood.
It was the first time Lyn had died during one of his travels. He had faced difficulties before, but nothing a talented young man like him couldn't overcome. This… was different. He was facing Daemon Blackfyre, and he didn't have the skills or experience of Gwayne Corbray. The legendary duel said to have lasted an hour ended in mere minutes.
Lyn woke up terrified; the idea of dying wasn't pleasant for anyone, and he developed a fear of Daemon Blackfyre. He truly seemed like the Warrior incarnate. But things had changed.
Lyn had lost count of how many times he had faced Daemon Blackfyre in Gwayne Corbray's body. The first few times were humiliating, but each duel became more evenly matched. However, there was another problem: time.
The duel never lasted an hour; that was a lie told by the maesters. How did Lyn know? Because every time the duel dragged on too long, someone intervened. Sometimes Bloodraven would fire an arrow that struck Daemon; though it was never fatal due to his thick armor, it still forced the Blackfyre to abandon the duel and retreat. Other times, the outcome was worse, as Aegor Rivers would join Daemon's side and overwhelm Lyn, killing him.
This meant Lyn had to defeat Daemon, and quickly. He not only had to be a better swordsman; he had to crush him.
"This is the time!" Lyn shouted excitedly. His sword had cut through Daemon's horse, causing the Blackfyre to fall into the mud; his black armor was now stained with mud and blood. "Blood and Fire? More like Blood and Mud!" Lyn laughed maniacally as he leaped off his horse. He had to be quick because he could already hear chaos to his left; it was Aegor's forces trying to break through to save their king. Daemon's sons also seemed to be accompanying Bittersteel.
Daemon tried to rise quickly, but Lyn's swift attack gave him no chance, forcing the Black Dragon to raise his sword to block the strike.
It felt as if a warhammer had been pressed against his sword. Lyn didn't care about straining his muscles; he was pushing the limits of the body he possessed.
While Daemon was kneeling, slowly losing ground, Lyn decided to kick him in the chest, leaving him breathless for a few seconds—enough time.
With a quick slash, Lyn decapitated Daemon Blackfyre.
The sounds of the battlefield ceased as everyone turned to see their fallen king. Surprise was written on the faces of most soldiers, including the loyalists. Hadn't Daemon Blackfyre fallen too quickly?
Lyn felt euphoric.
"Free! Finally free!" he shouted, grabbing Blackfyre from the ground. He now wielded a Valyrian steel sword in each hand. "Destroy the traitors!" he roared, and the army's morale surged. Most ignored his ramblings about freedom; they still had a battle to win, though the war already seemed decided.
After a few seconds of comprehension, Aegor erupted into primal fury, charging forward like a butcher alongside Daemon's sons, who had fallen to their knees, weeping for their father. However, they couldn't reach the body, which lay behind Lyn.
One of Daemon's sons removed his helmet to wipe away his tears, and it was a grave mistake. Instantly, an arrow pierced his eye. Lyn glanced over and saw the infamous Bloodraven with a bow.
Lyn raised both swords toward Aegor Rivers, awaiting his arrival. He wasn't sure if he also had to defeat the bastard, but if he could take down Daemon, he could handle Bittersteel. The real problem was facing both at the same time. However, before Lyn could clash steel with the bastard, his eyes returned to darkness. Moments later, he opened them and was back in his tent.
"Finally," he whispered again, his voice filled with euphoria. Today was a very good day for Lyn Corbray. However, suddenly, a look of confusion crossed his face. His left hand was holding something—something heavy and cold.
'A sword hilt?' the young man thought, deciding to get up from the bed to take a closer look. What he saw… was a sword.
It was a long, hand-and-a-half sword made of Valyrian steel. Lyn knew what sword it was, of course. It was the sword he had faced so many times; the sword that had cut his skin on numerous occasions. It had belonged to Aegon the Conqueror, Maegor the Cruel, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, Aegon II the Elder, and, after several generations, Daemon Blackfyre.
The sword was supposedly lost in Essos, in the hands of Aegor Rivers. Yet… the sword now rested in his lap.
This… was the first time something like this had happened, that Lyn had brought something other than his consciousness and memories back from his travels. Was this the original Blackfyre sword lost in Essos? Or the sword Daemon Blackfyre had dropped in that alternate world? Because yes, it was alternate. Lyn had already done things of relevance, albeit minor, in his travels, and history hadn't changed. It was an alternate world, or perhaps just an illusion, or a vision?
"And now what do I do?" Lyn murmured. The sword was HIS, but he wasn't foolish enough to flaunt it carelessly. He wouldn't hand it over to some incestuous white-haired bastard.
If there was one thing Lyn Corbray disliked, it was someone taking his things. It was almost… obsessive. He had already killed for it. Once, he had impregnated a whore a couple of years ago, back when he still slept with more whores than noble ladies. The whore refused to take moon tea and was determined to have the child, probably wanting to blackmail Lyn or something along those lines, trying to live the good life at his expense; or perhaps she felt genuine maternal love for the unborn child. Lyn didn't want to be used, but he also couldn't take care of the baby. His father and older brother would find out and make his life complicated. Lyn didn't like complications.
The simplest solution would have been to abandon the whore, leave her to her fate; she wasn't even from the Vale. He had met her at an inn in the Riverlands. If Lyn truly wanted to, he would never see the whore again. Of course, she could go to his lands, but she wouldn't be the first whore to show up at a castle claiming to carry the lord's bastard.
But Lyn had a problem with that. The whore didn't matter to him, but the child did, so he asked himself a question. What if he had a daughter? The mother of his daughter would be a whore, and the girl, over time, would become a whore too. Lyn didn't like whores, except when he was bedding them, but Lyn wouldn't bed his daughter.
His daughter was his, in a non-sexual sense, and he couldn't let bastards touch her; because she was his. Lyn decided to end the problem by slitting the whore's throat; the child would never be born and would never become a whore. Lyn was doing her a favor; that's what he believed deep down. He had saved her from a life of misery.
The whore's friends were a bit rebellious; they complained about their friend's death. Fortunately, the inn wasn't very popular among important people, so Lyn simply decided to solve the problem. He hired a group of bandits who attacked the inn; they looted and burned it. Lyn didn't know what happened to the whore's friends, but what did it matter? They were whores; they would keep doing their job, though it was unlikely the bandits would pay.
At that moment, Lyn learned a lesson. If the whore didn't drink moon tea in front of your eyes, you slit her belly with a dagger and poured the liquid into the wound. That guaranteed no bastard would be born. Curiously, a dagger to the throat had the same effect. Lyn wasn't an expert in medicine, but he understood the underlying principle.
"This isn't the time to think about whores," Lyn murmured, shaking his head. He'd rather throw the sword into the river than give it to the Targaryens. No… if he threw it into the river, someone would find it. He'd have to throw it into the sea.
Fortunately, a sword was easier to hide than a whore's bastard. As long as he didn't use it during the tournament, there shouldn't be any problems. He'd figure it out later; he always did.
Still, Lyn Corbray was a man of his word. He said he would take a nap, and a hundred words of Valyrian steel couldn't change that. So he did, sleeping peacefully, ignoring the fact that he now possessed a treasure that, if discovered, could either elevate or doom his house, depending on how the situation was interpreted.
A couple of hours later, Lyn woke from his nap. He hadn't dreamed, as he usually did. That was different from traveling; in his dreams, he was in a distant and different place, but he was still Lyn Corbray, merely an observer, unable to interact with what he saw.
"If there's no dream, it means nothing interesting should happen," Lyn commented to the air, deciding to leave the tent.
His brother, along with his wife, was still lingering around, but the new arrival was his father—Lancel Corbray. What did the "L" that his house loved so much stand for?
"Lord Father, I see you arrived safely," Lyn said. Lancel Corbray had departed for Harrenhal a bit after his sons, to meet up with Jon Arryn's convoy.
Lyn's eyes drifted to his father's waist, where the ancestral sword of House Corbray hung—Lady Forlorn. Lyn was certain he was more familiar with the sword than his father. He knew its weight and reach instinctively, the strength needed to cut down a man.
"Lyn. Your brother brought me up to speed."
Lyn didn't know what those words meant, so his scrutinizing eyes turned to Lyonel. There was no nervousness there; he was calm. Apparently, he hadn't spilled anything.
"That's good. The tournament is about to start."
"They've already selected the groups. Did you check them?"
"No, Father. I'm afraid I was too focused on my morning meditation, and now I came out for some fresh air. I haven't approached the arena."
"Well, they're ready. You're in Group H, son, along with forty-nine other fighters."
"Should that mean something to me?" Lyn asked, confused. What did it matter which group he was in? He planned to win; there was no other option but to win.
The first two days of the tournament would be dedicated to the opening; celebrations and some irrelevant competitions. The next three days would be for melee combat. Ten groups of fifty fighters each; the top five from each group would fight in a final arena. Finally, the last five days would be for the joust. Lyn was signed up, but he didn't know much about it. He knew how to compete, but he had never faced a heavyweight in it. He'd manage.
"Yes, son. It should," his father said, his tone growing heavy. "In Group H, you'll also find Arthur Dayne."
'Oh…'