In Maester Luwin’s room, the scent of dried herbs mingled with the musty odor of old parchment.
Lynn lay shirtless, face down on a hardwood table.
He could clearly feel the soothing coolness of the ointment as it was spread over his wound, dampening the burning pain of torn flesh.
“Your foundation is solid,” Maester Luwin said in a flat voice, devoid of emotion.
“The injury is less severe than I anticipated.” He rebound Lynn’s shoulder with clean linen, his movements as practiced as if he were dressing a fine piece of parchment.
“Your sword technique—who taught you?” the maester asked casually.
“The master-at-arms of the Night’s Watch, Ser Alliser Thorne,” Lynn replied, his face buried in the pillow, his voice slightly muffled.
“He only taught us how to drive steel into a man as fast as possible.
Nothing else.” That answer made Maester Luwin’s hands pause briefly.
His gray eyes swept over the crisscrossing network of small, old scars on Lynn’s back.
Those weren’t wounds left behind by fleeing from danger.
They were medals bought with his life, earned in countless clashings with wildlings along the Wall.
A deserting coward wouldn’t carry marks like those on his back.
“Rest well,” Maester Luwin said without asking further.
He gathered his medicine box and turned to leave.
“Lord Stark has instructed that you may stay here until your wound heals.” The door was closed gently behind him, left unlocked.
Lynn knew this was a signal from Ned Stark.
He was no longer a captive, but a subject of interest to be observed.
Lynn let out a long breath.
Right now, he didn’t need to overthink things.
He needed to heal.
And then, wait.
Wait for the raven flying from King’s Landing to stamp the final seal of truth upon all his “prophecies.” The following day, Lynn was permitted to walk freely within the castle, though two guards always followed him at a discreet distance.
It was less protection and more surveillance.
He didn’t go to the courtyard where Robb and Theon were practicing their swordsmanship; the clashing of steel made him restless.
Instead, he found a quiet corner, leaned against the cold stone wall, and basked in the meager Northern sunshine.
Closing his eyes, he replayed the fight against the bandits in his mind over and over again—every angle of his swings, every split-second dodge, every sensation of blood spraying.
This hard-won experience was his true foundation for survival in this world.
A series of light, deliberate footsteps broke his train of thought.
Lynn opened his eyes.
A tiny figure stood before him, blocking his tiny patch of sunlight.
It was Arya Stark, the youngest daughter of the Lord of Winterfell.
She stood with her hands behind her back, wearing a dusty, oversized boy’s tunic.
Her hair was a tangled bird’s nest and her face was smudged with dirt, but those gray eyes characteristic of House Stark shone with incredible brightness.
She looked different from how she did on screen; though small and lean, the fierce spirit in her eyes gave her a wild, striking beauty.
“They say you’re a good fighter,” Arya said, her crisp voice carrying the blunt directness typical of Northerners.
Lynn remained silent, simply looking at her.
Arya took a step closer, her little fists clenched tight.
“The Night’s Watch sword style is completely different from what Ser Rodrik teaches.” “Ser Rodrik says swordplay should be elegant, like a dance.” She pouted, clearly disapproving.
“But yours isn’t.” “Your sword is fast.
It’s direct.” She seemed to be searching for the right words to describe it.
The corner of Lynn’s mouth twitched upward.
This little girl was a she-wolf through and through.
“You want to learn?” Arya’s eyes lit up instantly, like two torches igniting in the dark.
She nodded emphatically, her expression dead serious.
“Teach me,” the little girl requested, a subtle trace of pleading beneath her firm tone.
“Please.” Lynn looked at her, staring into those eyes full of hunger.
An opportunity to build a deeper connection with House Stark had just walked right up to him—and from Ned Stark’s favorite little daughter, no less.
“Alright.
I can teach you,” Lynn said as he slowly stood up, rolling his stiff shoulder slightly.
“But it’s a trade.” “You have to teach me a few things, too.” Arya froze, clearly not expecting such a condition.
She tilted her head in thought.
“But I don’t know anything.” “You do,” Lynn smiled.
“For example…
which secret passages in the castle do other people not know about?” “Which kitchen steward hides ale?” “How do you sneak into the godswood without getting caught?” Arya’s mouth slowly formed an “O.” She hadn’t expected the “mischief” she pulled every day could actually be used as tuition.
“I agree!” She accepted immediately without a second thought.
“Deal.” “But not now.
Wait until my wound heals.” “And no one can know about this.” “Deal!” Arya held out a small, dirty fist.
Lynn paused for a second before extending his own hand, lightly tapping his knuckles against her tiny fist.
A simple pact was formed.
Just then, the urgent tolling of a bell shattered the quiet above the castle.
*Clang!
Clang!
Clang!* The sound echoing from the maester’s tower was heavy and resonant.
A raven had arrived.
The smile on Lynn’s face vanished instantly.
He raised his head and looked up at the towering gray structure.
What was meant to come had finally arrived.
Arya heard the bell too.
She gave the tower a puzzled glance, but quickly turned her attention back to Lynn.
“It’s a deal!
I’ll come find you tonight!” With that, Arya bounded off like a happy young deer.
Lynn didn’t move.
He stood quietly in place, sensing the sudden shift taking place within the castle walls.
The guards’ footsteps grew hurried, and the whispering among the servants fell to hushed murmurs.
An invisible shroud of tension rapidly spread through the cold air.
*The storm is coming.* *** In the Lord’s Solar in the Great Keep…
The fire in the hearth roared fiercely, crackling away, yet the atmosphere in the room was colder than the ice and snow outside.
Ned Stark stood by the window, gazing out at the dreary, overcast sky.
In his hand, he held a small piece of parchment.
The edge still bore fragments of the broken wax seal from the raven’s message tube.
Catelyn Tully, his wife, stood behind him.
Her face was overcome with unhideable sorrow and anxiety.
“Jon…
he is dead,” Catelyn said, her voice trembling slightly.
Her sister, Lysa Arryn, was now a widow.
The ties between their families were complex.
Lysa had married old Lord Arryn in his later years, and Ned had been raised by Arryn as his ward.
Ned didn’t turn around.
He remained silent, standing rigid like a stone statue.
“The letter says it was a sudden illness…
a fever,” Catelyn continued, her hands twisting her sleeves nervously.
“But in another letter Lysa sent in secret…” She paused, as if terrified to utter the dreadful word.
“…she says it was murder.” “Done by the Lannisters.” A deadly silence fell over the solar.
Only the logs in the hearth let out a final, dying groan.
Ned turned around slowly.
His face was completely devoid of expression, but a storm raged within his gray eyes.
Lynn’s words echoed wildly in his head like a dark spell: *The Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn.* *He is dead.* *He was murdered.* Word for word.
The prophecy had become reality.
“King…
Robert is on his way north,” Catelyn said, her voice laden with unease.
“He is coming to Winterfell.” “He wants you to go south to replace Jon and become the new Hand of the King.” Ned closed his eyes.
*And that will be the beginning of all the tragedy.* Lynn’s warning echoed in his ears once more.
An icy dread rose from the soles of Ned’s feet, instantly spreading throughout his entire body—colder than the fiercest winter wind in the North.