Winterfell had changed.
The air was no longer filled only with cold and silence.
In its place was a clamor composed of excitement, tension, and expectation.
The King was coming.
The news swept through every corner of the castle like a gust of wind.
In the kitchens, the scent of baking bread never dissipated.
In the armory, the forge fires burned throughout the night, the ring of iron against iron never ceasing.
The guards were ordered to polish every plate of armor until it shone, while servant women bustled through the corridors with armfuls of fresh linen, their footsteps fast and hurried.
Lady Catelyn Stark was the center of the storm.
Like an tireless queen bee, she directed the entire castle’s operations with precise, exacting orders.
“Bring up the best batch of ale from the cellars!” “Change all the linens in the guest rooms for fresh ones—scent them with lavender!” “Tell the grooms to scrub every horse for the King’s honor guard clean!
Not a single stray hair!” Her clear, authoritative voice echoed through the courtyard.
She managed everything seamlessly, a thoroughly capable woman.
Yet deep within her Tully-blue eyes lay a shadow of worry that could not be dispelled.
Ned Stark, meanwhile, remained completely detached from the commotion.
He made no appearance in the courtyard, nor did he oversee any of the preparations.
He stayed alone in his solar or withdrew to the godswood.
The greatsword forged of Valyrian steel, Ice, was wiped clean by his hands over and over again—as if only this ritual could bring a moment’s peace to his heart.
Lynn sat on the steps leading to the armory, watching the undercurrents move.
Ever since his prophecy had been confirmed, he was no longer a prisoner.
On the contrary, Catelyn and Ned treated him with courtesy.
He had been given a warm room.
His three meals a day were no longer black bread and cold water, but freshly baked soft loaves and hot meat broth.
He had even been granted a longsword of his own.
All of this had been earned through that bloody battle and his mysterious foresights.
Lynn’s gaze drifted across the busy courtyard to where Theon Greyjoy was practicing archery in the distance.
The ward of the Iron Islands wore an expression full of excitement at the prospect of meeting the King.
Though called a ward, he was in truth a hostage taken after the Greyjoy Rebellion.
Yet Ned Stark had treated him without prejudice, raising him like a son—teaching him etiquette, martial skills, and the loyalty of the direwolf.
Theon’s posture as he drew his bow grew increasingly boastful.
Every arrow struck the center of the target, drawing cheers from the nearby stable boys.
Theon relished being the center of attention.
Unlike the Stark children, he did not feel the weight beneath the glory.
To the ward, this was nothing more than a grand feast.
Lynn withdrew his gaze.
He knew that beneath this harmonious surface, deep fractures had long since formed.
Just then, a figure walked into the courtyard.
It was Jon Snow, the boy who knew nothing.
He wore simple leather armor and carried a blunted practice sword, quietly making his way toward a training dummy in the corner.
He did not join Robb and Theon.
He always did this, instinctively choosing a spot out of sight.
At that exact moment, Lady Catelyn stepped out of the Great Keep, heading toward the stables.
Her eyes met Jon’s for a brief, fleeting instant.
In that single second, the mild expression on Catelyn’s face froze.
All warmth vanished from her blue eyes, replaced by cold disgust.
She did not say a word; she merely turned slightly and hastened her pace, as though looking at Snow a moment longer would taint her vision.
Jon’s body went rigid.
The sword he had just raised froze in midair.
The light in his face dimmed completely, as if struck by a bitter winter wind.
He lowered his arm, bowed his head, and let his dark hair hide his eyes.
Lynn took in the entire scene.
Catelyn’s hatred was so naked, so utterly undisguised.
In Westeros, bastards were a noble house’s public shame.
Their surnames were standardized—in the Stormlands, they were Storm; in the North, Snow; in the South, Sand…
The names differed by region, but locals knew what they meant at a glance.
And Jon’s very existence was a constant reminder to Catelyn of her husband’s past infidelity.
Men went to war, and it was considered normal enough to vent their desires and leave behind a bastard; Catelyn understood that reality.
Had he been raised elsewhere, she might have endured it.
But Ned had insisted on raising the boy right under her nose.
And whenever she asked about Jon’s mother, Ned would grow furious with her.
She vented all that anger on Jon.
While she did not physically abuse him, it could truly be said that Jon Snow had grown up under her cold, disdainful glares.
The bustling noise of the courtyard seemed entirely removed from Jon now.
He stood there alone, his silhouette looking painfully solitary.
Lynn watched him closely.
Overall, Lynn felt a sense of appreciation for Jon Snow.
The man in the original story certainly had his flaws—failing Ygritte, and later, urged on by Tyrion, stabbing Daenerys to prevent her from becoming another Mad Queen, essentially betraying his liege…
Yet Jon was straightforward, loyal, a deeply nuanced figure.
Lynn would never forget the scene during the Battle of the Bastards, when Jon stood alone against a thousand charges, drawing his sword in desperate defiance for Ned’s youngest son, Rickon.
Fear was a biological instinct, but courage was the triumph of humanity.
Not everyone had the brave resolve to draw their sword when faced with absolute doom.
Still, being overly noble was not always a good thing.
Fortunately, Jon was still young; Lynn had plenty of time to teach him how to be a little less rigidly honorable.
A thought crossed Lynn’s mind: he would recruit Jon Snow to his side.
*** That evening.
Lynn was in his room, using a whetstone to carefully polish his longsword.
The steel reflected his calm face.
Maester Luwin’s salve had worked wonders; the pain from his wounds had eased considerably.
A light knock sounded at the door.
“Come in.” The door opened a crack, and a head peeked inside.
It was Jon Snow.
“Did I…
disturb you?” Jon asked hesitantly.
“No.” Lynn set down the whetstone and pointed to the only chair in the room.
Jon stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
He did not sit, remaining in the center of the room with his hands fidgeting nervously.
“You were a brother of the Night’s Watch,” Jon finally said, his eyes falling upon the longsword in Lynn’s hands.
“I was,” Lynn replied.
“What is it like…
at the Wall?” Jon’s eyes carried a trace of youthful curiosity and longing.
“Cold,” Lynn answered plainly.
“Colder than Winterfell.
The wind feels like knives scraping against your bones.” “The Night’s Watch…
what kind of men are they?” That was what Jon truly wanted to ask.
“All kinds,” Lynn said, leaning back against his chair and studying the boy.
“Thieves, raiders, gamblers in debt, dispossessed knights…
and men like me.
Of course, there are a few highborn sons who go for honor.” Lynn added, “Though very few.” Jon fell silent.
Lynn’s description was completely different from what he had imagined.
In his mind, the Wall was a place steeped in glory, where one’s birth no longer mattered—where everyone was a brother in black, standing together against threats beyond the Wall.
“Does a man’s birth really not matter at the Wall?” Jon asked softly, a tremor of uncertainty in his voice.
“Can a…
bastard earn respect there?” Lynn looked at him—at this future Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, seeing the vulnerability and confusion on his face that belied his age.
“At the Wall, men only care about how well you handle a blade and whether you have the nerve to stand in front when the wildlings charge,” Lynn said quietly.
“Nobody cares if your name ends in Snow or Stark.
They only care if you’re reliable.” A faint light gradually ignited in Jon’s eyes—the kind of light that came from finding a place to belong.
“However,” Lynn shifted the conversation, “it is no sanctuary for heroes, Jon.
Once you take the black, you give up your family name, your claim to lands, and the right to take a wife or father children.
Your entire life will be bound to that frozen wall…
until you die.” Silence settled over the room, broken only by the howling wind outside the window.
The light in Jon’s face slowly faded once more.
He wanted to escape Winterfell, to escape Lady Catelyn’s icy glares, but he had never realized the cost would be so heavy.
“I understand,” Jon whispered after a long silence.
“Thank you, Lynn.” He turned to leave.
“Jon,” Lynn called out, stopping him.
“Your father loves you very much.” Jon paused in his tracks.
“It’s just that sometimes, love can’t solve everything,” Lynn said, emphasizing every word.
“In the end, what kind of man you become depends on your own choices.” Jon did not look back.
He stood at the threshold, his long shadow stretched out under the dim candlelight.
Then he pushed open the door and stepped out into the dark.