The room smelled of lime mortar and damp mold.
The single window was set high up—a mere narrow slit that cast a pale, weak beam of daylight into the room.
Lynn sat leaning against the corner of the wall, every muscle in his body aching in protest.
The hollow exhaustion brought on by hunger and cold clung to him like a shadow he couldn’t shake.
Lynn had gambled on Ned Stark’s sense of honor and won.
He had then used the omen of the Old Gods to temporarily buy himself time.
But this was merely a stalling tactic.
One lie required countless others to cover it, and one prophecy demanded an even more staggering revelation to prove its truth.
Right now, he was like a tightrope walker suspended over a bottomless abyss.
A single misstep would send him crashing down to be shattered to pieces.
He had to increase his value as quickly as possible, making Ned Stark feel that executing him would be a loss—an immeasurable loss.
Lynn’s mind raced, piecing together the fragmented memories of this world from his past life.
The warning about the White Walkers was only the beginning.
The direwolf omen was the second step.
Next, he needed to drop a true bombshell—a piece of news grand enough to shake the entire North, and even the Seven Kingdoms.
A tragedy that was about to unfold, one that could not be stopped.
The current king, Robert Baratheon, and Ned Stark had been sent in their youth to the Eyrie in the Vale to be fostered by the Lord of the Eyrie, Lord Jon Arryn.
Ned had arrived eight years after Robert.
The two brothers in spirit had spent seven years together.
That shared youth had forged a deep, unbreakable bond between Ned and Robert.
Ned’s sister, Lyanna, had been betrothed to Robert, binding their houses even closer.
And their foster father, the Lord of the Vale at the time, was Jon Arryn.
Back then, Lord Arryn was in his sixties with no living children of his own, so he loved Ned and Robert as his own sons.
When the Mad King’s son, Rhaegar, carried off Robert’s betrothed, Lyanna, and subsequently executed Ned’s father and elder brother, the Mad King demanded that Lord Arryn surrender Robert and Ned.
To the Targaryen dragons, those two young men were a threat.
Lord Arryn naturally refused, instead raising his banners alongside his two foster sons to launch Robert’s Rebellion.
It could be said that Jon Arryn was the benefactor who made both Robert and Ned who they were today.
All of Lynn’s hopes now rested on old Lord Arryn.
Heavy footsteps echoed outside the door, interrupting Lynn’s train of thought.
With a creak, the thick wooden door was pushed open.
It was not a guard who entered, but an old man wearing grey maester’s robes.
Around his neck hung a heavy chain forged of various metals, each link representing mastery over a particular field of study.
Maester Luwin.
The “brain” of Winterfell.
He was also one of Ned Stark’s most trusted advisors.
Maester Luwin’s gaze was calm and sharp, carrying the quiet scrutiny of a scholar.
He did not speak immediately, but quietly sized up Lynn—taking in his pale complexion, his tattered black clothes, and his eyes, which remained remarkably sharp even in the gloom.
“They say you prophesied the appearance of the direwolves,” Maester Luwin said softly, his tone neutral.
“I did not prophesy,” Lynn replied, his voice somewhat raspy.
“I merely interpreted the sign sent by the Old Gods.” “The Old Gods?” Maester Luwin chewed on the phrase, his grey eyebrows lifting slightly.
“You claim to have seen the White Walkers, and now you speak of the Old Gods.” “Young man, do you know what you are saying?” “I do.” Lynn met his gaze without flinching.
“I know that winter is coming.” Maester Luwin fell silent.
He walked over to the only table in the room and set down the items he had brought: a piece of bread, a bowl of hot broth, and a small glass vial containing a potion.
“Lord Stark asked me to tend to your health,” Maester Luwin said mildly.
“He also wished to hear what else you might interpret.” Lynn did not move.
He knew that Maester Luwin’s true interrogation was only now beginning.
Maester Luwin represented Ned Stark’s logic and skepticism.
“Maester, do you believe in the existence of the White Walkers?” Lynn asked in return.
“I believe what is recorded in the histories,” Maester Luwin replied smoothly.
“The histories say they were repelled thousands of years ago.” Lynn shook his head.
“The histories also said that direwolves had not been seen south of the Wall in two hundred years.” Lynn’s words caused Maester Luwin’s hand to pause mid-movement.
Lynn continued, “A mother wolf lies dead on the road, her throat pierced by an antler, her body clawed by a lion.” “The stag is Baratheon, the lion is Lannister, and the wolf is Stark.” “This is no coincidence, Maester.” “This is a storm about to break.” Maester Luwin turned and stared intently at Lynn.
“You seem remarkably well-versed in southern heraldry.” “A Night’s Watch deserter should not know such things.” Lynn’s heart skipped a beat.
It was a trap.
He had demonstrated far too much knowledge for a common Brother of the Night’s Watch.
“I was not born a brother of the Night’s Watch,” Lynn lowered his eyelids, his voice softening into a somber tone.
“Before I took the black, I had a family.
I read a few books.” The explanation was thin, but it was the only one he could offer.
Maester Luwin did not push further.
He simply slid the cup of potion toward Lynn.
“Drink this.
It will do your body good.” Lynn looked at the murky fluid and did not touch it.
“Maester.” His voice sank even lower, laced with a deliberate touch of foreboding and unease.
“The warning of the Old Gods does not end in the North.” Maester Luwin’s brows knit tightly.
“What do you mean?” “The heart of the storm is not in Winterfell, but in King’s Landing.” Lynn looked up, his eyes locked on Maester Luwin.
“No matter how high the falcon flies, it cannot outfly fate’s talon.” Maester Luwin’s pupils contracted sharply.
The Falcon.
House Arryn of the Eyrie.
Jon Arryn.
Hand of the King.
Warden of the East.
Foster father to both Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon.
In all the Seven Kingdoms, he was the ultimate symbol of stability and order.
“What are you trying to say?” For the first time, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor touched Maester Luwin’s voice.
Lynn knew he had captured the old man’s undivided attention.
He leaned in closer and whispered in a voice meant for Luwin’s ears alone, pausing on every word.
“The Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn…” “…is dead.
The raven carrying the news simply hasn’t arrived yet.” “He did not die of sickness, nor did he die of old age.” “He was murdered.” *BOOM!* The words struck like a thunderbolt inside Maester Luwin’s mind.
His face turned deathly pale in an instant.
Instinctively taking a step back, he bumped against the table behind him with a sharp *clatter*.
“Absurd nonsense!” Maester Luwin lost his composure, barking harshly.
But the sheer terror in his voice could not be concealed.
“Do you realize what you are accusing?
That is treason!” “I am accusing no one,” Lynn said, leaning back against the cold stone wall.
His body shuddered slightly from weakness, yet his eyes remained rock-steady.
“I am merely conveying the warning I witnessed.” “Very soon, a raven from King’s Landing will prove my words.” “The King will ride north to invite Lord Ned south to take Jon Arryn’s place.” “And that…
will be the beginning of a great tragedy.” Lynn paused, his gaze fixing unblinkingly on Maester Luwin.
“If handled improperly, Lord Ned will die in King’s Landing as well!” A dead silence descended upon the room.
Only Maester Luwin’s heavy, labored breathing broke the quiet.
He stared at Lynn as though looking at a demon risen straight from the Seven Hells.
Every word spoken by this deserter struck precisely at the most sensitive nerves of the continent of Westeros.
From the White Walkers in the North to the treachery in King’s Landing…
All of this lay far beyond what any deserter could possibly fabricate.
This was no lie.
This was…
a prophecy.
A terrifying, suffocating prophecy.
It took a long time for Maester Luwin to find his voice again.
“Who else have you told these words to?” “Only you, Maester,” Lynn replied respectfully.
“Remember this: tell no one.
Not a single soul.” Maester Luwin drew a deep breath, forcing himself to regain his calm.
He picked up the bread and broth from the table and thrust them back into Lynn’s hands.
This time, his gesture was not passive, but carried an insistence that brooked no refusal.
“Eat this.” “Stay alive.” “Until the raven arrives, you must stay alive.” Without another word or glance at Lynn, Maester Luwin turned and hurriedly strode out of the room.
The heavy wooden door slammed shut once more.
The sound of the lock turning rattled down the empty corridor.
Lynn leaned back against the wall, letting out a long, slow breath.
Cold sweat had soaked through his back.
He knew he had just walked the edge of a cliff once again.
But his gamble had paid off.
He had thoroughly tangled his own survival with the murder of Jon Arryn and Ned’s journey south.
Lynn picked up the bowl of lukewarm soup and drank it down in large gulps.
As the warm fluid flooded his stomach, it dispelled a fraction of the chill.
He had to stay alive.
He had to grow stronger as quickly as possible.
Lynn’s eyes settled once more on the glowing panel visible only to him.
[EXP: 0] For now, he needed to earn Ned’s complete trust.
Only then could he regain his freedom, rather than remaining locked in this tiny cell, unable to act.