Maester Luwin’s footsteps echoed through the hollow stone corridor.
They were far more hurried than usual.
The maester’s chain wrapped around his neck—links of metal representing knowledge and reason—clanked in a rapid, frantic rhythm with every step he took.
He had just come from the dungeon cell at the base of the tower.
The young deserter’s words clung to his mind like ghostly whispers, impossible to shake.
“The Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, is dead.” “He was murdered.” “Soon, a raven from King’s Landing will prove me right.” This was no madman’s incoherent rambling.
Those eyes, that tone of absolute certainty, and the chilling logic connecting every piece of evidence…
First came the omen of the direwolf.
Then came the conspiracy in King’s Landing.
Maester Luwin felt a chill run straight to his bones—a cold deeper than the winter snows of the North!
He had to inform Lord Ned immediately.
Hurrying across the courtyard, the icy wind whipped his grey maester’s robes.
Guards nodded to him in greeting, but he was in no mood to respond.
He had only one destination.
The Godswood.
Passing through the low, ironwood door, the clamor of the castle vanished instantly.
A damp, earthy scent of rotting leaves washed over him.
This was the oldest place in Winterfell.
The heart of the Faith of the Old Gods.
Ned Stark stood beneath the heart tree.
The massive weirwood had bark as pale as bone, its blood-red leaves rustling softly in the breeze.
Carved into the trunk was a haunting face, weeping red resin from its eyes as though watching over the realm for eternity.
Ned did not turn around.
He was quietly wiping down his Valyrian steel greatsword, Ice.
Under the dim light, faint ripple patterns shimmered along the dark blade.
“Maester.” Ned’s voice was low, blending seamlessly into the quiet of the godswood.
“How is the deserter?” Maester Luwin walked over to his side and stopped.
Beside them, he could hear the faint trickle of the hot springs flowing over ancient rocks.
“He is weak, but his life is in no danger.” Maester Luwin’s voice sounded dry.
“My lord, he…” He paused, as if carefully weighing his words.
“He said a few more things.” Ned stopped wiping the blade.
Placing the soft cloth on a nearby stone, he turned around.
His dark grey eyes fixed on Maester Luwin—cool and tranquil, mirroring the northern sky.
“What did he say?” Maester Luwin drew a deep breath.
The freezing air stung his lungs, clearing his tangled thoughts slightly.
“He said the center of the storm is not in the North.” “It is in King’s Landing.” Ned’s brow furrowed slightly.
Luwin lowered his voice even further, every word weighed down with immense gravity.
“He said…
the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, has passed away.” The air seemed to freeze in an instant.
Only the red leaves of the heart tree continued to rustle in the wind.
Ned’s expression did not change.
He remained as unmoving as a stone statue, yet Luwin could feel a shift in the atmosphere around him—a suffocating tension like the calm before a storm.
“He also said,” Luwin pressed on with difficulty, “Lord Arryn did not die of old age or illness.” “It was murder.” The word *murder* fell like a stone tossed into a tranquil pond.
Ned’s pupils contracted sharply.
Jon Arryn.
The man who had been like a father to him.
The Lord of the Vale who had taught him honor and duty.
The current Hand of the King.
Murdered?
How could that be?
Robert was free to indulge in wine, women, and feastings, neglecting the realm’s governance entirely because Jon Arryn held everything together as Hand of the King!
“He also said the King will soon march north,” Luwin said, barely daring to breathe as he delivered the final, most crucial message.
“To invite you south to take his place as Hand of the King.
And if you are not careful, my lord…
you will die as well!” Silence.
An absolute, heavy silence enveloped the godswood.
Ned Stark said nothing.
He simply turned back to face the heart tree that wept tears of blood.
His hand instinctively rested upon the pommel of his sword.
“A deserter from the Night’s Watch.” Ned’s voice finally broke the silence, raspy and hollow.
“Where did he learn all this?” “He claimed it was a warning from the Old Gods,” Luwin answered.
“The Old Gods…” Ned muttered, chewing on the words.
As a Northman, he understood the weight of the Old Gods better than anyone.
They were not statues carved in southern septs for the Faith of the Seven.
They were the whispers in the wind, the rustle of leaves, the flow of living streams—an ancient faith etched into the bloodline of every Northman.
The faith of the Children of the Forest and the First Men.
Twelve thousand years ago, the First Men arrived in Westeros.
To defend against them, the Children of the Forest used ice magic to create the uncontrollable Night King.
Ultimately, after years of war, the First Men and the Children forged a pact, joining forces to fight off the White Walkers, and the First Men adopted the worship of the Old Gods.
Six thousand years later, the Andals invaded Westeros.
They defeated both the First Men and the Children of the Forest, driving them into the North while claiming the South for themselves.
They brought with them the Faith of the Seven—a single deity manifest in seven forms, known as the Seven or the New Gods.
While the South bowed to the Seven, the North kept its faith in the Old Gods.
Because it touched upon faith, Ned had to hold his reservations, no matter how skeptical he was.
“And the direwolf,” Luwin added softly.
“An antler pierced the mother wolf’s throat, and her body bore the claw marks of a lion.” “Baratheon, Lannister, Stark.” “It is all far too coincidental, my lord.” Ned closed his eyes.
In his mind, he recalled the stubborn, unyielding gaze of the young man at the execution block.
That youth had bound his own life tightly to the safety of the North and the fate of House Stark.
He wasn’t begging for mercy.
He was delivering a warning.
“He wants to live,” Ned said, his voice cold once more.
“Fabricating a sensational story to barter for his life.” “Perhaps,” Luwin did not argue.
“But if this story is true, we cannot afford the consequences.” Ned slowly opened his eyes, looking up at the sorrowful face carved into the heart tree.
Were the Old Gods truly warning him through the mouth of a deserter?
Or was all of this merely the opening act of an even grander conspiracy?
“Have him closely watched,” Ned finally ordered.
“Give him food and water.
Make sure he stays alive.” Ned paused, pondering for a moment before adding, “Do not keep him locked in that cell any longer.
Let him out to breathe some fresh air.” “Yes, my lord,” Luwin bowed in acceptance.
“We wait,” Ned said, his voice tinged with an indelible trace of fatigue.
“We wait for the raven from King’s Landing.” “If he is wrong, my Ice will correct his mistake.” “If…
he is right…” Ned did not finish the sentence, but the unspoken weight of his words sank heavy into Luwin’s chest.
If he was right…
then Winter is Coming.
A winter that would sweep across all Seven Kingdoms was about to arrive.
Maester Luwin took his leave.
Ned Stark was left alone in the quiet godswood.
He reached out, gently touching the pale, bone-like bark of the heart tree.
The icy touch brought a moment of stillness to his troubled mind.
“Father,” he whispered softly.
“Brandon.” “Please guide me.” A gust of wind blew through the grove, making the red leaves sway as if giving a silent response.
…
Inside the tower room.
Lynn leaned against the cold stone wall, listening to the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat.
He knew Maester Luwin would convey his words to Ned Stark, word for word.
He also knew what choice Ned Stark would make.
To wait.
That was the most precious thing he had won for himself: time.
The warmth from the hot soup and bread was rapidly restoring his battered body.
Strength was slowly returning to his limbs.
In his field of vision, the translucent blue panel hovered quietly.
[Host: Lynn] [Strength: 4 (Sickly)] [Agility: 5 (Normal)] [Constitution: 4 (Sickly)] [Skills: None] [EXP: 0] Having rested, Lynn’s condition had improved significantly.
By tomorrow, he estimated he would be fully recovered!
Through the narrow slit of the window, Lynn gazed out at the grey sky.
By now, Jon Arryn was long dead.
Now, he was just waiting for the raven from King’s Landing.
Come on, hurry up.