Maester Luwin's footsteps echoed in the empty stone corridor.
His pace was much more hurried than usual.
The chains of his maester's collar, those metal rings representing knowledge and reason, now clinked together with a hurried, fragmented sound as he walked.
He had just emerged from the cell at the bottom of the tower.
The words of the young deserter, like a ghostly whisper, clung to his mind, refusing to leave.
"The Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, he is dead."
"He was murdered."
"Soon, a Raven from King's Landing will bear witness for me."
This was not the rambling of a madman.
Those eyes, that certain tone, that terrifying logic connecting all the clues.
The omen of the Direwolf came first.
The conspiracy in King's Landing followed.
Maester Luwin felt a chill deep in his bones.
This chill surpassed even the ice and snow of the northern winter!
He had to inform Lord Eddard immediately.
He crossed the courtyard, the cold wind whipping his grey maester's robes.
The guards nodded to him in greeting, but he had no mind to respond.
He had only one destination.
The Godswood.
Passing through the low, black weirwood door, the clamor of the outside world was instantly shut out.
A damp scent of earth and decaying leaves wafted towards him.
This was the oldest place in Winterfell.
And the root of the Old Gods' faith.
Eddard Stark stood beneath the Weirwood Tree.
The massive weirwood, its bark pale as bone, its blood-red leaves rustling in the breeze.
The grotesque face on the trunk wept red sap, like a pair of eternally watchful eyes.
Eddard did not turn around.
He simply continued to wipe his Valyrian steel greatsword, Ice, in silence.
The blade shimmered with a dull ripple in the dim light.
"Maester."
Eddard's voice was low, blending with the Godswood's stillness.
"How is the deserter's condition?"
Maester Luwin walked beside him and stopped.
He could hear the faint sound of water flowing over rocks in the nearby hot spring pool.
"He is very weak, but his life is not in danger."
Maester Luwin's voice was a little dry.
"Lord Stark, he..."
Maester Luwin paused, seemingly weighing his words.
"He said some more things."
Eddard stopped wiping.
He placed the soft cloth he used to clean his sword onto a nearby stone and turned around.
His grey eyes met Maester Luwin's.
Those eyes held the same calm and coldness as the northern sky.
"What did he say?"
Maester Luwin took a deep breath.
The cold air in the Godswood stung his lungs, calming his chaotic thoughts slightly.
"He said the center of the storm is not in the North."
"It is in King's Landing."
Eddard's brows furrowed slightly.
Maester Luwin's voice dropped even lower.
Every word seemed exceptionally heavy.
"He said... the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, is no longer among the living."
The air seemed to freeze at that moment.
Only the red leaves of the Weirwood Tree continued to rustle.
Eddard's expression remained unchanged.
He still stood like a silent statue.
But Maester Luwin could feel the atmosphere around him shift.
It was the oppressive calm before a storm.
"He also said,"
Maester Luwin continued with difficulty.
"Lord Arryn did not die of illness, nor of old age."
"It was murder."
The word "murder" dropped like a stone into a calm pond.
Eddard's pupils contracted sharply.
Jon Arryn.
The man who was like a father to him.
The Lord of the Vale who taught him honor and duty.
The current Hand of the King.
Murdered?
How could that be?
Robert could live a carefree life, feasting, drinking, whoring, and neglecting state affairs, all because Arryn, as Hand of the King, supported him!
"He also said that the King will soon travel North."
Maester Luwin almost held his breath as he delivered the last and most crucial sentence.
"To invite you South, to take up the position of Hand of the King."
"And, if you are even slightly careless, you too will die!"
Dead silence.
The Godswood fell into complete dead silence.
Eddard Stark did not speak.
He simply turned around, looking once more at the weeping Weirwood Tree.
His hand unconsciously rested on the hilt of his sword.
"A deserter from the Night's Watch."
After a long while, Eddard's voice sounded again, hoarse and strained.
"He from where knows these things?"
"He said, it was a warning from the Old Gods." Maester Luwin answered.
"The Old Gods..." Eddard chewed on the word.
As a northerner, he knew the weight of the Old Gods more than anyone.
They were not statues of the Faith of the Seven in a southern sept.
They were whispers in the wind, leaves in the forest, flowing streams.
They were the ancient faith etched into the bloodline of every northerner.
The faith of the Children of the Forest and the First Men.
The First Men arrived in Westeros 12,000 years ago.
To resist the First Men, the Children of the Forest created the uncontrollable Night King with ice Magic. Thus, the First Men and the Children of the Forest first fought, then made peace, uniting to resist the white walkers, and subsequently followed the Children of the Forest in worshipping the Old Gods.
6,000 years later, the Andals arrived in Westeros.
They successively defeated the First Men and the Children of the Forest, driving them North, while they themselves occupied the South.
They worshipped the Faith of the Seven, meaning one god with seven different forms, hence called the Seven Gods, also known as the New Gods.
Everyone in the South worshipped the Faith of the Seven, while the North entirely worshipped the Old Gods.
Regarding faith, even if Eddard had doubts, he had to temporarily reserve judgment.
"The Direwolf too,"
Maester Luwin added.
"A Stag's antlers piercing the throat of a she-wolf, with lion's claw marks on its body."
"House Baratheon, Lannister, House Stark."
"All of this is too much of a coincidence, Lord Stark."
Eddard closed his eyes.
In his mind, the stubborn gaze of the young man on the execution block appeared.
That young man had inextricably bound his own life, the safety of the North, and the fate of House Stark together.
He was not begging for mercy.
He was warning them.
"He wants to live,"
Eddard's voice was still cold.
"He fabricated a sensational story to save his own life."
"Perhaps," Maester Luwin did not argue.
"If this story is true, we cannot bear the consequences."
Eddard slowly opened his eyes.
He looked at the sorrowful face on the Weirwood Tree.
Were the Old Gods truly warning him through the mouth of a deserter?
Or was this all just the beginning of an even larger conspiracy?
"Have him watched closely."
Eddard finally gave the order.
"Give him food and water, ensure he lives."
Eddard thought for a moment, then added.
"Do not keep him confined any longer, let him out for some fresh air."
"Yes, my Lord," Maester Luwin bowed in acceptance.
"We wait."
Eddard's voice carried a trace of lingering weariness.
"We wait for the Raven from King's Landing."
"If he is wrong, my Ice will correct this mistake."
"If... he is right."
Eddard did not finish.
But the weight contained in his unspoken words made Maester Luwin's heart sink.
If he was right.
Then, Winter Is Coming.
A winter that would sweep across all Seven Kingdoms was about to arrive.
Maester Luwin left.
In the Godswood, only Eddard Stark remained.
He reached out and gently touched the pale bark of the Weirwood Tree.
That cold touch brought a sliver of peace to his troubled mind.
"Father."
He whispered.
"Brother."
"Guide me."
The wind blew, the red leaves swayed, as if responding silently.
...
In the tower room.
Lynn leaned against the cold stone wall, listening to his steady heartbeat.
He knew Maester Luwin would relay his words to Eddard Stark, word for word.
He also knew what kind of choice Eddard Stark would make.
Waiting.
This was the most precious thing he had gained for himself.
The warmth brought by the hot soup and bread was repairing his battered body.
Strength was slowly returning to his limbs.
In Lynn's vision, the blue panel still floated.
Host: Lynn
Strength: 4 (Unhealthy)
Agility: 5 (Normal)
Constitution: 4 (Unhealthy)
Skills: None
Experience: 0
After resting, Lynn's condition had recovered significantly. He estimated he would be fully recovered by tomorrow!
Lynn's gaze, through the narrow window slit, looked out at the grey sky.
By this time, Jon Arryn would have long since grown cold.
Now he was waiting for the Raven from King's Landing.
Come quickly.