Maester Luwin's footsteps echoed in the empty stone corridor.
They were much faster than usual.
The maester's chain, the metal links representing knowledge and reason, clinked with a frantic, broken rhythm as he walked.
He had just come from the cell at the base of the tower.
The young deserter's words clung to his mind like ghostly whispers, refusing to fade.
"The Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, is dead."
"He was murdered."
"Soon, a raven from King's Landing will bear witness for me."
This wasn't the raving of a madman.
Those eyes, that certain tone, the terrifying logic connecting every clue.
The omen of the direwolf came first.
The conspiracy in King's Landing followed.
Maester Luwin felt a chill that penetrated his very lungs.
A chill colder than the snows of the Northern winter!
He had to tell Lord Eddard immediately.
He crossed the courtyard, the cold wind whipping his grey maester's robes.
Guards nodded in greeting, but he had no mind to respond.
He had only one destination.
The Godswood.
Passing through the low ironwood gate, the noise of the outside world was instantly cut off.
The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves rushed to greet him.
This was the oldest part of Winterfell.
The foundation of the faith in the Old Gods.
Eddard Stark stood beneath the heart tree.
The massive weirwood's bark was pale as bone, its blood-red leaves rustling in the breeze.
The grotesque face carved into the trunk wept red sap, like eyes watching eternally.
Ned did not turn around.
He was quietly cleaning the Valyrian steel greatsword, "Ice."
In the dim light, the blade rippled with a dull sheen.
"Maester."
Ned's voice was low, blending with the silence of the Godswood.
"How is the deserter?"
Maester Luwin walked to his side and stopped.
He could hear the faint sound of water flowing over rocks in the hot spring pool nearby.
"He is weak, but his life is not in danger."
Maester Luwin's voice was dry.
"My Lord, he..."
Luwin paused, seeming to weigh his words.
"He said something else."
Ned stopped cleaning the sword.
He placed the soft cloth on a nearby stone and turned.
His grey eyes looked at Maester Luwin.
Those eyes held the calm and chill of the Northern sky.
"What did he say?"
Maester Luwin took a deep breath.
The cold air of the Godswood pierced his lungs, calming his chaotic thoughts slightly.
"He said the center of the storm is not in the North."
"But in King's Landing."
Ned's brow furrowed slightly.
Luwin's voice dropped lower.
Every word seemed unusually heavy.
"He said... the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, is no longer among the living."
The air seemed to freeze in that moment.
Only the red leaves of the heart tree continued to rustle.
Ned's expression did not change.
He remained like a silent statue.
But Luwin could feel the atmosphere around him shift.
It was the oppressive feeling of a coming storm.
"He also said."
Luwin continued with difficulty.
"Lord Arryn did not die of illness, nor of old age."
"It was murder."
The word "murder" was like a stone thrown into a still pond.
Ned's pupils contracted sharply.
Jon Arryn.
The man who was like a father to him.
The Warden of the East who taught him honor and duty.
The current Hand of the King.
Murdered?
How was that possible?
Robert could live freely, drinking, whoring, and ignoring state affairs, all because Jon Arryn, the Hand, was holding everything together!
"He also said the King will soon come North."
Maester Luwin almost held his breath as he spoke the last, most crucial sentence.
"To invite you South, to take the place of the Hand of the King."
"And, if you are not careful, my Lord, you will meet the same fate!"
Dead silence.
The Godswood fell into utter silence.
Eddard Stark said nothing.
He simply turned back to the heart tree weeping tears of blood.
His hand unconsciously rested on the hilt of his sword.
"A deserter of the Night's Watch."
After a long time, Ned's voice sounded again, terribly hoarse.
"How does he know these things?"
"He said it was a warning from the Old Gods," Maester Luwin replied.
"The Old Gods..." Ned chewed on the words.
As a Northman, he knew the weight of the Old Gods better than anyone.
Not statues of the Seven in southern septs.
They were the whispers in the wind, the leaves in the forest, the flowing streams.
They were an ancient faith carved into the blood of every Northman.
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 used ice magic to create the uncontrollable Night King. Thus, the First Men and the Children fought, then made peace, united against the White Walkers, and subsequently followed the Children in worshipping the Old Gods.
6,000 years later, the Andals arrived in Westeros.
They defeated the First Men and the Children of the Forest, driving them North, while they occupied the South.
They worshipped the Faith of the Seven, one god with seven aspects, hence called the Seven, or the New Gods.
Everyone in the South worshipped the Seven, while everyone in the North worshipped the Old Gods.
When it concerned faith, even if Ned was skeptical, he had to reserve judgment for now.
"The direwolf too."
Maester Luwin added.
"Antler piercing the mother wolf's throat, lion claw marks on her body."
"Baratheon, Lannister, Stark."
"It's all too coincidental, my Lord."
Ned closed his eyes.
In his mind, the stubborn look of the young man on the execution block surfaced.
That young man had bound his life tightly to the safety of the North and the fate of the Starks.
He wasn't begging for mercy.
He was giving a warning.
"He wants to live."
Ned's voice remained cold.
"Fabricating a sensational story to trade for his life."
"Perhaps," Maester Luwin didn't argue.
"But if this story is true, we cannot bear the consequences."
Ned slowly opened his eyes.
He looked at the sad face of the heart tree.
Were the Old Gods truly warning him through the mouth of a deserter?
Or was this just the beginning of a larger conspiracy?
"Have him watched."
Ned finally gave the order.
"Give him food and water. Ensure he lives."
Ned thought for a moment, then added.
"Do not keep him confined anymore. Let him out for some air."
"Yes, my Lord," Maester Luwin bowed.
"We wait."
Ned's voice held a weariness that couldn't be dispelled.
"Wait for the raven from King's Landing."
"If he is wrong, 'Ice' will correct the mistake."
"If... he is right."
Ned didn't continue.
But the weight of the unspoken words made Maester Luwin's heart sink.
If he was right.
Then Winter was Coming.
A winter that would engulf the entire Seven Kingdoms was coming.
Maester Luwin left.
In the Godswood, only Eddard Stark remained.
He reached out, gently touching the pale bark of the heart tree.
The cold touch brought a sliver of calm to his chaotic thoughts.
"Father."
He murmured softly.
"Brother."
"Guide me."
The wind blew, red leaves swaying as if in silent response.
...
In the tower room.
Lynn leaned against the cold stone wall, listening to his steady heartbeat.
He knew Maester Luwin would relay his words verbatim to Eddard Stark.
He also knew what choice Eddard Stark would make.
Waiting.
This was the most precious thing he had won for himself.
The warmth from the soup and bread was repairing his ravaged body.
Strength was slowly returning to his limbs.
In Lynn's vision, the blue panel still hovered.
[Host: Lynn]
[Strength: 4 (Weakened)]
[Agility: 5 (Normal)]
[Constitution: 4 (Weakened)]
[Skills: None]
[Experience: 0]
After resting, Lynn's condition had recovered significantly. He estimated he'd make a full recovery by tomorrow!
Lynn gazed through the narrow slit of the window at the grey sky outside.
By this time, Jon Arryn was long dead.
Now he was waiting for the raven from King's Landing.
Hurry up and arrive.