Winterfell had changed.
The air was no longer filled only with cold and tranquility. instead, it was replaced by a clamor mixed with excitement, tension, and anticipation.
The King was coming.
This news was like a gust of wind, blowing through every corner of the castle.
In the kitchens, the aroma of baking bread lingered twenty-four hours a day. The fires in the smithy burned all night, the hammering never ceasing. Guards needed to polish every piece of armor. Servants hurried through the corridors carrying piles of clean linen, their footsteps quick and light.
Lady Catelyn Stark was the center of this storm.
She was like a tireless queen bee, orchestrating the entire castle's operations with precise and strict commands.
"I want the best ale from the cellar!"
"Change all the bed linens in the guest rooms to new ones, scented with lavender!"
"Tell the stable boys to scrub down all the horses for the King's procession; not a stray hair is allowed!"
Her voice echoed clearly and powerfully in the courtyard. She organized everything methodically, a capable woman. But deep in those blue eyes of House Tully, there hid a trace of anxiety that couldn't be dispelled.
Ned Stark, on the other hand, kept himself completely out of it. He didn't appear in the courtyard, nor did he ask about any preparations. He simply stayed alone in his study or went to the Godswood.
He polished the Valyrian steel greatsword, Ice, over and over again. As if only this could bring a moment of peace to his heart.
Lynn sat on the steps leading to the armory, feeling this undercurrent. Since the prophecy was confirmed, he was no longer a prisoner. On the contrary, Catelyn and Ned treated him with courtesy.
Lynn had a warm room. His three meals were no longer black bread and cold water, but freshly baked soft bread and hot meat broth. He even had a longsword of his own. All of this was earned through that bloody fight and the mysterious prophecy.
Lynn's gaze moved past the busy courtyard to Theon Greyjoy, who was practicing archery in the distance. The face of this ward from the Iron Islands was full of excitement about meeting the King. Although called a ward, he was actually a hostage taken after the Greyjoy Rebellion. But the Starks didn't treat him differently; Ned regarded him as his own son, teaching him etiquette, skills, and the loyal mindset of the Wolf family.
Theon's posture as he drew the bow became increasingly dashing. Every arrow hit the bullseye, drawing cheers from the stable boys around him. Theon enjoyed this feeling of being the center of attention. Unlike the Stark children, he couldn't feel the heaviness hidden beneath the glory. For Theon, this was just a grand party.
Lynn withdrew his gaze. He knew that beneath this superficial harmony, cracks had long existed.
Just then, a figure walked into the courtyard.
It was Jon Snow, the Knower of Nothing.
He wore simple leather armor and carried a blunted practice sword, walking silently toward the training dummy in the corner. He didn't join Robb and Theon. He was always like this, habitually choosing a spot that wasn't so noticeable.
At that exact moment, Lady Catelyn walked out of the main keep, preparing to inspect the stables.
Her gaze met Jon's briefly in the air.
Just for an instant.
The relatively gentle expression on Catelyn's face froze instantly. All warmth vanished from those blue eyes, leaving only icy disgust.
She didn't say a word. She simply turned slightly sideways and quickened her pace. As if looking at Snow for one more second would dirty her eyes.
Jon's body stiffened. The sword he had just raised stopped in mid-air. The expression on his face looked as if a winter wind had blown across it; all the light faded away. He silently lowered his arm and bowed his head, his black hair covering his eyes.
Lynn took it all in.
Catelyn's hatred was so naked, so undisguised.
In Westeros, bastards were a public shame for noble families. Their surnames were standardized: Snow in the North, Storm in the Stormlands, Sand in Dorne... It varied by region, but locals knew at a glance.
Jon's existence was a constant reminder to Catelyn of her husband's infidelity. Men went to war, and sometimes they needed to release their desires—leaving bastards behind was normal, and Catelyn understood this. But keeping them somewhere else was one thing; Ned insisted on raising him right under her nose. And whenever she asked about Jon's mother, Ned would get angry with her.
She vented all her anger on Jon. Although she didn't abuse him physically, it could be said that Jon Snow grew up under the scornful gaze of Catelyn Stark.
The clamor in the courtyard seemed irrelevant to Jon in this moment. He stood there alone, his figure appearing exceptionally lonely.
Lynn watched all of this. He generally appreciated the character of Jon Snow. In the show, he certainly had his flaws—failing Ygritte, and stabbing Daenerys on Tyrion's advice to prevent another Mad King (which was essentially betraying his liege)... But Jon was straightforward, loyal, a character with both good and bad traits.
Lynn would never forget the scene of Jon drawing his sword alone against a cavalry charge to save Ned's youngest son, Rickon, in the Battle of the Bastards. Fear is biological instinct; courage is the hymn of humanity. Not everyone can bravely draw their sword.
But sometimes, being too righteous isn't a good thing. However, Jon was still young; Lynn had plenty of time to make him less "rigidly righteous."
The thought of recruiting Jon rose in Lynn's mind.
---
That evening.
Lynn was in his room, carefully sharpening his longsword with a whetstone. The blade reflected his calm face. Maester Luwin's ointment was effective; the pain in his wound had lessened significantly.
A light knock sounded on the door.
"Come in."
The door cracked open, and a head peeked in. It was Jon Snow.
"I... am I disturbing you?" Jon's voice was hesitant.
"No." Lynn put down the whetstone and pointed to the only chair in the room.
Jon walked in and closed the door behind him. He didn't sit down, but stood in the middle of the room, his hands wringing together somewhat awkwardly.
"You're a Night's Watchman," Jon finally said, his gaze falling on the longsword in Lynn's hand.
"Mm." Lynn acknowledged.
"So... what is it like, beyond the Wall?" Jon's eyes held a trace of a young man's curiosity and longing.
"It's cold," Lynn answered simply and directly. "Colder than Winterfell. The wind is like knives; it scrapes right into your bones."
"The Night's Watch... what kind of men are they?" This was what Jon really wanted to ask.
"All kinds," Lynn leaned back in his chair, looking at him. "Thieves, rapists, debtors, knights who lost their lands, and... people like me."
"Of course, there are also some noble sons who go for honor," Lynn added. "Just very few."
Jon fell silent. Lynn's words were completely different from what he had imagined. In his imagination, the Wall was a place full of honor. There, birth no longer mattered. Everyone was a brother in black, defending against threats from beyond the Wall together.
"On the Wall, does a man's birth really not matter?" Jon's voice was low, carrying a hint of uncertainty. "Can a bastard... also earn respect?"
Lynn looked at him. Looked at this future Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Looked at the confusion and vulnerability on his face that didn't match his age.
"At the Wall, men only care about your skill with a sword, and whether you dare to stand at the front when the wildlings charge." Lynn's voice was calm. "Whether your name ends in Snow or Stark, nobody cares. They only care if you are reliable."
Jon's eyes slowly lit up. It was the light of finding where one belongs.
"But," Lynn changed the subject. "It is not a home for heroes, Jon. Once you wear the black, you must give up your family name, lands, never take a wife, never father children. Your entire life will be dedicated to that cold wall. Until you die."
The room fell into silence. Only the wind outside the window howled.
The light on Jon's face faded bit by bit. He wanted to escape Winterfell, escape Lady Catelyn's cold gaze. But he had never thought the price would be so heavy.
"I understand," Jon whispered after a long time. "Thank you, Lynn."
He turned to leave.
"Jon," Lynn called out to him.
"Your father loves you very much."
Jon's footsteps paused.
"It's just that sometimes, love cannot solve all problems," Lynn looked at him, speaking word by word. "What kind of person you become is ultimately a choice you have to make yourself."
Jon didn't look back. He just stood at the door, his shadow stretched long under the dim light. Then, he pushed the door open and walked out.