Maester Luwin's footsteps echoed through the empty stone corridor, hurried far more than usual. The maester's chain around his neck—metal links symbolizing knowledge and reason—clinked softly yet anxiously with each stride. He had just emerged from the cell at the base of the tower, and the young deserter's words lingered in his mind like ghostly whispers, refusing to fade.
"Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, is dead. He was murdered. Soon, a raven from King's Landing will bear witness for me."
These were not the ravings of a madman. Those eyes, that unwavering tone, the terrifying logic that wove all clues together—first the direwolf omen, then the conspiracy in King's Landing. Maester Luwin felt a chill to his very bones, colder even than the icy grip of the Northern winter. He must inform Lord Eddard at once.
He crossed the courtyard, the wind billowing his grey maester's robe. Guards nodded in greeting, but he paid them no mind. He had only one destination: the Godswood.
Passing through the low black iron gate, the noise of the outside world faded instantly. A scent of damp earth and rotting leaves washed over him. This was the oldest part of Winterfell, the bedrock of faith in the Old Gods. Eddard Stark stood before the heart tree—a massive weirwood with bark as pale as bone, its blood-red leaves rustling softly in the breeze. A grotesque face carved into the trunk oozed red sap, like a pair of eternal watching eyes.
Eddard did not turn. He simply polished his Valyrian steel greatsword, Ice, its blade glinting with a dull sheen in the dim light.
"Maester," Eddard's deep voice blended seamlessly with the stillness of the Godswood. "How is the deserter?"
Maester Luwin approached and stopped beside him, the gentle gurgle of the hot spring nearby echoing in his ears. "He is weak, but not in mortal danger," he replied, his voice dry. "My lord, he… he spoke again."
Eddard paused, setting the polishing cloth on a nearby stone before turning. His grey eyes, cold and calm as the Northern sky, fixed on Maester Luwin. "What did he say?"
Maester Luwin took a deep breath, the frigid air of the Godswood clearing his muddled thoughts slightly. "He said the heart of the storm is not in the North—it is in King's Landing."
Eddard's brows furrowed. Maester Luwin lowered his voice, each word heavy with gravity: "He said… Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, is no more."
The air seemed to freeze, broken only by the rustle of the heart tree's red leaves. Eddard's expression remained unchanged, as still as a statue—but Maester Luwin sensed a shift in the air around him, the oppressive calm before a storm.
"He also said," Maester Luwin pressed on, his voice barely audible, "Lord Arryn did not die of illness or old age. It was murder."
The word "murder" struck like a stone dropped into still water. Eddard's pupils contracted sharply. Jon Arryn—the man who had been like a father to him, the Warden of the Vale who had taught him honor and duty, the current Hand of the King—murdered? How could that be? Robert's carefree, indulgent life of feasting, whoring, and neglect of state affairs depended entirely on Jon Arryn holding the realm together.
"He added that the king will journey north soon," Maester Luwin said, barely breathing as he spoke the final, crucial words. "He will invite you to King's Landing to take Jon Arryn's place as Hand. And if you are not careful, my lord—you will share his fate."
Silence. Complete and utter silence descended upon the Godswood. Eddard Stark said nothing. He merely turned back to the heart tree, its sap like tears of blood, and his hand tightened unconsciously around Ice's hilt.
"A Night's Watch deserter," Eddard's voice finally rang out, hoarse with emotion. "Where could he have learned such things?"
"He claims it is a warning from the Old Gods," Maester Luwin replied.
"The Old Gods…" Eddard murmured, tasting the words. As a Northerner, he understood their weight better than anyone. They were not the statues of the Seven in southern septs—they were the whisper of the wind, the rustle of leaves in the woods, the flow of streams. An ancient faith etched into the blood of every Northerner, the faith of the First Men and the Children of the Forest.
The First Men had arrived in Westeros thousands of years earlier. To fend them off, the Children of the Forest had used ice magic to create the uncontrollable Night King. The First Men and Children of the Forest fought before forging an alliance to resist the White Walkers, and the First Men then adopted the Old Gods alongside the Children.
Six thousand years later, the Andals came to Westeros. They defeated the First Men and Children of the Forest, driving them north while seizing control of the south. They worshipped the Faith of the Seven—a single god with seven faces, hence the name "the Seven," or "the New Gods."
The entire south embraced the Seven, while the north clung fiercely to the Old Gods. Matters of faith were not to be dismissed lightly; even in his doubt, Eddard could not disregard the possibility.
"The direwolf too," Maester Luwin added. "A stag's antler through the she-wolf's throat, lion's claw marks on her pelt. Baratheon, Lannister, Stark. It is all too coincidental, my lord."
Eddard closed his eyes, the young man's stubborn gaze at the execution ground rising in his mind. That boy had tied his life irrevocably to the safety of the North and the fate of House Stark. He was not begging for mercy—he was issuing a warning.
"He wants to live," Eddard said, his voice still cold. "Spinning a sensational tale to buy his life."
"Perhaps," Maester Luwin conceded. "But if his tale is true, we cannot afford the consequences."
Eddard opened his eyes slowly, staring at the heart tree's sorrowful face. Were the Old Gods truly speaking to him through a deserter? Or was this the start of a far greater conspiracy?
"Post guards to watch him closely," Eddard finally ordered. "Give him food and water—see that he lives. And stop confining him to the cell. Let him walk in the open air."
"Yes, my lord," Maester Luwin bowed in obedience.
"We wait," Eddard said, weariness clinging to his voice. "We wait for the raven from King's Landing. If he is lying, Ice will set things right. If… if he is telling the truth."
He trailed off, but the unspoken weight of his words settled heavily on Maester Luwin's heart. If the deserter was right, then winter was indeed coming—a winter that would engulf the entire Seven Kingdoms.
Maester Luwin departed, leaving Eddard Stark alone in the Godswood. He reached out, his hand brushing the pale bark of the heart tree. Its cold touch brought a measure of calm to his turbulent thoughts.
"Father," he whispered. "Brother. Guide me."
The wind blew, and the red leaves danced, as if responding in silence.
…Back 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 without omission—and he knew what choice Eddard would make. Time to wait. That was the most precious thing he had fought for.
The warmth from the hot soup and bread nurtured his battered body, strength seeping back into his limbs bit by bit. The blue system panel, visible only to him, hovered in his vision:
[Host: Lynn]
[Strength: 4 (Sickly)]
[Agility: 5 (Normal)]
[Constitution: 4 (Sickly)]
[Skills: None]
[Experience Points: 0]
With rest, his condition had improved significantly—he estimated he would make a full recovery by tomorrow. Lynn's gaze drifted through the narrow window slit to the overcast sky outside. Jon Arryn had been dead for some time now. All he could do was wait for the raven from King's Landing. Hurry, he thought.