In Maester Luwin's chamber, the scent of herbs and old parchment mingled in the air. Lynn lay shirtless on the hard wooden bed. He could clearly feel the cooling sensation of the ointment suppressing the burning pain of his torn flesh.
"You have a good constitution," Maester Luwin said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "The injury is less severe than I anticipated."
He re-bandaged Lynn with clean linen, his movements practiced and skilled, like he was treating a fine piece of parchment.
"Who taught you swordsmanship?" the maester asked, seemingly casual.
"The Master-at-Arms of the Night's Watch, Alliser Thorne," Lynn replied, his face buried in the pillow, voice muffled. "He only teaches how to stick a sword into someone's body the fastest way possible, nothing else."
The answer made Maester Luwin pause. His grey eyes swept over the crisscrossing old scars on Lynn's body. Those weren't wounds from fleeing; they were badges of honor earned from countless life-and-death battles with wildlings on the Wall. A cowardly deserter wouldn't have such things on his back.
"Rest well," Luwin said, packing his medical kit and turning to leave. "Lord Stark has ordered that you may stay here until your wounds heal."
The door was pulled shut gently, not locked. Lynn knew this was a signal from Ned Stark. He was no longer a prisoner, but a special subject under observation.
Lynn exhaled a long breath. Now, he didn't need to think about anything. Just heal. And wait.
Wait for the raven from King's Landing to stamp the final seal of truth on all his "prophecies".
---
The next day, Lynn was allowed to walk freely within the castle, though two guards always followed him at a distance. It was less protection and more surveillance.
He avoided the courtyard where Robb and Theon were sparring; the clanging noise made him irritable. instead, he found a quiet corner, leaned against the cold stone wall, and soaked in the meager sunlight of the North.
He closed his eyes, replaying the fight with the bandits in his mind over and over. The angle of every swing, the timing of every dodge, the sensation of blood spraying. These experiences, bought with his life, were the foundation of his survival.
A light, deliberately quiet set of footsteps interrupted his thoughts.
Lynn opened his eyes. A small figure stood before him, blocking the precious beam of sunlight.
It was Arya Stark, the youngest daughter of the Lord of Winterfell.
She stood with her hands behind her back, wearing a dusty grey boy's tunic. Her hair was a mess like a bird's nest, and her face had specks of mud, but those grey Stark eyes were astonishingly bright. She looked completely different from the show; even though she was small and thin, the spirit in her eyes gave her a wild beauty.
"They say you can fight," Arya said, her voice crisp and carrying the straightforwardness of a Northerner.
Lynn didn't speak, just looked at her.
Arya stepped closer, her small fists clenched tight. "The Night's Watch swordsmanship is completely different from what Ser Rodrik teaches. Ser Rodrik says fencing should be elegant, like a dance."
She pouted, clearly disagreeing. "But your sword isn't. Your sword is fast, direct." She seemed to be searching for a word to describe it.
The corner of Lynn's mouth twitched up uncontrollably. This little girl is a born she-wolf.
"You want to learn?"
Arya's eyes lit up instantly, like two flames igniting in the dark. She nodded vigorously, her expression incredibly serious. "Teach me."
The little girl's voice held a trace of pleading. "Please."
Lynn looked at her, at those eyes full of desire. A chance to build a deeper connection with the Stark family had been delivered right to him. And it was with Ned Stark's favorite daughter.
"Alright, I can teach you," Lynn said, slowly standing up and rolling his stiff shoulders. "But this is an exchange. You have to teach me something, too."
Arya paused, clearly not expecting this request. She tilted her head and thought, "But I don't know anything."
"You do," Lynn smiled. "Like, which secret passages in the castle no one knows about? Which kitchen steward hides the ale? How to sneak into the Godswood without being caught?"
Arya's mouth slowly formed an "O" shape. She hadn't expected her daily "mischief" could be used as tuition fees.
"I agree!" She accepted without hesitation.
"Deal. But not now, wait until I'm healed. And this must be kept secret from everyone."
"Come!" Arya extended a dirty little fist.
Lynn paused, then extended his own fist to gently bump hers. A simple pact was made.
Just then, the urgent sound of bells exploded over the castle.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sound from the maester's tower was heavy and distant. A raven had arrived.
The smile on Lynn's face vanished instantly. He looked up at the towering grey turret. What was bound to happen had finally come.
Arya heard the bells too. She glanced at the tower in confusion but quickly turned her attention back to Lynn. "It's a promise! I'll come find you tonight!"
Arya finished speaking and skipped away like a happy little deer.
Lynn didn't move. He stood quietly, feeling the change in the castle. The guards' footsteps became hurried, and the servants' whispers hushed. An invisible tension spread rapidly through the air. The storm was coming.
---
In the study of the main keep.
The fire in the hearth burned brightly, crackling. But the atmosphere in the room was colder than the ice and snow outside.
Ned Stark stood by the window, looking at the grey sky. In his hand, he held a small piece of parchment. The edge of the paper still bore the wax seal of a raven's message scroll.
Catelyn Tully, his wife, stood behind him. Her face was filled with unconcealed worry and grief.
"Jon... he's dead," Catelyn said, her voice trembling.
Her sister, Lysa Arryn, was now a widow. The relationship between the families was tangled: Lysa was old Jon Arryn's wife and Catelyn's sister, while Ned was Jon Arryn's foster son.
Ned didn't turn around. He remained silent, like a stone statue.
"The letter says it was a sudden illness, a fever," Catelyn continued, her hands wringing her sleeves tightly. "But in the other letter Lysa secretly sent... she says..."
Catelyn paused, seemingly afraid to say the terrible word.
"...it was murder. The Lannisters did it."
The study fell into a deathly silence. Only the wood in the fireplace let out a final groan.
Ned slowly turned around. His face was expressionless, but a storm raged in his grey eyes.
Lynn's words echoed madly in his mind like a curse.
"The Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn. He is dead. He was murdered."
Word for word. The prophecy had become reality.
"Robert... the King, is on his way North," Catelyn said, her voice full of unease. "He is coming to Winterfell. He wants to ask you to go South, to take Jon's place as the new Hand of the King."
Ned closed his eyes.
"And that is the beginning of all tragedy."
Lynn's words rang in his ears. It filled Ned with a bone-deep chill that rose from the soles of his feet and instantly spread through his limbs.
It was colder than the bitterest wind of the North.