The room reeked of lime and mildew. The only window, set high in the wall, let through merely a narrow slit of pale, feeble daylight. Lynn leaned against the corner, every muscle in his body aching in protest. The weakness from hunger and cold clung to him like a bone-deep rot, refusing to fade.
He had gambled on Eddard Stark's sense of honor and used the Old Gods' omen to buy himself time—but this was merely a delaying tactic. A lie required countless more lies to sustain; a prophecy, in turn, demanded a more staggering prophecy to prove its truth. He was like an acrobat walking a tightrope over a bottomless abyss, where the slightest misstep would spell his ruin.
He had to elevate his worth quickly, to make Eddard Stark see that killing him would be a loss—an immeasurable one. Lynn's mind raced, piecing together fragments of memories from his past life about this world. The warning of the White Walkers was just the beginning; the direwolf omen, the second step. Next, he needed to unleash a bombshell—one that would shake the entire North, even the Seven Kingdoms. A tragedy that was imminent and unavoidable.
King Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark had been sent to the Eyrie in the Vale as foster sons in their youth, under the care of Lord Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale. Eddard had arrived eight years after Robert, and the two had spent seven years together, forging a deep bond. Eddard's sister Lyanna had even been betrothed to Robert, sealing their connection with blood. Their foster father, Jon Arryn, had been in his forties then, childless, and had raised Robert and Eddard as his own.
When Rhaegar Targaryen, son of the Mad King, abducted Robert's betrothed Lyanna and later murdered Eddard's elder brother and father, he demanded Jon Arryn hand over Robert and Eddard—two young men who posed a threat to House Targaryen. Jon Arryn had refused outright, urging his foster sons to launch the War of the Usurper. In truth, Jon Arryn was Robert and Eddard's savior. Now, Lynn's hopes rested entirely on him.
Heavy footsteps echoed outside the door, interrupting Lynn's thoughts. With a creak, the thick wooden door swung open. Instead of a guard, an old man clad in a grey maester's robe entered. Around his neck hung a chain of interlocked metals, each representing a branch of knowledge he had mastered—Maester Luwin, the "brain" of Winterfell, and one of Eddard Stark's most trusted advisors.
Maester Luwin's gaze was calm yet sharp, filled with scholarly caution. He did not speak immediately, but studied Lynn silently—from his pale complexion and tattered black cloak to his bright eyes, which still shone in the dimness.
"They say you foretold the appearance of the direwolf," Maester Luwin said, his voice soft-spoken, giving no hint of his emotions.
"I did not foretell it," Lynn replied, his voice hoarse. "I merely interpreted the Old Gods' warning."
"The Old Gods?" Maester Luwin murmured the words, raising a grey eyebrow. "You claim to have seen White Walkers, and now you speak of the Old Gods. Do you know what you are saying, young man?"
"I do," Lynn said, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "I know that winter is coming."
Maester Luwin fell silent. He walked to the room's only table and set down what he had brought: a loaf of bread, a bowl of hot soup, and a small cup of potion.
"Lord Stark has sent me to check on your condition," Maester Luwin said, his tone still flat. "And to hear what else you can interpret."
Lynn did not move. He knew the real interrogation had only just begun—Maester Luwin represented Eddard Stark's reason and doubt.
"Maester, do you believe in the existence of White Walkers?" Lynn asked, turning the question back on him.
"I believe what the histories record," Maester Luwin replied, his answer impenetrable. "And the histories say they were driven back thousands of years ago."
Lynn shook his head. "The histories also say direwolves have not been seen south of the Wall in two centuries." His words made Maester Luwin pause. Lynn pressed on: "A she-wolf lies dead here, her throat pierced by a stag's antler, yet her pelt bears the marks of a lion's claws. The stag is Baratheon, the lion Lannister, the wolf Stark. This is no coincidence, Maester. It is the storm to come."
Maester Luwin turned to face him, his gaze deep. "You seem well-versed in southern heraldry—something no Night's Watch deserter ought to know."
Lynn's heart skipped a beat. It was a trap—he had acted far too unlike an ordinary deserter.
"I was not born into the Night's Watch," Lynn said, lowering his eyelids, his tone growing somber. "Before donning the black, I had a family… and read a few books." It was a thin explanation, but the only one he had.
Maester Luwin did not press further. He simply pushed the cup of potion toward Lynn. "Drink this. It will do your body good."
Lynn stared at the cloudy liquid, making no move. "Maester," he said, his voice dropping lower, laced with deliberate mystery and unease. "The Old Gods' warning does not end in the North."
Maester Luwin's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"The heart of the storm is not in Winterfell—it is in King's Landing," Lynn said, lifting his head and fixing Maester Luwin with an intense gaze. "No eagle, no matter how high it soars, can escape fate's hunt."
Maester Luwin's pupils contracted sharply. The eagle—House Arryn of the Eyrie. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, Warden of the East, and foster father to both Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. He was a symbol of stability and order across the Seven Kingdoms.
"What are you trying to say?" Maester Luwin's voice trembled slightly for the first time.
Lynn knew he had captured the maester's full attention. He leaned closer, speaking in a whisper only the two of them could hear, each word deliberate: "Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, is already dead. The news has simply not arrived yet. He did not die of illness, nor of old age. He was murdered."
The words struck Maester Luwin like a thunderbolt. His face turned ashen, and he stumbled back unconsciously, knocking into the table with a clatter.
"Blasphemy!" Maester Luwin snapped, losing his composure. Yet his voice betrayed his terror. "Do you know what you are accusing? This is treason!"
"I accuse no one," Lynn said, leaning back against the wall. His body trembled weakly from exhaustion, but his eyes remained steadfast. "I only convey what I have seen in the warning. Soon, a raven from King's Landing will bear witness for me. The king will journey north, inviting Lord Stark to take Jon Arryn's place in King's Landing. And that will be the start of all tragedy."
Lynn paused, his gaze locked on Maester Luwin. "If handled poorly, Lord Stark will die in King's Landing too."
The room fell deathly silent, broken only by Maester Luwin's heavy breathing. He stared at Lynn as if looking at a demon risen from hell. Every word the deserter spoke struck at the most sensitive nerves of Westeros—from the White Walkers in the North to the conspiracy in King's Landing. This was far beyond the realm of a deserter's lies. This was… a prophecy. A terrifying, suffocating prophecy.
After a long while, Maester Luwin found his voice. "Have you told anyone else these things?"
"Only you, Maester," Lynn replied respectfully.
"Remember—tell no one," Maester Luwin said, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He picked up the bread and soup from the table and pressed them into Lynn's hands, his movements firm and unyielding this time. "Eat. Survive. You must survive until the raven comes."
With that, Maester Luwin turned and strode out of the room without another glance. The thick wooden door slammed shut, and the sound of a lock clicking echoed down the empty corridor.
Lynn leaned against the wall, exhaling a long breath. Cold sweat had soaked through his back. He knew he had just danced on the edge of a cliff—and won. He had tied his fate irrevocably to Jon Arryn's death, to Eddard's southward journey, to this tangled web of intrigue.
Lynn picked up the luwinwarm soup and drank deeply. Warmth spread through his stomach, chasing away some of the chill. He had to survive. He had to grow stronger quickly.
His gaze fell again on the blue system panel, visible only to him. [Experience Points: 0]. Now, he needed to gain Eddard's trust—to reclaim his freedom, instead of being locked away in the small room, powerless to act.