Winterfell had changed. No longer was the air filled solely with cold and tranquility; in its place, a commotion mingled with excitement, tension, and anticipation swept through the castle.
The king was coming. The news spread like the wind, reaching every corner of the stronghold. In the kitchens, the aroma of freshly baked bread lingered day and night. The blacksmith's forge blazed relentlessly, the clang of hammer on anvil never ceasing. Guards polished every plate of their armor to a shine, while maids hurried down corridors with armfuls of clean linen, their footsteps light yet urgent.
Lady Catelyn Stark stood at the center of this storm. Like an indefatigable matriarch, she directed the castle's operations with precise, firm orders.
"Bring out the finest casks of ale from the cellars!"
"Replace all bed linens in the guest chambers with fresh ones, lavender-scented!"
"Tell the stable boys to groom every horse for the royal retinue until not a single stray hair remains!"
Her voice echoed clearly and powerfully across the courtyard, organizing affairs with meticulous order—she was a capable woman. Yet deep within her Tully blue eyes lurked an unshakable shadow of anxiety.
Ned Stark, by contrast, kept entirely to himself. He did not appear in the courtyard, nor did he inquire about any preparations. He spent his days alone in the study or walking in the Godswood, polishing Ice, his greatsword forged of Valyrian steel, over and over again—as if only this ritual could grant his heart a moment of peace.
Lynn sat on the steps leading to the armory, sensing the undercurrents. Since his prophecy had been fulfilled, he was no longer a prisoner; instead, both Catelyn and Ned treated him with courtesy. He had been given a warm room, and his meals—once black bread and cold water—now consisted of fresh soft bread and hot broth. He even owned a sword of his own. All of this he had earned through that bloody fight and his mysterious prophecy.
Lynn's gaze drifted across the bustling courtyard to Theon Greyjoy, who practiced archery in the distance. The Iron Islands foster son's face was alight with excitement at the prospect of seeing the king. Though called a foster son, he was in truth a hostage after the rebellion. Yet the Starks had not treated him differently—Ned had raised him as his own, teaching him etiquette, combat skills, and the Stark code of loyalty.
Theon's posture as he drew his bow grew more graceful with each attempt, every arrow finding its mark and drawing cheers from the stable boys nearby. He revelled in this attention, unburdened by the weight of honor that weighed on the Stark children. To Theon, this was merely a grand feast.
Lynn looked away. He knew that beneath this superficial harmony, rifts already ran deep.
Just then, a figure entered the courtyard—it was Jon Snow, the one who knew nothing. Clad in plain leather armor, he carried a blunted practice sword and walked silently toward a training dummy in the corner, never joining Robb and Theon. As always, he instinctively chose a spot that drew little notice.
Coincidentally, Lady Catelyn emerged from the main keep, on her way to inspect the stables. Her eyes met Jon's for a fleeting moment—barely an instant. The mild expression on her face froze, all warmth draining from her blue eyes, leaving only cold loathing. She said not a word, merely turned slightly and quickened her pace, as if even a single glance at him would sully her sight.
Jon stiffened. The sword he had raised mid-air froze. The light faded from his face, as if swept by a winter gale. Silently, he lowered his arm and bowed his head, his dark hair hiding his eyes.
Lynn watched it all. Catelyn's hatred was raw and unmasked. In Westeros, bastards were an open shame to noble families, each region marking them with a distinct surname: Snow in the North, Storm in the Stormlands, Sand in Dorne, and so on. These names were instantly recognizable, branding their bearers' origins.
Jon's very existence was a constant reminder to Catelyn of her husband's supposed infidelity. She understood that men leading armies sometimes yielded to desire, leaving bastards in their wake—it was a common truth in Westeros. But to keep him under her own roof, and for Ned to grow angry whenever she asked about Jon's mother, made her pour all her resentment onto the boy. Though she never abused him, Jon Snow had grown up beneath Catelyn's cold stare.
The courtyard's commotion seemed to fade around Jon, leaving him standing alone, his figure unusually desolate.
Lynn observed him, feeling more admiration than anything else for Jon Snow. He had his flaws—betraying Ygritte, killing Daenerys Targaryen on Tyrion's urging to prevent her from becoming another Mad King, a betrayal of his liege. Yet Jon was also forthright and loyal, a character of mixed merits.
Lynn could never forget the scene in the Battle of the Bastards, where Jon had drawn his sword alone against thousands to defend Rickon, Ned's youngest son. Fear was the instinct of all creatures; courage was humanity's anthem. Not everyone could find the strength to draw their sword. Still, excessive rectitude could be a flaw—and Jon was still young, leaving Lynn plenty of time to temper that rigid sense of honor.
The thought of winning Jon over took root in Lynn's mind.
That night, Lynn sharpened his sword carefully with a whetstone in his room, his calm face reflected in the blade. Maester Luwin's ointment had worked well, and the pain from his wounds had eased considerably.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Come in."
The door creaked open a crack, and a head peeked through—it was Jon Snow.
"I… am I disturbing you?" Jon asked, his voice hesitant.
"No," Lynn replied, setting down the whetstone and gesturing to the only chair in the room.
Jon entered and closed the door behind him. Instead of sitting, he stood in the center, his hands twisted together awkwardly.
"You're a brother of the Night's Watch," Jon finally said, his gaze fixed on the sword in Lynn's hand.
"I am," Lynn acknowledged.
"What… what is it like beyond the Wall?" Jon's eyes shone with the curiosity and longing of a young boy.
"Cold," Lynn answered simply. "Colder than Winterfell. The wind cuts like a knife, piercing to the bone."
"What kind of men are in the Night's Watch?" This was the question Jon truly wanted to ask.
"All kinds," Lynn said, leaning back in his chair and studying Jon. "Thieves, robbers, debt-ridden gamblers, dispossessed knights… and men like me. There are also some noble youths who join for honor, of course—but very few."
Jon fell silent. Lynn's words clashed sharply with his imagination. He had pictured the Wall as a place of honor, where birth no longer mattered—where all were black brothers, united in defending the realm from the threats beyond.
"Beyond the Wall… does a man's birth truly not matter?" Jon asked quietly, uncertainty in his voice. "Can a bastard… earn respect?"
Lynn looked at him—the future Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, his face etched with a confusion and vulnerability beyond his years.
"Beyond the Wall, men judge you by how well you wield a sword, by whether you dare stand at the front when the wildlings charge," Lynn said calmly. "No one cares if your name is Snow or Stark. All they care about is whether they can trust you."
A light slowly kindled in Jon's eyes—the glow of someone who had found a possible home.
"But," Lynn added, his tone shifting, "it is not a haven for heroes, Jon. Once you don the black, you renounce your family, your lands, and any chance of marriage or children. Your life belongs to that cold wall, until the day you die."
Silence filled the room, broken only by the howl of wind outside. The light in Jon's eyes dimmed, little by little. He had dreamed of escaping Winterfell, of fleeing Catelyn's icy gaze—but he had never imagined the cost would be so steep.
"I understand," Jon said softly after a long pause. "Thank you, Lynn."
He turned to leave.
"Jon," Lynn called out.
Jon froze.
"Your father loves you deeply," Lynn said, his words deliberate. "But love cannot solve all things. In the end, the choice of who to become is yours alone."
Jon did not look back. His figure stretched long and thin in the dim light as he stood at the door, then he pushed it open and walked out.