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The room reeked of lime and rot.
A single window sat high in the wallâa narrow slit that let in a pale, sickly shaft of light.
Lynn slumped against the corner, every muscle screaming. Hunger and cold twisted together into a weakness that clung to him like a disease. He'd gambled on Ned Stark's honor and won. Used the Old Gods' omen to buy himself time.
But it was only a delay.
One lie needs a thousand more to hold it up. One prophecy needs a bigger one to prove it real.
He was a tightrope walker now, balanced over an abyss. One slip, and he'd shatter on the rocks below.
He had to make himself valuable. Make Ned Stark believe that killing him would be a loss. An incalculable loss.
Lynn's mind raced, piecing together fragments of memory from his past life. The White Walkers' warningâthat was the opening move. The direwolf omenâthe second step.
Now he needed something bigger. Something that would shake the North. Shake the Seven Kingdoms.
A tragedy that was coming. One that couldn't be stopped.
Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark. Brothers in all but blood.
Both sent to the Eyrie as boys, fostered by Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale. Ned came eight years after Robert. They spent seven years together under the old lord's roof.
That forged a bond deeper than steel.
Ned's sister Lyanna had been promised to Robert. A match that should have sealed their houses forever.
Jon Arryn had been in his forties then, childless, and he'd treated the boys like sons.
When the Mad King's son Rhaegar took Lyanna, when the Mad King murdered Ned's father and brother, when he demanded Jon Arryn hand over Robert and Nedâ
The old lord refused. He raised his banners instead. Launched the war that toppled a dynasty.
Jon Arryn was their savior. Their father in all the ways that mattered.
And Lynn's hope now rested entirely on that old man's death.
Heavy footsteps echoed outside the door, cutting through Lynn's thoughts.
The thick wooden door swung open.
Not a guard. An old man in a gray maester's robe stepped inside. A chain hung around his neck, links of different metals, each one representing a field of study he'd mastered.
Maester Luwin.
Winterfell's "brain." One of Ned Stark's most trusted advisors.
Luwin's eyes were calm but sharp, carrying the careful scrutiny of a scholar. He didn't speak right away. Just studied Lynn. The pale face. The ragged black cloak. The eyes that still burned bright in the gloom.
"They say you prophesied the direwolves," Luwin said at last. His voice was mild, unreadable.
"I didn't prophesy anything." Lynn's voice came out hoarse. "I only interpreted the Old Gods' warning."
"The Old Gods?" Luwin's gray eyebrows lifted slightly. "You claim you saw White Walkers. Now you speak of the Old Gods." He paused. "Young man, do you understand what you're saying?"
"I do." Lynn met his gaze without flinching. "Winter is coming."
Silence.
Luwin walked to the room's only table and set down what he'd brought. A piece of bread. A bowl of hot soup. A small vial of medicine.
"Lord Stark asked me to check on your health," Luwin said, his tone still flat. "And to hear what else you might interpret."
Lynn didn't move.
This was the real interrogation. Luwin represented Ned Stark's reason. His doubt.
"Maester, do you believe in the White Walkers?"
"I believe what the histories say." Luwin's answer gave nothing away. "They say the Others were driven back thousands of years ago."
Lynn shook his head. "The histories also say direwolves haven't been seen south of the Wall in two hundred years."
Luwin's hand paused.
Lynn pressed on. "A mother wolf. Dead on the road. Throat pierced by a stag's antler. Lion scratches on her body."
"The stag is Baratheon. The lion is Lannister. The wolf is Stark."
"That's not coincidence, Maester. That's the storm coming."
Luwin turned, studying Lynn with new intensity. "You seem well-versed in southern heraldry. A deserter from the Night's Watch shouldn't know these things."
Lynn's heart lurched.
A trap.
He'd shown too much. Acted too unlike a common deserter.
"I wasn't born a man of the Night's Watch." Lynn lowered his eyes, letting his voice drop. "Before I took the black, I had a family. I read a few books."
Weak. But it was all he had.
Luwin didn't push. He slid the vial of medicine toward Lynn. "Drink it. It'll help."
Lynn stared at the murky liquid. Didn't touch it.
"Maester." His voice dropped lower, deliberately threading it with mystery and unease. "The Old Gods' warning doesn't end at the North."
Luwin's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"The center of the storm isn't Winterfell. It's King's Landing."
Lynn lifted his head, locking eyes with the maester. "The falcon flies high, but it can't escape fate's talons."
Luwin's pupils contracted.
Falcon.
House Arryn of the Eyrie.
Jon Arryn.
Hand of the King. Warden of the East. Foster father to both Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon.
In all the Seven Kingdoms, he was the pillar of stability and order.
"What are you trying to say?" For the first time, Luwin's voice carried a tremor.
Lynn had him.
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper only the two of them could hear.
"The Hand of the King. Lord Jon Arryn."
"He's already dead. The news just hasn't reached us yet."
"He didn't die of illness. Not old age."
"He was murdered."
The words detonated in Luwin's mind like wildfire.
His face went white. He stumbled back a step, bumping into the table with a clang.
"Madness!" Luwin's voice cracked, losing all its calm. "Do you understand what you're accusing? This is treason!"
"I'm not accusing anyone." Lynn sagged back against the wall, his body trembling from weakness. But his eyes stayed steady. "I'm only delivering the warning I saw."
"Soon, a raven from King's Landing will prove me right."
"The King will ride north. He'll ask Lord Stark to come south. To take Lord Arryn's place."
"And that will be the beginning of everything."
Lynn paused. His gaze bored into Luwin.
"If it's handled wrong, Lord Stark will die in King's Landing too."
The room plunged into dead silence.
Only Luwin's ragged breathing remained.
He stared at Lynn like he was looking at a demon crawled out of the Seven Hells.
Every word this deserter spoke hit the most sensitive nerve in Westeros. From the White Walkers in the North to conspiracy in the capital.
This was beyond what any deserter could fabricate.
This wasn't a lie.
This was prophecy.
A prophecy so terrible it choked the air from the room.
Finally, Luwin found his voice. "Who else have you told?"
"Only you, Maester."
"Remember this." Luwin sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself calm. He grabbed the bread and soup, shoving them back into Lynn's hands. This time, his movements weren't gentle. They were urgent. Commanding.
"Eat. Stay alive."
"Before that raven arrives, you must stay alive."
He turned and strode out without another glance.
The heavy door slammed shut. The lock clicked. The sound echoed down the empty corridor.
Lynn slumped against the wall, exhaling slowly.
Cold sweat soaked his back.
He'd walked the cliff's edge again. And won.
He'd tied his fate to Arryn's death. To Ned's journey south. Thrown himself into the storm.
Lynn picked up the lukewarm soup and drank it down in gulps. Warmth flooded his stomach, pushing back the cold.
He had to survive.
He had to get stronger.
His eyes fell on the panel only he could see.
[Experience: 0]
Now he needed Ned's trust. Only then could he regain his freedom.
Instead of being locked in this room. Unable to do anything.
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