"I told you I wouldn't pry into your past," Eddard Stark said quietly, "but I still want to understand how you managed to kill a White Walker."
In the dim light of Winterfell's solar, Ned sat with Maester Luwin across from Lynn, both men studying him with equal parts curiosity and unease.
The maester stepped forward, voice gentle but sharp.
"According to every recorded history, the only things capable of destroying a White Walker are dragonglass and Valyrian steel." He eyed Lynn's hands. "Your methods clearly do not fit either description."
Lynn had been expecting this question for days.
He couldn't tell them the truth—the dragon's blood in his veins. That kind of revelation would seal his death sentence, especially while King Robert Baratheon still sat the Iron Throne. Whether branded "dark sorcerer" or "Targaryen spawn," both labels led to the same block.
He took a slow breath. "Lord Stark, Maester Luwin… I can't explain what happened that night. It felt less like a choice and more like instinct. Like being an animal cornered and forced to strike back."
His tone was calm, his gaze steady.
"My hands are not made of Valyrian steel," he continued, inventing carefully as he spoke. "But where I come from, there's an old belief—that when faced with death, life itself can ignite. A kind of raw force, born from the will to survive. Perhaps such power unnerves anything preserved by unnatural means."
Luwin frowned, fingers brushing his chain collar. "Old belief?"
Lynn leaned forward, speaking softly. "Maybe the Walkers' bodies depend on a balance between life and death. And when that balance meets something truly opposite—something alive, burning—perhaps it shatters. I remember only this: when I struck it, I felt heat coursing through me, as if fire and ice met and destroyed each other. Then I lost consciousness."
He paused. "If you need a name for it, call it the fire of life. Wild, uncontrollable. Like trying to hold wildfire in your hands."
Silence settled over the room.
Luwin tapped his chin thoughtfully. "A curious notion. Impossible to confirm, but… not beyond imagination. Magic defies most logic, after all."
Ned folded his arms, gray eyes unreadable.
At last, he said quietly, "A flame born of life itself."
He looked at Luwin. "Your thoughts?"
The maester hesitated, answering with measured caution. "The idea is unprecedented, my lord, but plausible. The Old Powers often react strangely against one another. If these creatures truly defy nature's design, it's conceivable that pure, vital force could unmake them."
Ned nodded slowly, turning back to Lynn. "Whether that explanation holds truth or not, you destroyed one of those monsters. That is fact—and fact matters more to me than faith or fables."
"You'll have the North's trust, if you continue to stand against what's coming."
Lynn bowed his head. "Yes, my lord."
Inside, he finally allowed himself to exhale.
After he left, the two older men exchanged a knowing glance.
"Do you believe him?" Ned asked, voice low.
Luwin offered a faint smile. "Not a word of it."
Lynn's performance, polished though it was, hadn't fooled either of them.
"But," Luwin added, "we need that man more than we need the truth. Whatever happened, he killed a White Walker. That makes him valuable. And even the Old Gods allow a man his secrets."
Ned's mouth quirked. "Then we'll leave his secrets undisturbed—for now."
They were about to leave the solar when the door opened quietly.
Lady Catelyn entered, her expression somber, eyes shadowed by grief.
"Ned," she said softly. "There's… bad news."
Her husband's frown returned instantly. "What is it?"
"Jon Arryn," she said. "He's gone."
The room fell silent except for the pop of the fire.
Eddard Stark's breath caught, his shoulders stiffening. Maester Luwin moved quickly to guide him to a chair.
Lord Arryn—the man who had raised him at the Eyrie alongside Robert Baratheon—had been more than a mentor. He had been like a second father. The man who had refused a king's command to surrender his boys—choosing rebellion, and honor, instead.
Ned murmured, almost to himself, "Jon… are you certain?"
Catelyn nodded. "The message bears the royal seal. It's Robert's own hand. He writes that Lord Arryn passed suddenly. The Grand Maester claims he died peacefully, under medicine, but…" Her voice trailed off.
Ned looked at the floor for a long time, his face unreadable. "Jon Arryn… the father without blood."
He exhaled wearily. "And what of his wife? His son?"
"They live," she said. "Lysa remains in the Vale. She grieves."
Ned's gaze sharpened again. "And the letter carried more news."
Catelyn hesitated. "Yes. Robert is riding north—to Winterfell."
For a moment, Ned's grief gave way to something brighter—a flicker of warmth. He had not seen his old comrade in years.
"The king is coming…" He almost smiled. "After all this time."
Catelyn wanted to share his relief, but unease lingered behind her calm expression. Her thoughts turned to the dead direwolf, the antler lodged in its throat, the prophecy whispered by that strange young man.
> When bloodied antlers pierce the North's protector… six cubs shall rise in the snow.
Baratheon's sigil was a crowned stag.
And as the first winter winds swept across the ramparts of Winterfell, Catelyn Tully Stark prayed—quietly, desperately—that it was not an omen of what was to come.