In Maester Luwin's chamber, the scent of herbs mingled with that of old parchment, wafting into Lynn's nostrils. He lay bare-chested on a hard wooden bed, acutely feeling the coolness of the ointment dulling the searing pain of his lacerated flesh as it was applied to his wound.
"You have a robust constitution," Maester Luwin said in a flat, unreadable tone. "The injury is less severe than I anticipated." He rebandaged Lynn with clean linen, his movements as deft as if he were handling a piece of fine parchment. "Who taught you swordsmanship?" he asked casually, as if making idle small talk.
"Alliser Thorne, an instructor of the Night's Watch," Lynn replied, his voice muffled by the pillow pressed against his face. "He only teaches how to drive a sword into someone as quickly as possible—nothing more."
The answer made Maester Luwin pause mid-motion. His gray eyes swept over the crisscrossing faint old scars on Lynn's back. These were not wounds from a cowardly flight—they were medals earned through countless head-on battles with wildlings beyond the Wall, won with his very life. A deserter would never bear such marks.
"Rest well," Maester Luwin said, asking no further questions. He packed his medicine chest and turned to leave. "His Grace has ordered that you may stay here until you recover." The door closed softly, left unlocked.
Lynn knew this was a sign from Eddard Stark. He was no longer a prisoner, but a special subject under observation. He let out a long breath—for now, there was nothing to do but heal… and wait. Wait for the raven from King's Landing to seal the final confirmation of all his "prophecies."
The next day, Lynn was permitted to move freely within the castle, trailed by two guards at a discreet distance—more surveillance than protection. He avoided the courtyard, where the clanging of Robb and Theon's swordplay grated on his nerves. Instead, he found a quiet corner, leaning against the cold stone wall to soak up the North's meager sunlight.
Closing his eyes, he replayed the bandit fight in his mind repeatedly: every angle of his sword swing, every split-second dodge, every tactile sensation of blood spattering. These experiences, earned with his life, were his true foundation for survival.
A soft, deliberately light patter of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Lynn opened his eyes to find a small figure standing before him, blocking the hard-won sunlight. It was Arya Stark, the youngest daughter of the Lord of Winterfell.
With her hands behind her back, she wore a shabby boy's tunic, her hair a tangled mess like a bird's nest, and mud smudged on her face—but her gray Stark eyes shone brilliantly. Unlike how she was depicted in tales, her small frame exuded a wild beauty, fueled by the fierce vitality in her gaze.
"They say you're a skilled fighter," Arya said in a clear voice, brimming with the straightforwardness unique to Northerners. Lynn said nothing, just stared at her. She took a step closer, her small fists clenched tightly.
"Night's Watch swordsmanship is nothing like what Ser Rodrik teaches," she continued. "Ser Rodrik says swordplay should be elegant, like dancing." She frowned, clearly disagreeing. "But yours isn't. Yours is fast, direct." She searched for the right word to describe it.
Lynn's lips twitched involuntarily. This girl was 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 utterly earnest. "Teach me," she begged, a faint plea in her voice. "Please."
Lynn looked into her eager eyes—an opportunity to forge a deeper bond with House Stark, and with Eddard's beloved youngest daughter, no less. "Very well, I'll teach you," he said, slowly standing up and stretching his still-stiff shoulder. "But it's a trade. You have to teach me something in return."
Arya blinked, startled by the condition. She tilted her head thoughtfully. "But I don't know anything."
"You do," Lynn smiled. "Like where the castle's secret passages are that no one else knows about. Which kitchen steward hides ale. How to sneak into the Godswood without being caught."
Her mouth slowly formed an "O". She never thought her usual "mischief" could be used as payment. "I agree!" she replied without hesitation. "Deal. But not now—when your wound heals. And no one can know about this." She held out her grubby little fist.
Lynn hesitated for a moment, then held out his fist and tapped hers gently. A simple pact was sealed.
At that moment, a rapid bell clanged across the castle—deep, resonant, ringing from the maester's tower. A raven had arrived. The smile faded from Lynn's face instantly. He looked up at the tall gray tower. What was coming had finally arrived.
Arya heard the bell too, glancing at the tower in confusion before turning back to Lynn. "It's a promise! I'll come find you tonight!"After Arya finished speaking, she skipped away like a joyful fawn.Lynn did not move.He just stood there quietly, feeling the changes unfolding within the castle.The guards' footsteps grew hurried, and the servants' whispers fell to a hush.An intangible sense of tension was spreading rapidly in the air.
A storm was brewing.
Chapter 10 The Prophecy Fulfilled (Continued)
Inside the study of the main keep, the flames in the fireplace blazed fiercely, crackling loudly. Yet the atmosphere in the room was colder than the ice and snow outside.
Ned Stark stood by the window, gazing out at the overcast sky. In his hand, he clutched a small piece of parchment, its edges still bearing the faint traces of wax from the raven's message tube.
Catelyn Tully, his wife, stood behind him, her face etched with unmasked anxiety and sorrow.
"Jon… he's dead," Catelyn said, her voice trembling slightly. Her younger sister, Lysa Arryn, was now a widow—a tangled web of relationships between their two houses. Lysa had been the late Lord Arryn's wife in his final years, while Ned was Lord Arryn's foster son.
Ned did not turn around. He remained silent, as still as a stone statue.
"The letter says it was a sudden illness, a fever," Catelyn continued, her hands twisting tightly in the folds of her sleeves. "But in another letter Lysa sent secretly… " She paused, as if fearing to utter the terrible word. " …it was murder. The Lannisters did it."
A deathly silence descended upon the study. Only the wood in the fireplace continued to crackle, a faint, mournful sound.
Slowly, Ned turned around. His face was impassive, but his gray eyes roiled like a stormy sea. Lynn's words echoed in his mind like a curse—"Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King. He is dead. He will be murdered." Word for word, the prophecy had come true.
"Robert… the king, is on his way north," Catelyn said, her voice thick with unease. "He is coming to Winterfell. He will ask you to go south, to take Jon's place as the new Hand of the King."
Ned closed his eyes. Lynn's voice rang in his ears once more: "And this is where all tragedy begins." A bone-chilling cold swept over him, rising from the soles of his feet and spreading through his limbs in an instant—colder even than the harshest winds of the North.