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Maester Luwin's footsteps echoed through the empty stone corridor.
Faster than usual.
The chain around his neckāthose metal links representing knowledge and reasonāclinked together in a frantic, discordant rhythm.
He'd just left the tower cell. That young deserter's words clung to him like a ghost's whisper, impossible to shake.
"The Hand of the King. Lord Jon Arryn. He's dead."
"Murdered."
"Soon, a raven from King's Landing will prove me right."
This wasn't the rambling of a madman.
Those eyes. That certainty. The terrible logic connecting every thread.
The direwolf omen first. The conspiracy in the capital second.
Luwin felt a chill sink into his bonesācolder than any northern winter.
He had to tell Lord Stark. Now.
He crossed the courtyard, wind whipping his gray robes. Guards nodded as he passed. He didn't acknowledge them.
Only one destination mattered.
The godswood.
He pushed through the low ironwood gate. The outside world vanished. Damp earth and rotting leaves filled his lungs.
This was Winterfell's oldest place. The root of the Old Gods' faith.
Ned Stark stood beneath the heart tree.
The massive weirwood towered above himābark white as bone, blood-red leaves rustling in the breeze. The carved face wept red sap like eternal tears.
Ned didn't turn. He simply wiped down the Valyrian greatsword Ice. The blade rippled with dark patterns in the dim light.
"Maester." Ned's voice was low, blending with the godswood's stillness. "How is the deserter?"
Luwin stopped beside him. He could hear the hot springs nearby, water trickling over stone.
"Weak. But he'll survive." Luwin's voice came out dry. "My lord, he said more things."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
Ned's hand stilled. He set the cloth on a nearby stone and turned. Gray eyes met Luwin'sācold and steady as the northern sky.
"What did he say?"
Luwin drew a deep breath. The godswood's icy air stabbed into his lungs, steadying his racing thoughts.
"He said the storm's center isn't in the North."
"It's in King's Landing."
Ned's brow furrowed slightly.
Luwin's voice dropped lower. Each word felt like lead.
"He said the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, is gone."
The air froze.
Only the heart tree's red leaves kept rustling.
Ned's expression didn't change. He stood like a silent statue.
But Luwin felt the atmosphere shift. A storm gathering.
"He also saidā" Luwin forced himself to continue. "Lord Arryn didn't die of illness. Not old age."
"Murder."
The word hit like a stone thrown into still water.
Ned's pupils contracted.
Jon Arryn. The man who'd been like a father. The Warden of the East who'd taught him honor and duty.
The current Hand of the King.
Murdered?
Impossible.
Robert could drink and whore and ignore the realm entirely because Jon Arryn held everything together.
"He said the King will ride north soon." Luwin barely breathed the words. "To ask you to come south. To take the Hand's position."
"And if you're not careful, my lord, you'll die too."
Silence.
Total silence in the godswood.
Ned didn't speak. He turned back to the weeping heart tree. His hand drifted unconsciously to his sword hilt.
"A deserter from the Night's Watch." Finally, Ned's voice emergedāhoarse and rough. "How would he know any of this?"
"He says it's the Old Gods' warning," Luwin answered.
"The Old Gods..." Ned tasted the words.
As a northerner, he understood their weight better than anyone. Not statues in southern septs. Whispers in the wind. Rustling leaves. Flowing streams.
Ancient faith carved into every northerner's blood.
The faith of the Children of the Forest and the First Men.
The First Men came to Westeros thousands of years ago. The Children fought them with ice magic, created the Night King they couldn't control. First Men and Children made peace. United against the White Walkers. Embraced the Old Gods together.
Six thousand years later, the Andals invaded. Conquered the First Men and the Children. Drove them north. Claimed the south.
The Andals brought the Sevenāone god with seven faces. The New Gods.
The south worshipped the Seven. The north kept the Old Gods.
Faith mattered. Even with doubts, Ned couldn't dismiss it lightly.
"The direwolves too," Luwin added. "The stag's antler through the she-wolf's throat. Lion scratches on her body."
"Baratheon. Lannister. Stark."
"Too many coincidences, my lord."
Ned closed his eyes.
He saw the young man on the execution ground. That defiant stare.
The deserter hadn't begged for mercy. He'd delivered a warning.
He'd tied his life to the North's safety. To House Stark's fate.
"He wants to live." Ned's voice stayed cold. "He's invented a shocking story to save himself."
"Perhaps." Luwin didn't argue. "But if the story is true, we can't afford the consequences."
Ned opened his eyes slowly. Stared at the heart tree's sorrowful face.
Were the Old Gods truly warning him through a deserter's mouth?
Or was this the beginning of something darker?
"Keep him guarded," Ned finally ordered. "Give him food and water. Keep him alive."
He paused. "Don't confine him anymore. Let him get some air."
"Yes, my lord." Luwin bowed.
"We wait." Exhaustion crept into Ned's voice. "For the raven from King's Landing."
"If he's wrong, Ice will correct that error."
"If he's right..."
Ned didn't finish.
But the unspoken weight made Luwin's heart sink.
If he's right, then winter is coming.
A winter that will swallow the Seven Kingdoms whole.
Luwin left.
Ned stood alone in the godswood. He reached out, touching the heart tree's pale bark. The cold steadied his churning thoughts.
"Father," he whispered. "Brother."
"Guide me."
Wind stirred the red leaves. A silent answer.
In the tower room.
Lynn leaned against the cold stone wall, listening to his steady heartbeat.
He knew Luwin would deliver every word to Ned Stark.
He knew what choice Ned would make.
Wait.
The most precious thing he'd bought himself.
The hot soup and bread were repairing his battered body. Strength returning to his limbs, bit by bit.
The blue panel still floated in his vision.
[Host: Lynn]
[Strength: 4 (Sickly)]
[Agility: 5 (Normal)]
[Constitution: 4 (Sickly)]
[Skills: None]
[Experience: 0]
After rest, he'd recovered considerably. By tomorrow, he'd be fully restored.
Lynn's gaze drifted through the narrow window slit to the gray sky outside.
By now, Jon Arryn was long cold.
He was waiting for the raven from King's Landing.
Hurry up and come.
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