Time stretched endlessly in the dead silence of waiting.
The night at Castle Black felt longer and colder than anywhere else in the world.
Lynn was as still as stone, leaning against the frozen wall of the tower. The biting cold had long since numbed his skin, but he paid it no mind.
His entire focus was locked on the window at the top of the tower, where a dim, yellow light still glowed.
He could imagine the "Old Bear," Mormont, at this very moment. Perhaps sitting before the hearth with a cup of strong wine, leafing through ancient scrolls about wildlings and Others.
He might still be scoffing at the absurdity of Lynn's frantic advice from earlier in the day, yet the deeply ingrained caution of an old soldier likely kept him from sleeping soundly.
Lynn's mind was racing.
He wasn't a bloodthirsty madman, nor was he a green boy desperate to prove himself.
Every action he took had a clear purpose.
Saving Mormont wasn't just to repay the Old Bear for letting him leave; it was for something far more important.
Longclaw.
The Valyrian steel bastard sword.
In a world about to be swept by the Others, a weapon of Valyrian steel was invaluable. It was not just a symbol of status, but the sharpest weapon against the darkness.
He knew Longclaw was in Mormont's room. It had been put aside, hidden away due to the shame brought by his son, Jorah Mormont, who had fled into exile.
Mormont would never pass it to a disgraced son.
And Lynn—a "prophet" who saved his life and proved the threat of the Others—would be the most suitable, perhaps the only, candidate to receive that blade.
This game of chess had begun the moment he suggested burning the bodies.
Mormont's refusal was expected.
In fact, it was better this way.
Only when Mormont experienced the horror of the wights firsthand, only when he saw himself pulled back from the brink of death by Lynn...
Only then would his gratitude and trust reach their peak!
When that moment came, accepting Longclaw would seem natural, inevitable.
"Lynn?"
A suppressed voice came from below.
Lynn looked down to see the young, confused face of Jon Snow.
Wrapped in a black cloak, Jon had crept over quietly, his direwolf Ghost trailing behind him.
"What are you doing here?" Jon whispered, looking up at Lynn clinging to the wall. "The whole castle is saying you've gone mad."
"Let them talk. Go back to sleep, Jon," Lynn replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "This is no place for you."
"I can't sleep," Jon shook his head. "Ghost is restless. He won't go inside."
The direwolf at his side let out a low growl, his red eyes fixed on the top of the tower, filled with hostility.
"Is something... really going to happen here?" Jon's voice trembled slightly.
Lynn was silent for a moment.
"Jon, listen."
Lynn slid soundlessly down the wall, landing steadily in front of Jon.
"There are some things you are better off not seeing."
He looked into Jon's grey eyes—so full of stubbornness, just like Ned Stark's—and sighed.
"Fine. Since you're here."
Lynn pointed to the shadows near the stairwell.
"Stay there. With Harvey and the others."
"Remember, no matter what happens, do not be rash. Protect yourself first. And your sister, Arya."
"Arya?" Jon paused.
"She won't be able to sleep either. I expect she'll sneak over soon enough."
Lynn knew that little girl too well.
A bitter smile touched Jon's lips, and he nodded. He took Ghost and retreated into the shadows where Harvey's squad lay in wait.
Lynn turned his gaze back to the top of the tower.
Seconds ticked into minutes.
On the other side of the castle, in Maester Aemon's chambers.
The centenarian Maester sat alone in the darkness.
His sightless eyes were turned toward the black-draped corpse in the center of the room.
He could see nothing, but he could listen.
He could hear the wind, the crackle of the fire, the distant footsteps of the Night's Watch patrols.
And he could hear something else.
Something... not of this world.
It was a faint, minute sound, like ice cracking deep within bone.
Crack... snap...
Maester Aemon leaned forward slightly, his wrinkled face betraying no emotion.
He remembered Lynn's words from the day.
"Burn them."
He recalled the ancient Targaryen records about the Long Night and the Others.
He had spent his life in the company of books and knowledge. He believed in logic, in reason.
But he also knew that there were too many things in this world that logic and reason could not explain.
Like dragons.
Like... the Others.
Outside the door, Torren and his thirty Northern soldiers had the infirmary completely surrounded.
Swords in hand, torches ready.
Every man was as tense as a drawn bowstring.
Back in the Lord Commander's quarters.
Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, finally felt the weight of exhaustion.
He was no longer a young man.
The day's chaos, Lynn's frantic warnings, and the two eerie corpses had kept his nerves taut all day.
He downed the last of his strong wine.
The spicy liquid burned like fire down his throat and into his stomach, chasing away some of the chill that had settled in his bones.
He stood and walked to the long table in the center of the room that served as a makeshift bier.
There lay Othor's body, covered by a rough black cloak.
"Hah..."
Mormont sighed, reaching out with a calloused hand to lift a corner of the cloak.
In the firelight, Othor's face was a lifeless, pale blue.
His expression was peaceful, as if he were merely sleeping.
But those unblinking eyes shone with a bizarre, unnatural blue.
"Madness, is it?"
Mormont shook his head, muttering to himself.
He still couldn't bring himself to believe Lynn's warnings; they sounded too much like fairy tales.
The raven on his shoulder suddenly flapped its wings uneasily and gave a raspy caw.
"Quiet now."
Mormont patted its head.
He took off his outer tunic, preparing for bed.
His nerves were frayed; he felt too old for this.
He lay down and blew out the candle by his bedside.
Instantly, the room plunged into darkness.
Only the faint glow of the dying embers in the hearth remained, casting flickering shadows across the great map of the North on the wall.
Silence reigned.
Suddenly.
Crack.
A soft sound, like bones twisting, echoed in the silent room.
Mormont's eyes snapped open.