The prophecy came true

The smell of herbs mingled with old parchment in Maester Luwin's room, filling Lynn's nose.

Lynn lay facedown on a hardwood bed, bare to the waist.

He could clearly feel the coolness of the ointment suppressing the burning pain of torn flesh as it was applied to his wounds.

"You have a strong constitution."

Maester Luwin's voice was level, betraying neither pleasure nor displeasure.

"Your injuries are less severe than I expected."

He rebandaged Lynn with clean linen, his movements as practiced as though he were handling a fine piece of sheepskin.

"Who taught you swordsmanship?"

The maester asked the question with an air of casual interest.

"Alliser Thorne, the Night's Watch's master-at-arms."

Lynn's face was buried in the pillow, muffling his voice.

"He only taught us how to put a sword into someone as quickly as possible. Nothing else."

That answer made Maester Luwin's hands pause.

His gray eyes swept over the small, old scars crisscrossing Lynn's body.

Those were not wounds earned while running away.

They were medals bought with his life in countless head-on battles against Wildlings on the Wall.

A coward who deserted would not have such marks on his back.

"Get some rest."

Maester Luwin asked no more questions. He packed his medicine chest and turned to leave.

"His lordship said you may stay here until your wounds have healed."

The door closed softly, without being locked.

Lynn knew this was a signal from Ned Stark.

He was no longer a prisoner.

Instead, he was an unusual subject to be kept under observation.

Lynn let out a long breath. For now, there was nothing he needed to think about.

Heal.

Then wait.

Wait for the raven from King's Landing to put the final seal on all his "prophecies."

The next day, Lynn was allowed to move freely within the castle, with two guards always following at a measured distance.

It was surveillance rather than protection.

He did not go to the courtyard, where Robb and Theon were practicing with swords. The clanging irritated him.

He simply found a quiet corner, leaned against the cold stone wall, and basked in the North's meager sunlight.

He closed his eyes and began replaying his fight with the bandits that night, over and over.

The angle of every swing, the timing of every dodge, the feel of every spray of blood.

These lessons, paid for with his life on the line, were the true foundation of his survival.

A patter of footsteps, deliberately softened, interrupted his thoughts.

Lynn opened his eyes.

A small figure stood before him, blocking that hard-won shaft of sunlight.

It was Arya Stark.

The youngest daughter of the Lord of Winterfell.

She stood with her hands behind her back, wearing a drab gray boy's tunic. Her hair was a bird's nest, and flecks of mud dotted her face, but those gray eyes of House Stark shone remarkably bright.

She looked nothing like she did in the show. Though she was small and thin, the spark in her eyes gave her a wild beauty.

"They say you're a good fighter."

Arya's voice was clear, carrying the bluntness peculiar to the people of the North.

Lynn said nothing. He only watched her.

Arya stepped closer, her little fists clenched tight.

"The Night's Watch's swordsmanship is completely different from what Ser Rodrik teaches."

"Ser Rodrik says swordsmanship should be graceful, like dancing."

She curled her lip, clearly disagreeing.

"But yours isn't."

"Your sword is fast. Direct."

She seemed to be searching for a word to describe it.

The corner of Lynn's mouth lifted despite himself.

This little girl was a born she-wolf.

"You want to learn?"

Arya's eyes lit up at once, like two flames kindled in the dark.

She nodded vigorously, her expression utterly serious.

"Teach me."

There was a barely perceptible plea in the little girl's voice.

"Please."

Lynn looked at her, at those eyes brimming with longing.

An opportunity to forge a deeper connection with House Stark had just landed before him.

And through Ned Stark's beloved youngest daughter, no less.

"All right. I can teach you."

Lynn slowly stood and rolled his still-stiff shoulders.

"But this is a trade."

"You have to teach me something, too."

Arya froze, clearly not expecting such a request.

She tilted her head and thought for a moment. "But I don't know anything."

"Yes, you do."

Lynn smiled.

"For example, what secret passages are there in the castle that other people don't know about?"

"Which kitchen steward secretly stashes ale?"

"How do you sneak into the Godswood without being caught?"

Arya's mouth slowly formed an "O."

She had never imagined that the "bad things" she did every day could actually pay for lessons.

"I agree!"

She accepted at once, without the slightest hesitation.

"Deal."

"But not now. Wait until I've healed."

"And no one can know about this."

"Here!"

Arya held out her grubby little fist.

Lynn blinked.

Then he held out his own fist and gently bumped it against hers.

A simple pact was sealed.

Just then, an urgent peal of bells burst over the castle.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The sound from the maester's tower was deep and far-reaching.

A raven had arrived.

The smile vanished from Lynn's face.

He raised his head and looked toward the towering gray structure.

What he had been waiting for had finally come.

Arya heard the bells too. She gave the tower a puzzled glance, but soon turned her attention back to Lynn.

"It's settled! I'll come find you tonight!"

With that, Arya skipped away like a happy little deer.

Lynn did not move.

He simply stood quietly, sensing the changes unfolding within the castle.

The guards' footsteps grew hurried, and the servants lowered their voices as they whispered to one another.

An invisible tension was rapidly spreading through the air.

The storm had yet to break, but its winds were already rising.

In the main keep's study.

The fire blazed in the hearth, crackling loudly.

Yet the atmosphere in the room was colder than the snow and ice outside.

Ned Stark stood by the window, looking out at the gray sky.

He held a small piece of parchment.

Traces of sealing wax from the raven's message tube still clung to its edges.

Catelyn Tully, his wife, stood behind him.

Her face was filled with worry and grief she could not hide.

"Jon... he's dead."

Catelyn's voice trembled slightly.

Her sister, Lysa Arryn, was now a widow.

The ties between the two families were somewhat tangled.

Lysa Arryn had married the aging Lord Arryn late in his life, while Lysa was Catelyn's sister and Ned was Arryn's foster son.

Ned did not turn.

He remained silent, like a stone statue.

"The letter says it was a sudden illness. A fever."

Catelyn continued, her hands twisting her sleeves tightly.

"But in another letter Lysa sent in secret, she said..."

Catelyn paused, as though afraid to utter that terrible word.

"...it was murder."

"The Lannisters did it."

A deathly silence fell over the study.

Only the logs in the hearth gave their final mournful cries.

Ned slowly turned.

His face was expressionless, but a raging storm churned in his gray eyes.

Lynn's words echoed wildly through his mind like a curse.

"The Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn."

"He's dead."

"He will be murdered."

Every word had been true.

The prophecy had become reality.

"Robert... the king is on his way north."

Catelyn's voice was filled with unease.

"He's coming to Winterfell."

"He wants you to go south and take Jon's place as the new Hand of the King."

Ned closed his eyes.

"And that is where all the tragedy begins."

Lynn's words rang in his ears.

They sent a bone-deep chill through Ned.

It rose from the soles of his feet and swept through every limb in an instant.

Colder than the bitterest wind in the North.