The coronation of the King in the North had unfolded almost like a farce, yet its outcome was beyond dispute.
The moment Joffrey was dragged away, all of Winterfell was swept up in delirious joy.
The lords finally had a true king who could lead them against the Long Night.
The common folk, meanwhile, delighted in recounting the ridiculous sight of the little king wetting himself in public.
The celebratory feast lasted late into the night.
Lynn did not join them. He left the remaining arrangements to Ned and Tyrion and returned to his room.
He needed to consider how to reshape the North into exactly what he wanted.
But unexpected events always disrupted his plans.
Early the next morning, a frantic, desperate cry shattered Winterfell's morning peace.
"Help! Someone, please save my child!"
A farmer in ragged linen clothes staggered into the castle courtyard, carrying a boy covered in blood.
The boy looked no older than seven or eight. A wound on his lower leg cut so deep that the bone was visible.
It looked as though some sharp farming tool had caused it, and dirt and bits of grass clung to the wound.
"Quick! Fetch Maester Luwin!"
The courtyard guards reacted at once, keeping order while sending someone to summon the maester.
Soon, Maester Luwin hurried over with his medicine chest.
He crouched down and briefly examined the boy's wound, his brow furrowing deeply.
"The wound is too deep. We must treat it immediately."
Maester Luwin opened his medicine chest and took out a set of tools.
There was a small knife that did not look particularly clean, some gauze, and a glass jar full of leeches.
He was about to use the knife to clean away the flesh around the wound.
"I'd strongly advise against that."
A