Maester Luwin's footsteps echoed through the empty stone corridor.
They were far more hurried than usual.
The metal links of his maester's chain, symbols of knowledge and reason, clinked together with a faint, frantic rattle as he walked.
He had just left the cell at the foot of the tower.
The young deserter's words haunted his mind like ghostly whispers, refusing to fade.
"The Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, is dead."
"He was murdered."
"Soon, a raven from King's Landing will bear witness for me."
These were not the ravings of a madman.
Those eyes, that unwavering tone, that terrifying logic connecting every clue.
First, the direwolf omen.
Then, the conspiracy in King's Landing.
Maester Luwin felt a chill rise from deep within him.
It was colder even than the ice and snow of a northern winter!
He had to tell Lord Ned everything at once.
He crossed the courtyard, the cold wind whipping his gray maester's robes.
The guards nodded to him, but he had no mind to respond.
He had only one destination.
The Godswood.
As he passed through the low ironwood gate, the clamor of the outside world vanished.
The damp scent of earth and rotting leaves washed over him.
This was the oldest place in Winterfell.
It was also the foundation of their faith in the Old Gods.
Ned Stark stood beneath the Heart Tree.
The great weirwood's bark was pale as bone, and its blood-red leaves rustled in the breeze.
Red sap ran down the strange face carved into its trunk, as though its eyes kept an eternal watch.
Ned did not turn.
He simply continued wiping the Valyrian greatsword Ice in his hands.
Dim ripples shimmered across the blade in the fading light.
"Maester."
Ned's low voice blended into the stillness of the Godswood.
"How is the deserter?"
Maester Luwin approached him and stopped.
He could hear the faint sound of water flowing over rocks in the hot spring pool nearby.
"He is very weak, but his life is not in danger."
Maester Luwin's voice was a little dry.
"My lord, he..."
Maester Luwin paused, seemingly weighing his words.
"He said a few more things."
Ned stopped wiping the sword.
He set the soft cloth on a nearby stone and turned.
His gray eyes settled on Maester Luwin.
They held the stillness and chill of the northern sky.
"What did he say?"
Maester Luwin drew a deep breath.
The cold air of the Godswood pierced his lungs, calming his tangled thoughts a little.
"He said the heart of the storm is not in the North."
"It is in King's Landing."
Ned's brow furrowed slightly.
Maester Luwin lowered his voice further.
Every word carried an extraordinary weight.
"He said... the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, is no longer among the living."
The air seemed to freeze at that moment.
Only the Heart Tree's red leaves continued to rustle.
Ned's expression did not change.
He remained like a silent statue.
Yet Maester Luwin could feel the atmosphere around him change.
It was the oppressive stillness before a storm.
"He also said..."
Maester Luwin struggled to continue.
"Lord Arryn did not die of illness or old age."
"He was murdered."
The word "murdered" fell like a stone into a still pool.
Ned's pupils suddenly contracted.
Jon Arryn.
The man who had been like a father to him.
The Warden of the Vale who had taught him honor and duty.
The current Hand of the King.
Murdered?
How could that be?
Robert could live as he pleased, drinking, feasting, whoring, gambling, and neglecting affairs of state, only because Arryn was holding everything together as his Hand!
"He also said the king will soon travel north."
Almost holding his breath, Maester Luwin delivered the final and most crucial words.
"To invite you south to take over as Hand of the King."
"And if you are even slightly careless, my lord, you will die as well!"
Dead silence.
The Godswood fell utterly silent.
Ned Stark said nothing.
He merely turned back toward the Heart Tree with its bloody tears.
His hand settled unconsciously on his sword hilt.
"A deserter from the Night's Watch."
Only after a long while did Ned speak again, his voice terribly hoarse.
"How did he learn any of this?"
"He said it was a warning from the Old Gods," Maester Luwin replied.
"The Old Gods..." Ned weighed the words.
As a northerner, he understood their significance better than anyone.
They were not statues of the Seven in southern septs.
They were whispers in the wind, leaves in the woods, flowing streams.
They were the ancient faith etched into every northerner's blood.
The faith of the Children of the Forest and the First Men.
The First Men had come to Westeros twelve thousand years ago.
To resist the First Men, the Children of the Forest had used ice magic to create the uncontrollable Night's King. Thus, after first fighting each other, the First Men and the Children of the Forest had made peace and united against the White Walkers, and the First Men had followed the Children of the Forest in worshipping the Old Gods.
Six thousand years later, the Andals had come to Westeros.
They had defeated the First Men and the Children of the Forest in turn, driving them north while claiming the south for themselves.
They worshipped the Seven: one god with seven different aspects, hence the name the Seven, also known as the New Gods.
Everyone in the south worshipped the Seven, while everyone in the north worshipped the Old Gods.
With faith involved, even if Ned had doubts, he had to reserve judgment for now.
"The direwolf, too."
Maester Luwin added another point.
"An antler pierced the mother wolf's throat, and there were lion claw marks on her body."
"Baratheon, Lannister, Stark."
"It is all too much of a coincidence, my lord."
Ned closed his eyes.
In his mind, he saw the young man's defiant gaze at the execution ground.
That young man had bound his own life tightly to the safety of the North and the fate of House Stark.
He had not been begging for mercy.
He had been giving a warning.
"He wants to live."
Ned's voice remained cold.
"He has invented a sensational story to buy his life."
"Perhaps." Maester Luwin did not argue.
"If the story is true, we cannot afford the consequences."
Ned slowly opened his eyes.
He looked at the sorrowful face of the Heart Tree.
Were the Old Gods truly warning him through a deserter's mouth?
Or was all of this merely the beginning of an even greater conspiracy?
"Have men keep a close watch on him."
At last, Ned gave his orders.
"Give him food and water. Make sure he stays alive."
Ned considered for a moment, then added,
"Do not keep him locked up any longer. Let him out for some air."
"Yes, my lord." Maester Luwin bowed in acknowledgment.
"We wait."
There was a trace of weariness in Ned's voice that would not fade.
"For the raven from King's Landing."
"If he is wrong, my Ice will correct that mistake."
"If... he is right."
Ned did not finish.
But the weight of those unspoken words made Maester Luwin's heart sink.
If he was right.
Then winter was coming.
A winter that would sweep across the entire Seven Kingdoms was approaching.
Maester Luwin left.
Ned Stark remained alone in the Godswood.
He reached out and gently touched the Heart Tree's pale bark.
Its cold touch brought a little calm to his troubled thoughts.
"Father."
He murmured softly.
"Brother."
"Please guide me."
The wind blew, and the red leaves swayed as though answering in silence.
In the tower room.
Lynn leaned against the cold stone wall, listening to his steady heartbeat.
He knew Maester Luwin would repeat every word he had said to Ned Stark.
He also knew what choice Ned Stark would make.
Waiting.
It was the most precious thing he had won for himself.
The warmth of the hot soup and bread was restoring this battered body.
Strength was slowly returning to every part of him.
The blue panel still hovered in Lynn's field of vision.
[Host: Lynn] [Strength: 4 (Sickly)] [Agility: 5 (Normal)] [Constitution: 4 (Sickly)] [Skills: None] [Experience: 0]
After resting, Lynn had recovered considerably. He reckoned he would be fully recovered by tomorrow!
Lynn gazed through the narrow gap in the window at the gray sky outside.
By now, Jon Arryn had long since gone cold.
Now he was waiting for the raven from King's Landing.
Hurry up and come.
Before you continue