The sudden appearance of the three-eyed raven turned the atmosphere in the room eerily strange.
Two eyes as black as ink, one as red as fire.
It stood silently on the windowsill, cocking its head.
Staring unblinkingly at Lynn.
That gaze did not belong to a beast.
It was the look of a higher intelligence, scrutinizing him through the vessel of a bird.
Maester Aemon's body trembled slightly.
Though blind, he could clearly feel that familiar presence.
"Brynden... is that you?"
There was uncertainty in Aemon's voice, mixed with the ache of old memories.
Brynden Rivers, known as "Bloodraven." The Great Bastard of House Targaryen, former Hand of the King, and once Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
A figure of legend. A greenseer. A skinchanger.
And also, Maester Aemon's uncle.
When Aemon came north to take the black, Brynden was among his escort.
He had been sent to the Wall for violating the sacred laws of guest right.
Years later, during a ranging beyond the Wall, Brynden disappeared and never returned.
He had carried with him Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel sword of Queen Visenya, and a weirwood longbow, an heirloom of the First Men.
Lynn's heart contracted sharply.
He knew exactly who this raven was.
The Three-Eyed Raven.
Every Brandon connected to this story seemed cursed or touched by magic.
Brynden, Brandon... the names echoed each other.
The ancient consciousness that the future Brandon Stark would inherit.
Why was he here?
Had he sensed the dragon egg?
Or had he been watching Lynn—this variable that didn't belong in this world—from the very beginning?
Questions exploded in Lynn's mind one after another.
He recalled the annoying cawing he had heard back in Winterfell.
Perhaps Brynden Rivers had been watching him all along.
Lynn felt as though he were standing naked before an omniscient prophet, his every deed exposed.
It was a terrible feeling.
Caw!
The three-eyed raven cried out again.
This time, the sound wasn't harsh or rasping. It carried a strange, rhythmic cadence.
As if it were speaking an ancient tongue.
Maester Aemon tilted his head, listening intently.
A look of understanding slowly dawned on his wrinkled face.
"I understand."
Maester Aemon nodded slowly, then turned to Lynn.
A light shone in his blind eyes, brighter than ever before.
"Lynn, this is the arrangement of fate."
"Even the Old Gods are urging us forward."
Lynn frowned deeply.
He looked at the uncanny bird on the windowsill, then at Aemon's face, beatific with "divine revelation," and felt a surge of irritation.
"Maester, it's just a bird!"
Lynn tried to shatter the weird atmosphere.
"Just a... slightly deformed bird!"
"No. I can hear him speaking to me."
Aemon shook his head, his tone absolutely certain.
"Brynden is a messenger. He is the eyes. He is the witness of the past and the future."
"He agrees with my decision."
"He tells me that this dragon is the key to ending the Long Night."
"He has even told me its name."
Aemon's voice drifted into something dreamlike.
"The Song of Ice and Fire shall be sung by it."
"Its name is 'Winter'."
Winter?
A storm raged in Lynn's mind.
This damned old crow even named the dragon in advance?
This is absurd!
This wasn't just a simple prophecy anymore. It was a script, written beforehand.
And was he, along with this egg, just a prop in that script?
A strong sense of being manipulated fueled Lynn's anger.
"Lord Commander!"
Lynn turned sharply to Jeor Mormont, who had remained silent.
"Are you truly going to stand by and watch Maester Aemon throw his life away?"
"He is the Maester of the Night's Watch! He is your wisest counselor!"
Lynn tried to pin his last hope on Mormont.
However, Mormont only looked at him in silence, his sharp eyes filled with exhaustion and resignation.
"Lynn."
After a long pause, Mormont spoke slowly.
"I command the Night's Watch."
"I know better than anyone what we are facing."
"A thousand men against an endless army of the dead."
"This is a war... we cannot win."
Mormont's voice was heavy with helplessness.
"Pleas for help, warnings... useless."
"The lords of the South see us as a pack of madmen."
"They do not see the darkness coming. They are drowning in their laughable game of thrones."
Mormont walked to the window, gazing out at the Wall, which glowed like a silver dragon under the moonlight.
"This Wall has guarded Westeros for eight thousand years."
"But it cannot hold much longer."
"We need a miracle, Lynn."
The Wall had magic woven into its foundations to bar the dead and the Others. But that magic was fading with time.
A sudden realization flashed through Lynn's mind. He felt he had grasped something crucial.
Silverwing had refused to fly over the Wall. Yet Daenerys had flown her three dragons north to save Jon Snow, and the Night King had gained an ice dragon for his trouble, using its blue flame to bring down the Wall.
Allowing the army of the dead to march south.
If that was the case... Lynn looked sharply at the dragon egg.
Is this egg the trump card the Night King needs to destroy the Wall?
While Lynn was lost in thought, Mormont turned back. His gaze fell upon the ice-blue egg.
"And now, a miracle is right before our eyes."
He looked at Lynn, his eyes pleading.
"I cannot stop Maester Aemon."
"Because I have no right to stop a hero willing to sacrifice himself to save the world."
"And... selfishly... I crave this miracle, too."
"I am tired, Lynn."
"I do not want to see my brothers die meaningless deaths under the claws of those monsters."
"If the birth of a dragon requires the life of a hundred-year-old man..."
"Then I am willing to bear that sin."
Mormont's words struck Lynn's heart like a warhammer.
He had nothing left to say.
They were all mad.
For a fleeting hope, they were willing to pay any price.
Lynn looked at the resolute Aemon, then at the tragic determination of Mormont.
"Fine."
Lynn took a deep breath.
"Since you have both decided."
"What do you need me to do?"
A smile of relief finally appeared on Maester Aemon's face.
"I need a place hot enough."
"A place where the fire burns brightest."
Lynn's gaze involuntarily drifted toward the heart of the castle.
The smithy.
There, the forge burned day and night.
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