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The Eyrie was silent.
The Vale's nobles had already dispersed, busy carrying out Lynn's orders.
The entire Moon Door Garden stood empty now, save for Lynn and his ten black-cloaked White Walkers, still as shadows in the dark.
Winter's massive form was coiled across the garden ruins. All three heads rested on its forepaws, eyes half-shut, feigning sleep. But its nostrils flared now and then, and a low rumble rolled from deep in its throat, a reminder that destruction was only a heartbeat away.
Lynn walked to the castle's edge and looked down at the churning sea of clouds below.
Conquering the Vale had gone far more smoothly than he'd expected. Military pressure, psychological warfare, a two-pronged approach that had cost him almost nothing.
Now the North and the Vale were one continuous territory. His power base had never been more solid.
He was already turning over his next move , what to do about that madwoman Lysa — when a sensation hit him from behind without warning.
Intense. Someone watching.
Lynn turned slowly, gaze sharp, sweeping the space behind him.
Nothing. Only his ten White Walkers, standing motionless in the shadows, indistinguishable from the dark.
Something was wrong.
His eyes moved to the high tower's crenellations.
A crow sat there. He hadn't noticed it before.
Not an ordinary crow. Its body was larger, its feathers a flawless, unbroken black. And it had three eyes, two normal ones flanking a third, dead center in its forehead, blood-red and pupilless. Just a swirling void of crimson, like a whirlpool opening onto an endless abyss.
That watching sensation. It had come from there.
The Three-Eyed Raven.
Wearing the skin of Brynden Rivers, the old Bloodraven, an ancient thing that had lived for gods knew how long. One of the hidden hands pulling strings beyond the Wall, lurking in his weirwood cave, trying to shape the fate of all Westeros.
That he'd tracked Lynn here meant only one thing.
He was getting anxious.
Even as Lynn processed that thought, the Three-Eyed Raven spread its wings and drifted silently to hover before him. It didn't land. It hung in the air, all three eyes fixed on Lynn.
Then it lunged.
Not at his eyes. Not at his throat.
His ear.
Its sharp beak tapped his earlobe, barely a touch, painless. But a current of thought flooded directly into his mind.
An ancient voice spoke.
"Bring him..."
"To Castle Black..."
"The time... has come..."
Lynn understood immediately.
It wanted Robert Arryn.
This was the deal they'd made. That sickly, dim-witted, still-nursing little lord of the Vale, the one Lynn had just secured.
The Three-Eyed Raven believed Robert Arryn's frail body and equally frail mind made him the perfect vessel for the next Greenseer. It wanted to possess him. Hollow him out and move in.
A flash of killing intent crossed Lynn's eyes.
He had promised the Vale he would protect Robert. Raise him into a proper lord. That promise was the foundation of his control over the Vale, the guarantee of his credibility.
Hand over a living person to some ancient creature as a spare body? Let it gut the boy from the inside out?
Old thing, trying to run a switcheroo right under my nose?
You haven't suffered enough.
Lynn's face didn't change.
But through the link, his thoughts came through clean and clear.
"Alright."
"Don't forget my Nature Magic and Music Magic."
Simple. Decisive. Dripping with sincerity and the promise of mutual benefit.
The Three-Eyed Raven seemed satisfied with his cooperation. The churning vortex in that third red eye slowed and stilled. It tapped his ear once more with its beak, a gesture of approval, then spread its wings, dissolved into a black smear, and vanished into the clouds.
The watching sensation vanished with it.
Lynn stood still for a moment.
He raised a hand and touched his earlobe. A cold, cruel smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
Possession? Sure.
You want to play? I'll play with you all the way to the end.
The only question is whether that powerful soul of yours can survive the gift I'm preparing.
The Three-Eyed Raven had never noticed anything unusual about his guards. It had looked right at ten White Walkers and seen nothing worth examining.
That told Lynn two things.
First: the Three-Eyed Raven couldn't use greensight without cost, same as anyone else. At this distance, the mental expenditure was too steep. It had to ration itself.
Lynn didn't have that problem. The transmigrator's native mental strength, amplified by the Night King's gift, had already put him well ahead of the Three-Eyed Raven in raw psychic power. He had the ability to go toe-to-toe with the old thing now.
Second: the Three-Eyed Raven hunted for inconsistencies through vision. If something looked wrong, it would dig deeper. If nothing looked wrong, it moved on and saved the energy.
His White Walkers were standing right there in plain sight. The Raven had decided that was reasonable and hadn't bothered to look closer.
The old creature was stingy with its greensight. It skimmed the surface and extracted only what it needed, nothing more.
Lynn was the opposite. When he investigated someone, he went all the way down, family ties, daily habits, what they ate for breakfast, which woman they'd been with the night before. Total coverage, no exceptions.
"Come."
He spoke into the shadows.
One of the black-cloaked White Walkers stepped forward, moving with that familiar rigid gait. The smallest of the ten.
Greensight, active.
This time Lynn's target wasn't the North or the distant Riverlands. Just the Eyrie itself.
His consciousness spread like an invisible web, blanketing every corner of the castle in an instant.
He found Robert Arryn.
The boy was packing his things, preparing for the journey to Winterfell. He clutched a toy to his chest, face pinched with fear and confusion, crying softly to himself.
Lynn didn't disturb him.
He simply observed, precise as a scanner, burning every detail into memory. Height. Weight. The way he walked. The way he spoke. How he bit his fingers without thinking whenever he was scared.
Every detail, catalogued and locked in.
Then Lynn poured all of it into a blank human-skin mask.
He pressed the mask slowly onto the White Walker's face.
The White Walker's body convulsed.
Its eyes, burning blue, flickered violently, brightness stuttering in and out. Then its body began to change, visibly, undeniably. Stiff bones cracked and popped as its height shrank inch by inch. The oversized black cloak hung loose where it had fit before.
As Lynn's mental energy flowed in, the blank mask stirred. It moved on its own, reshaping itself, features pulling and settling into place.
Facial structure. Contours. The texture of skin.
A face emerged, Robert Arryn's face, down to the faint freckles scattered across his cheeks.
"Wah... Mama... I'm scared..."
"Robert" spoke.
The voice. The tone. That bone-deep, helpless timidity. Indistinguishable from the real thing.
It raised its hand instinctively toward its mouth. Lynn caught the wrist before it got there.
"Very good."
He nodded.
The actor was ready. Now he just had to wait for the lofty Greenseer to come collect his surprise.
He was genuinely curious what expression that ancient, powerful soul would make when it dove eagerly into a body built from nothing but death and ice.
Would that make a new Night King?
Lynn was looking forward to finding out.
Divinity handled. Time to deal with mortals.
His gaze turned south.
The Riverlands. Riverrun.
...
Riverrun, the castle House Tully had called home for generations, was alive with celebration today.
Banners bearing the silver trout flew alongside House Frey's grey-and-blue twin towers, hung side by side along the battlements. The heir of House Tully, Lord of Riverrun, Edmure, was getting married.
The bride was Roslin Frey, the most beautiful of old Walder Frey's many daughters.
Inside the great hall, the long tables groaned under a lavish feast. Bards played bright, cheerful music. Nobles raised their cups, traded toasts, laughed and talked. Everything looked festive. Everything looked peaceful.
Edmure Tully sat in the place of honor, his new bride beside him.
Roslin Frey's eyes held nothing but timidity and submission. She had known her fate long before today. She had made her peace with it.
Edmure wore a new formal doublet and a rigid smile, responding mechanically to each guest who came to toast him. His gaze kept drifting to Walder Frey, seated not far down the table.
The old man's face was a map of wrinkles, his mouth nearly toothless, and right now he wore an expression of pure, satisfied smugness. His cloudy eyes moved over Roslin with an open, greedy leer.
Edmure's gut turned.
He knew exactly what he was. A puppet. Nothing more.
When that madwoman Lysa had fled to the Twins and traded away the entire Vale, herself included, in exchange for House Frey's protection, Edmure had lost Riverrun along with it. This wedding was a transaction. His dignity, House Tully's dignity, bartered for Frey swords to use against the North.
The bitter joke of it was that news from the Eyrie had arrived just before the ceremony began.
The Vale had surrendered.
Lynn had taken the Eyrie without spilling a single drop of blood.
And here Edmure sat, still performing this farce for an audience of rats.
He felt like a clown.
The wedding music scraped at his ears.
This wasn't a wedding.
This was a funeral. His funeral. House Tully's funeral.
And today was only the opening ceremony.