Damn it. Does that old fossil think I already have a maester’s chain? Jon thought.

  The quill scratched softly across the parchment.

  Jon did not look up, His eyes blurred at the sheer number of questions. The more he solved, the more seemed to appear. Were they breeding when he wasn’t looking?

  He had been bent over the parchment for near two hours. Jon’s fingers were beginning to tingle, stiff and numb from holding the quill so long, and a dull ache throbbed across his shoulders and neck. He shifted slightly, trying to stretch without letting Luwin notice. The room smelled of ink, dust, and the faint dry sweetness of old paper. Maester Luwin sat opposite him, hands folded into his sleeves, watching in that mild, patient way of his that somehow made the silence heavier. Occasionally, Jon caught the faintest curve at the corners of Luwin’s lips. Not a smile, but enough to suggest that the maester took some quiet amusement in watching him. Jon wondered, if the old man somehow drew pleasure from the discomfort he inflicted. Jon bent lower over the question Infront of him.

  Name the main battles of the Greyjoy Rebellion and indicate which side prevailed in each.

  He wrote steadily:

  The Burning of the Lannister Fleet — Ironborn success.

  Battle of Fair Isle — Royalist victory.

  Siege of Pyke — Royalist victory.

  His quill paused.

  There had been others, smaller clashes along the western shore, but these were the bones of it.

  Jon moved on.

  Explain why ravens are preferred over other birds for long-distance communication.

  A faint crease touched his brow.

  He dipped the quill again.

  Ravens are hardy birds capable of surviving cold climates and long flights. They can be trained to return to specific castles and perform reliably in poor weather.

  He added one more line after a brief hesitation:

  Their intelligence allows more dependable message delivery than common pigeons.

  That felt right.

  Across the table, parchment shifted softly as Luwin adjusted the stack before him.

  Jon’s eyes moved down.

  The next question made him exhale through his nose.

  If 12 men are sent to patrol the outer woods and each patrol covers 3 miles per day, how many days will it take to inspect a 90-mile stretch?

  Numbers.

  He worked it quickly, simple.

  Thirty days, he wrote.

  The answer looked clean on the page. He moved on.

  The final question he chose to answer drew his attention longer than the rest.

  Discuss the Age of Heroes: name at least two legendary figures and one widely circulated tale for each. What lessons may be drawn from these stories?

  He wrote:

  Bran the Builder — said to have raised the Wall. His tale teaches the value of foresight and alliance.

  Azor Ahai — the hero of the legends who forged Lightbringer to drive back the darkness. His tale warns that victory often demands terrible sacrifice.

  Jon thought alittle more and then added one final line beneath both.

  The tales of the Age of Heroes are often exaggerated; truth must be separated from legend with care.

  He sat back at last.

  “Finished?” Luwin asked mildly.

  “Yes, Maester.”

  Jon slid the parchment forward. His fingers were faintly smudged with ink. Jon exhaled, a long, heavy sigh escaping him. His chest felt lighter, as if the weight of the questions had finally lifted.

  Luwin did not speak for a long moment.

  He read.

  The maester’s eyes moved steadily down the page… paused… moved again.

  Then paused longer.

  One pale eyebrow twitched upward.

  Jon felt that, though Luwin had not yet looked up.

  The maester turned another page.

  At last, Luwin set the papers neatly together.

  His expression was calm.

  “Your recall is generally sound,” he said.

  Jon waited.

  A small beat passed.

  “But you grow careless when you grow confident.”

  Jon said. “Where, Maester?”

  Luwin tapped the parchment once with a thin finger.

  “The Greyjoy Rebellion answer is… incomplete. You omitted the Battle of Seagard, which was rather significant, I imagine.”

  Luwin’s finger moved slightly lower.

  “And your patrol calculation,” the maester continued mildly, “assumes twelve men cover ninety miles in sequence rather than in parallel. An understandable error… but still an error.”

  Jon’s brow knit.

  “…Maester,” he said after a moment, voice carefully even, “ninety divided by three is thirty. The figures are sound.”

  A pause.

  Luwin’s mouth twitched.

  “The arithmetic is not in dispute,” he said mildly.

  “Then the fault lies where?” he asked.

  Luwin’s finger tapped once beside the line — light, almost idle.

  “In the shape of the problem,” the maester said. “You answered as though the twelve men were marching the length one after the other.”

  Jon stilled.

  Luwin continued, tone as calm as still water.

  “I asked how long it would take them to inspect a ninety-mile stretch. Twelve men. Each covering three miles per day.”

  The chain at Luwin’s throat gave a faint, satisfied chime as he leaned back.

  “Your numbers were clean,” the maester said. “Your assumption was not, You solved the sum — but you answered the question you expected, not the one that was asked.”

  Jon’s jaw tightened. “How was I meant to know each man was a patrol?”

  Maester Luwin replied. “Because, Jon, the wording allows the possibility — and when a problem allows doubt, a careful mind seeks clarity.”

  Jon frowned faintly. “Clarity? This is a test. You wouldn’t have told me.”

  “So you decided not to even try to ask, you chose assumption over certainty.”

  Jon’s fingers tightened once around the quill, then loosened.

  Two mistakes.

  Jon exhaled slowly through his nose.

  Luwin finally looked up at him fully, eyes thoughtful.

  “Acceptable,” the maester said quietly.

  Jon gave a short nod.

  For a moment luwin said nothing, only studying Jon.

  Then the maester rose.

  “Come,” Luwin said simply.

  Jon asked while puzzled. “Maester?”

  Luwin was already moving toward the door.

  “The quill tests what you remember,” he said over his shoulder. “It does not always show how you think.”

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  Jon pushed back from the table and stood, a thin ribbon of tension tightening between his shoulders.

  “…And this will?” he asked.

  Luwin’s mouth curved slightly.

  “We shall see.”

  He opened the door to the adjoining chamber, and

  Jon followed.

  The chamber Luwin led him to smelled faintly of stone and something older, like it had been closed for years. A narrow beam of pale sunlight slanted through a high window.

  On the table lay a small collection of objects, each seemingly ordinary: a torn letter with a faded seal, a partial map of the Northern trade routes, a soaked raven note, a worn iron ring, and a ledger of grain tallies with some entries missing. Jon’s eyes flicked across them.

  “Your task,” Luwin said quietly, his voice steady, “is simple. Observe, reason, and report. Nothing more than that.”

  Jon bent closer, fingers hovering over the torn letter first. The seal was cracked and smudged.

  Jon straightened and cleared his throat. “The seal… it looks broken deliberately. The letter might be genuine, but someone wanted it to appear tampered with.”

  “Perhaps,” Luwin replied. “And what would you do next?”

  Jon hesitated. “Compare the handwriting with known letters. Ask the messenger. Confirm at Winterfell. If I could, I would cross-reference with other correspondence from this sender.”

  “Good,” Luwin said, fingers lightly steepling. “And if you could not confirm?”

  Jon scowled faintly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Then I admit I cannot be certain. I would act cautiously.”

  Luwin’s eyes flicked toward the ledger. “Numbers next.”

  Jon moved carefully. The ledger listed grain tallies for several keeps, but some rows stood blank — clean gaps where figures should have been.

  His finger traced the columns, lips moving faintly as he counted.

  Incomplete.

  Jon’s brow furrowed.

  This was deliberate — it had to be. Luwin did nothing by accident. The question, then, was not what was missing… but what could be made from what remained.

  A steward did not always receive perfect records.

  Sometimes you fixed what you were given.

  Jon reached for the quill.

  “If I distribute the remaining supplies proportionally…” he murmured, already writing. “The southern keep receives twelve, the central fifteen, the northern—”

  “Stop,” Luwin said mildly.

  Jon’s quill froze above the page, looking at the old man. “…Maester?”

  “You filled the gaps very quickly,” Luwin observed.

  Jon glanced back at the blank rows.

  “The totals demanded it,” he said carefully. “The numbers would not balance. no matter how I divide them, the distribution won’t be perfect. The best I can do is spread what remains proportionally, according to each keep.”

  “And where,” the maester asked gently, “did those missing figures come from?”

  Jon stilled.

  The answer came immediately.

  “…They were not given,” Jon admitted.

  “No,” Luwin agreed. “They were not.”

  A sudden spark lit within Jon’s mind.

  He saw it now — the shape of the trap.

  He had assumed the task was to repair the ledger… not to question it.

  Luwin tapped one of the empty lines with a thin finger.

  “A careful steward,” he said, “does not repair uncertainty with tidy invention. Sometimes the honest answer is not a number.”

  Jon exhaled through his nose.

  “…Insufficient data,” he said at last.

  “You see it now,” the maester said quietly. “But you moved too quickly, Jon. You sought to mend the numbers before you asked why they were broken.”

  Jon’s fingers rested lightly against the edge of the table. He did not argue.

  “In a quiet tower,” he continued mildly, “a missing figure is an inconvenience. In the real world…” His gaze sharpened a fraction. “…it is often the beginning of a disaster.”

  Jon’s brow creased faintly.

  “If this were a true ledger,” Luwin went on, tapping the blank column repeatedly, “grain has vanished. Not miscounted. Not misplaced. Vanished.”

  The word settled between them.

  “Where did it go?” the maester asked softly. “Who signed for it? Who failed to guard it? Was it theft… or incompetence?”

  Luwin leaned back slightly, studying him.

  “A lord who rushes to balance the books without asking,” he said, voice still gentle, “does not fix problems. He buries them.”

  Silence stretched.

  “I assumed the task was distribution,” finally Jon replied.

  “Yes,” Luwin said. “You did.”

  The maester’s expression was not unkind — but it was precise.

  “You are quick to act once your mind settles on a shape,” he continued. “That is a strength… until it is not.”

  “In Winterfell’s accounts,” Luwin said softly, “missing grain in winter could mean starving smallfolk. Or a steward lining his pockets. Or a garrison left undersupplied when the snows deepen. I do not fault you for hastening, Jon. In such plight, one must make the best of what remains—but first, always ask.”

  His gaze held Jon’s.

  “Before you fix a problem, you must learn to question the wound itself.”

  Jon was very still now.

  Luwin’s chain chimed faintly as he folded his hands.

  Jon set the ledger aside and picked up the partial map.

  This parchment was older — and handled far more roughly. The edges were thumb-worn, the ink in places deliberately scored through rather than faded by time.

  Jon leaned closer.

  Several trade routes had been scratched out with sharp, impatient strokes. Two minor towns were not merely missing — they had been carefully erased, as if someone had taken pains to remove them from the page.

  His brow furrowed.

  For a brief moment, a thought slipped in.

  This wasn’t damage.

  This was deliberate.

  The realization settled quietly, but firmly.

  His fingers twitched faintly above the parchment.

  For a brief moment, instinct pulled at him — to redraw the missing roads from memory, to repair the map. The knowledge was there, half-formed but reachable.

  Fix it.

  The urge was sharp but Jon stopped his hand.

  That had been the mistake before.

  Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his fingers to the table instead.

  His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the pattern again.

  “If this were simple damage,” he went on, more thoughtfully now, “the fading would be uneven. Random.” His fingertip tapped one of the cleanly scratched routes. “This is deliberate.”

  “If someone removed these roads intentionally…” His gaze lifted. “Then the question isn’t where the routes are.”

  A small pause.

  “It’s why someone wanted them forgotten.”

  Luwin said. “Go on.”

  Jon glanced back down.

  “A commander using this map would underestimate movement between these regions,” he said. “Supply lines. Reinforcements. Smuggling routes...He would think the land emptier than it is.”

  Silence stretched for a beat.

  Then—Luwin nodded slowly, eyes lingering on Jon. “Thoughtful,” he said quietly. “ Enough for me to keep watching.”

  Jon moved on to the soaked raven note. The message had bled in places, leaving fragments.

  Jon's eyes narrowing as he studied the damage. The ink had run in thin veins across the page—not the slow fading of age, but the sharp bleeding of water. Rain in flight, perhaps. Or rough handling at a rookery relay. Either way, the message had not arrived as it's sender intended.

  -: “…relay stops… …urgent… …north…”

  He frowned. His eyes lingered on the word URGENT.

  “Maester… should I… send a word immediately?”

  Jon thought carefully and added. “But there is the risk of my assumption being wrong. The message could be misrouted… or the urgency misinterpreted… people could be sent needlessly, or worse, miss the real danger.”

  “Indeed,” Luwin said mildly. “Sometimes the correct action is to wait, confirm and gather more information. Not all problems demand immediate motion. Patience is a tool as sharp as any sword.”

  Jon’s hand hovered over the soaked parchment. “Maester, if this is urgent, waiting could

  be dangerous,” he said, voice tight. “Sometimes immediate motion is the only way to prevent disaster or stop a threat before it spreads.”

  Luwin’s gaze lifted slowly, calm as always. “And yet,” he said, “rash motion can worsen disaster, scatter resources, or draw attention where none should be. Acting without certainty is like swinging a sword in the dark — you may strike what should be spared.”

  Jon pressed. “But if you wait too long, there may be nothing left to save. Patience is fine when there is time, but this… this is different. Sometimes hesitation is worse than a wrong choice.”

  The maester's eyes lit up at his words “True,” he admitted. “But the wise do not choose between motion and inaction blindly. They weigh, observe, calculate — and then act with precision. The art is knowing when urgency must override caution, and when patience allows the right move to succeed.”

  Jon said. “…So it’s not a choice between speed and slowness. It’s… both. Knowing which moment calls for which.”

  “Yes,” Luwin said. “The difference between disaster and triumph is rarely the strength of your arm, but the timing of your hand. One misstep born of haste may undo all your effort.”

  Jon looked at the soaked note one last time befor moving to the next object.

  Finally, Jon examined the iron ring. Worn and split at one end, it looked like a shackle—or a simple tool. He turned it slowly in his fingers, studying the scratches, the uneven wear, trying to divine its purpose.

  “Could be a ring of office,” he said at last. “Or a fastening device. Probably symbolic if not functional.”

  “Or perhaps not,” Luwin replied dryly.

  Jon frowned. There must be a reason. Every mark, every scratch… some meaning. He traced the edges, imagined every possible purpose.

  “I don’t… I can’t figure it,” Jon admitted sighing deeply this time, setting the ring down. “It should mean something, shouldn’t it?”

  Luwin leaned forward slightly. “Not always, Jon. Sometimes a thing exists without reason, without message. The world is not obliged to answer our questions.”

  Jon stared at him for a long moment, his grey eyes flattening into something dull and lifeless — the look of a boy who understood the lesson and resented it anyway.

  He did understand the logic… but gods, the old man was being low.

  Jon's eyes had one sentence in them. So… nothing?

  “Yes,” Luwin said, seeing the look in Jon and understanding what it meant. “Some puzzles have no solution. Some questions only reveal emptiness. Recognizing that—sitting with it—is a skill more useful than any answer you might force.”

  Jon exhaled. He had wanted to impose order, to discover meaning. But Luwin’s quiet words gave him a different direction: some things are meant to resist understanding.

  “However do not mistake emptiness for an excuse to stop seeking, Jon,” Luwin said softly, fingers steepled. “Some questions hold answers, some hold none—but a wise mind must learn to tell the difference, and to keep searching where answers do exist.”

  Jon set the ring back on the table, lingering on the wood for a moment. Nodding at the old man. The faint smile on the old man’s face was almost fond. For all the teasing, all the tests, all the struggle that day, Jon realized he had enjoyed it.

  Jon shook his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “And here I thought the whole day would be boring, just corrections and lessons.”

  Luwin allowed himself a quiet chuckle. “I assure you, It was indeed corrections and lessons but Lessons and amusement are not always enemies.”

  Luwin continued. “And remember, Jon : the mind is never finished learning.”

  “You made some errors in this test but errors are not failure,” Luwin said, almost gently. “Patience, caution, and the humility to admit limits are as important as knowing facts.”

  Jon straightened, glanced at the objects one last time, and left the chamber. Returning to the chamber they were in during the paper test.

  Maester Luwin perched on a narrow wooden chair, his chain chiming softly as he moved. Across from him, Jon sat with hands folded, watching the flicker of sunlight that fell across the table.

  “What kind of book do you want?” Luwin asked, his voice low and careful.

  Jon blinked. The question felt straightforward, but he hesitated. “Didn’t you intend to give me a book of your choice?” he asked.

  Luwin’s eyes twitched faintly. “I was merely asking out of curiosity,” he said.

  Jon leaned back, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes. “Then I look forward to your choice, Maester. Whatever it may be.”

  Luwin gave a slow, deliberate nod. “I would not disappoint,” he said, reaching beneath the table. His hand emerged with a single book, small, unassuming, bound in pale leather that smelled faintly of old wood and winter chill. He placed it gently before Jon.

  Jon picked it up carefully. It was lighter than he expected, thin, almost fragile. He opened the cover slowly, noting the neat, precise script inside.

  “This,” Luwin said, his voice low and measured, “is what a Stark may find interesting. Not a book of tales or imagination, but a book of analysis, of doubt, of reason. It gathers the northern tales from various sources, mostly concerned with your House.” He paused, letting the words settle. “Warging, the powers lost to history.”

  Jon turned the worn cover just enough to catch the faded script pressed into the leather: On the Mysteries of the North. The title alone made his brow knit, curiosity stirring despite himself.

  Jon turned the pages, absorbing the weight of it. His fingers lingered on the margin notes, small corrections and observations written in an almost imperceptible hand.

  Luwin’s eyes rested on Jon, calm and sharp. “Marvels have vanished from this world, Jon. I tried once, long ago, to study them, to trace what little truth survived in old tales. Some speak of Starks seeing through the eyes of wolves… a gift, or maybe a curse.”

  He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. “Actually I doubt you would reach anything from such marvels. I do not wish to indulge fanciful hopes. But… since you have shown interest in the old wonders, and you are not a boy lost in daydreams, I will hand it to you.”

  Jon’s lips pressed together, a mixture of anticipation and restraint in his expression.

  “I give it to you,” Luwin added, leaning back slightly, “Because, for once, a boy has made a maester’s hours... amusing.” His eyes flicked toward Jon briefly, a shadow of private thought passing behind the chain.

  Jon nodded once, holding the book.

  He understood. This was a beginning — not a promise of power, but a challenge and for the first time in weeks, he felt a flicker of… anticipation.