Osborn did not leave the hut in a hurry.
He left the way he had in recent days: his body loose enough to seem unalert, his steps without a clear purpose, like someone simply following the flow. He had learned quickly that the port did not punish those who went unnoticed — it punished those who looked too interested.
The path to the docks was no longer new. He knew the loose stones, the stretches where the sand grew softer after the tide, the places where empty barrels were stacked and later forgotten. Children ran among the adults as always; some laughed too loudly, others moved in silence, with that hollow attentiveness of those who had already learned not to expect anything.
He had not gone to watch anyone in particular.
He had gone to listen.
That was what the docks were: a place where no one spoke quietly because no one believed anyone was listening.
Ships were moored along the dark wood, and among them there was one that drew attention without trying. Black sails, worn by salt, and the kraken sigil visible enough to leave no doubt. Greyjoy. Osborn had seen that ship before, but now it was not the hull that mattered.
It was the voices.
Two sailors were sitting near a pile of thick ropes, drinking something thin from a shared flask. One had arms crusted with dried salt, skin burned by the sun; the other wore a headscarf tied loosely, as if he had forgotten the knot was there.
Osborn walked past them slowly.
He did not look directly.
But he listened.
"…I'm telling you, this won't end like this," said the one with the scarf, spitting on the ground. "Stark won't swallow this quietly."
The other let out a short laugh.
"No Stark would. But the old wolf doesn't rule everything anymore. The south is boiling."
Osborn slowed his pace without realizing it.
"You really think it was him?" the first asked. "The prince?"
"Who else?" the other replied. "Rhaegar disappears with the girl from the North and thinks no one will react?"
Something went cold inside Osborn.
Not his body.
His mind.
"Lyanna Stark," the sailor continued, now with less laughter and more caution in his voice. "Vanished out of nowhere. Some say she was taken. Others swear she went willingly. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that her brother is dead… and her father too."
The man with the scarf shook his head slowly.
"So what is the Baratheon going to do? Pretend she wasn't promised to him?"
Osborn was no longer walking.
He pretended to examine a cracked barrel, but every word was being carved into his thoughts.
"Robert won't accept it," the other said. "No one would. The Mad King didn't let it pass, and now… now it's war."
There was a brief silence.
The sea striking the pier.
"It's going to start," the man finished, more quietly. "This is just the beginning."
Osborn kept walking.
His heart beat steadily, but not fast. It was not panic. It was alignment.
He moved a few steps away, then a few more, until he was certain he was no longer close enough to draw attention. Only then did he let his thoughts run free.
Lyanna Stark.Rhaegar Targaryen.Robert Baratheon.
This was not an old rumor. Not a distant story.
It was the beginning.
He took a deep breath.
So it wasn't over.It hadn't truly begun yet.
If Lyanna had been taken now, if the Stark brothers had been alive not long ago, if Robert was only just reacting… then he had not fallen into the end of anything.
He had fallen into the spark.
The Rebellion.
The war he knew — not in exact details, but in weight — was not long. One, perhaps two years. Violent, fast, decisive. After that, the world would change hands.
Osborn stopped at the edge of the pier and looked out at the sea.
The horizon was the same as ever. Dirty blue, rolling, indifferent.
But now time had shape.
"So it's now…" he murmured.
He did not need dates. He had no calendars, no books, no one willing to explain chronology. It did not matter. What mattered was simple: he was before the fall.
Before the world reorganized itself.Before houses lost and gained power.Before chaos became order — and order became a cage.
On the way back, he began to notice different things. Not only who might be immediate danger, but who would be affected by the war. Sailors talking too much. Merchants on edge. Guards more alert than usual. More children on the streets — always the first sign of instability.
When he reached the hut, the sun was already higher.
Bill was outside, trying to adjust an improvised sling, missing more than hitting. He stopped when he saw Osborn.
"You took a while."
Osborn sat down on the ground, leaning his back against the wood.
"I needed to listen."
Bill frowned.
"Listen to what?"
Osborn stayed silent for a few seconds, sorting what could — and what could not — be said.
"The war is going to start," he said at last. "It's not over yet. Not even close."
Bill's eyes widened slightly.
"A real war?"
"Yes."
Osborn looked at his own hands.
"That means everything will get worse before it becomes stable."
"And for us?" Bill asked.
Osborn lifted his gaze.
"For us, it means we can't survive by thinking only about tomorrow anymore."
The wind slipped into the hut, carrying the distant smell of the sea.
"It means we have time," he continued. "But only if we use it well. Train. Grow. Organize. Because when the world decides who rules… those who aren't ready will be crushed."
Bill swallowed hard, but nodded.
Osborn closed his eyes for a moment.
He had not chosen that world.
But now he knew when he was in it.
And that changed everything.