"Lynn!"
Greatjon Umber's ruddy, drunken face was practically glued to Lynn's, his voice like thunder.
"Congratulations! Congratulations!"
His massive hand slapped heavily onto Lynn's shoulder. The force of it would have sent an ordinary man sprawling.
Lynn sat steadily, only offering a smile.
"Thank you."
"Thank me for what! Don't be a stranger, this is a massive piece of good news!"
Greatjon Umber grinned widely.
He looked around, raising his voice a few notches to ensure most of the hall could hear him.
"Ned just said it—we in the North are all one family!"
"Since we are all family, I'll voice my opinion."
"If you don't want to hear it, just pretend I'm farting!"
Crude laughter erupted from the crowd.
"Regarding the marriage of Lord Lynn and Lady Arya, I say we strike while the iron is hot!"
He slammed his hand onto the table.
"Everyone's here anyway, and the Godswood is right inside the castle. Let's just hold the wedding today!"
Greatjon Umber's suggestion was like a boulder dropped into a cauldron of boiling oil. The great hall fell silent for a moment before erupting in an even fiercer response.
"Lord Umber is right!"
"When we Northmen do things, we don't bother with those Southern formalities!"
"Yes! Right in the Godswood! Marrying before the Old Gods—that's the true way of the North!"
"All of us will be witnesses!"
The lords were highly excited; they favored this simple, direct approach.
War was imminent, and no one knew what tomorrow would bring.
Settling this joyous occasion now was undoubtedly the strongest morale booster for all the warriors soon heading south.
Lynn was somewhat stunned. He looked towards Ned Stark on the high seat.
A muscle twitched in Ned's cheek.
His forced smile, which he hadn't managed to retract, now looked even more strained and helpless.
He had wanted to keep this beloved, headache-inducing daughter of his for a few more days, savoring their last moments as father and child.
Yet, these rough lords wouldn't even grant him that small amount of time.
Ned saw the questioning gaze of his wife, Catelyn.
Although Catelyn was born in the South, having lived in the North for so many years, she knew exactly the nature of her husband's vassals.
They were incredibly crude, often speaking of bodily functions, but it could not be denied that they had no malicious intent.
Catelyn subtly shook her head, signaling Ned not to cross the crowd at this crucial moment.
At this time, the unity and morale of the North superseded everything else.
Ned's gaze finally landed beside Lynn.
Sometime unnoticed, Arya had slipped away from the other women and run over.
She stood right next to Lynn, her bright gray eyes showing not a trace of girlish shyness, but rather a light mixed with excitement, anticipation, and challenge.
She looked directly at her father, her expression clearly stating:
I am willing.
The last bit of struggle in Ned's heart vanished.
He sighed deeply, as if resigned, yet also relieved.
His daughter had, after all, found the most suitable destiny for her.
"Very well!"
Ned stood up.
His voice carried a trace of helplessness, but more prominently, the decisiveness of the Lord of Winterfell.
"Since everyone is so enthusiastic, let it be as Lord Umber suggested!"
He looked at Lynn and Arya, his expression turning incredibly serious.
"Tonight, in the Godswood, before the Old Gods, Lynn and Arya shall be wed!"
"Hooah!"
The cheers nearly pierced the sky.
Everyone sprang into action. The atmosphere of the feast transformed from a simple celebration into an all-hands-on-deck wedding preparation.
Maids rushed off to prepare suitable clothing for Arya.
Vayon Poole, the steward, began arranging the torches and procession for the journey to the Godswood.
The lords spontaneously took on the roles of temporary guards and wedding guests.
They clapped each other on the back, shouting about getting the best spot to witness the ceremony.
In the chaotic yet fervent atmosphere, Lynn felt as if he were being swept along by a massive current.
He looked at the girl beside him, whose cheeks were flushed with excitement. She was secretly glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
Upon realizing she had been caught, she immediately turned her head away stubbornly.
But the irrepressible smile playing on Arya's lips had already betrayed her feelings.
Lynn's heart softened as never before.
He reached out and, where others couldn't see, gently hooked Arya's pinky finger.
Arya's body instantly stiffened. Then, one by one, she pressed her fingers into his gaps—one, two, three... until their hands were tightly interlaced.
Her palm was cool and slightly sweaty, yet she held him so tightly, as if grasping the happiness of her entire life.
In a corner, Roose Bolton raised his cup and drained the crimson wine within.
He disliked the cheap ale, and also feared being poisoned, so he always brought his own wine, making him seem out of place here.
His eyes, so pale they were almost colorless, watched everything calmly.
It was as if this scene, significant enough to be recorded in the history of the North, was merely a boring farce.
A servant beside him asked quietly.
"My Lord, are you not going to watch the wedding?"
"Just a farce."
Roose Bolton's voice was very soft, like a snake sliding across sand.
"It was meant to be a game between the Lion and the Direwolf, but now a little dragon has appeared from nowhere."
"Interesting, truly interesting."
He stood up, not walking toward the festive crowd, but turning and walking out of the hall alone, blending into the cold shadows of the castle.
The servant dared not ask further and silently followed him.
Roose Bolton did not return to his guest room but walked onto the ramparts of Winterfell.
The evening chill whipped his cloak, embroidered with the Flayed Man sigil, making his already pale face appear even gloomier.
He gazed into the distance, his eyes seemingly piercing the darkness to see the far-off South.
This move by Ned Stark was indeed brilliant.
With one marriage, he had completely bound Lynn, the greatest variable, to the war chariot of House Stark.
From now on, Lynn's strength was House Stark's strength.
Lynn's glory was the glory of the entire North.
All potential suspicion, division, and mistrust had vanished before this hasty yet profoundly significant wedding.
The North had never been so unified.
And this was precisely the situation he least wanted to see.
The Bolton Family was one of the oldest families in the North; his ancestors had been Kings of the North until they finally submitted to Stark.
This ambition, hidden in his bloodline, had never died out with the passage of time; it had only been concealed more deeply.
Roose Bolton understood patience better than anyone.
He was like a leech lurking beneath the water, patiently waiting for the prey to weaken, then silently attaching himself to drain its blood.
Originally, Ned's journey south would have been a perfect opportunity.
Every Northman knew that once a member of House Stark went south, it inevitably ended poorly.
Ned, bound by his own sense of honor, choosing to go south to King's Landing to aid his friend, was already going against the tide.
After all, the Lannister and Baratheon were not easy to deal with.
Ned, serving as hand of the king, was bound to interfere with certain interests and would absolutely meet a bad end.
When chaos erupted, blood would surely flow like a river.
His original plan was to preserve the strength of The Dreadfort during the war, letting staunch Stark loyalists like the Umbers and Karstarks fight the Lannister to the death.
Once they were mutually exhausted, and Ned Stark and his heir Robb died in the war... then, a weakened North, a North without a backbone, wouldn't it be his for the taking, Roose Bolton?
But Lynn's appearance had ruined everything.
Not only was Ned unharmed, but he had returned safely to the North.
Furthermore, judging by his actions, he didn't intend to return to King's Landing.
He was just going to hole up in the North and wait for death.
How could this be allowed!
If Ned didn't go out and risk himself, he would forever be suppressed, and he would never rise.
Moreover, this Lynn's power was unfathomable.
Not only was his personal combat strength high, but he also commanded an army that no faction could afford to underestimate.
His arrival caused the North's strength to surge.
And now, he had become family to Stark.
A unified, powerful North was enough to crush any hidden conspiracy, including his own little schemes.
Roose Bolton's fingers gently rubbed the cold stone bricks of the rampart.
He could not wait any longer.
He truly could not wait.
If he waited any longer, even if he died of old age, he would not witness the Bolton Family rise to greatness again.
He had to do something.
And that Lynn looked even more cautious than he was; he was certainly not destined for a short life.
Since internal disruption was impossible... he would have to use external forces.
War... yes, war.
This impending war was no longer just a chance to weaken his rivals; it was his only chance.
He must make this war burn hotter, burn more fiercely, ideally dragging everyone in the North into the mire.
Only in the deepest chaos could the architects of order reap the greatest rewards.
An idea gradually took shape in his terrifyingly calm mind.
House Frey... Perhaps he could send some "kind" reminders to the late Lord Frey.
For example, the composition of the Northern army, the movements of the various lords, and... some "intelligence" regarding Lynn.
No matter how powerful an enemy was, if one knew their strengths and weaknesses, they were no longer so terrifying.
What he needed to do was ensure The Riverlands and the Vale fought House Stark with all their might, bleeding them dry.
And he, Roose Bolton, would be the one to clean up the mess.
"Peace is a lie. There is only chaos in the world, and my blade is still sharp."
He murmured softly, as if stating a fundamental truth.
A pale, cold smile finally appeared on his lifeless face... The Godswood of Winterfell was as silent as ever.
The massive white weirwood stood beside the black pool.
The carved face on the trunk wept red sap, like a pair of ancient, unchanging eyes watching every creature that entered this sacred place.
The lords held torches, illuminating the Godswood as bright as day, yet they all tacitly maintained silence.
This was a solemn place; no matter how wild a Northman was normally, he became a docile lamb upon entering.
They formed a semicircle, leaving the center spot for the couple about to be married.
There were no elaborate rituals, no chants from septons.
There was only the gaze of the Old Gods and the witness of the entire North.
Arya had changed into a set of gray riding leathers, which she had insisted upon herself.
The fabric was soft, the cut fitted, allowing for movement while maintaining solemnity.
Her hair was simply tied back, revealing her smooth forehead and the gray eyes that were identical to Ned's.
She stood beneath the weirwood, watching Lynn approach her step by step, led by her father.
The torchlight danced on his face, outlining his handsome features even more clearly.
His gaze was focused and deep, as if she were the only person in the world.
Arya's heart pounded rapidly, an unfamiliar sweetness rising in her throat.
Ned Stark, holding Lynn's hand, walked up to Arya.
Looking at his daughter—the one who had given him headaches since childhood, yet was also the most like him—his eyes welled up slightly.
He released Lynn and took Arya's hand instead.
Her hand was small, yet firm.
"Take care of her."
Ned only spoke these few words to Lynn, but they were heavier than any oath.
Lynn nodded solemnly.
"With my life."
Ned placed Arya's hand into Lynn's large palm.
Their two hands clasped.
Lynn looked at Arya before him, and she looked back at him.
In the firelight, the stubbornness and wildness in her eyes seemed to melt away, leaving only pure trust and joy.
Following the ancient traditions of the North, Lynn faced everyone, his voice clear and loud:
"Who gives this woman to me?"
Ned Stark stepped forward, answering in his capacity as father and Lord of Winterfell.
"I, Eddard Stark, husband of Catelyn of Riverrun, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North, give you my daughter, Arya Stark."
His gaze swept over every vassal present.
"Do you all agree to bear witness for them?"
"We do!"
The lords roared in unison, their voices shaking the trees.
Then, Lynn turned to Arya, and Arya turned to him.
No flowery language was needed, only the simplest, most ancient vows.
Lynn clasped her hand tightly and spoke word by word.
"In the sight of the gods and men, I take you as my wife."
"I vow that yours is mine and mine is yours. From this day forward, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, I will love you, honor you, and protect you, until death separates us."
Arya's eyes grew red.
She struggled to keep her eyes wide, preventing tears from falling.
She replied in an equally clear and resolute voice:
"In the sight of the gods and men, I take you as my husband."
"I vow that yours is mine and mine is yours. From this day forward, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, I will love you, honor you, and stand by you, until death separates us."
As the vows ended, Lynn slowly lowered his head.
Under the gaze of the weirwood's bleeding eyes, and witnessed by all the lords of the North, he kissed his bride.
In that moment, he was no longer a transmigrator from another world, nor the Lynn who had carefully planned every step for survival.
He was still Lynn.
Only now, he had become a part of the North.
And the husband of Arya Stark.
When their lips parted, a thunderous roar of cheers and blessings erupted from the crowd.
Lynn held Arya's hand, accepting everyone's blessings.
He could feel that the gazes directed at him had completely changed.
They held acceptance, kinship, and unreserved trust.
However, amidst the merriment, the corner of Lynn's eye seemed to catch a glimpse of a tall, thin figure darting past in the shadow of the ramparts.
The figure carried a chilling aura that clashed with the surroundings, like the most biting wind of winter.
It was Roose Bolton.
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