[Author's Note: Based on HBO's Game of Thrones. Balanced System (Ice Magic, White Walker Necromancy, Faceless Men abilities). Harem/Multi-female leads. Fast-paced & Spicy . Daily Mass Updates!]
The bitter wind of the North howled, dragging shards of snow across a sky the color of dead iron.
The air tasted of frost and grave dirt.
Lynn's cheek was smashed against a rough wooden block. Wet moss scraped his skin. The wood was cold, but the phantom sting on the back of his neck burned hotter than fire.
The execution block.
In his peripheral vision: Legs. Dozens of them. Wrapped in thick leather and furs, forming a silent, suffocating circle.
Heavy breathing. The dull rattle of chainmail.
Then, a voice cut through the wind. Low. Final. Merciless.
"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men..."
Lynn's pupils dilated.
That voice. Those words.
He struggled to lift his head, but two hands—heavy as iron clamps—slammed him back down onto the wood.
"...Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
The voice boomed closer.
"I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you..."
Eddard Stark?
A headache split Lynn's skull open. Memories—jagged and foreign—crashed into his mind like a landslide.
He shouldn't be here. He was supposed to be flirting with his junior sister back on Earth. Not here. Not this.
Then, the new memories took hold.
A black cloak. The Wall holding back the endless night. And beyond it... eyes. Burning blue in the darkness.
He wasn't just Lynn anymore. He was a Night's Watchman.
And he was a deserter.
"...to die."
The hands released him.
SHING.
Steel sang as it left the scabbard. A sound so clear it seemed to sever the air itself.
Ice.
The Valyrian steel greatsword of House Stark. Dark as smoke. Rippled with spells lost to time. Wide as a man's palm and taller than Robb Stark.
Ordinary steel shattered against White Walkers. Valyrian steel killed them.
And now, it was going to kill him.
Lynn's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
No! I can't die like this!
As the shadow of the greatsword fell over his neck, a mechanical voice detonated in his brain.
[Detecting intense survival instinct...]
[System Activating...]
[Slaughter System: ONLINE!]
[Newbie Gift: Beginner's Protection (One-Use)]
[Host: Lynn]
Strength: 3 (Weak - Status: Malnourished)
Agility: 4 (Weak)
Constitution: 2 (Weak)
Reference: Healthy Adult Male = 3
[Skills: None]
[EXP: 0]
Tip: Kill enemies to gain EXP. Rewards scale with enemy strength. EXP upgrades skills.
Lynn's consciousness wavered.
A System?
He glanced at the stats. Weak. Weak. Weak.
The hope that had just ignited was instantly doused with ice water. With this trash body, he couldn't even crawl, let alone fight his way out of a circle of armed Northmen.
He felt the air pressure change. Ice was raised high.
Gravity was about to do the rest.
Even Ned Stark couldn't stop the swing once it started.
No time to think!
Lynn forced every ounce of air from his lungs, screaming through a throat raw with cold.
"THE OLD GODS GAVE ME A VISION!"
The scream tore through the solemn silence of the execution ground.
The blade faltered.
Instead of cleaving his neck, the massive greatsword jerked sideways and slammed into the wood—mere inches from Lynn's ear.
Thud.
Woodchips exploded. The wind from the blade's passage slashed his skin, raising goosebumps. He could smell the ancient, metallic scent of the Valyrian steel.
He was one inch away from being a headless corpse.
"Horseshit!"
A young, mocking voice broke the shock. "You'll say anything to save your worthless hide, coward."
Theon Greyjoy. Lynn didn't need to look to know that sneer.
Eddard Stark didn't speak. He stood frozen, the greatsword buried in the block, his grey eyes locked onto Lynn like a statue carved from duty.
But the blade had stopped. That was all that mattered.
Lynn's mind raced at supersonic speed.
Eddard Stark. The most honorable fool in Westeros. He valued duty above life. He followed the Old Ways.
The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.
If Lynn lied, he died. If he begged, he died.
The only way to survive was to use Ned Stark's own Code of Honor against him.
"My Lord."
Lynn's voice was no longer a scream. It was steady. heavy.
"I am a deserter. I broke my vows. By the laws of gods and men, I deserve to die."
A ripple of shock went through the onlookers. Even Theon looked confused.
No one expected a man on the block to confess.
Ned Stark's grip on the sword hilt tightened slightly.
"But I did not run from fear," Lynn continued, his voice gaining strength. "I ran because the Old Gods commanded it."
He twisted his neck, forcing himself to look up into the Warden of the North's eyes.
"I ran to bring a warning. A warning that is worth my life."
"The Old Gods showed me what is coming. Beyond the Wall... something has woken up."
"They ride dead horses. Their eyes burn like blue stars. And where they walk, the winter follows."
"White Walkers. They are not nursery rhymes, My Lord. They are here."
Lynn stripped away all flowery language. He poured the raw, primal terror of the original host's memories into his words.
The bone-deep cold. The silence of the grave.
The wind moaned across the hills, punctuating his speech.
Behind Ned, Robb Stark's hand drifted nervously to his sword hilt.
"My Lord, he's mad," Theon spat, trying to regain control of the situation. "Since when do the Old Gods speak to crave oathbreakers?"
Ned remained silent. He pulled Ice from the wood with a wet rasp.
He looked down at Lynn.
He was looking for the lie. He was looking for the shifting eyes of a deceiver.
But all he saw was terror—and absolute, unshakable certainty.
Lynn knew this was the tipping point.
"I see the future, Lord Stark. Not just the dead, but the living."
"Killing me is easy. One swing."
"But if you kill me, you kill the warning. You are the Shield of the Realms of Men. Will you risk the entire North for the sake of one deserter's head?"
"If you don't believe me, I will prove it."
Lynn stared straight into the grey eyes of the Wolf Lord.
"Right here. Right now."
Time seemed to stretch. Every heartbeat was agony.
Finally, Ned Stark spoke. His voice was gravel.
"What did you see?"
Lynn exhaled, his breath forming a white cloud.
"On your road back to Winterfell, you will find a dead Direwolf."
"She will have a stag's antler in her throat. And she will have left behind pups. One for each of your children."
Lynn paused, then delivered the final strike.
"If there is no Direwolf, My Lord... you can take my head yourself. I won't flinch."
Silence.
Then, the sound of steel sliding into leather.
"Take him," Ned ordered, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "Guard him well. If he lies, he dies at sunset."
Two guards hauled Lynn up from the mud.
Relief hit him like a physical blow. His legs turned to jelly, and he almost collapsed. As they dragged him away, he glanced back.
Eddard Stark was watching him.
Those grey eyes were no longer empty. They were filled with doubt. With questions.
Lynn had bought a lifeline from the Grim Reaper himself.
He slumped against the guards, shivering from the cold and the adrenaline dump.
But in his vision, the translucent blue interface floated silently, glowing against the grey sky.
The corner of Lynn's mouth twitched.
A smile, sharp and dangerous, crept across his face.