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The winter wind didn't just blow; it bit. It gnawed at exposed skin like an invisible beast.
Lynn stumbled forward, his boots dragging through the knee-deep snow.
Two guards flanked him, gripping his arms tight enough to bruise. Not that he could feel itâthe iron shackles around his wrists had long since leached the warmth from his blood. The cold wasn't just on his skin; it was in his marrow.
Every breath was a battle. The air tasted of ice and iron, stabbing his lungs with every inhale.
Lynn's bodyâthis new, borrowed bodyâwas failing.
The original owner, a Night's Watch deserter, had run himself ragged fleeing south. Hunger, terror, and the biting frost had hollowed him out. The adrenaline burst that saved his head moments ago was gone, leaving only exhaustion.
He was a walking corpse, kept moving only by the guards dragging him.
Ahead of him rode the Lord of Winterfell.
Eddard Stark sat atop his warhorse like a monolith. His back was broad, immovable. The greatsword Ice was sheathed across his back now, but its weight still pressed down on the entire column.
Behind him rode the wolf pack.
Robb Stark and Jon Snow, faces grim, murmuring in low tones. Theon Greyjoy, smirking at the wind, treating a man's execution like a morning outing. And little Bran Stark, pale and small, riding close to his father's stirrup.
Lynn's eyes drifted from the nobles back to the snow.
I survived the axe, he thought, his mind racing despite the cold. But for how long?
Ned Stark wasn't a fool. A story about White Walkers bought time, nothing more. If Lynn couldn't provide proof, or if the "prophecy" failed...
Ice would not miss a second time.
"Bran."
Ned Stark's voice rumbled over the howling wind. He didn't turn, but he slowed his horse.
"Do you understand why I brought you here today?"
Bran's knuckles were white on his reins. He looked up, his eyes wide.
"Jon said... he said I was old enough to watch."
"It is not about watching." Ned's tone shifted. It wasn't a lord speaking to a subject, but a father teaching a son. "Do you understand why I had to kill him?"
"Because he was a deserter," Bran answered instantly, reciting the lesson.
"Yes." Ned nodded. "But he was also a man."
The Lord of Winterfell looked out at the bleak horizon.
"Our laws are old, Bran. The penalty for desertion is death. I take no joy in it. But my duty allows no hesitation."
"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."
Lynn, dragging his feet through the snow, listened intently.
The classic line, he thought. Honorable to a fault. And that honor is the only reason I'm still breathing.
"If you would take a man's life," Ned continued, his voice heavy, "you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. If you cannot do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."
"One day, you will be Robb's bannerman. You will hold a keep for your brother and your King. You will deal justice."
"When that day comes, you must never kill for pleasure. But you must never look away."
"Face it. Or you will forget the value of life."
The Iron Law of the North.
Bran fell silent. The lesson was heavy, too heavy for a boy of summer. His mind was elsewhere.
"Father?"
Bran's voice was small, trembling slightly.
"The deserter... what he said."
"Is it true?"
The question hung in the air, sharper than the cold.
"Do the White Walkers... do they really exist?"
The atmosphere in the column snapped.
Robb and Jon stopped talking. Theon's smirk vanished. Every head turned. Dozens of eyes bored into Lynn, the man in rags at the back of the line.
Lynn kept his head down, acting the part of the broken prisoner. But inside, he was counting down.
Any second now.
Ned Stark didn't answer immediately. The wind whipped his grey cloak.
"The White Walkers are gone, Bran," Ned finally said. "They were defeated thousands of years ago, in the Age of Heroes. The Wall stands to keep the memory of them away."
"So... they're just stories?" Bran asked, hope in his voice.
Ned hesitated.
He was the Warden of the North. He knew the Old Gods. He knew that winter was coming.
"We have not seen them in eight thousand years," Ned said.
It wasn't a 'no'.
And that hesitation terrified Bran more than any monster story.
Suddenly, the horse at the front of the column reared.
"Lord Stark!"
Jon Snow's voice rang out, urgent and sharp.
The column ground to a halt. The guards shoved Lynn, nearly knocking him face-first into the snow.
He steadied himself and looked up.
There it is.
Jon Snow had dismounted. He was standing over a dark, massive shape lying in the snowbank near the bridge.
It was a beast. But no ordinary beast.
It was bigger than a pony, a mountain of grey fur and muscle. But it was still. Dead still.
Flies were already gathering despite the cold.
"A wolf?" Theon scoffed, riding closer. "It's a freak of nature."
"No," Robb said, his voice hushed with awe. "Not a wolf."
"A Direwolf."
The sigil of House Stark.
Ned Stark dismounted, his boots crunching heavily in the snow. He walked toward the carcass.
The beast lay on its side. Its throat had been torn open, not by a blade, but by a jagged, broken antler of a stag.
They had died killing each other.
Ned froze.
The wind seemed to stop.
The words of the deserter back at the execution block echoed in everyone's mind.
On your way back, you'll find a dead direwolf.
If there is no direwolf, take my head.
Slowly, terrifyingly slow, Eddard Stark turned around.
Across the snow, across the guards and the horses, the Warden of the North locked eyes with Lynn.
Lynn stood shivering in his rags, his face pale, his lips blue.
But he didn't look away.
He met the Wolf Lord's gaze, and for a split second, the fear in his eyes was gone.
Replaced by a silent message:
I told you so.