Lynn woke to the sensation of motion — a slow, jolting rhythm beneath him.
His body ached as if it had been torn apart and reassembled, every joint burning with exhaustion. He was bound hand and foot, lying on a bed of rough hay at the back of a rattling wagon.
Across from him sat two familiar faces, bound the same way — Will and Gared.
"Should've stayed unconscious, boy," Gared muttered, eyes hollow with despair.
Will said nothing, his skin pale as snow, his back pressed hard against the wagon's side.
"What is this?" Lynn rasped, testing the ropes at his wrists.
"Execution," Gared said bitterly. "We barely made it back from the Ghost Forest alive — only to get found by our own. Nobody believed our story. The Night's Watch is calling us deserters."
Lynn blinked, stunned. Execution for failure — not even desertion.
The Night's Watch might forgive thieves and killers. But deserters? Never.
Gared's lips twisted into something like a grim smile.
"You're caught up in it too, lad. Three men alive from a patrol gone missing — they think we fled together."
"That's insane," Lynn snapped.
A soldier riding alongside the wagon smacked the sideboard with his sword hilt.
"Quiet down, you filthy cowards!"
Lynn clenched his jaw, forcing his temper down. The wagon creaked to a stop at the edge of a small northern outpost — a snow-covered manor where a troop of men waited.
Among them, he saw banners bearing the direwolf of House Stark.
Gared gave a humorless chuckle. "Home of honor and justice, right? We're done for."
By the time they hauled the prisoners before the gathered men, dawn was breaking — thin gray light spilling over the frost.
Lynn stumbled to his feet as soldiers pushed him forward. His clothes, torn and blackened from the Ghost Forest, barely clung to him. Even so, he recognized the tall man who rode forward on a bay horse.
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. Warden of the North.
Everything about him was as the tales described — steady eyes, a voice like cold stone. Honor made flesh.
Behind him stood his sons — Robb and the younger Bran — alongside a quiet, dark-haired youth with the eyes of the Wall's sky. Jon Snow. And smirking beside them… Theon Greyjoy.
"Bring them forward."
Eddard dismounted and took the greatsword handed to him by Theon — Ice.
The weapon was longer than some men were tall, its Valyrian steel a shadow-dark silver that seemed to drink the light.
Eddard peeled off his gloves and handed them to his captain, Jory Cassel. Then he stepped toward the condemned.
"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm —" he said, his voice ringing clear through the still morning — "I, Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, do sentence you to die."
He raised Ice, the massive blade catching the new sun.
Lynn stared up at him, icy wind biting through what little clothing he had left.
And in his mind, he thought dryly:
"Really? Execution already? Is that how every dragonborn story starts? In jail or at the chopping block? What's next — Alduin swooping in to save the day?"
But there would be no dragon this time.
If he was going to live, he would have to do it himself.
The blade began to fall.
Lynn's eyes met Eddard's — calm, unflinching, ancient. His lips moved, voice steady and low:
> "From the spirit of the lone wolf rides winter's breath.
> When antlers stained with blood pierce the North's protector,
> Six cubs shall rise in wind and snow —
> some to the wall, some to the wild.
> The lone wolf dies… the pack survives.
> Born of death, carried by winter."
The words rolled through the cold air like a whisper and a curse.
Eddard froze. The greatsword halted three inches above Lynn's neck.
The silence was absolute. Even the wind seemed to pause.
The lord of Winterfell frowned. The young man before him had no fear in his eyes — no madness, no lies. Only something hauntingly real. A prophecy.
For the first time in many years, Eddard Stark hesitated.
The moment of indecision saved Lynn's life.
House Stark carried the blood of the First Men — and with it, the old traditions. Eddard believed a man who passed sentence must look his condemned in the eye — and listen.
If the condemned's words still held truth or meaning, perhaps the gods demanded mercy.
Theon snarled, stepping forward. "Nonsense! Witch's lies!" He drew his sword, ready to strike.
"Stand down." Eddard's voice cracked like frost breaking. Theon flinched, retreating.
Then Lynn spoke again. "Not witchcraft — warning. Winter has already come, Lord Stark. The things beyond the Wall are waking. You'll find signs if you simply look. I trust the Lord of Winterfell values truth above pride."
Eddard studied him — the ragged clothes, the frostbite scars, the strange burn marks that didn't look human. The smell of death still clung to all three prisoners.
He remembered the reports — missing rangers, abandoned villages, whispers from the far North. And the stories Old Nan had told when he was a boy.
Things that only moved when the sun was gone.
"Where were they found?" Eddard asked one of the Watch soldiers.
The man stiffened. "Caught coming back from north of the Wall, my lord. They babbled about… White Walkers."
Eddard's eyes narrowed. "And you didn't verify this?"
The soldier hesitated.
Eddard's tone darkened. "So you sent three men — unexamined, untried, and un-investigated — to my field for execution?"
Murmurs rippled through the gathered men.
Then Gared shouted from his knees, desperation cracking his voice:
"My lord! I'm a ranger of the Night's Watch! That man's Will. We were part of Ser Waymar Royce's party. There were wights — real ones! He fell, the dead rose, and— and this man saved us!" He jerked his head toward Lynn.
"And he isn't one of us! He came north to help hunt wildlings — that's all!"
Eddard's face hardened. "Who ordered this?"
The soldier faltered. "Ser Alliser Thorne, my lord..."
Eddard exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Until this matter is investigated," he said finally, lowering Ice, "my sword will not claim innocent blood."
Turning, he called to his men. "Take them to Winterfell. Send a team north with this one…" — he gestured to Gared — "and confirm what truly happened in the Ghost Forest. If the dead walk again, I will know it."
As the guards stepped forward to unbind them, Eddard leaned close to Lynn. His voice was no more than a whisper between them.
"What you said — about six wolves and the winter to come…" His brow furrowed. "We'll speak of that again, when we're alone."
Then he stood back, straightening his cloak against the wind.
Behind his calm eyes, though, something lingered — an unease that not even the Lord of Winterfell could quiet.