Robb Stark paced back and forth outside Lynn's door.
The packed snow crunched loudly beneath his boots, a testament to the anxiety practically spilling out of him.
He had just spent what felt like an eternity withstanding his mother's glare—a look that could curdle milk—while trying to explain himself. Then he'd endured his sister Arya looking at him like he was a complete lackwit. Finally, he had found a moment to slip away.
"Lynn!"
Robb couldn't hold back any longer. He shoved the door open, completely forgetting the courtesy of knocking.
Lynn was sitting by the hearth, with Myrcella nestled against him like a little bird. He didn't even look up at the intrusion.
" The door wasn't locked, but I'd suggest knocking next time. What if I was busy securing the succession?"
"I just got word—Theon, that bastard, he actually ran!"
Robb was in no mood for jokes. He stormed up to Lynn.
Myrcella, reading the room, quickly straightened her disheveled tunic, curtsied to the men, and slipped out the door.
"I've had men searching everywhere for days. We turned the castle inside out, scoured the lands around Winterfell... it's like he vanished into thin air."
Robb crushed the parchment in his hand until his knuckles turned white.
The letter was from Deepwood Motte. It confirmed that Theon Greyjoy had deserted the Northern guard and ridden alone toward the Stony Shore on the west coast.
"He's going back to the Iron Islands. Balon is going to make a move on the North, I know it!"
Robb's worry was written plainly on his face. He knew Theon, and he knew of Theon's father, Balon. The ambition of House Greyjoy had never truly died; they were just waiting for the tide to turn.
"That turncoat!"
"Father treated him like a son. I treated him like a brother. And he chooses now to stick a knife in our backs?"
Robb's fist was clenched so tight the veins stood out on his hand.
"He's heading for Pyke, no doubt about it."
"I'm worried... I'm worried that old kraken Balon Greyjoy will wait until we march south and then strike at our rear!"
"The Iron Fleet..."
"Look at you, all in a dither. I thought the sky was falling."
Lynn finally looked up.
He regarded the frantic Robb with a face devoid of surprise or panic. There was only a knowing smile.
"So he ran. Let him run."
"What do you mean, 'let him run'?!" Robb couldn't believe his ears.
"Lynn, this isn't a small matter! If the Ironborn land at Moat Cailin, the entire western coast of the North will be laid bare for them to reave and rape! We'll be caught between hammer and anvil..."
"So?" Lynn cut him off.
"What do you intend to do?"
"Send men to chase him down now? Or split your forces immediately to guard the coast?"
Robb choked on his words.
Chase him? Theon was long gone; only the gods knew where.
Split the army? The North was vast and sparsely populated as it was. Their forces were already stretched thin. Sending men to guard a coastline that stretched for hundreds of leagues would be like trying to put out a forest fire with a single bucket of water.
"Those water-rats from the Iron Islands... they can't build anything lasting," Lynn said, standing up and walking to the window to watch the snow falling over Winterfell.
"Their only strength is at sea."
"Once they set foot on dry land, they're worse fighters than common brigands. Balon Greyjoy is an ambitious fool without the brains to match."
"He thinks he can restore the 'Old Way,' but he forgets that the world has moved on."
"But..." Robb started.
"No 'buts'." Lynn turned to face him. "Remember this, Robb: the worst mistake in war is letting the enemy lead you by the nose."
Robb looked into Lynn's calm eyes, and the fire of his anxiety began to cool.
"So... we do nothing?"
"Who said we're doing nothing?" Lynn smiled.
"I merely said we don't need to do it ourselves. There is someone far more suited for the task."
Lynn clapped his hands lightly.
A shadow detached itself from the darkness outside the door and slipped into the room without a sound.
Robb jumped, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword.
It was Jaqen H'ghar. Since his return, he had been shadowing Lynn constantly.
Jaqen spoke in his peculiar, rhythmic cadence, thick with the accent of the Free Cities.
"A man will go to the Iron Islands."
Lynn explained to Robb, "He will bring back a head, and a person."
Robb's pupils contracted. "The head... Balon Greyjoy's?"
"A house that loses its head falls into chaos," Lynn said, sounding as if he held the entire world in his palm. "Especially a house like the Greyjoys, who only understand the language of strength."
"Once Balon dies, his brothers—Euron and Victarion—and that ambitious daughter of his will tear each other apart like dogs fighting over a bone to decide who sits the Seastone Chair."
It was well known that Victarion and Euron despised one another. Euron had once bedded Victarion's salt wife. To keep his honor, Victarion had been forced to kill the woman with his own hands. He had hated Euron ever since and had never taken another wife.
"They will have neither the energy nor the unity to harass the North."
"As for the person..." Lynn's gaze turned amused. "Theon Greyjoy. He will come back."
"But in a way he never expected."
"Trust me. A 'kinslayer,' a traitor, a hostage who lost his inheritance... when he returns to Winterfell, he will be thoroughly broken to the bit."
A chill ran down Robb's spine.
Looking at Lynn, he felt it for the first time—the sheer ruthlessness of the man standing before him.
Assassinating Balon directly? Robb wouldn't have dared to even think it. Yet Lynn spoke of it as casually as one might discuss breaking a fast.
"Rest easy, Robb." Lynn patted his shoulder.
"The war has already begun. From this moment on, put away your unnecessary mercy and your knightly chivalry."
"Mercy to the enemy is cruelty to yourself."
"You have much to learn."
---
Three days later, Winterfell bustled with a liveliness it hadn't seen in years.
Answering the call of the Direwolf, the pack was gathering. Lords from every corner of the North poured in.
Outside the castle walls, a city of tents sprouted from the snow—a spectacular encampment. Banners of every sigil snapped in the biting wind. The air was filled with the whinnying of horses, the shouting of men, and the clanking of steel.
Ned Stark, flanked by Robb and Lynn, stood at the Hunter's Gate to personally welcome the bannermen arriving for the "Harvest Council."
"HO! NED!"
"You old wolf! You went to the snake pit of King's Landing and didn't die!"
"Gods be good!"
A thunderous roar rolled in from the distance, vibrating in everyone's chest.
A man the size of a giant, riding a horse that towered over regular warhorses, charged to the front. He wore only a heavy bearskin cloak, exposing muscles like knotted iron to the freezing air. He seemed to ignore the Northern cold entirely.
It was the Lord of Last Hearth, the "Greatjon," Jon Umber.
He swung down from his horse, the ground seemingly trembling with each step. He marched up to Ned and slammed a hand the size of a ham onto Ned's shoulder with a heavy thud.
"Heard you took a bellyful of shit from those southerners in the capital?"
"Told you, that place is no good for us! Look at you, you've wasted away!"
Ned staggered under the blow but offered a helpless, warm smile.
Wasted away? Since Lynn had returned to King's Landing and taken over the household management, Ned had been eating like a king. He'd put on at least half a stone. Just last night, Catelyn had complimented the sturdy feel of his waist. This was "wasted away"?
"I am well, Jon. Rest assured, as long as you're still drawing breath, I wouldn't dare die."
The Greatjon ignored Ned's retort. His eyes immediately locked onto Lynn.
Those massive, saucer-like eyes swept up and down, full of undisguised curiosity and assessment.
"So, you're the lad who twisted the Wildlings into a proper army?"
"Don't look like much to me!"
"Lord Umber," Lynn bowed slightly, his tone neither humble nor arrogant.
"Don't call me 'Lord'! We Northmen don't play those false southern games. Just call me Greatjon!"
"Besides, you're the King-Beyond-the-Wall. by rights, I should be calling you Your Grace."
The Greatjon grinned, revealing a mouthful of white teeth.
A boisterous personality always had a way of shrinking distances. Lynn's first impression of the man was favorable.
"Lad, my men say you're capable. Last time, you flew that damn dragon of yours right over Last Hearth! Scared the livestock half to death and nearly made us blow the warhorns!"
"Tonight, do you dare to drink with me?"
"If you can drink me under the table, then when the fighting starts against the Southrons, the armies of Last Hearth are yours to command!"
The Umber soldiers behind him erupted in good-natured laughter.
"Father!"
A young man, nearly as tall as his father, hurried up and tugged helplessly at the Greatjon's arm, trying to stop his nonsense.
This was Lord Eddard's domain. While they all knew who the war was truly for, Lynn was the King-Beyond-the-Wall, not the King in the North. By tradition, he had no right to command the Northern bannermen directly; everything had to go through the Warden of the North, Ned Stark.
Pledging loyalty to Lynn directly? What kind of mess was that?
If Ned weren't such an honorable and tempered man, a pettier lord would have taken offense already.
This was his son, the "Smalljon," Jon Umber.
But the Greatjon didn't care. To him, it was all the same. Allies and enemies were clear-cut, and that would never change.
Following closely behind was a contingent that stood out from the rest.
At the head was a woman—not tall, but incredibly stout. Her hair was silver, her face weathered by wind and frost, and her eyes were as sharp as a bear's.
The Lady of Bear Island, the "She-Bear," Maege Mormont.
Behind her trailed her daughters. Every one of them was clad in ringmail with a battle-axe at her waist, looking fierce and gallant.
"Lord Stark."
Maege Mormont's voice was steady. She dismounted and nodded to Ned, her version of a curtsy.
Her gaze lingered on Lynn for a moment.
"King-Beyond-the-Wall."
"Lady Mormont," Lynn returned the greeting.
"My nephew, Jorah... is he well in Essos?" Maege asked suddenly.
"He is well. He is currently one of my most trusted advisors," Lynn answered frankly.
Maege Mormont's face betrayed no emotion. She simply nodded again and led her daughters briskly into the castle.
The young Lyanna Mormont shot a curious glance at Lynn before passing through the gates. Clearly, she had heard about the dragon. In this age, a dragon was like the finest treasure on earth; man or woman, everyone wanted to see the person who commanded such a beast.
Maege's brother was Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Jeor's only son was the former Lord of Bear Island, Jorah Mormont. Since Jorah had fled to the Free Cities to escape execution for slaving, Maege had shouldered the burden, becoming the head of House Mormont and the ruler of Bear Island.
She had worked tirelessly to restore her family's honor and fix the financial ruin Jorah had left behind. Bear Island was now back on its feet, far better than in Jorah's time. She was a woman of iron will.
Maege had five daughters: Dacey, her heir; Alysane; Lyra; Jorelle; and Lyanna.
Notably, Maege had no sons. No one knew who the father of her daughters was, or if she had ever married. Rumors said she bedded a bear. Her daughter Alysane claimed that Mormont women were skinchangers who turned into bears to find mates in the woods.
All of Maege's daughters carried the name Mormont. None were considered bastards. It was likely Maege's husband came from a lower house or was commonborn, and she chose to keep her own name to preserve her house's lineage.
Just then...
"Heh heh heh... make way, make way! My old bones can't take the bumping..."
A man so fat he resembled a sphere was carried forward in a massive litter borne by eight strong men.
The Lord of White Harbor, Wyman Manderly. They called him "Lord Lamprey."
House Manderly was originally from the Reach but had been exiled and driven from their lands nearly a thousand years ago. The Starks had taken them in, granting them the Wolf's Den and the lands of White Harbor.
That debt of honor was the bedrock of House Manderly's loyalty to the Starks.
They were unique in the North for keeping the Faith of the Seven rather than the Old Gods, and their blood and customs were Andal. For this reason, Wyman wasn't as familiar with the other lords as someone like Ned was. unlike Maege, who treated Winterfell like her own backyard, Wyman appeared somewhat reserved.
He was near sixty, immensely obese, and his face was crowded with genial smiles. His small eyes were lost in folds of flesh, making him look like a harmless, wealthy merchant.
"Lord Stark, Lord Lynn," he wheezed, leaning halfway out of his litter.
"White Harbor has prepared some small gifts for this council. Dornish Red, and some spices from the Summer Sea. I hope they add some flavor to the feast."
"You are too kind," Ned replied politely.
Wyman Manderly turned his gaze to Lynn, his smile growing even warmer.
"Lord Lynn, I have heard of your deeds. You are the pride of the North!"
"I hear you stirred up quite the storm in King's Landing and even won the heart of Princess Myrcella. Truly envia—heh heh heh..."
Seeing Ned's expression darken slightly, Manderly seemed to have a "sudden realization." It occurred to him that Ned might intend to wed one of his own daughters to Lynn, and he had "accidentally" spoken out of turn. He quickly tried to smooth it over with vague mumbling.
The old mummer was at it again.
But no disguise worked on Lynn. Even without greensight, he knew the lore. He knew exactly what kind of man Wyman Manderly was.
Wyman was the classic "wolf in sheep's clothing." He used his obesity, his harmless appearance, and his tendency to play the fool as a shield. Later, after House Stark fell, he would endure humiliation, playing a dangerous game among his enemies with masterful acting.
He was shrewd, calculating, and patient. He would eventually exact a bloody revenge—Frey pies and all—and work tirelessly to restore Stark rule.
The North Remembers. And he remembered who had saved his family when they were homeless.
This old schemer had also secretly proposed rebuilding the Northern fleet to Winterfell long ago and was currently hiding war galleys up the White Knife river.
Following him came Rickard Karstark of Karhold, Galbart Glover of Deepwood Motte, and Halys Hornwood of Hornwood. They were the bedrock of the North, families who had served the Starks for generations.
The last to arrive was a group that brought a strange chill to the air.
Their banner bore a flayed man, red on pink.
The Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton.
He rode a black courser, moving quietly in the center of his column. He wore black ringmail and a spotted pink cloak. His face was pale, devoid of blood, and his eyes were the color of dirty ice—pale and unsettling to look at.
He wasn't loud like the Greatjon, nor falsely obsequious like Manderly.
He was silent. Like a leech waiting in still water for a chance to feed.
"Lord Stark."
Roose Bolton's voice was barely a whisper, the picture of a polite, soft-spoken lord.
Ned nodded, his face impassive.
Roose Bolton's gaze finally settled on Lynn.
Their eyes met.
Lynn could feel those pale eyes dissecting him, weighing his value.
And Lynn looked back. He knew what this man was capable of. He knew the Red Wedding.
A slow smile spread across Lynn's face.
There was no hostility in it, no threat. Only the look a cat gives a mouse... amusement?
Roose Bolton's eyes narrowed slightly. He buried his suspicion deep in his heart, nodded once to Lynn, and silently led his men into Winterfell.
Lynn didn't see Ramsay. It made sense; Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of Bolton, didn't have the standing to attend a council of this magnitude. Bringing him would only bring shame and embarrassment to Roose.
---
Night fell.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was ablaze with torchlight. Long trestle tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, trenchers of bread, and flagons of ale.
The wolves of the North were gathered.
They tore into the meat and guzzled the ale, the noise threatening to lift the roof beams.
Greatjon Umber was already red-faced with drink, dragging Lynn into an arm-wrestling match. Lynn had advised him against the humiliation, but the giant wouldn't listen. Finally, Lynn obliged him.
Wyman Manderly sat harmlessly, stuffing his face with food while chuckling and chatting with the lords around him.
Ned Stark sat at the high table. Unlike the King's feast, which had felt like a cage, this gathering of Northern lords felt right. Looking at the familiar scene, the gloom in his heart lifted.
This was his North. Rough, wild, but fiercely united.
Thud.
Lynn effortlessly pinned the Greatjon's arm to the table, drawing a roar of cheers and whistles from the crowd.
Lynn stood up then, raising a horn of ale.
The raucous hall fell silent instantly. Every eye fixed on the young King-Beyond-the-Wall.
Lynn looked at each of them. From the Greatjon to Maege Mormont, and finally to Roose Bolton, drinking quietly in the shadows.
"I know many of you are curious about me."
"But that doesn't matter right now."
"Let us discuss the Harvest Council."