Winter’s wind swept shards of snow across The North’s grey sky.
The air reeked of dryness and blizzard.
Lynn’s cheek was pressed hard against a rough, moss-covered wooden block.
The icy touch cut straight to the bone.
A sharp chill crept along the back of his neck.
At the edge of his vision stood pairs of legs wrapped in heavy leather and fur, forming a silent circle around him.
Labored breathing rose and fell in his ears, mingled with the faint scrape of chainmail.
A low, commanding voice spoke—devoid of any emotion.
Every word landed on Lynn’s heart like a heavy stone.
“In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” Lynn’s pupils contracted sharply.
That voice.
Those words… He struggled to raise his head, but two powerful hands clamped down on his shoulders, pinning him firmly to the execution block.
“I, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, do hereby pass the sentence.” Ned Stark!
Fragmented memories crashed through Lynn’s mind like a dam bursting, sweeping away all rational thought.
Wasn’t he supposed to be having a heart-to-heart with his junior martial sister?
How had he ended up— A flood of memories that didn’t belong to him surged forward.
Black robes.
The freezing Wall.
And beyond the Wall… a pair of eyes burning with blue flame.
He had become a deserter of the Night’s Watch.
“…I sentence you to death.” Ned Stark’s words fell like a coffin lid slamming shut.
Lynn felt the hands holding him ease their grip.
He heard the enormous sound of metal clearing a scabbard—long, clear, and resolute, carrying the finality of severing all things.
This Valyrian steel greatsword was called Ice.
It was imbued with magic and runic enchantments.
Its blade was wider than a man’s hand, and standing upright it was taller than Robb.
Its color was dark as black smoke.
Ordinary weapons couldn’t kill White Walkers, but Valyrian steel could—making it incomparably precious.
Yet the art of forging it had long been lost.
Every surviving Valyrian steel weapon was held by one great house or another, each with its own storied history.
Lynn’s heart hammered against his ribs as if trying to break free.
No!
I can’t die like this!
Just as Ice was raised high, a cold, mechanical voice exploded inside Lynn’s mind.
[Intense survival desire detected in host…] [Kill System officially activated!] [Starter Gift Pack: one complimentary Newbie Protection privilege!] [Host: Lynn] [Strength: 3 (Weak)] [Agility: 4 (Weak)] [Constitution: 2 (Weak)] Reference standard: a healthy adult male has base 3 in all attributes.
[Skills: None] [Experience: 0] [Experience Note: Experience is gained by killing enemies.
Rewards scale with target strength (minimum: 1 EXP for an ordinary human).
Experience can be used to increase skill proficiency.] [Attribute Note: Attributes can be raised through training, blessed items, and various other methods.
Training caps at 10 points.
Other methods have no upper limit.] [Attributes represent absolute force multiplication.
Regardless of body weight, raw maximum output doubles per tier.
For example, a normal person with 3 Strength can snatch-lift 120 kg; the host at 6 Strength could snatch-lift 240 kg.] Lynn’s consciousness blanked for a moment.
A system?
But one look at those pathetic stats doused the tiny spark of hope that had just ignited.
With this sickly body, forget fighting back—he could barely climb off the execution block.
He could feel it clearly: the legendary Valyrian greatsword Ice had been raised high overhead.
It was already descending toward his neck!
Even Ned couldn’t swing this greatsword effortlessly!
No time to think!
Lynn summoned every ounce of strength in his body and forced a ragged shout from his parched throat.
“The Old Gods gave me a vision!” His voice was hoarse and shrill, slicing through the heavy silence of the execution ground.
Everyone froze.
The descending greatsword veered, biting into the block beside Lynn’s head.
The gust from the blade raked across his skin, raising a field of goosebumps.
He swallowed hard.
Lynn could even smell the cold metallic scent of the Valyrian steel.
He’d nearly been chopped by Ned!
Thank the gods Ned had wrenched the blade aside in time!
“Bullshit!” A young, flippant voice rang out, dripping with undisguised mockery.
“He’ll say anything to save his own skin?” Lynn didn’t need to turn around.
He knew the speaker was Theon Greyjoy—the Iron Islands’ only eunuch… No.
Not yet, at this point.
Ned Stark said nothing.
He simply stood there, greatsword in hand, his silhouette like a silent statue against the grey light.
But that halted blade was Lynn’s opening.
Lynn forced himself to calm down.
His brain raced faster than it ever had.
Ned Stark.
A man who valued honor and duty above his own life.
He followed the old ways.
The blood of the First Men still ran in the Starks’ veins.
He believed that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.
If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words.
If you cannot bear to do that, perhaps the man does not deserve to die.
He was a profoundly just man.
Trying to deceive him with lies would be suicide.
Trying to move him with pleas would be a fool’s errand.
The only way out was to pit his sense of *duty* against his adherence to *tradition*.
“My lord.” Lynn’s voice was no longer a scream.
It had turned steady.
He forced every word to ring clear.
“I am a deserter.
I broke my oath.
By law, I should be executed.” The admission plunged everyone around him back into stunned silence.
Even Theon’s face showed confusion.
No one expected a man who had just been fighting for his life to openly confess his crime.
In the depths of Ned Stark’s grey eyes, a barely perceptible flicker passed.
“But I didn’t run because I was a coward.” “I ran because I received guidance from the Old Gods.” Lynn spoke slowly, yet every word carried weight.
“Everything I did was to bring the message back safely!” Lynn turned his head, straining to look up at the towering figure above him.
“The Old Gods showed me a vision.” “Beyond the Wall, something has awakened.” “They ride dead horses.
Their eyes burn like blue sapphires.
Wherever they pass, everything freezes solid!” “White Walkers—they’re not just a story, my lord.
They are real!” Lynn didn’t describe a specific scene.
He simply took the deepest terror seared into the original owner’s memory and laid it out in the most direct language he could.
That cold that sank into the marrow.
That suffocating stillness.
That evil from the ancient past, beyond the power of words to describe.
The execution ground fell deathly silent.
Only the wind keened past their ears.
Behind Ned Stark, Robb Stark’s young face was written over with shock and unease.
His hand drifted unconsciously to his sword hilt.
“My lord, he’s spouting nonsense to bewitch us!” “Why would the Old Gods give *him* guidance?” Theon tried to break the eerie atmosphere.
Ned Stark remained silent.
He looked into Lynn’s eyes.
Those eyes held none of a liar’s cunning—only the raw terror of someone who had barely survived, and a kind of unshakable… certainty.
Lynn knew the decisive moment had arrived.
Meeting Ned Stark’s gaze, he spoke with deliberate weight on every syllable.
“I can see the future.
Not just the White Walkers—I can see other things that are happening right now!” “Killing me is simple, my lord.” “One swing of that greatsword in your hand.” “But what dies with me is a warning that the Long Night is coming.” “You are the Warden of the North.
Your duty is to protect The North—to protect the Seven Kingdoms from the Wildlings and from the dead.” “A deserter’s life weighed against the safety of the entire North—which matters more?
I leave that judgment to you, my lord!” “And if you don’t believe me, I can give you a prophecy right now!” Having said his piece, Lynn stared straight at Ned Stark.
Time seemed to stretch.
Every second was agony.
Lynn could hear his own heartbeat thundering like a war drum.
A long silence.
“What did you see?” Lynn heard Ned’s question and answered immediately.
“On the way back, you will come across a dead direwolf.” “If you don’t find a direwolf, my lord, you can behead me on the spot.
I won’t say another word!” The sound of metal sliding into a scabbard.
Lynn’s heart unclenched.
“Bring him along.” Ned Stark’s voice was still low, but threaded now with an irresistible weariness.
“Keep him under close guard.” Two guards stepped forward at once and hauled Lynn roughly to his feet.
The wave of post-crisis exhaustion hit him all at once.
Lynn’s legs buckled; he could barely stand.
He was dragged stumbling through the crowd.
Before they led him away, he glanced back.
Ned Stark was watching him.
The emotions in those grey eyes were complex and unreadable.
Scrutiny.
Doubt.
But Lynn knew he was safe—for now.
From beneath the Warden of the North’s blade, he had bought himself a sliver of a chance.
Lynn knelt on the ground, his body shaking uncontrollably.
Partly from the cold.
Partly from the lingering terror.
In his vision, the blue panel that only he could see still hovered quietly in the air.
The corner of Lynn’s mouth curled upward, beyond his control.