Winter’s wind showed no sign of relenting.
Lynn was propped up between two guards, one on each side.
He stumbled through the snow-covered ground, each step uneven and uncertain.
The icy bite of the chains traveled from his wrists up through his arms and into his whole body.
Every breath drew in air as sharp as a knife, stabbing at his lungs.
Lynn’s physical condition was dire.
The original owner had been a Night’s Watch deserter who’d fled south from the Wall.
By the time he was caught, he was already running on fumes.
Hunger and cold had wrung out his last reserves of strength.
That desperate outburst at the execution ground had burned through nearly everything Lynn had left.
Now he could only let himself be dragged along.
At the head of the column rode Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.
He sat atop a tall warhorse, his broad back as steady as a mountain ridge.
The Valyrian greatsword Ice had been sheathed and slung across his back.
But the invisible weight of his presence still hung over the entire party.
His sons rode behind him.
The eldest, Robb, rode abreast with Jon Snow.
The two spoke in low voices, their expressions grave.
Theon Greyjoy seemed far more at ease—he even had the mood to toy with his horse.
The youngest, Bran Stark, had been told by his father to ride at his side.
A trace of pallor still lingered on that young face.
Lynn’s gaze swept across those youthful figures, then dropped back to the monotonous snowfield ahead of him.
He understood perfectly: he had only survived for the moment.
Ned Stark was no fool.
A story about White Walkers would buy him, at most, a chance to be interrogated.
The moment he failed to produce more valuable intelligence—or was judged to be lying—the Valyrian greatsword called Ice would find his neck again.
And this time, there would be no second reprieve.
“Bran.” Ned Stark’s low voice carried through the wind, reaching Bran’s ears clearly.
Ned didn’t look back.
He simply slowed his horse so his son’s mount could keep pace more easily.
“Do you understand why I brought you today?” Bran’s small hands gripped the reins tightly.
He looked up at his father’s profile.
“Jon said I was old enough to watch an execution.” “It’s more than that.” A note of instruction entered Ned Stark’s voice.
“Do you understand why I had to execute him?” “Because he was a deserter from the Night’s Watch.” Bran’s answer came quickly.
“Yes.” Lord Eddard gave a slight nod.
“But he was also a man.” “Our laws are ancient.
A deserter must die.” “I never enjoy the act, Bran.” “But my duty does not allow me to shrink from it.” Ned’s gaze drifted toward the grey-white horizon.
“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, then perhaps he does not deserve to die.” These words were meant not only for Bran, but for every Stark child riding behind him.
“Bran, remember—one day you will be one of Robb’s bannermen.” “You will govern your own lands for your brother and your king, and upholding the law will be your charge.” “When that day comes, you must never take pleasure in killing, nor must you flee from the responsibility.” “Face it.
Never run from it!” “Otherwise, you will quickly lose all reverence for life.” This was the code of House Stark.
The code of The North.
Lynn listened in silence.
He knew this conversation.
This was Ned Stark’s first lesson to his children on honor and duty.
A man so noble he bordered on rigid.
But it was precisely that rigidity that had let Lynn win his gamble.
Bran was quiet for a moment, digesting his father’s words.
But his young mind clearly couldn’t grasp the full weight behind them.
Something else occupied him more.
“Father.” Bran’s voice carried a child’s curiosity, along with a thread of undisguised fear.
“What the deserter said… was it true?” “White Walkers… do they really exist?” The moment the question left his lips, the atmosphere in the column shifted subtly.
Robb and Jon stopped talking and looked over in unison.
Even Theon Greyjoy’s flippancy dimmed a few shades.
Every pair of eyes, consciously or not, drifted to the prisoner being escorted at the rear of the column.
Lynn kept his head down, as though oblivious to the stares.
Eddard Stark was silent for a long time.
The wind caught his cloak and set it snapping.
“Long ago, in the Age of Heroes, the Long Night fell.” He spoke at last, his voice distant and deep.
“The First Men and the Children of the Forest fought side by side to drive those things back to the far north—to the Lands of Always Winter.” “Brandon Stark raised the Wall, and the Night’s Watch was founded to stand guard against their return.” “These are stories written in the histories.” Bran’s eyes brightened for an instant, then dimmed again.
“So they’re just stories, right?” Eddard Stark fell silent.
He couldn’t give a definitive answer.
As Warden of the North, he understood the weight of those ancient legends better than anyone.
The North was not the warm south.
Here, people revered the Old Gods and believed in the existence of magic.
“We haven’t seen a White Walker in thousands of years.” That was what Ned finally said.
The answer was ambiguous—neither confirmation nor denial.
But the gravity it carried sent a ripple of unease through Bran’s young heart.
Just then, Jon Snow, riding at the front, suddenly reined in his horse.
“My lord!” His voice held a note of surprise.
The entire column halted.
Lynn was shoved to a stop by the guards.
He raised his head and followed Jon’s line of sight.
Not far ahead, in the snow, lay a massive dark shape.
It was the carcass of a beast.
Its frame dwarfed any ordinary wolf—it was nearly the size of a small horse.
Dark grey fur was matted with dried black blood, and a broken antler was driven deep through its throat.
A fatal wound.
“There really is a direwolf!” Robb Stark’s voice was full of shock.
Ned’s head snapped around to stare at Lynn.
He swung down from his horse at once and strode forward to examine the wolf’s body.