“It really is a direwolf.” Everyone present was stunned by the sight before them.
A direwolf.
The sigil of House Stark.
A creature said in legend to dwell only north of the Wall.
None had been seen south of the Wall for more than two centuries.
To see one here now was anything but a good omen.
More importantly, that deserter had actually been right!
Theon Greyjoy blew a whistle, swung off his horse, and walked over cautiously.
“It’s huge.” He kicked the stiff carcass with his boot.
“It’s a monster.” “It’s not a monster,” Jon Snow countered.
He too dismounted, kneeling down to inspect it closely.
“She’s a mother.
Look.” He parted the tangled fur beneath the dead wolf.
A few furry little creatures were huddled together, clinging to their mother’s cold corpse and letting out faint whimpers.
They were still alive.
Bran’s eyes lit up instantly.
“Look!
Father!” He jumped down from his horse and stumbled over.
The pups had not yet opened their eyes, each no larger than a small hound.
Instinctively, they squirmed toward any source of warmth.
Bran carefully picked one up, holding it before his eyes.
The little pup was pitch-black all over, save for its wet nose.
“Kill them,” Theon Greyjoy’s voice rang out coldly.
“They won’t survive without their mother.” Eddard Stark frowned, gazing at the fragile young lives with a complex expression.
“Born in death…” Ned said in a low voice.
“Theon is right.
It’s the kindest thing to do.” “No!” Bran shouted immediately.
Robb chimed in hurriedly as well.
“Father, please.” “A direwolf died in the South,” an abrupt voice interjected.
The voice was not loud, yet it froze everyone in their tracks.
They all turned toward the sound.
The speaker was the captured deserter, Lynn.
He stood there, iron manacles still bound around his wrists, his face pale as death.
But at this moment, his eyes burned extraordinarily bright.
Ned Stark turned, his grey eyes locking onto him.
His gaze was sharp as steel, heavy with scrutiny and authority.
Lynn did not back down.
Meeting Ned’s gaze, he continued calmly, “My lord.” “The direwolf is the sigil of House Stark.” “A mother wolf lies dead on the road, her throat gored by a stag’s antler.” “And her body bears the fresh claw marks of a mountain lion.” Lynn spoke unhurriedly.
The smile on Theon Greyjoy’s face froze.
He instinctively retorted, “How could there be a mountain lion in the North?
Lions only live in the warm South!” A stag—the crowned stag was the sigil of House Baratheon.
A lion was the sigil of House Lannister.
A wolf represented House Stark.
The dead wolf’s jaw held a broken antler.
It foreshadowed the troubles left behind after King Robert’s death—that none of Robert’s children were his own flesh and blood, and it hinted at the dagger Littlefinger would use to stir chaos…
And Ned was that wolf.
Once he uncovered the truth—that the seed was strong—he would meet his end.
“There are six pups here,” Lynn said, his gaze sweeping over the whimpering litter.
“Four males and two females.” “They correspond exactly to Lord Stark’s six children.” Looking at the five pups on the ground, Theon had wanted to object, “There are clearly only five…” But the grim expression on Ned’s face made him swallow his words back down.
The wind howled, whipping up dusting snow from the ground and biting at their faces.
This was no longer a coincidence.
This was an omen.
A dark omen sent by the Old Gods.
“What exactly are you trying to say?” Eddard Stark’s voice was colder than the northern wind.
If the pups corresponded to his children, did the dead mother wolf correspond to himself?
“Winter is coming,” Lynn uttered, lingering over each word.
Hearing those words—the motto of House Stark—spoken by an outsider carried a strange, ominous sense of fate.
“This is not a gift, my lord.” “It is a warning.” “The things beyond the Wall have awakened, and the Old Gods have sent down a sign.” “These pups belong to the Stark children.” “They will protect them.” When Lynn finished speaking, he fell silent and lowered his head once more.
He had said enough.
To say anything further would not be a warning, but a curse.
He had no desire to lose his head today.
Eddard Stark stood silently in place.
He looked at the dead mother wolf, looked at the fatal antler, and then at the five pups.
“Unchain him.” Although Ned still harbored doubts about Lynn, his demeanor was noticeably milder than before.
Then, Ned’s gaze fell upon his youngest son, Bran.
Bran was clutching the little pup tightly in his arms, looking back at him with pleading eyes.
After a long pause, Eddard Stark finally spoke.
“You will raise them yourselves.” “You will feed them, and you will train them yourselves.” “And if they die, you will bury them with your own hands.
You will ask no servant to do it for you.” Joy instantly broke across the children’s faces.
“There’s another one!” Jon Snow’s astonished voice cut in.
He reached into a nearby snowbank and pulled out another pup.
It had been pushed out by its siblings and lay alone in the snow.
This pup was pure white, with eyes red as blood.
It lay quietly, without a whimper, unlike the others.
“An outcast,” Ned murmured, recalling what Lynn had just said.
He had thought it strange when Lynn mentioned six pups earlier, as they had only seen five.
Yet there really were six!
This made Ned begin to believe that Lynn could indeed see things others could not.
*Can he truly predict the future?* A whistle from Theon interrupted Ned’s thoughts.
“Looks like this one suits you, Snow.” Jon ignored Theon, simply lifting the pup into his arms.
The little direwolf curled quietly against Jon’s chest, neither crying nor making a sound.
“The deserter was right after all—there really are six.
So this one is yours, Jon,” Robb said with a warm smile to his bastard brother.
Robb and Jon got along well.
Tall and broad-shouldered with auburn hair, Robb was fourteen years old.
As Eddard Stark’s heir, he had inherited his father’s character: honorable, loyal, and upright.
A rare smile touched Jon Snow’s face.
And so the matter of the direwolves was settled.
The guards escorted Lynn once more, rejoining the column.
No one looked at him again, as if his shocking speech earlier had been nothing more than a passing murmur in the wind.
But Lynn knew everything had changed.
Even with his head bowed, he could feel the Lord of Winterfell’s gaze lingering on his face for a long, long time.
In that gaze, suspicion still remained.
But even more so, there was vigilance.
Robb and the others were still too young to grasp the symbolic meaning behind the stag, the lion, and the wolf.
But Ned understood all too well.
Upon returning to Winterfell, Lynn was neither sent to the gallows nor thrown into the dungeons.
He was locked in a room at the base of a tower.
The room was not large, furnished only with a hard wooden bed, a table, and a narrow window that let in the chilling draft.
Built above natural hot springs, Winterfell had an exceptional environment, heated by a network of hot-water pipes running through its stone walls.
It was nowhere near as cold as he had feared.
Compared to his days as a Night’s Watch deserter braving the elements on the road, this place was practically paradise!
A guard delivered a simple meal: black bread, roasted meat, and a steaming cup of thick offal soup.
Lynn devoured the food in a flash.
A soothing warmth finally filled his freezing stomach, easing the bone-deep weakness in his body.
He walked up to the polished bronze mirror.
His reflection was still his original face, and his name remained his own.
It was as if his transmigrating into this world had subtly altered everyone’s baseline perception, making his presence seem entirely natural.
This was likely the power of the System.
It also made Lynn feel slightly relieved.
At least he hadn’t transmigrated into that ugly deserter from the opening of the show; if he had, how could he ever court women?
They’d be repulsed at first sight…
Peering through the narrow slit of the window, he could see a corner of the castle courtyard.
Guards were on patrol, and servants were bustling about their duties.
Everything seemed orderly and peaceful.
Yet Lynn knew that beneath this calm surface, a massive storm was brewing.
He had forcibly bound his own fate to the destiny of this house in an almost insane manner.
The translucent blue panel that only he could see surfaced before his eyes once more.
His gaze settled on the glaring text: [EXP: 0].
An Enemy-Killing System.
To gain experience points, he had to kill enemies.
Yet right now he was an unarmed prisoner, locked inside the most formidable castle in the North.
Who could he possibly kill?
Lynn’s brow furrowed tightly.
He had to increase his strength as quickly as possible.
In a world where human life was as cheap as dirt, power was the only thing he could rely on.