The wintry wind showed no sign of abating. Lynn was hauled forward between two guards, his feet stumbling over the snow-covered ground, each step unsteady and heavy. The icy touch of chains clamped around his wrists crept up his arms, spreading a numbing chill throughout his body. Every breath he drew was like swallowing shards of sharp ice, searing his lungs with pain.
Lynn's condition was dire. The original host, a deserter of the Night's Watch, had been on the verge of collapse after fleeing south from the Wall—his last ounce of strength drained by hunger and cold. The outburst at the execution ground had all but exhausted what little energy Lynn had left. Now, he could only be dragged along passively.
At the head of the party rode Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, atop a tall warhorse. His broad back stood as steady as a mountain, the Valyrian steel greatsword Ice sheathed and slung over his shoulder. Yet the invisible aura of authority he exuded hung over the entire company like a shadow.
His sons followed behind. The eldest, Robb, rode side by side with Jon Snow, the two conversing in low, solemn tones. Theon Greyjoy, by contrast, appeared much more relaxed—so much so that he took time to tease his horse. The youngest, Bran Stark, had been told by his father to ride close beside him, a pale hue still lingering on his childish face.
Lynn's gaze drifted over the young figures before settling on the monotonous expanse of snow ahead. He knew well that his survival was only temporary. Eddard Stark was no fool; a tale of White Walkers would buy him no more than a chance to be interrogated. If he failed to produce valuable intelligence, or if his words were deemed lies, Ice would be pressed to his neck once more—with no luck to spare this time.
"Bran," Eddard Stark's deep voice cut through the wind, clear enough for his son to hear. He did not turn, but slowed his horse to let Bran's mount keep pace.
"Do you understand why I brought you here today?"
Bran's small hands clutched the reins tightly as he looked up at his father's profile. "Jon said I'm old enough to watch an execution."
"It is more than that," Eddard replied, his tone taking on a note of instruction. "Do you understand why I had to execute him?"
"Because he's a Night's Watch deserter," Bran answered promptly.
"That is true," the Lord nodded slightly. "But he is also a man. Our laws are ancient—deserters must die. I take no pleasure in this, Bran, but my duty leaves me no choice."
Eddard's gaze drifted to the pale grey horizon. "He who passes judgment must wield the sword. If you are to take a life, you must look the man in the eye and hear his last words. If you cannot do that, perhaps he does not deserve to die."
He spoke not only to Bran, but to all his Stark children behind him.
"Bran, remember this: one day, you will be your brother's vassal. You will govern your own lands for Robb and the king, and administering justice will be your responsibility. Do not take joy in killing, nor shrink from your duty. Face it—never flee from it. Otherwise, you will soon lose all reverence for life."
This was the way of House Stark. The way of the North.
Lynn listened in silence. He recognized this conversation—it was Eddard Stark's lesson in honor and duty to his children, a man noble to the point of stubbornness. And it was precisely this quality that had let Lynn win his bet.
Bran fell quiet, seemingly digesting his father's words. Yet his young mind could barely grasp the heavy weight behind them. What occupied his thoughts more was something else.
"Father," Bran's voice carried the curiosity of a child, mixed with a hint of unmasked fear. "Was what the deserter said… true? Do White Walkers really exist?"
The moment the question left his lips, the mood of the party shifted subtly. Robb and Jon ceased their conversation, turning to look over. Even the frivolity faded from Theon Greyjoy's face. All eyes drifted, consciously or unconsciously, to the prisoner being led at the rear of the group.
Lynn kept his head down, as if unaware of the stares.
Eddard Stark did not answer for a long time. The wind whipped his cloak, making it snap loudly.
"Once, in the Age of Heroes, the Long Night fell," he finally spoke, his voice distant and profound. "The First Men and the Children of the Forest fought side by side to drive those things back to the Lands of Always Winter. Brandon Stark raised the Wall, and the Night's Watch was founded to keep them from returning. These are stories written in the histories."
Bran's eyes lit up briefly, then dimmed. "So they're just stories, then?"
Eddard fell silent. He could not give a definitive answer. As Warden of the North, he understood the weight of those ancient legends better than anyone. The North was not like the warm south—here, people revered the Old Gods and believed in magic.
"We have not seen White Walkers in thousands of years," Eddard said at last. It was an ambiguous response, neither confirming nor denying, yet the gravity in his words stirred unease in 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 party came to a halt. Lynn, pushed by the guards, stopped as well. He lifted his head, following Jon's gaze.
In the snow not far ahead lay a large black shape—the corpse of a beast. Far bigger than a common wolf, it was nearly the size of a small pony. Its dark grey pelt was matted with congealed black blood, and a broken stag's antler protruded deeply from its throat—a fatal wound.
"It really is a direwolf!" Robb Stark's voice was filled with shock.
Eddard whipped around to glance at Lynn, then quickly dismounted and strode forward to examine the body.