Early the next morning, the wooden door creaked open, its hinges groaning from disuse. A shaft of pale grey light pierced the room, dispelling the stagnant chill that had settled within. Lynn squinted, adjusting to the long-awaited brightness.
"Come out," a guard ordered flatly, his tone devoid of emotion as he carried out his instructions. Lynn was not led back to the execution block, nor was he escorted to a deeper dungeon. Instead, he was taken to the castle courtyard.
The crisp, biting air filled his lungs, mingling with the faint echo of clashing iron and the aroma of roasted meat drifting from the distant kitchen. The vividness of these sensations made him feel as if he had stepped into a different world. His body was recovering—the nourishment from hot soup and bread slowly mending his frame, which had been hollowed out by hunger and cold.
Two guards stood behind him like stone sentinels, maintaining a distance that was neither too far nor too close—both a restraint and a silent warning. Lynn's movements were confined to this small section of the courtyard. His gaze swept over the area.
Not far away, Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, was sparring with Ser Rodrik Cassel, his master-at-arms. Their wooden swords collided with dull thuds. Robb's movements were steady and powerful, precise and earnest beyond his years.
On the other side, Theon Greyjoy practiced archery. His posture was graceful, and each arrow drew soft applause from the servants nearby. Yet his eyes repeatedly drifted to Robb, hinting at an unspoken rivalry he could not hide.
Sansa Stark was learning embroidery, while Arya Stark's attempts were little more than a jumbled mess. Everything exuded vitality—rough yet resilient, a vitality unique to the North.
Lynn wandered over to Ser Rodrik, watching the spar. The old knight was an experienced tutor, always able to pinpoint Robb's flaws with ruthless accuracy. No wonder he had trained skilled swordsmen like Robb and Jon.
Noticing Lynn "lurking" to observe, Ser Rodrik did not drive him away. Instead, he paused and waved him over. "Boy, you've been watching long enough. If you want to learn, step forward—no need to skulk about." It was the blunt straightforwardness of the North.
Lynn did not hesitate, approaching directly. "Ser, I wish to learn to wield a two-handed sword. Will you teach me?"
Ser Rodrik looked surprised. He sized Lynn up, then reached out to pinch his arms and shoulders before shaking his head. "With your build, a one-handed sword suits you perfectly. You're not ready for a two-handed greatsword. Even if you could swing it, you'd never unleash its true power. Don't bite off more than you can chew—start with the basics."
Lynn already knew how to use a one-handed sword and had no interest in re-learning. He insisted: "Ser, I still wish to see your greatsword skills."
Seeing his persistence, Ser Rodrik scratched his thick white beard in a dilemma. Just then, Robb, leaning on his sword and catching his breath, spoke up. "Ser Rodrik, teach him a few moves. Let him get a taste of defeat—he'll calm down."
With the Young Wolf's word, Ser Rodrik no longer hesitated. He fetched a heavy practice two-handed greatsword from the weapons rack and tossed it to Lynn. "Hold it steady."
Clang! Lynn reached out with both hands to catch it, but underestimated its weight. The sword nearly slipped from his grasp, sending a numbing jolt up his wrists. Ser Rodrik raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"You've got some strength after all. Very well, I'll teach you—though you're still勉强 for this." The greatsword felt cold and rough in his hands, its weight pressing down on his forearms. It felt less like holding a sword and more like carrying an iron pillar.
Ser Rodrik shook his head, easily taking the sword back from Lynn. The old knight was incredibly strong—Lynn estimated his Strength stat to be around 8, a testament to his burly frame. He wielded the heavy weapon with effortless mastery.
"Watch closely, boy. The essence of the greatsword lies in brute force and momentum—naturally, there's no room for fancy tricks." As soon as the words left his mouth, Ser Rodrik sank into a slight crouch, twisted his torso, and let his arms follow. The heavy blade cut through the air with a low, rumbling呼啸 (whoosh). It was a simple horizontal slash, no frills, yet it carried an unstoppable momentum, as if it could split everything in its path.
"Every swing must harness the rotation of your body—drive from your core, transfer to your shoulders, then to your arms, and finally to the sword. Your frame has some core strength, but you're straining to control the sword. You're being led by it, not leading it." Ser Rodrik handed the sword back to Lynn. "Try again."
Lynn mimicked his posture, sinking into a low stance and attempting to twist his torso. But the sword was too heavy. When he replicated Ser Rodrik's slash, his movement was limp and lacking momentum—more like waving a wooden stake than swinging a sword.
Robb shook his head from the side, but there was no mockery in his eyes—only a strange curiosity. He muttered to himself: He actually managed to swing it. Damn, this boy's got something. If Lynn were stronger, he might actually pull off using a greatsword!
Just as Lynn struggled to grasp the "momentum" Ser Rodrik spoke of, a cold system prompt echoed in his mind.
[Ding! Detectable skill: Two-Handed Greatsword]
[Learning Requirement: Strength ≥ 7]
[Your current Strength is insufficient. Unable to master this skill.]
Lynn's movements froze. Not enough strength… Learning skills required stats? It made sense. If mastering a skill let him bypass physical limitations in combat, the system would be far too overpowered. Now was not the time. After all, Ser Rodrik was not going anywhere. Lynn set down the sword and bowed deeply to Ser Rodrik, his tone sincere. "Thank you for your guidance, Ser."
Though he had not learned the skill, the exertion gave him a new understanding of strength. More importantly, he had found a clear short-term goal. The boy was overambitious, but his attitude was admirable.
Meanwhile, Robb slung his sword over his shoulder and walked over, patting Lynn's shoulder with a look of curiosity. "How was it? Still want to learn?" He smiled. "I wanted to try once, too—ended up just like you." Robb was kind, not looking down on Lynn for being a deserter, his words genuine and straightforward.
Lynn grinned, revealing a set of white teeth. "Absolutely. I'll come to Ser Rodrik for guidance whenever I get the chance."
Ser Rodrik nodded in agreement. Lynn showed real talent, and he was not a petty man. "Boy, come find me whenever you want to learn—I'll teach you if I'm free. But you'd best build up your strength first."
At that moment, the sound of urgent hooves shattered the courtyard's tranquility. A messenger, covered in snow and looking disheveled, burst through the castle gates. His dismount was unsteady, his face etched with panic. "Lord Stark!" He rushed toward Eddard Stark, who had been watching his sons train.
Robb and Ser Rodrik paused their spar. Theon lowered his bow. All eyes turned to the messenger.
"Another merchant caravan…" the messenger said, his voice barely audible. But in the silent courtyard, a few words drifted to Lynn on the wind: "White Knife River… no survivors."
Eddard Stark's calm expression instantly darkened. The air around him grew heavy with tension.
"This is a provocation against the North!" Robb's young face flushed with anger, his hand tightening around the hilt of his wooden sword. "Father, let me go! They're just rats hiding in the gutter."
Theon Greyjoy stepped forward, a bloodthirsty glint in his eyes. "Leave it to me, my lord. I'll hang their heads on the walls, I swear."
Eddard paid them no mind. He simply issued a short order to his captain of the guard. "Gather the men. Eradicate them."
The captain bowed and turned to carry out the order. Eddard then looked to Robb. "Come with me." It was a clear signal—the Young Wolf of Winterfell was about to take part in his first official military campaign to pacify the North.
The group strode toward the main keep. In the courtyard, only Lynn remained, guarded by the two soldiers. His heart began to pound—not with fear, but with suppressed longing.
The Enemy Kill System. To gain experience, he had to kill. And now, enemies had appeared. They were not nobles or soldiers—just lawless bandits. Killing them would bring no trouble, no retaliation from any house. They were perfect experience points.
This was his chance—his only chance to escape his prisoner status and truly seize control of his fate.
When Eddard, Robb, and the others emerged from the main keep with solemn expressions, Lynn made his move. He took a step forward. The guard behind him immediately pressed a hand to his shoulder. "Stay back!"
"Let him speak," Eddard Stark's voice rang out. He stopped and turned, his grey eyes like a deep pool, fixing steadily on Lynn. The guard released his grip.
Lynn met everyone's gaze, straightened his tattered black cloak, and bowed slightly. "Lord Stark. You spared my life—I can never repay such kindness."
Theon Greyjoy scoffed. "A deserter talking about gratitude?"
Lynn ignored him, his eyes locked on Eddard. "Prophecies are wind—time will prove their truth. But loyalty must be proven with actions." His gaze shifted to the gathering guards, to their sharp blades and cold armor.
"I hear bandits run amok in your lands, slaughtering your people. They threaten the North's safety—they are enemies of all who call this place home." Lynn raised his head, staring directly into Eddard Stark's eyes.
"I am no knight, nor do I hold any title. But before donning the black, I fought to survive, to kill or be killed. Allow me to join the raiding party. Let me wash away my shame with the blood of these bandits. Let me prove my worth."
"You gave me life, my lord. You may take it back at any time. But first—let me fight for the North."
Silence fell over the courtyard. Everyone stared at Lynn in disbelief—a prisoner who had begged for his life on the execution block was now volunteering to face ruthless bandits.
Robb's face was filled with surprise. Theon's lips curled in mockery, as if watching a fool rush to his death. Maester Luwin, standing behind Eddard, furrowed his grey brows tightly.
Eddard Stark said nothing for a long while. He simply looked at Lynn—at his pale face, his tattered clothes, and his eyes, which blazed like fire despite the Northern wind. The man was a mystery.
Yet his request, by the North's code of honor, sounded almost… noble. Washing away the shame of being a deserter with enemy blood. Proving loyalty through deeds. It was pure North. It was pure Stark.
"What makes you worthy?" Eddard finally asked, his voice cold.
Lynn replied without hesitation. "If I die at the bandits' hands, you lose a trouble. If I survive and kill them, I prove I am no empty-talking coward."
Eddard's gaze lingered on his face for what felt like an eternity—long enough for Lynn to hear his own heart pounding in his chest.
"Hollen," Eddard called to his captain of the guard. "Give him a sword."
The captain hesitated for a moment, then bowed. "As you command, my lord."
Eddard's gaze returned to Lynn. "You ride with Robb's company. Do not disappoint me." With that, Eddard Stark turned and strode away.
In Lynn's vision, the blue system panel seemed to brighten. His stats were now fully restored:
[Name: Lynn]
[Strength: 5 (Average Adult: 3)]
[Agility: 5 (Average Adult: 3)]
[Constitution: 5 (Average Adult: 3)]
After a night's rest, his body had returned to its peak. Even among veteran Night's Watchmen, these stats were above average. Killing bandits—ordinary men, some barely able to wield a weapon—would be easy.