"It truly is a direwolf."
Everyone was stunned by the sight before them. The direwolf—sigil of House Stark, a creature fabled to dwell solely beyond the Wall. For over two centuries, none had been spotted south of the Wall. Its appearance here boded ill. Most crucially, the deserter had actually been proven right.
Theon Greyjoy let out a whistle, dismounted, and approached cautiously. "Massive," he muttered, prodding the stiff corpse with his boot. "A monster."
"It is no monster," Jon Snow retorted, dismounting as well and dropping to his knees for a closer look. "It is a mother. Look." He brushed aside the matted fur beneath the she-wolf, revealing several fluffy cubs huddled together, nestling against their mother's cold body and whimpering softly. They were still alive.
Bran's eyes lit up instantly. "Father, look!" He leaped off his horse and stumbled over. The cubs, their eyes still sealed shut, were no larger than puppies, instinctively nuzzling for warmth. Bran gently lifted one, holding it up to his face—it was entirely black, save for its damp nose.
"Put them down," Theon Greyjoy's cold voice cut through the air. "They won't survive without their mother."
Eddard Stark frowned, his gaze lingering on the fragile creatures, a complex mix of emotions in his eyes. "Born of death…" he murmured. "Theon speaks the truth. It is the kindest mercy."
"No!" Bran shouted at once. Robb stepped forward hastily, too: "Father, please."
"A direwolf, dead in the South," an unexpected voice interjected. Soft as it was, it froze everyone in their tracks. All heads turned toward the speaker—the captive deserter, Lynn.
He stood there, manacles still clamped around his wrists, his face as pale as death. Yet his eyes blazed with unusual clarity. Eddard Stark turned, his grey eyes fixing on Lynn like shards of steel, sharp with scrutiny and authority. Lynn did not flinch. Meeting the lord's gaze, he spoke on, calm and steady.
"My lord. The direwolf is the sigil of House Stark. A she-wolf lies dead here, her throat pierced by a stag's antler—yet her pelt bears the marks of lion's claws."
Lynn's words were measured, unhurried. The smile faded from Theon Greyjoy's face, and he retorted instinctively: "There are no lions in the North! Lions belong only to the warm South!"
The stag—sigil of House Baratheon, embodied by King Robert and his crown of antlers. The lion—House Lannister. The wolf—House Stark. A wolf impaled by a broken antler, a metaphor for the chaos left in King Robert's wake: his so-called children, none of them legitimate, and the dagger wielded by Littlefinger that sowed endless strife. And Eddard Stark was that wolf—doomed the moment he uncovered the truth behind "seed is strong."
"There are six cubs," Lynn's gaze swept over the whimpering litter. "Four males, two females. One for each of Lord Stark's children."
Theon glanced at the five cubs on the ground, ready to object—"There are only five…"—but Eddard's icy stare silenced him mid-sentence. The wind howled, swirling snowflakes against their faces. This was no coincidence. It was an omen. A grim warning from the Old Gods.
"What are you driving at?" Eddard Stark's voice was colder than the Northern gale. If the cubs corresponded to his children, did the dead she-wolf represent him?
"Winter is coming," Lynn said, each word heavy with purpose. The words of House Stark, spoken by an outsider, carried an eerie sense of fate. "This is no gift, my lord. It is a warning. What lies beyond the Wall has awakened, and the Old Gods have sent a sign. These cubs belong to the Stark children. They will protect them."
Having said his piece, Lynn fell silent, lowering his head once more. He had spoken enough—any further would sound not like a warning, but a curse. He had no desire to lose his head.
Eddard Stark stood motionless, his gaze drifting from the dead she-wolf to the fatal antler, then to the five cubs. "Remove his manacles," he ordered. Suspicion still lingered, but his tone had softened noticeably. His eyes then settled on his youngest son, Bran, who clung tightly to the cub in his arms, looking up at him with pleading eyes.
After a long pause, Eddard spoke: "Raise them yourselves. Feed them, train them. If they die, bury them with your own hands. Do not let others do it for you."
Joy erupted on the children's faces. Just then, Jon Snow's confused voice rang out: "There's another one!" He pulled a sixth cub from a nearby snowdrift—it had been pushed aside by its siblings, lying alone in the snow. Pure white, with eyes as red as rubies, it lay quiet, not whimpering like the others.
"A castaway," Eddard murmured, recalling Lynn's words. He had found it odd when Lynn spoke of six cubs—he had only seen five. Yet there it was, the sixth. Doubt flickered in his mind: Could the man truly see what others could not?
Theon's whistle broke his reverie. "Fits you well, Snow." Jon ignored him, lifting the cub. The little direwolf curled up quietly in his arms, neither barking nor squirming.
"The deserter was right—six cubs. This one's yours, Jon," Robb said with a smile to his bastard brother. Robb and Jon were close. At fourteen, he had inherited his father's stocky build and auburn hair, as well as his unwavering honor, loyalty, and sense of justice. A rare smile tugged at Jon Snow's lips.
With the direwolves settled, the guards led Lynn forward again to rejoin the party. No one spared him another glance, as if his shocking words had been nothing but wind-blown nonsense. But Lynn knew everything had changed. Even with his head down, he could feel the Lord of Winterfell's gaze lingering on him—suspicion remained, but it was overshadowed by wariness.
Robb and the others were too young to grasp the meaning behind the stag, lion, and wolf. But Eddard understood perfectly.
Upon their return to Winterfell, Lynn was neither hanged nor thrown into the dungeons. Instead, he was confined to a small room at the base of a tower. It contained no more than a hard bed, a table, and a narrow window letting in cold drafts—but Winterfell, built atop hot springs with its own heating system, was far more comfortable than one could hope. Compared to the hardships of fleeing the Wall as a deserter, this was paradise.
A guard brought him simple fare: black bread, roasted meat, and a bowl of steaming offal stew. Lynn devoured it greedily, the warmth finally seeping into his cold stomach and easing his exhaustion. He walked to the bronze mirror—his face was still his own, his name still Lynn. It was as if his arrival had subtly altered everyone's perceptions, making his presence feel natural. Perhaps this was the power of the system.
The thought comforted him—at least he was not the unsightly deserter who lost his head at the story's start. How else would he win over women? He would be shunned entirely.
Through the narrow stone window, he caught a glimpse of the castle courtyard: guards patrolling, servants bustling about, everything orderly. But Lynn knew that beneath this calm, a great storm was brewing. He had tied his fate to that of House Stark, in a manner bordering on madness.
The blue system panel, visible only to him, reappeared. His gaze fixed on the glaring [Experience Points: 0]—a grim reminder of the Enemy Kill System. To gain XP, he had to kill. But he was an unarmed prisoner, locked in the strongest castle in the North. Who could he possibly kill?
Lynn frowned deeply. He had to grow stronger, and fast. In a world where life was cheap, power was the only true refuge.