Ned Stark did well. It looked like he had thoroughly purged the Dreadfort rebels.
Without his three thousand soldiers, the Dreadfort was nothing but an empty shell. Roose and Ramsay Bolton were no longer threats.
Lynn felt little emotion about this victory; it was all within his calculations.
Since arriving in this world, he understood these characters down to their bones.
Ramsay Bolton—that mad dog. After seeing Robb's overwhelming victory and the Vale army's collapse, and having fled the field himself, the only path to survival his twisted mind could conjure was to capitalize on the North's empty defenses. Taking Winterfell and seizing hostages was the only move a creature like him would make.
Lynn had used his Faceless Man skills to craft a mask of Ned's face, deliberately showing himself during the march, especially whenever Ramsay was watching.
The real Ned Stark, meanwhile, was the bear trap set at Winterfell, waiting for the little bastard to step right in.
But...
Something felt off to Lynn.
He knew Ned's character. Even with Lynn's repeated warnings, Ned's honor would likely compel him to execute only the ringleaders and imprison the common soldiers.
Over nine thousand experience points meant nearly three thousand deaths.
Would Ned... really order the slaughter of three thousand surrendered Northern soldiers?
Curiosity pricked at Lynn's mind.
Since his Spirit stat broke past 36, he hadn't truly tested his Greenseer abilities. This was the perfect opportunity to see what really happened at Winterfell.
And to see just how much the Warden of the North had grown under his influence.
"Wait here for me," Lynn told Arya and Jon, then walked alone into the depths of the dense forest.
He closed his eyes.
The world instantly faded from his senses.
The wind, the chirping insects, Arya's worried gaze... all gone.
His consciousness became a formless streak of lightning, leaping across mountains and rivers, arriving instantly in the far North.
Blood.
The overwhelming stench of blood.
He saw the brief, brutal battle beneath the walls of Winterfell.
He saw Ramsay Bolton's pathetic madness and his final, cowardly scramble like a beaten dog.
He saw Ned Stark's ruthless judgment.
"Loose."
Arrows fell. Flesh tore.
It wasn't a battle; it was an execution.
From Lynn's perspective, Ned's face was hidden in the shadow of his helm, his expression unreadable. But Lynn could feel the struggle and pain within the old wolf—a man who lived by honor—as he gave that order.
But he did it.
For the North. For House Stark.
He buried the old Ned Stark—the rigid slave to honor—with his own hands.
A sense of relief washed over Lynn.
Good.
This was the ally he needed. A King in the North who understood the weight of choices, who knew how to use iron and blood to protect his home, rather than an indecisive old fossil bound by codes that got good men killed.
However, just as Lynn prepared to sever the vision...
His "gaze" accidentally swept over Ramsay Bolton, who had been dragged back from the battlefield.
The madman was bound in chains, tossed in the snow like a dead dog. His body was shaking, but his mouth was still spewing the vilest, most poisonous curses imaginable.
Normally, Lynn wouldn't care about the whimpering of a defeated cur. But this time, compelled by some dark instinct, he focused his "hearing" on Ramsay.
And then, he heard it.
He heard filth that froze the blood in his veins.
"...Just wait until I get out! I'll grab every Stark woman I can find!"
"That Catelyn... I'll make her sing songs for me all night long while I flay her daughter Sansa's skin right in front of her!"
"And that Lynn!"
"Who the fuck does he think he is?!"
"A bastard savage from beyond the Wall! What right does he have to marry a princess like Myrcella?!"
"Myrcella... hehe... such a pretty name, such pretty golden hair... When I catch her, I'm going to lock her in the kennels and let my hounds lick her clean every day!"
"I'll make her breed a litter of bastards for me!"
"Then I'll peel her skin off and make it into my finest saddle!"
"And his other women!"
"That red-headed wildling bitch, that little Stark girl... I want them all!"
"I'll have them line up to service me!"
"I'll show them who the true Lord of the North is!"
A sick flush rose on Ramsay's face. His voice turned shrill with excitement, spittle flying from his lips. He was completely lost in his own filthy, depraved fantasies.
BOOM!
In an instant, deep in the Riverlands forest, the air temperature around Lynn dropped to absolute zero.
A layer of visible white frost exploded outward from his body!
Green buds on the branches withered and froze into dust instantly. Insects hibernating in the soil were frozen into eternal sleep before they even dreamed of spring.
"Lynn!"
Arya was the first to feel the unnatural chill.
Sword in hand, she rushed into the woods, only to stop dead at the terrifying sight before her.
Lynn was surrounded by a swirling aura of deep blue frost, thick enough to touch. Ice crystals had formed on his hair and eyebrows.
"Lynn! What's wrong?!"
Arya lunged forward to grab his hand but was forced back by an invisible wall of cold. The chill was biting; it felt like it could freeze her very soul.
Jon and Benjen followed close behind, equally stunned into silence.
"Don't touch him!" Benjen grabbed Arya before she could try again. "Something is very wrong with him right now!"
Lynn's consciousness remained at Winterfell.
He "watched" Ramsay's face, twisted with lust and malice, and listened to every word spewing from his mouth.
Killing intent.
A pure, concentrated desire for murder, unlike anything he had ever felt, erupted in his chest like a volcano.
He had fought many battles. He had killed many enemies.
Whether they were knights on the battlefield or scheming nobles, he viewed them all as pieces on a board, obstacles on the road to victory. Killing them was just business.
But Ramsay Bolton was different.
He had touched the one scale on the dragon that must never be touched.
His women.
Myrcella, Arya, Ygritte...
They were his weakness, but they were also the softest, most sacred part of his world.
And now, this maggot—this thing that barely qualified as human—dared to use his filthy mind to defile them?
Lynn's perspective shifted to someone else.
The woman named Myranda.
She had also been captured, locked in a cage next to Ramsay.
She wasn't cursing. She wasn't crying.
She was just looking at Ramsay—who was raving mad and refusing to accept defeat—with a gaze that mixed adoration, obsession, and pity. As if the Bastard of Bolton wasn't a prisoner, but a fallen king.
Loyalty?
Quite the loyalty.
But maybe it's time you found someone new to be loyal to.
Lynn slowly withdrew his consciousness from the Green Sight.
When he opened his eyes again, two ghostly blue flames burned deep within his black pupils.
The freezing aura that surrounded him instantly retracted, vanishing without a trace. It was as if the terrifying cold had been an illusion.
"I'm fine," Lynn said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
"I just... saw something interesting."
He turned to look at Arya's worried little face.
"Don't worry."
His touch was gentle, but to Arya, his hand didn't feel like warm flesh. It felt like a block of ancient ice.
She knew something had truly enraged him.
"Ned has dealt with the Dreadfort rebels," Lynn stated flatly. "Ramsay Bolton has been taken alive."
"That's great news!" Jon smiled with relief.
But Lynn's next words froze the smile on his face.
"Originally, I planned to have Ned take his head and burn the Dreadfort to the ground. That would have been the end of it."
"But now, I've changed my mind."
"Killing him quickly is too good for him."
Lynn's eyes grew dark and cruel.
He likes playing mind games? He likes watching others suffer?
He thinks that woman Myranda is his most loyal dog?
Then I will make him watch as his loyal bitch is slowly twisted into my creature.
I will keep him alive. I will make him watch, with clear eyes, as everything he values betrays him and is taken by me.
And then, piece by piece, I will torture him to death.
Lynn didn't continue on that subject. Some things were better kept to himself. There was no need to tell everyone.
He wasn't a saint. He had his own rage. He was a living man first, not a cold, unfeeling machine.
He knew dealing with Ramsay would have to wait until after the Vale was taken. Now, he had to channel all that fury into crushing his enemies here.
"Tormund! Ygritte! Mance Rayder!"
Lynn's voice rang through the camp.
Soon, the red-bearded Giantsbane, the spearwife kissed by fire, and the other elite Wildling chiefs gathered before him.
A large map was spread out on the forest floor.
"My brothers," Lynn said, meeting each of their gazes.
"We have successfully crossed the Neck."
"That foolish woman, Lysa Arryn, is currently gathering all the Vale's strength at the Bloody Gate, waiting for us."
"Hahaha! Then let's go smash that damn door down!" Tormund rubbed his hands together excitedly. "It's about time my big friend stretched his legs!"
He pointed toward the edge of the forest, where the massive Ice Giant sat silently like a glacier.
"No."
Lynn shook his head. Everyone stared at him.
"Attacking the Bloody Gate is also bait."
"What?"
Tormund froze. The other chiefs looked confused.
They had traveled thousands of miles, risked everything to cross the swamps, just to surprise attack the Bloody Gate, hadn't they?
And now, even that was a distraction?
So where was the real target?
Lynn's finger landed heavily on a single point on the map.
A place no one expected.
Not the Bloody Gate. Not the Gates of the Moon. Not any fortified castle on the valley floor.
It was the highest point in the Mountains of the Moon, the castle perched atop a sheer cliff like a falcon's nest.
The Eyrie.
"That... that's impossible!" Benjen Stark blurted out.
"The Eyrie sits atop thousands of feet of vertical rock! There is only one treacherous mountain path up, guarded by three waycastles—Stone, Snow, and Sky!"
"To take it, we'd need to grow wings!"
A confident smile spread across Lynn's face.
"Don't we happen to have someone with wings?"
Lynn looked up toward the clearing where Winter was napping, his massive wings draped over his body like a blanket.
"Winter can take us up."
"But... how many men can a dragon carry?" Jon still thought the plan was madness. "Even if the garrison is small, you can't take a castle like that with just a few dozen men!"
"A few dozen?"
Lynn's gaze fell on the ten black-robed figures standing silently nearby.
"Don't worry. We don't need dozens."
"The eleven of us will be enough."