A biting north wind howled at ten thousand feet.
The outline of Riverrun had long since disappeared beyond the horizon.
Replaced by the endless, murky green swamps of the Neck, and further north, the vast, snow-covered expanse of the North.
Every beat of Winter's wings whipped up a roar that tore through the sky.
Lynn sat on the dragon's back, looking down at the mountains and rivers rushing backward beneath him.
The schemes and bloodshed of the South seemed left far behind with the biting wind.
This was the North.
His North.
The crisp, cold air, smelling of pine needles and frost, invigorated his spirit.
Before transmigrating, Lynn hated winter the most.
But now, it felt like home.
Roslin Frey clung to Lynn's waist for dear life.
Her face was buried completely in his back.
She didn't dare open her eyes.
The howling wind, the constant feeling of weightlessness and heaviness as the wings beat—it all made her feel like her heart was about to jump out of her throat.
Under this extreme stimulation, she felt the urge to pee, but was too embarrassed to say anything.
She never dreamed...
That one day, she would ride a dragon—a creature of legend—flying across the Riverlands!
This man had once again shattered her understanding of the world in a way she couldn't comprehend!
It made her worship of Lynn almost blind.
"We're here."
Lynn's voice cut through the wind, clear in her ears.
Roslin cautiously opened one eye a crack.
A majestic grey castle appeared at the edge of her vision.
Winterfell.
As the dragon slowly descended, the full view of the castle became clearer.
She could see soldiers on the walls, small as ants, erupting into thunderous cheers at the sight of the dragon.
No fear, no panic.
Only fanatical adoration.
As if welcoming the return of their god.
Winter landed smoothly in the widest courtyard of Winterfell, his massive wings kicking up a storm of snow.
Then, the three-headed dragon headed straight for his familiar "dining hall."
After flying all this way, he was starving.
Ned Stark, who had been waiting, strode forward, wrapped in a heavy wolf-pelt cloak.
"Lynn!"
Ned's face carried an indescribable mix of excitement and relief.
Less than a month.
This young man had truly, miraculously, pacified the entire South!
Ned had expected a brutal war lasting years, one that would drain the last drop of Northern blood.
But Lynn used methods Ned couldn't understand, let alone imagine, to swiftly and firmly grasp the Riverlands and the Vale.
Becoming the undisputed master of three regions.
"Lord Ned."
"It's done."
"House Frey is gone. The lords of the Riverlands and the Vale have sworn fealty."
"The first shipment of grain will arrive at White Harbor within half a month."
Ned looked at Lynn. He opened his mouth, wanting to ask so much, but didn't know where to start.
In the end, a thousand words turned into a long sigh.
"It is good you are back."
Ned patted Lynn's shoulder, his grey eyes filled with exhaustion and release.
"You did well. Now I can rest easy handing the North to you."
He said this with immense gravity.
It wasn't just a entrustment or a promise; it was a transfer of power.
From the moment he said this, he was no longer the Warden of the North.
He was just Ned Stark.
He had long grown tired of the seat that should have belonged to his older brother.
Just as his father had always hoped, he only wanted to be a knight.
Nothing more.
Winterfell, the Lord's Solar.
The fire in the hearth burned brightly, chasing away the cold outside.
Ned poured Lynn a cup of strong ale personally.
"I received your raven."
Ned handed the cup to Lynn, his expression complicated.
"About Lysa..."
"She chose her own path."
Lynn took the cup and sipped.
The spicy liquid slid down his throat, bringing warmth.
Ned fell silent.
He knew Lysa's death was inevitable.
Whether for avenging Jon Arryn, fully controlling the Vale, or giving an answer to everyone involved in the war, Lysa had to die.
"What do you plan to do with the Bolton bastard, Ramsay?"
Ned changed the subject. He didn't want to discuss his pitiable, hateful, tragic sister-in-law anymore.
"I've seen him a few times."
Ned frowned.
"That guy... is an absolute lunatic."
"But he's smart, and calm. That's what makes him dangerous."
"Oh?"
A look of interest appeared on Lynn's face.
"Take me to see him."
The Dungeons of Winterfell.
Dark and damp.
The air smelled of excrement.
However, when the jailer held a torch and opened the iron door of the deepest cell, a strange sense of incongruity hit them.
This cell was unusually clean.
Not a speck of filth on the stone floor; even the straw was laid out neatly.
A young man in prisoner's garb sat cross-legged on the straw.
In front of him lay a smoothed stone slab, and he held a piece of charcoal, seemingly drawing something with great concentration.
Hearing the door open, he didn't look up immediately. Instead, he spoke in an elegant, leisurely tone.
"Is it lunchtime?"
"What's on the menu today?"
"If it's stew, I hope there are fewer turnips. They ruin my appetite."
His voice was pleasant, carrying a noble magnetism and ease.
If not for the dungeon setting, anyone would think this was a young lord complaining to his servant about the meal.
"Ramsay Snow."
Lynn's voice echoed in the empty dungeon.
The man called Ramsay finally stopped what he was doing.
He slowly looked up.
It was a handsome face, well-defined, with thin lips. His skin was pale from lack of sunlight.
But most striking were his eyes.
Pale blue, almost transparent, without a speck of impurity.
There was no fear or despair of a prisoner in those eyes, nor anger or resentment facing a captor.
Only pure curiosity.
"Ah, Lord Lynn."
Ramsay smiled.
He put down the charcoal, stood up, and gave Lynn an impeccable Northern bow.
"We meet again, King-Beyond-the-Wall, Defender against the Long Night, Lord Lynn."
"It is an honor to see you here."
His posture was humble, his words respectful.
As if he weren't a prisoner, but attending a court banquet.
This extreme elegance contrasted sharply with his environment, creating a creepy, eerie feeling.
Lynn didn't speak, just looked at him with interest.
This is the guy who kept thinking about my Arya, Sansa, Myrcella...
He really fucking deserves to die...
Lynn's gaze fell on the stone slab in front of Ramsay.
Drawn on it was a flayed human body.
The face in the drawing wore a strange smile.
Muscle texture, blood vessel paths, bone structure...
Drawn with abnormal precision and detail.
Comparable to anatomical charts drawn by the most senior Maesters of the Citadel.
"A clumsy work, forgive me, My Lord."
Ramsay followed Lynn's gaze, a "shy" smile appearing on his face.
"It's just too boring in the dungeon. I rely on this little hobby to pass the time."
He pointed to the drawing of the flayed man.
"Look here. If the angle of the cut is a bit trickier, you can peel this entire muscle off intact."
"It feels like undressing a noble lady from her gorgeous gown."
"Elegant, and full of ritual."
Ned Stark felt his stomach churn, his face turning iron-green.
The Northern soldiers behind him gripped their sword hilts, eyes full of disgust and killing intent.
Only Lynn's expression remained unchanged.
He even stepped forward, crouched down, and examined the drawing carefully.
"Not bad."
Lynn gave his evaluation.
"Thank you for the praise, My Lord."
Ramsay smiled even wider, as if acknowledged by a kindred spirit.
"Look, is her smile beautiful?"
"Very creative."
Lynn stood up.
"But it's missing something."
Ramsay's smile froze slightly.
"Oh? Do tell."
"A true smile isn't drawn with the mouth."
Lynn looked into Ramsay's eyes and spoke slowly.
"It's with the eyes."
"When you sew a person's eyelids to their brow bone with needle and thread, they will smile at you forever."
"That kind of smile is the most sincere, isn't it?"
The soldiers behind Ned looked at Lynn as if they were seeing a ghost.
The smile on Ramsay's face vanished completely.
In his pale, placid eyes, a ripple appeared for the first time.
Not fear.
But an... extreme excitement of meeting a worthy opponent!
"Ha... haha... HAHAHAHA!"
Ramsay suddenly burst into laughter, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down his face.
"Brilliant! Truly brilliant!"
"Lord Lynn, you... you truly understand me!"
He looked at Lynn, a sickly fanaticism burning in his eyes.
"I take back my previous slight against you."
"Only we understand that pain is the most real thing in this world!"
"Fear is the most effective tool to rule mortals!"
"Join me! Lord Lynn! No! Let me join you!"
"Let us together turn all of Westeros into our perfect artwork!"
"Let wailing be our symphony!"
"Let blood dye every inch of land red!"
Ramsay spread his arms, as if embracing a great dream.
"Quiet."
Lynn simply spat out one word.
Ramsay's laughter cut off abruptly.
He looked at Lynn, the fanaticism on his face gradually replaced by something deeper.
He finally realized.
This man was different from him.
Ramsay enjoyed the process, the thrill of the prey struggling in his hands, the ritual of control.
But Lynn...
He only cared about the result.
Everything he did had a terrifyingly clear purpose.
He wasn't a madman.
He was an existence ten thousand times more terrifying than all madmen combined.
"Interesting performance."
Lynn turned and walked toward the cell door.
"Lord Ned, please keep a close watch on him."
"He's still useful."
Reaching the iron door, Lynn paused.
He didn't turn back, just left a sentence.
"By the way, Ramsay."
"Your father, Roose Bolton, asked me to give you a message."
Lynn's voice echoed slowly in the dark dungeon.
"He said he is very disappointed."
"He thinks you are unfit to be his son."
"He is preparing... to make another one."
"Hahaha."
With that, Lynn lingered no longer.
Now, it was time to visit the ever-loyal Miranda...