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The biting north wind swept across the sky ten thousand meters up.
Riverrun's outline had long since vanished beyond the horizon.
In its place stretched The Neck's boundless ink-green swamps, and beyond that, the vast snow-covered expanse of the far North.
Every beat of Winter's wings tore a howl through the open sky.
Lynn sat on the dragon's back, gazing down at mountains and rivers racing away beneath him.
The conspiracies and bloodshed of the south felt like they'd been stripped away by the biting cold, left far behind.
This was the North.
His North.
The crisp air carried the scent of pine needles and frost, and it sharpened something in him, cleared his head in a way nothing south of The Neck ever had.
Back before he'd crossed over, Lynn had hated winter more than anything.
Now it felt like coming home.
Roslin Frey had her arms locked around his waist in a death grip, her entire face buried against his back.
She wasn't opening her eyes. Not a chance.
The howling wind, the constant lurch of weightlessness and pressure as the wings beat — it made her feel like her heart was about to claw its way out of her throat.
Under that kind of extreme stimulation, she desperately needed to pee, and was absolutely too embarrassed to say so.
She never could have imagined this. Not in her wildest dreams.
That one day she'd be riding on the back of a dragon, a creature that existed only in legend, flying across the entire Riverlands.
This man had done it again. Shattered her understanding of the world in a way she couldn't begin to comprehend.
It left her with something close to blind worship.
"We're here."
Lynn's voice cut through the wind and reached her clearly.
Roslin carefully cracked one eye open.
A massive gray castle rose at the edge of her vision.
Winterfell.
As the dragon descended, the castle's full shape came into focus. She could see the soldiers on the walls, tiny as ants, erupting in thunderous cheers the moment they spotted the dragon.
No fear. No panic.
Only fanatical reverence.
Like they were welcoming back a god.
Winter touched down smoothly in Winterfell's widest courtyard, its great wings kicking up a storm of snow. Then the three-headed dragon walked straight toward its familiar dining hall.
It had been a long flight. It was hungry.
Ned Stark had been waiting. He came striding forward in his heavy wolfskin cloak, his face carrying something that was hard to name, excitement, relief, and something deeper underneath both.
"Lynn!"
Less than a month.
He had done it. Like a miracle, he'd pacified the entire south.
Ned had braced himself for years of brutal war, the kind that would drain the North of its last drop of blood. Instead, Lynn had seized the Riverlands and the Vale in a way Ned couldn't comprehend and hadn't dared to imagine, and held them firmly.
The undisputed lord of three regions.
"Lord Ned." Lynn met his eyes. "It's done. The Freys are gone. Every lord in the Riverlands and the Vale has sworn fealty. The first grain shipments will reach White Harbor within the fortnight."
Ned looked at him. His mouth opened, then closed. There was too much to ask, and no idea where to start.
In the end, everything collapsed into a single long exhale.
"It's good that you're back."
He gripped Lynn's shoulder. His gray eyes were tired, but the weight behind them had eased.
"You've done well. I can rest easy now, knowing the North is in your hands."
He said it with absolute gravity.
It wasn't just an entrustment, or a promise. It was a transfer of power.
From the moment those words left his mouth, he was no longer the Warden of the North.
He was just Ned Stark.
He'd been tired of this seat for a long time, the seat that should have been his elder brother's, never his. His father had always known what he truly wanted. He wanted to be a knight.
Nothing more.
---
Winterfell. The lord's study.
The hearth burned hot, pushing back the cold beyond the windows.
Ned poured the wine himself and handed Lynn a cup.
"I received your raven." His expression shifted, complicated. "About Lysa..."
"She chose her own path."
Lynn took the cup and sipped. The liquor burned going down, leaving warmth in its wake.
Ned went quiet.
He knew Lysa's death had been inevitable. Vengeance for Jon Arryn. Control of the Vale. An accounting for everyone who'd fought in that war. She'd had to die. There was no other way it could have ended.
"That Bolton bastard, Ramsay." Ned changed the subject. He had no desire to dwell on his sister-in-law, that woman who managed to be pitiful and hateful in equal measure. "What do you plan to do with him?"
"I've visited him a few times." Ned's brow creased. "That one is a genuine madman. But he's sharp, and he's calm. That's what makes him dangerous."
"Oh?"
A flicker of interest crossed Lynn's face.
"Take me to see him."
---
Winterfell's dungeons were dark and damp, the air thick with the stench of filth.
But when the jailer raised his torch and swung open the iron door of the deepest cell, something felt immediately wrong.
The cell was immaculate.
The stone floor was spotless. Even the straw had been spread in neat, even layers.
A young man in prisoner's clothes sat cross-legged on the pile, a smoothed stone slab in front of him, a piece of charcoal in his hand. He seemed completely absorbed in whatever he was drawing.
He didn't look up when the door opened. He just spoke, in a tone that was unhurried and almost pleasant.
"Is it lunchtime already? What's on the menu today?" A brief pause. "If it's stew, I'd prefer less turnip. The stuff kills my appetite."
His voice was easy on the ears, that particular brand of magnetic composure that seemed bred into the nobility.
If not for the dungeon, you'd have thought he was a young lord griping at a servant about the food.
"Ramsay Snow."
Lynn's voice filled the empty space.
The man called Ramsay finally stilled.
He raised his head slowly.
It was a handsome face, sharp features, thin lips, skin gone pale from months without sunlight. But what drew the eye were his eyes. Pale blue, so pale they were almost colorless, without a trace of impurity.
No fear in them. No despair. No anger at the man standing over him.
Just pure curiosity.
"Ah. Lord Lynn." Ramsay smiled. He set down the charcoal, rose to his feet, and offered a flawless Northern bow. "We meet again. King-Beyond-the-Wall. Defender of the Long Night. Lord Lynn." He straightened. "It is a tremendous honor to see you here."
His posture was humble. His words were courteous.
He might have been attending a court banquet.
That perfect elegance, set against the dripping stone walls and the stench of the dungeon, produced something deeply wrong. Something that crawled along the skin.
Lynn said nothing. He just watched him, openly curious.
This was the man who'd had his eye on Arya. On Sansa. On Myrcella.
This bastard genuinely deserved to die.
Lynn's gaze dropped to the stone slab on the floor in front of Ramsay.
It was a drawing of a flayed human body.
The figure in the drawing was smiling.
The muscle fiber, the path of each vein, the structure of the bones, all of it rendered with extraordinary precision. The kind of anatomical detail you'd expect from the most senior maester at the Citadel.
"A clumsy little thing. I hope it doesn't offend, my lord." Ramsay followed Lynn's gaze, a sheepish smile touching his lips. "The dungeon gets dull. This is just how I pass the time."
He pointed to a section of the drawing.
"Look here, if you adjust the angle of the blade, you can peel the entire muscle away in one clean piece." He tilted his head slightly. "The feeling is rather like removing a magnificent evening gown from the most distinguished of ladies. Elegant. Ceremonial."
Ned Stark's stomach turned over. His face went the color of ash.
Behind him, the Northern soldiers gripped their sword hilts, knuckles white, eyes hard with revulsion and the urge to draw.
Lynn's expression didn't change at all.
He stepped forward, crouched down, and studied the drawing.
"Not bad."
"Thank you, my lord." Ramsay's smile widened, the way a man's does when someone finally understands him. "Does she smile beautifully?"
"Creative." Lynn stood. "But it's missing something."
Ramsay's smile went slightly rigid.
"Oh? I'd love to hear your thoughts."
"A real smile isn't drawn with the mouth."
Lynn held Ramsay's gaze, unhurried.
"It's in the eyes. When you sew a person's eyelids to their brow bone with needle and thread, they'll smile at you forever." A beat. "That's the most sincere kind, don't you think?"
The soldiers behind Ned stared at Lynn like they'd seen something they couldn't explain.
The smile on Ramsay's face disappeared entirely.
For the first time, something moved in those pale, still eyes.
Not fear.
Something else. The electric jolt of meeting a worthy opponent. Pure, sick excitement.
"Ha , haha — hahahaha!"
Ramsay threw his head back and laughed, the sound bouncing off the dungeon walls, tears streaming freely down his face.
"Brilliant! That is absolutely brilliant!"
He looked at Lynn, his eyes burning.
"I take back every low opinion I ever had of you. Every single one." His voice climbed, fevered. "Only people like us understand, pain is the most real thing in this world. Fear is the most effective tool there is. Join me, Lord Lynn, no, let me join you! Together we'll make all of Westeros into our masterpiece. Let the screaming be our symphony. Let the blood soak into every inch of ground—"
He spread his arms wide, as if embracing the vision of it.
"Quiet."
Two words. Flat and calm.
Ramsay's laughter cut off like a snuffed candle.
He looked at Lynn. The feverish light in his eyes slowly receded, replaced by something heavier, more considered.
He finally understood.
The man in front of him was not like him.
Ramsay loved the process. The sensation of prey struggling in his grip. The ritual of it, the ceremony of absolute control.
But Lynn...
Lynn only cared about the outcome.
Everything he did had a purpose, precise and clear and utterly without sentiment.
He wasn't a madman.
He was something ten thousand times more terrifying than any madman alive.
"A very entertaining performance."
Lynn turned and walked toward the cell door.
"Lord Ned, please have someone keep a close watch on him. He still has his uses."
At the iron door, Lynn's steps paused.
He didn't turn around.
"One more thing, Ramsay."
His voice drifted back through the dark.
"Your father. Roose Bolton. He asked me to pass something along."
A beat of silence.
"He said he's disappointed. He doesn't think you're worthy of being his son." Another beat. "He's decided to have another one."
"Hahaha."
Lynn walked out without looking back.
Now, it was time to pay a visit to Miranda, the woman who'd given Ramsay her absolute loyalty.
➤ Next: Miranda