Outside Winterfell, on a hillside.
The Night's Watch deserter was lashed to a makeshift execution platform, hands bound, hair disheveled, face sared with gri.
Around him stood the Stark knights and the children—Robb, Jon, Bran, and Theon.
Lord Eddard Stark stood before the condemned man, following the ancient Northern custom of allowing the dying to speak their final words.
The deserter lifted his head. His eyes were strangely resolute—no fear, no pleading.
"I saw the Others," his voice was hoarse yet each word rang clear and strong. "I know I broke my vows, but I saw the Others. Please tell my family… I am not a coward."
A heavy silence fell.
Then soone sighed softly.
No one believed him.
The Others?
They were nothing more than tales Old Nan told to scare disobedient children. Legends that had vanished eight thousand years ago—how could they possibly exist?
Lord Eddard's brows knitted tightly. He felt it was an ill on; winter was coming and hearts were uneasy. Yet no matter what, he did not believe in the Others… or rather, he refused to believe.
Once the deserter finished speaking, Eddard slowly drew the longsword at his waist.
It was the famous Valyrian steel greatsword—Ice.
The broad blade carried the distinctive rippling patterns of Valyrian steel, gleaming with a cold, ghostly light under the sun.
Eddard gripped the hilt with both hands and closed his eyes in prayer.
"In the na of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Na, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First n, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."
The greatsword fell.
The head rolled into the snow, leaving a glaring trail of crimson.
Ten-year-old Bran, under his brothers' instructions, did not blink. Even so, his small body still trembled once.
The surrounding knights gave the boy approving looks.
He had not closed his eyes, had not fainted, had not cried out… this was a true son of House Stark.
Eddard sheathed his sword and walked over to Bran. He crouched down so they were eye to eye.
"Do you know why I must carry out the sentence myself?"
Bran forced himself to stay calm, recalling the lessons his father had taught him. "Because we follow the old ways. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."
Eddard nodded, eyes full of approval.
Yet Bran still could not hold back his question. "Father… did he really… see the Others?"
Eddard was silent for a mont.
He looked at the severed head on the ground, at the eyes that had not closed even in death, at the face still etched with resolve and despair.
"The Others have been silent for thousands of years," he said at last, voice calm and certain. "What a madman sees is only madness."
Even he did not know whether he was convincing Bran… or himself.
On the ride back, the party passed through a stretch of woods.
Suddenly a knight cried out.
In the snow ahead lay a dead stag. It was a huge hart, its massive antlers still intact, but the body had already begun to rot and swarm with maggots, giving off a foul stench.
Everyone frowned and covered their noses, preparing to ride around it—until they spotted sothing else not far away.
A direwolf.
A massive direwolf lay dead in the snow. Its body was covered in wounds, clear signs of a fierce battle.
Beside the direwolf's corpse, six small, fluffy pups huddled together, whimpering weakly.
Direwolf pups.
Their eyes had not yet opened. They curled against their mother's body, instinctively seeking warmth and milk.
The children's eyes lit up at once.
Bran was the first to rush forward. He crouched down and stared at the pups in wonder. "Father! They're still alive!"
Eddard walked over and looked at the scene in silence.
A stag. A direwolf.
One dead. The other dead. Six helpless pups left behind.
It felt like an on.
Yet under the children's pleading, Eddard finally nodded.
Six children. Six pups.
Robb, Sansa, Bran, Arya, Rickon… and Jon.
Eddard spoke sternly, "You will train them yourselves. You will raise them yourselves. If they die, you will bury them yourselves. Understood?"
The children nodded eagerly, faces bright with excitent.
Only Jon stood at the edge of the group, looking at the pure-white pup assigned to him, then at his brothers and sisters. A complicated emotion flickered in his eyes.
He was Snow, not Stark.
But this pup was his.
Back at Winterfell, grim news awaited them.
The Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, was dead.
The ssenger's letter was short and cold: Lord Jon Arryn had died in King's Landing.
At the sa ti, the letter said King Robert Baratheon was personally riding north to Winterfell, accompanied by Queen Cersei Lannister and all his lords.
Eddard's hand trembled slightly as he held the parchnt.
Jon Arryn… his foster father, his ntor, his good-brother!
The man who had sheltered him and Robert during the rebellion, the man who had been like a father to him… was gone.
That sa night, another letter arrived in secret.
Catelyn read it and her face turned deathly pale. It was from her sister Lysa Tully… Jon Arryn's widow and her own sister-by-marriage… a secret ssage.
It contained only one line:
The Hand was murdered.
Eddard and Catelyn exchanged a look. Both saw shock and unease in the other's eyes.
Outside the window, the north wind howled.
"Winter is coming," Eddard murmured.
In the days that followed, Winterfell entered a state of tense preparation.
Though the royal party was still many days away, the castle's people had already begun readying everything—cleaning rooms, stockpiling food, drilling etiquette—so they could welco His Grace in the best possible manner.
anwhile, a vast and splendid column had already crossed the Neck and was marching north along the King's Road.
Banners fluttered. The procession was grand and imposing.
At its center rolled a huge, luxurious four-wheeled carriage drawn by eight fine horses.
It was the royal wheelhouse of the "Queen of Whores."
Yet the column looked strangely unbalanced.
This was clearly King Robert Baratheon's royal progress, but more than nine out of every ten guards wore the crimson cloaks of House Lannister, golden lions emblazoned on their chests.
Lions "guarding" the stag.
In the middle of the column, a dwarf sat in a specially made saddle, staring north with bored eyes. He rembered the joke he had shared with Luke: "I'm going to piss off the top of the Wall of the End!"
Luke had replied, "Save so for —make it yellow and green…"
Tyrion Lannister yawned.
He had lingered for several days on the south shore of the God's Eye, drinking fine wine with Luke and talking about many interesting things.
Now he had finally caught up with the King's party and continued the journey north.
He glanced back toward the south.
That man who called himself a "Celestial Dragon" was probably still in his luxurious log villa right now, embracing beautiful maids or studying so wicked magic.
The corner of Tyrion's mouth curved into a smile, but when his gaze fell on the Lannister lion sigil, a faint unease stirred in his heart.
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