"Lynn!"
Greatjon Umber's face, red as a beetroot from drink, was inches from Lynn's own. His voice was like rolling thunder.
"Congratulations! Congratulations!"
A massive hand slammed onto Lynn's shoulder with enough force to floor a lesser man.
Lynn sat steady, offering only a calm smile.
"Thank you."
"Thank me? Don't be a stranger! This is a joyous occasion!"
The Greatjon grinned, his mouth wide.
He looked around, raising his voice even further to ensure half the hall could hear him.
"Ned just said we in the North are all one family!"
"Since we're family, I'll have my say."
"If you don't want to hear it, just pretend I'm farting!"
Crude laughter erupted from the tables below.
"This business between Lord Lynn and Lady Arya... I say we strike while the iron is hot!"
He slammed the table.
"Everyone is here. The Godswood is right inside the walls. Why not just have the wedding today?!"
The Greatjon's suggestion was like a boulder dropped into boiling oil. The hall went silent for a split second, then exploded with even fiercer approval.
"Lord Umber is right!"
"We Northmen don't need those Southern frills and delays!"
"Aye! In the Godswood! Before the Old Gods! That is the true way for a daughter of the North!"
"We are all witnesses!"
The lords were fervent. They liked this simple, direct approach.
War was on the horizon; who knew what tomorrow would bring?
Setting this joyous union in stone now would be the strongest possible boost to morale for every warrior preparing to march south.
Lynn was slightly taken aback. He looked to the high seat at Ned Stark.
A muscle in Ned's cheek twitched.
His stiff smile froze, looking even more pained now.
He had hoped to keep his daughter—the one who gave him both headaches and joy—a few days longer, to enjoy his last moments as her father before she belonged to another house.
But these rough bannermen wouldn't even give him that.
Ned caught the questioning look from his wife, Catelyn.
Though born in the South, Catelyn had lived in the North long enough to know the nature of her husband's vassals.
They were crude, often speaking of piss and shit, but they were without malice.
Catelyn shook her head slightly, signaling Ned not to go against the current at this crucial moment.
Right now, the unity and morale of the North were paramount.
Ned's gaze finally settled beside Lynn.
At some point, Arya had run over from the women's table.
She stood beside Lynn, her bright grey eyes free of any maidenly shyness. Instead, they shone with a mix of excitement, anticipation, and challenge.
She looked straight at her father, her eyes saying clearly:
I am willing.
The last bit of resistance in Ned's heart dissolved.
He let out a long sigh—part resignation, part relief.
His daughter had found where she belonged.
"Very well!"
Ned stood up.
His voice held a trace of helplessness, but mostly the decisiveness of the Lord of Winterfell.
"Since everyone is in such high spirits, let it be as Lord Umber says!"
He looked at Lynn and Arya, his gaze turning solemn.
"Tonight, in the Godswood, before the Old Gods, we shall hold the wedding for Lynn and Arya!"
"HOOOAH!"
The cheers nearly shattered the ceiling.
Everyone sprang into action. The atmosphere shifted from a simple feast to a mass wedding preparation.
Maids rushed off to prepare suitable attire for Arya.
Steward Vayon Poole began organizing torches and the procession to the Godswood.
The lords spontaneously appointed themselves as guards and guests of honor.
They clapped each other on the back, shouting about securing the best spots to witness the ceremony.
In the chaotic, heated atmosphere, Lynn felt like he was being swept along by a great flood.
He looked at the girl beside him, her cheeks flushed with excitement, stealing glances at him from the corner of her eye.
When she realized he saw her, she stubbornly turned her head away.
But the uncontrollable smile at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
Lynn's heart softened like never before.
He reached out, and hidden from view, gently hooked his pinky around hers.
Arya stiffened for a moment. Then, one by one... she interlaced her fingers with his until their hands were tightly clasped.
Her palm was cool and slightly sweaty, but her grip was fierce, as if she were holding onto her life's happiness.
In the corner, Roose Bolton drained his goblet of deep red wine.
He didn't care for the weak ale, and wary of poison, he drank only his own supply. He looked out of place in the revelry.
His pale, colorless eyes watched it all calmly.
As if this moment, destined for the history books of the North, was nothing but a boring farce.
A squire beside him whispered, "My Lord, will you not attend the wedding?"
"A farce, nothing more," Roose Bolton said softly, his voice sliding like a snake on sand.
"It was supposed to be a game of Lions and Direwolves. Now, a little dragon has appeared from nowhere."
"Amusing. Truly amusing."
He stood up. Instead of joining the crowd, he turned and walked out of the hall alone, melting into the cold shadows of the castle.
The squire dared not ask more and followed silently.
Roose Bolton didn't return to his guest chambers. instead, he walked up to the battlements of Winterfell.
The night wind whipped at his cloak, emblazoned with the Flayed Man, making his pale face look even more ghoulish.
He gazed into the distance, his eyes seeming to pierce the darkness toward the south.
Ned Stark's move was indeed clever.
With a marriage, he had bound Lynn—the biggest variable—tightly to the Stark war chariot.
From now on, Lynn's strength was Stark strength.
Lynn's honor was the North's honor.
All potential suspicion, division, and distrust vanished in the face of this hasty but momentous wedding.
The North had never been so united.
And that was exactly what Roose did not want to see.
House Bolton was one of the oldest families in the North. His ancestors were Red Kings, rivals to the Starks until the very end.
The ambition hidden in their blood had never died; it was merely buried deeper.
Roose Bolton understood patience better than anyone.
He was like a leech in the water, waiting for the prey to weaken before latching on silently to drain it dry.
Originally, Ned marching south would have been the perfect opportunity.
Every Northman knew that when Starks went south, they didn't come back well.
Ned, bound by his honor, going to King's Landing to serve his friend was swimming against the tide. The Lannisters and Baratheons were not easily handled. As Hand of the King, Ned would inevitably cross powerful interests and meet a bad end.
Chaos would ensue, and blood would flow.
Roose's plan had been to preserve the Dreadfort's strength while letting Stark loyalists like the Umbers and Karstarks bleed themselves dry against the Lannisters.
When both sides were exhausted, when Ned Stark and his heir Robb lay dead...
Then, a weakened, leaderless North would be ripe for the taking.
But Lynn's arrival had ruined everything.
Not only was Ned safe, but he had returned to the North. And by the looks of it, he wasn't going back to that snake pit. He was going to sit in Winterfell and wait for death.
This wouldn't do!
If Ned didn't go out and expose his neck, Roose would be suppressed forever.
And this Lynn... his power was unfathomable. Not just his personal combat skill, but an army that no one could ignore. His presence had made the North's power explode.
And now, he was family.
A united, powerful North could crush any hidden scheme, including Roose's own ambitions.
Roose's fingers lightly traced the cold stone of the battlements.
He couldn't wait. Not anymore.
If he waited, he would die of old age before seeing House Bolton rise again.
He had to act.
And Lynn seemed even more cautious than Roose himself. He didn't have the look of a man who would die young.
Since he couldn't destroy them from the inside, he would have to... borrow strength from the outside.
War... yes, war.
This coming war was no longer an opportunity to weaken rivals; it was his only chance.
He had to make this war burn hotter, more tragically. He needed to drag everyone in the North into the mud.
Only in the deepest chaos could the architect of order reap the greatest rewards.
A thought formed in his cold, calculating mind.
The Freys...
Perhaps he could send a "friendly" reminder to old Lord Walder.
Information about the composition of the Northern army, the movements of the lords, and... intelligence on Lynn.
Even the strongest enemy is less terrifying when you know their secrets.
He needed the Riverlands and the Vale to bleed the Starks dry.
And he, Roose Bolton, would be the one to pick up the pieces.
"Peace is a lie. There is only chaos. My blades are sharp."
He whispered the words like a universal truth.
A pale, cold smile finally appeared on his lifeless face.
---
The Godswood of Winterfell was silent as ever.
The massive white Weirwood stood beside the black pool. The face carved into its trunk wept red sap, like ancient eyes watching every living thing enter this sacred place.
The lords held torches, lighting the Godswood as bright as day, yet they maintained a respectful silence.
This was a solemn place. No matter how wild a Northman was, here, they became as meek as lambs.
They formed a semi-circle, leaving the center open for the couple.
No elaborate ceremony. No septon's chanting.
Only the gaze of the Old Gods, and the witness of the North.
Arya had changed into a grey tunic and breeches, at her own request. The fabric was soft, the cut fitted—practical for movement, yet dignified.
Her hair was tied simply behind her head, revealing a smooth forehead and grey eyes identical to Ned's.
She stood beneath the Weirwood, watching Lynn walk toward her, led by her father.
The firelight danced on his face, highlighting his sharp features. His gaze was focused and deep, as if she were the only person in the world.
Arya's heart raced. A sweetness she had never known rose in her throat.
Ned Stark held Lynn's hand and walked him to Arya.
He looked at his daughter—the one who had caused him so much worry but was most like him—and his eyes grew hot.
He released Lynn and took Arya's hand.
It was small, but firm.
"Take care of her."
Ned said only four words to Lynn, but they were heavier than any oath.
Lynn nodded solemnly.
"With my life."
Ned placed Arya's hand into Lynn's broad palm.
Their hands clasped.
Lynn looked at Arya, and she looked back.
In the firelight, the stubbornness and wildness in her eyes seemed to melt, leaving only pure trust and joy.
Following the ancient tradition of the North, Lynn faced the crowd, his voice clear and resonant:
"Who gives this woman?"
Ned Stark stepped forward, speaking as father and Lord of Winterfell.
"I, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, husband to Catelyn of Riverrun, give my daughter, Arya Stark, to you."
His gaze swept over every bannerman.
"Will you witness for them?"
"WE WILL!"
The lords roared in unison, shaking the trees.
Then, Lynn turned to Arya, and she to him.
No flowery words were needed. Only the simplest, oldest vows.
Lynn squeezed her hand, speaking every word clearly.
"In the sight of the gods and these witnesses, I take you as my wife."
"I swear that what is yours is mine, and what is mine is yours. From this day forth, through plenty and want, in sickness and health, I will love you, honor you, and protect you, until my last breath."
Arya's eyes reddened.
She widened them, fighting back tears.
She responded with a voice just as clear and firm:
"In the sight of the gods and these witnesses, I take you as my husband."
"I swear that what is yours is mine, and what is mine is yours. From this day forth, through plenty and want, in sickness and health, I will love you, honor you, and stand beside you, until my last breath."
The vows spoken, Lynn slowly lowered his head.
Under the bleeding eyes of the Weirwood, under the witness of all the lords of the North, he kissed his bride.
In this moment, he was no longer a traveler from another world, no longer the schemer fighting for survival.
He was Lynn.
A son of the North.
And the husband of Arya Stark.
When their lips parted, the crowd erupted in thunderous cheers and blessings.
Lynn held Arya's hand, accepting the goodwill of everyone.
He could feel the change in their gazes.
There was approval. Closeness. Unreserved trust.
However, amidst the jubilation, Lynn caught a glimpse of something in his peripheral vision. A tall, thin figure flashed through the shadows of the battlements.
It carried a chill that didn't belong, like the biting wind of deepest winter.
It was Roose Bolton.