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The farce in the South continued to ferment, but Lynn had more important matters to attend to.
It was time to fulfill his promise.
...
Winterfell.
Today, this ancient and stoic castle once again gathered all the bannermen of the North.
They had rushed back from the Riverlands in response to Lynn's call, their faces wearing expressions of anticipation mixed with uneasiness.
Shortly after the war in the Riverlands ended, they received news that was hard to believe.
Lord Lynn had promised to provide enough food for the entire North to survive the Long Night.
And that day was today!
In the Great Hall, the fires in the hearths burned brightly, yet the atmosphere was heavy.
"Jon, do you really believe Lynn has prepared the food?" Rodrik Flint, a bannerman from the White Knife, asked in a low voice.
"If Lynn promised it, he will do it."
The Greatjon Umber crossed his thick arms, his voice booming.
"But that's food for the entire North! Not just a few hundred loaves of bread!"
"Where is he going to conjure it from? Magic?"
"It hasn't been that long; it's completely impossible..."
Lord Hornwood, sitting near the high seat, was also full of worry.
"Winter is here. None of our granaries will last two years. If this is just an empty promise..."
"Shut your mouths, all of you!"
A heavy voice interrupted the discussion.
The Lord of White Harbor, Wyman Manderly, slammed his fat palm onto the table.
"What do you look like right now! Are you all doubting Lord Lynn?"
"Let me tell you, Lord Lynn never does anything he isn't sure of."
"Besides, he doesn't owe us anything!"
"Since he asked us to come, he must have his reasons."
"We just wait."
His words quieted the hall temporarily, but the doubts on the lords' faces did not dissipate.
Just then, a shrill horn blast pierced the tranquility of Winterfell.
WOOO—!
That was not the horn of the Night's Watch.
The sound was ancient, prolonged, carrying a chill that seeped into the marrow.
Immediately after, a second and third blast sounded, merging into one.
The doors of the Great Hall were shoved open violently. A garrison soldier scrambled in, stumbling and crawling, his face as white as snow.
"My Lords! My Lords!"
"Outside... outside..."
He pointed outside, unable to complete a sentence due to extreme terror.
Greatjon Umber grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up.
"What about outside! Speak clearly!"
"Dead men... it's dead men... countless dead men!"
The soldier screamed with a sobbing tone.
"The Army of the Dead is here!"
In the entire hall, the faces of all the lords changed in unison.
They dropped their goblets, grabbed their longswords, and rushed madly toward the battlements.
The moment they ascended the towering walls of Winterfell and saw the scene outside.
Everyone felt their blood freeze.
Beyond the walls, at the end of the horizon, lay a black ocean.
Boundless ocean composed of walking corpses.
Thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of wights, were dragging their shambling, chaotic steps, slowly closing in on Winterfell.
In their empty eye sockets burned eerie blue lights.
That thick aura of death, even separated by high walls, made the hands and feet of these battle-hardened Northern men turn ice cold.
"Old Gods..."
Lord Hornwood's legs gave out, and he collapsed directly to the ground.
"The prophecies are true... the Long Night... the eternal winter... we are all going to die..."
"How did they suddenly reach Winterfell?"
"Has the Gift already fallen?"
"Cut the crap and pick up your weapons!" The Greatjon drew his greatsword, letting out a roar.
"For the North! For Winterfell!"
However, his roar seemed so pale and powerless before that silent sea of death.
Some young soldiers had already started crying, and some even wanted to turn and flee.
Despair spread on the wall like a plague.
Just then, Wyman Manderly's fat finger pointed tremblingly at the very front of the army of the dead.
"Look... look there!"
Everyone looked in the direction he pointed.
At the forefront of that sea of death, a young figure rode a black warhorse, walking unhurriedly.
He wore black leather armor and a snow-white bear-fur cloak draped over his shoulders.
It was Lynn.
He had arrived.
"Lynn!" The Greatjon's eyes went red; he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"He's been turned into a dead man too!"
"Damn it, fight these dead bastards to the death!"
He roared hoarsely, his voice full of pain.
The lords on the wall also stared dead at the slowly approaching figure.
Just then, Lynn raised his hand.
He snapped his fingers lightly.
Snap.
The next second.
The scene that shattered the courage of all living men occurred.
That endless ocean of wights just stopped.
Thousands upon thousands of wights, as if pressed by an invisible hand on a pause button, halted their steps in unison.
The whole world was left with only the whistling of the wind and snow.
On the wall, everyone held their breath, watching this scene in horror.
Lynn's gaze swept over every terrified face on the wall.
"Don't be afraid. I am their master."
With that, Lynn raised his hand again and waved lightly at the silent army of the dead.
Crack—!
That was the sound of countless bones rubbing and colliding.
Under the gaze of the Winterfell defenders, who looked as if they had seen a ghost.
That boundless army of wights knelt on one knee in unison.
They lowered their heads.
Toward their sole creator, their absolute dominator.
Paying their humblest respects.
Clang!
The greatsword in Greatjon Umber's hand fell to the ground.
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but couldn't make a sound.
The other lords were no better off.
They looked at the young man standing before millions of dead as if looking at a living god.
No, an existence more terrifying than a god.
Lynn ignored these dumbfounded lords.
He knew it would take them a lot of time to accept this.
Now that the scale of this wight army was getting bigger and bigger, it definitely couldn't be hidden, and Lynn had no intention of hiding it from the Northern lords.
Currently, the passage between the South and the North was firmly controlled by the Riverlands; he only needed to hide it from the South.
Lynn issued a new command to the army of the dead behind him.
"Bring the food into the city."
The dead silent army moved again.
They slowly stood up, parting to both sides, making a wide path.
Teams of special wights walked out from the rear of the army.
They were all giant corpses, carrying no weapons, but lifting huge clay jars fired from clay one by one.
Those jars were ugly in shape and rough on the surface, but sealed tight.
The giant wights carried these jars, taking heavy steps, walking toward Winterfell step by step.
Ned gritted his teeth and gave the order.
"Trust Lynn. Open the gates!"
Thus, the gates opened slowly amidst the bannermen's trepidation.
The wights walked silently into the castle, stacking the huge clay jars neatly in the castle clearing.
Soon, in about two hours, the clearing was piled high with jars.
Having done all this, the wights silently withdrew from Winterfell, merging back into that black ocean, waiting quietly outside the city.
Only then did the lords on the wall seem to come back to life.
Supporting each other, they stumbled down the wall and came to the jars.
Wyman Manderly stepped forward trembling, reaching out to touch the cold surface of a clay jar.
"This... these are..."
Lynn dismounted and walked up to them.
"The food I promised you."
He drew the dagger at his waist and pried open the seal of a clay jar.
The jar was filled with venison sealed in fat.
Lynn pried open another jar.
Inside were potatoes stacked neatly.
A third, a fourth...
Dried meat, potatoes, turnips, salted fish...
All food enough to let them pass the long winter safely.
"This is just one year's reserve." Lynn sheathed his dagger.
"I will send people to count the population of your respective fiefs."
"Then, deliver the corresponding amount of food to your castles."
He looked at the Northern lords who were still in shock, unable to extricate themselves.
"Now, you should be able to eat your fill."
A smile finally appeared on Lynn's face.
"So, next, we should talk about the future of the North."