The ride back to Winterfell was quiet—too quiet for Lord Eddard Stark's liking.
He sat deep in thought, his brow furrowed, his unease growing heavier with every mile.
Behind him, Lynn lay inside a wagon, still bound but alive. The execution had been halted, and that alone was miracle enough.
Lord Stark had allowed his children to relax on the journey home. Robb and Bran rode ahead, racing their horses through fresh snow, laughter echoing against the cliffs.
That laughter helped ease Eddard's grim mood—at least for a while.
Then Jon's voice carried from up the rise ahead.
"Father! Bran! You have to come see this! You won't believe what Robb found!"
Jon vanished over the ridge before anyone could answer.
Eddard's body tensed instantly. His hand went to his sword out of habit.
"What is it, my lord?" Jory Cassel asked, riding up beside him.
Eddard exhaled, forcing calm into his voice. "We'll see soon enough. Let's find out what mischief my sons have discovered."
He nudged his horse forward, Jory and Bran quick to follow, several guards spurring after them through the knee-deep snow.
They crossed a small frozen brook and came upon Robb and Jon standing in a clearing near the riverbank. Both boys were knee-deep in snow, leaning over something on the ground.
Jory and Theon arrived first. Theon took one glance and cursed under his breath.
"Gods…" he said. "Seven hells—what in the blazes is that?"
Jory drew his sword instinctively. His face hardened. "Robb, step back!"
Robb looked up, grinning widely despite the soldiers' alarm.
"It's all right! She's dead. She won't hurt anyone."
He lifted something small and trembling from the snow.
Before them lay the carcass of a wolf—massive, easily larger than Bran's horse. The blood spread across the snow around her like spilled wine, deep red against white.
Theon swore again. "What kind of beast grows that big?"
Jon answered quietly. "It's a wolf."
Theon gave him a sharp look. "Don't play dumb, Snow. I know what wolves look like."
Eddard dismounted in silence, staring at the body. A strange chill passed through him—not from the air, but from something deeper.
His mind whispered the words spoken by the prisoner that morning—words he had tried to dismiss but could not shake:
> "When bloodied antlers pierce the North's protector, six cubs shall rise in the cold wind.
> The lone wolf dies; the pack survives."
He swallowed hard.
"It's an direwolf," Eddard said at last, voice low.
That made even Theon step back.
"Direwolves…" he muttered. "There haven't been any south of the Wall for two hundred years."
"Then what's it doing here, now?" Jory murmured. "And dying like this…"
The question hung in the air like frost.
Even the horses stamped nervously.
Eddard knelt beside the body, inspecting it. "How did it die?"
Robb pointed to the gory wound beneath the jaw. "Look here."
A broken antler jutted clean through the wolf's throat.
A stunned silence followed. Every man looked to Ned, and every mind recalled the same line from that impossible prophecy.
When bloodied antlers pierce the North's protector…
Then came a soft whimper.
All eyes turned to Robb, who was cradling something in his arms.
A bundle of fur—small, alive, shaking.
Jon leaned closer. "A pup. A direwolf pup."
Ned blinked once, surprised. "Still alive?"
"There are more," Jon said, kneeling beside the dead mother. He reached beneath her side and gently pulled free several small bodies. "Five in total. Three males, two females."
"Five?" Eddard's expression darkened. He had heard "six" in the prophecy.
Before he could speak, a quiet voice came from behind the wagon.
"Six," said Lynn evenly.
Everyone turned. The stranger leaned against the wagon rail, golden eyes glinting under the pale light.
"Look closer," he said, nodding toward the far tree line.
Following his gaze, Jon spotted motion near the roots of a dead tree—a tiny shape dragging its tail weakly through the snow.
Jon rushed forward and returned a moment later, cradling a runt of a wolf unlike the others. Its fur was pure white, its eyes a striking gray.
"He must've crawled off," Jon murmured, sadness flickering behind his steady look.
Eddard studied the boy and the pup for a long moment. "Or perhaps," he said softly, "it was driven away."
Theon scoffed. "A pale runt like that won't live the night."
Jon's voice snapped cold. "He will. Because he's mine."
Theon smirked, but Jon ignored him. The white wolf whimpered softly, curling into Jon's arm.
While the children fussed over the pups, the mood behind them shifted drastically.
At the edge of the clearing, Jory signaled the guards to hold position, leaving Eddard alone with Lynn.
"Who are you?" Eddard demanded, eyes sharp. "Those words you spoke—how could you have known this?"
Lynn met his gaze calmly. "A wanderer, my lord. A foreigner guided by dreams… perhaps by the Old Gods, if you prefer their name."
He inwardly winced at his own improvisation but saw the faint spark of belief in Eddard's eyes.
The Starks respected omens more than reason.
"Soon," Lynn said, his voice low and deliberate, "a raven from the Wall will confirm what we already know. The dead are stirring beyond the Wall. Even the direwolves have crossed south. The world itself is warning us. Ignore that, and winter will claim everything."
Ned Stark's grip tightened on Lynn's torn collar, his face grim.
"You speak of things you shouldn't even know," he hissed. "Why would the Old Gods whisper to you?"
Lynn didn't flinch. "The Old Gods have never been silent—men simply stopped listening. When direwolves walk the South again, when bloodied antlers mark the snow, it's no whisper. It's a shout. And you, Lord Stark—you've heard it long before me. You've just refused to believe it."
The words hit their mark.
Eddard's hand fell away.
Behind them, the wind swept through the trees, carrying the faint howls of six newborn wolves—one pure white, one black as night, the rest gray and brown like the North itself.
Six lives bound to one family's fate, crying beneath the dying sun.
Lynn turned toward the sound, and for a fleeting moment, his golden eyes flickered with quiet awe.
The prophecy was no longer words.
It was real.