The news the scout brought froze the warmth that had just begun to fill the camp.
For something like this to happen on the lands of the North, beneath the banners of House Stark, was nothing less than a vicious slap across the direwolf's face.
Lynn stood and brushed the snow from his clothes.
"Jon, take some men and stay here to protect Arya."
"Everyone else, come with me."
Jon nodded.
"Be careful."
With twenty of the finest men of the Ironclad Cavalry, Lynn followed the scout into the vast darkness.
The horses' hooves struck the snow with muffled thuds.
A faint smell of blood hung in the air.
The closer they drew, the stronger it became.
At last, they saw the caravan that had been attacked.
Several heavy wagons sat crookedly in the mud.
One had a broken axle, its carriage overturned on the ground.
A draft horse lay in a pool of blood, its body long since stiffened. One eye remained wide open, reflecting the pitch-black night sky.
The caravan's goods were already gone.
Several corpses lay scattered around the wagons.
They were the caravan's guards.
They had died horribly, their bodies covered in blade wounds, their faces still frozen in their final terror.
Lynn dismounted and walked slowly into the wreckage.
He crouched and dabbed a finger in the blood on the ground.
The blood had already congealed.
Some time had passed since the fighting.
"My lord, there's a survivor over here!"
A soldier had found a curled-up figure beneath the overturned carriage.
It was a merchant.
His bulky body was trapped between the carriage and the ground, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle.
His breathing was faint, his lips an ashen gray from blood loss.
Lynn approached and held a waterskin to his lips.
The merchant drank greedily, and a trace of life finally returned to his clouded eyes.
"Bandits..."
"They... they took everyone away..."
"They went... into the woods to the north..."
Utter terror spread across the merchant's face.
Lynn rose, his expression frighteningly dark.
He served House Stark now. Naturally, he could not stand idle when faced with something like this.
His men were all watching him.
Such things could never be tolerated on the lands of the North.
This was a direct challenge to House Stark.
"Find their trail."
Lynn gave the order.
The soldiers immediately spread out, searching every inch of the surrounding ground.
Before long, they found a jumble of footprints and drag marks in the snow leading toward the dense woods to the north.
Lynn returned to camp.
He briefly explained the situation.
Anger flared on every soldier's face.
Such brutal pillaging on the lands they guarded trampled on the honor of every northerner among them.
"Give the order, my lord!"
The cavalry captain, a burly man named Torrhen, tightened his grip on the sword at his waist.
"We'll hang those bastards' heads from the walls of Winterfell!"
Lynn's gaze swept over them all.
"Gather everyone."
"We leave at once."
He stepped aside and quietly gave Torrhen his orders.
"Listen, Torrhen."
"Once we find them, don't kill them outright."
Torrhen froze.
"My lord?"
"Break their arms or legs. Just make sure they can't fight back."
Lynn kept his voice low enough that only the two of them could hear.
"I will end their lives myself, one by one."
Torrhen stared at Lynn, bewilderment filling his rugged eyes.
But he asked no further questions.
In the North, obeying orders was a warrior's duty.
"As you command, my lord."
Not far away, Tyrion Lannister watched it all.
He leaned against his tent with a cup of wine in his hand, his short figure casting a long shadow in the firelight.
Lynn's order was strange.
Executing his enemies with his own hands.
It was much like Ned's way of doing things.
Very strange.
What exactly was Lynn's motive?
An intrigued smile curled Tyrion's lips.
Things were becoming more and more interesting.
The woods were dim, and the dead branches and leaves beneath the snow snapped underfoot.
Lynn led fifty cavalrymen through the trees.
The smell of blood and a sickening stench of burning flesh grew stronger.
At last, they spotted the bandits' camp in the middle of a clearing.
A bonfire blazed, casting the surrounding trees into ghostly silhouettes.
More than a dozen bandits sat around it, laughing loudly and drinking stolen wine.
But the sight of the large trees behind them froze the blood of every northern soldier.
The abducted members of the caravan had been stripped naked and tied to the trunks.
Some bore blackened marks burned into their flesh with branding irons.
Others had had their fingers broken one by one, leaving them dangling limply.
A woman hung from a branch, her golden hair matted with blood, her body still twitching faintly.
The bandits seemed to relish the torture.
Every so often, they picked up red-hot iron rods and approached the helpless captives.
Amid their piercing screams, the bandits roared with beastly laughter.
This was not pillaging.
This was pure evil, taking pleasure in the suffering of others.
Lynn raised his hand.
Behind him, the soldiers slowly drew the longswords at their waists.
The blades reflected a cold gleam in the moonlight filtering through the trees.
Lynn swept his hand down.
"Kill!"
A low roar rang out.
Fifty elite northerners charged into the camp on their warhorses.
Drinking and carousing, the bandits had been dulled by alcohol and were completely unprepared.
Only when a longsword pierced the first bandit's throat did the others react.
It was less a battle than a massacre.
The anger pent up in the guards' chests erupted.
Yet they still followed Lynn's orders to the letter.
Sword flats, hammer handles, fists, and feet.
The difference between full armor and none allowed the guards to hold back like this.
Crack!
The sound of breaking bones rang out distinctly amid the screams.
One bandit's arm was smashed clean through, and he rolled on the ground clutching it.
Another had his knee shattered by a kick and fell to his knees, unable to rise again.
Within moments.
Every bandit lay on the ground.
They howled and struggled, but not one had died.
The fighting was over.
Lynn strode into the camp.
Without looking at the rescued merchants, he headed straight toward a bandit still writhing on the ground.
The bandit stared at him in terror and tried to inch backward.
Lynn drew the Valyrian Steel Dagger at his waist.
Its dragonbone grip felt cold against his skin.
Squelch.
The dagger sank cleanly into the bandit's neck.
Blood gushed from the wound.
The bandit's body convulsed, then fell still in less than a minute.
[Enemies killed: 1, Experience Points +1] [Current Experience Points: 8]
Expressionless, Lynn moved on to the next.
He was like a tireless farmer harvesting ripe crops in his own field.
His hand rose.
The blade fell.
[Enemies killed: 1, Experience Points +1] [Current Experience Points: 9]
Jon stood at the edge of the camp, watching.
He watched Lynn end one life after another with that dagger.
There was no anger.
No mercy.
Not even the slightest flicker of emotion.
It felt as though he were dealing with something utterly trivial.
A chill shot from the soles of Jon's feet to the crown of his head.
He had witnessed executions before.
But this was the first time he had seen so many people killed at once.
Only the dull sound of the dagger piercing flesh and the bandits' final, dying gasps remained in the camp.
[Enemies killed: 1, Experience Points +1] [Current Experience Points: 10]
Only when the last bandit collapsed into a pool of blood did Lynn slowly straighten.
His experience had now reached 25.
"Raise Light Sword to proficient, and put everything else into One-Handed Sword."
[Experience -9, Light Sword (beginner) 1 → 10, proficiency increased] [Experience -16, One-Handed Sword (proficient) 18 → 34] Name: Lynn Strength: 5 (normal) Agility: 5 (normal) Constitution: 5 (normal) [One-Handed Sword (proficient) 34/100] [Light Sword (proficient) 1/100] [Horsemanship (proficient) 1/100] [Unarmed Combat (proficient) 84/100] Remaining experience: 0
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