Three days later, Winterfell.
The wind in the North was as bitter as ever, whipping up the snow on the ground and sending it swirling against the walls.
A hundred horsemen appeared silently on the horizon, clad in black mail and pointed helms.
They flew no banners.
But the cold, murderous air that seeped from their very bones proclaimed their identity more clearly than any sigil.
At their head rode a lean, unremarkable-looking middle-aged man.
He wore plain black leather armor beneath a pink cloak devoid of ornament.
Roose Bolton.
His eyes, so pale they seemed almost colorless, gazed calmly at the imposing gray castle ahead.
Winterfell, the seat of House Stark's power, the heart of the North.
Here, he had sworn fealty to Rickard Stark.
Here, he had sworn fealty again to Ned Stark.
And today, here, he would face a monster capable of overturning the entire North, perhaps even all of Westeros.
The gates slowly opened.
There were no welcoming horns, no ranks of soldiers.
Only a young man in black robes, standing quietly in the shadows of the gateway.
Beside him stood a maid with a voluptuous figure and a beguiling face.
At their feet knelt a ragged figure who reeked of filth.
The instant Roose Bolton saw that figure, his pupils contracted almost imperceptibly.
He dismounted, tossed his reins to the knight behind him, and walked slowly toward the gates alone.
"Lord Bolton, you've had a long journey."
Lynn wore his usual gentle smile, as though there had never been any ill will between them and he was merely welcoming an old friend from afar.
Roose Bolton did not return Lynn's greeting.
His gaze passed over Lynn and fixed on the figure kneeling on the ground.
Feeling his stare, the figure shuddered violently, then slowly raised