What is this?
Lynn's consciousness was ripped from his body by an irresistible force and hurled into absolute nothingness.
No light. No sound. No time.
Then—a presence descended.
Cold. Vast. Filled with absolute hatred for all living things.
Like a mountain of ancient ice, it crushed down on Lynn's fragile mind.
The Night King? Or the Cold God itself?
Only one thought remained.
This altar. This egg. It was a trap from the start.
His touch had awakened something that had slept for eons.
BOOM.
Lynn's soul trembled violently.
As if it would be torn to shreds in the next instant.
Visions flooded his mind.
An endless army of the dead marching across frozen seas, crossing the shattered Wall.
Winterfell reduced to ruins under frost.
The great heart tree he'd once seen—frozen into a pale statue.
King's Landing swallowed by eternal night. The Red Keep's spires hung with icicles.
On the Iron Throne—a figure crowned in ice, eyes burning blue.
All of Westeros—a silent wasteland of ice.
All life. All warmth. All hope.
Erased.
Only the eternal quiet of death remained.
"No..."
Lynn's consciousness struggled. But no sound came out.
He tried to resist.
But his will was laughably fragile before this godlike power.
The cold presence seeped into his soul, freezing his thoughts, erasing his memories.
He was being assimilated.
His longing for warmth, his attachment to life—fading fast.
Replaced by a yearning for death. A surrender to eternal silence.
Maybe... this isn't so bad.
No worries. No pain. No struggle.
Everything returns to nothing.
Dying in a place like this... what a disgrace for a transmigrator.
Lynn's consciousness began to blur. He was about to give up.
Then—
A stubborn little face flashed through his mind. Gray eyes filled with trust and admiration.
And Daenerys. Margaery. The Red Woman...
No!
I can't give up like this!
I'm going to rule this world!
I'm a goddamn transmigrator!
I won't die here like some pathetic fool!
The most primal survival instinct exploded.
Lynn's consciousness—like a spark thrown into the deep sea—reignited into a roaring flame just before it was extinguished!
He began to remember.
Everything from his past life.
Skyscrapers. Traffic. Video games. Food. Movies.
Everything from this world.
The execution platform at Winterfell. Ned Stark's complicated gaze. Bloody battles with bandits. The scheming at Castle Black. And—the Valyrian steel sword he'd just claimed!
These memories. These emotions. These marks that made "Lynn" unique.
They surged together into a torrent of will, fighting back against the cold presence!
"I don't care who the hell you are!"
"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"
Lynn roared silently in his own mind.
The cold presence seemed enraged by his resistance.
It stopped trying to assimilate.
Now it sought pure annihilation.
A more terrible, more massive pressure crashed down like a tsunami.
Lynn's consciousness was a tiny boat about to capsize.
Am I... going to lose?
Just as Lynn's mind was about to be crushed—
In the cavern.
Everyone watched in horror.
Their commander. Lord Lynn.
Since touching the egg, he hadn't moved.
His face—first flushed red, then deathly pale.
His body—trembling violently.
White frost, visible to the naked eye, spread from his arm toward the rest of his body at terrifying speed.
"Lord!"
"Lord, what's wrong?!"
Torren and Jason shouted, trying to pull Lynn away.
But the moment they got close, an invisible cold forced them back.
The chill was bone-deep. As if it could freeze blood itself.
"Quick! Get everyone! Bring all the oil and torches!"
Torren roared at the guards.
But it was too late.
The frost had reached Lynn's neck. It was about to cover his entire head.
Lynn's body was turning into an ice sculpture.
Despair spread across every face.
Arya stood frozen, face pale, tears welling in her eyes.
Then—
Nymeria, who had been quietly at Arya's feet, suddenly growled.
The direwolf sensed her master's terror. And the deadly cold radiating from Lynn.
The wolf—who usually only fetched mole-skin gloves—lunged forward, circled behind Lynn, and bit down on the hilt of the sword at his waist!
Longclaw!
The Valyrian steel blade forged in dragonfire and magic!
Nymeria yanked with all her strength!
CLANG!
A clear, ringing sound!
The sword slid half a foot from its sheath. Dark ripples on the blade began to glow—faint red, like fresh blood.
An equally ancient, equally powerful force erupted from the blade.
But this one was hot. Alive.
It collided head-on with the cold presence in the cavern!
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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