Crossing the Narrow Sea was a different kind of torment than crossing the wastelands.
The salt-heavy wind, sharp and cold as knives, cut straight through Lynn's thin clothing. He huddled in the lowest cargo hold of the Sea Gull, surrounded by barrels of salted fish, cured meat, and rough grain. The smell was suffocating — brine, rot, and sweat all stewing together.
By the time he reached Westeros, he thought grimly, he might just be preserved like one of those fish.
Still, the stench served its purpose. No one wanted to linger near him.
The sailors aboard were rough men — superstitious, hard, and loud. They eyed the black-haired stranger with open suspicion. He didn't drink with them, didn't gamble or boast. Most nights, he simply sat alone, polishing his short sword or staring westward across the endless dark sea.
Rumors spread easily in the cramped ship. Some claimed he was a bastard son of some exiled noble. Others whispered about his black eyes — "demon's eyes," they said when they thought he couldn't hear.
Lynn ignored them.
Every spare moment went into mastering the power burning inside him — that wild, unrelenting flame in his blood.
In dreams, he drifted again and again into the same dark space — an endless void filled with splintered stars, and always, those golden, slit-pupiled eyes watching from afar.
Once, a drunken sailor tried to steal his food. He shoved Lynn hard, laughing — until the black-haired man turned and met his gaze.
Lynn didn't lift a finger.
In that heartbeat, something in the sailor's mind cracked.
He screamed — a raw, panicked sound — stumbling back and clawing at his face as though he'd glimpsed something monstrous behind those dark pupils.
He avoided Lynn for the rest of the voyage, muttering about "the demon's stare" under his breath.
Lynn didn't feel satisfaction — only a cold reminder of how unstable his control still was.
The power was growing. But to use it — truly use it — he needed harsher conditions, a place where that strength could be tested, where his unnatural nature could serve a purpose.
And there was only one such place in Westeros.
The North.
The Wall.
And beyond it — the land of death.
The Sea Gull finally reached Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the easternmost fortress of the Night's Watch.
When his boots touched solid ground, Lynn breathed deep — the clean ice-sharp air a relief after weeks in the salt hold.
The first thing he did after registering his name was find food. A proper meal.
Then he bought a set of worn armor and a heavy fur cloak with what money he had left. His goal was simple: to volunteer for an expedition beyond the Wall.
The commander at Eastwatch — a middle-aged man with a stiff posture and knotted, frostbitten hands — gave him a withering look.
"You serious, boy?" he asked, not even raising his head from the tattered parchment he was scribbling on. "I've worked here thirty years. Never once seen a man ask to go north of the Wall."
"Name?"
"Lynn Auger."
The commander grunted. "Listen carefully, Auger. Beyond the Wall isn't an adventure. It's death. Some men earn coin helping the Watch track wildlings, sure — if they live long enough to collect it."
He sighed. "But if you're truly so damn eager, Lord Commander Mormont's assembling a large ranging party. Go to Castle Black and join them. Might as well learn what the North really means."
A week later, Lynn arrived at Castle Black and met his assigned patrol.
Their captain was a scarred veteran named Gared — a man of few words with frostbitten cheeks and half an ear missing.
The others were a rough mix: a thief sent in chains, a disgraced knight caught in a duel, a poacher who'd chosen black over the gallows.
They eyed Lynn suspiciously — a newcomer, too young, with strange eyes and a calm that didn't belong among the condemned.
"The world north of the Wall," one of them — Will — said with a grin missing three teeth, "ain't no playground, boy. The wind'll freeze your balls off before you even see what's hunting you. Hope your sword's tougher than your smile."
Lynn glanced at him once but didn't reply. He only tightened the buckles on his cloak and checked his blade again.
He had heard the names the others spoke — Royce, Will, Gared. Familiar names. The beginning of a story he already knew too well.
Soon after, under the command of Ser Waymar Royce, their small scouting group passed beneath the massive ice gate below the Wall. The thick iron doors fell shut behind them with a final, echoing clank, sealing away the last trace of warmth from the world they'd left behind.
They stepped into the haunted realm known as the Ghost Forest.
The trees — tall, white weirwoods, twisted and pale like bones — reached up toward a sky the color of lead.
Snow piled knee-deep. Each step sank into an eerie silence that muffled all sound except the soft whisper of wind sliding through the trees like the sighs of the dead.
Lynn felt the dragon blood stir inside him — a quiet warmth spreading through his veins, defying the killing cold. His senses sharpened until he could hear the faint scrape of a hare burrowing through snow several yards away… and smell something else.
Rot. Cold and sweet, like death half-buried in frost.
The old rangers walked with grim focus, the younger ones tried — and failed — to hide their nerves.
Gared knelt now and then, pointing out marks in the snow.
"Elk tracks… shadowcat. Be careful."
Then he stopped. His expression changed.
"This one isn't natural."
Will leaned toward Lynn, whispering with mock bravado, "See that? Looks like wight tracks to me. Careful tonight, black-eyed boy — might piss yourself when one of 'em comes calling."
Lynn didn't react. He only tightened his grip on the sword's hilt.
The warmth in his blood pulsed harder, faster — not from fear, but anticipation.
Something was out there. Watching.
The trees themselves seemed to be holding their breath. No birds. No sound. Only the snow, the wind — and the weight of a thousand invisible eyes.
Lynn's heartbeat steadied. His golden-tinged pupils narrowed.
He was ready.
Whatever waited beyond the Wall… it was time to see whether dragon fire could survive the final cold.