After days of relentless training, Lynn's progress had become unmistakable.
He no longer lost his sword when sparring with Ser Rodrik Cassel — in fact, more than once, he managed to surprise the old knight with quick, unexpected strikes.
But this morning, his teacher rapped the ground with his practice sword and barked, "Stop! Stop right there!"
Breathing heavily, Lynn froze mid-swing, sweat running down his temple.
Ser Rodrik grunted, straightening his back. "Seven hells, boy. You think everyone's built like an ox? You're gonna kill me before the White Walkers even get the chance!"
In truth, the old knight had been barely keeping up. Ever since Lynn had picked up the two-handed blade, he had been hungry—no, obsessed—with practice. Morning till sundown, whenever Rodrik was within reach, Lynn would drag him into another bout.
"Enough!" the old man groaned. "Go find Jory or someone with two good knees. I'm too old for this madness."
He leaned against a post, shaking his head. Across the yard, Robb Stark and his companions—Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy—were lounging nearby, laughing.
Rodrik's sharp eyes found them instantly. "You three! You see that man? He's been here less than a fortnight and already holds his ground against me. And you lot—how long have you been training?"
Theon smirked. "With all respect, ser, we're only human. That man's got the strength of a bull and the stamina of one too!"
It earned him exactly what he deserved: a brutal extra hour of drills.
For days, Lynn worked harder than ever.
He trained until his arms trembled, until his palms blistered, until his breath came in ragged gasps. He ran the perimeter of Winterfell in full armor, sparred with guards, swung his practice blades until his muscles screamed in protest.
He could feel his body changing — faster, tougher, sharper. But deep down, he knew something was missing.
The dragon's blood inside him simmered, restrained. The black fire, the golden eyes — none of it answered his call, no matter how much he pushed himself.
His power was there, buried, locked behind a barrier he couldn't break.
All night he tossed restlessly, as though digging mountains with bare hands.
Ser Rodrik had already called him a prodigy of the two-handed sword, perhaps among the continent's best. But it wasn't enough. Not for what he intended.
Not for the battles he'd seen in his nightmares.
One night, sitting alone in his chamber, Lynn stared at an object he had hidden for weeks — a crystal the size of a pigeon's egg, pulsing faintly blue in the candlelight.
The heart of the White Walker he had slain in the Ghost Forest.
He had kept it close ever since, tucked against his skin where its unnatural cold failed to touch anyone else.
Now he felt that same freezing aura whisper to him again, sharp and beckoning.
He wondered — what would happen if he consumed it?
The thought was madness. But curiosity dug its claws into him until he could think of nothing else.
Before he could stop himself, his hand lifted the crystal to his lips.
The instant it touched his tongue, it dissolved like melting ice — sliding down his throat as liquid frost.
A shudder wracked his body.
The pain that followed was beyond description.
It was as if his very soul had frozen solid. Ice spread across his skin, forming a thin, cracking shell. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
His thoughts faded into static. Stupid… reckless… this is where I die…
Then, beneath the suffocating cold — something stirred.
His blood.
It roared to life, ancient and furious. The heart of the dragon inside him snapped awake like a sleeping volcano.
From his chest erupted a flash of pain so bright it burned through the ice.
His eyes flared gold.
Whoosh!
Black fire burst from his core, wrapping around him in living flames.
But this was no normal fire. It burned nothing else in the room — not the bed, not the walls — only him. Scorching heat met endless frost, clawing for dominance, sending waves of steam rolling through the air.
Within his chest, ice and flame collided.
The struggle raged inside him until his body convulsed violently. The frost melted. The fire flickered.
At last, the heat won.
The ice retreated. Lynn's breath returned in ragged gasps, steam rising from his body as he crumpled to the bed like a drowning man dragged ashore.
Every limb felt hollow, every breath ragged. But through the exhaustion pulsed something new — alive, fierce.
He knew now: the dragon's power didn't grow through quiet meditation or careful study. It demanded struggle. Conflict. To strengthen, it needed to devour the strength of others, clash against the cold until it burned hotter than before.
When he closed his eyes, he saw it clearly — the faint black flame flickering within his heart. Weak, but real.
It answered him.
---
Morning came weak and gray. Lynn was still half-dizzy as he pulled on new clothes. He stepped into the courtyard, intent on clearing his head — only to realize that something was very wrong.
The practice yard was almost empty.
He found the Stark children sitting on a wooden beam, looking down at their wolves.
Each direwolf pup lay listless beside its owner, eyes half-closed, whimpering softly.
"What's happened?" Lynn asked, puzzled, crouching beside Arya.
"They won't eat," she said, stroking the gray fur of her wolf, Nymeria. "She was fine last night. Now she won't even look at her food."
Bran petted his own wolf, Summer. "Maester Luwin says it's not just them. The horses are acting strange too. Even the ravens don't want to leave their cages."
Robb frowned. "He's checking the supplies. Thinks there's something in the feed — maybe a sickness spreading through the animals."
Servants whispered nervously nearby, glancing toward the wolves and murmuring about omens.
Lynn felt a cold weight sink in his stomach.
He knew the cause.
Last night, when he had devoured the White Walker's core, he must have released something — a wave of power, unintentional but unmistakable.
The Dovahzul presence of the dragonborn.
Animals would sense it easily — that primal terror before a higher predator.
"Ah… I see," he said awkwardly, sweating despite the chill. "Might just be… the weather. I, uh—feel quite underdressed."
Before anyone could question him, he laughed weakly and backed away.
"Excuse me. Need to… change clothes."
Arya blinked. "But it isn't even cold today."
Behind her, Robb muttered dryly, "Maybe he's just worn himself out."
That earned a puzzled look from Arya, a giggle from Bran, and a long, unimpressed sigh from Sansa.
As Lynn fled toward the keep, cheeks burning, one thing became painfully clear:
Surviving an internal war between fire and ice was impressive enough — but surviving the gossip of curious Stark children might prove even harder.
---