The forge's flames had completely died.
Jeor Mormont stood in place, staring at the strange creature in the furnace, facial muscles twitching slightly.
That wasn't the dragon of legends.
Legendary dragons—elegant and deadly. Lords of the sky.
But this thing... more like a crude joke. A deformed creation abandoned by the gods.
It had four legs, but the front two were noticeably thinner and shorter, unable to support its body as powerfully as the hind limbs—more like two grasping arms.
Most bizarre: the three heads atop its neck.
Each distinctly different.
The middle head—largest. Eyes molten amber, radiating innate majesty and curiosity.
The left head—slightly smaller. Eyes deep glacial blue, like the far north's ice, filled with wariness and coldness.
The right head—smallest. Eyes blood-red, containing only pure, undisguised violence and hunger.
Lynn knelt on the ground, body still weak.
The scene of Maester Aemon's dissipation—deeply imprinted in his mind.
A complete, unreserved sacrifice.
Life, soul, and a Targaryen's final glory—igniting this egg that slept for a century.
"Grrr..."
The three-headed little monster's middle head released a satisfied purr.
It lowered its head, using still-serrated teeth to munch contentedly on broken shell fragments—crunch crunch—crisp sounds.
The other two heads remained alert. One stared coldly at Mormont. The other hissed threateningly at surrounding darkness.
They seemed to possess independent thoughts.
Just then, affection and dependence—through some invisible bond—transmitted into Lynn's consciousness.
The middle head.
After finishing a shell piece, it raised its head, looking at Lynn with amber eyes.
Lynn's heart stirred.
Success.
Controlling dragons requires Valyrian. He doesn't know it. Only crude methods remain.
Lynn suppressed his inner turmoil, concentrating to form the simplest command in his mind.
"Come here."
But the amber-eyed head only tilted, seemingly confused.
It didn't obey Lynn's will.
The other two heads didn't even glance at him.
That mental connection—like a one-way street.
Lynn could clearly feel its emotions but couldn't impose his will upon it.
This dragon doesn't obey his commands!
Lynn's heart sank instantly.
He thought of Aemon's blood. The Targaryen words.
Dragons only recognize masters with true dragon blood.
Aemon woke it with his blood, but Lynn—just a bystander who provided the hatching site.
Then what was that affectionate feeling just now?
Did it see him as... the first living thing a newborn chick sees?
Lynn's expression darkened.
He silently opened his system panel.
Sure enough, a new notification appeared.
[Mount Panel Unlocked]
Lynn immediately clicked in.
A brand-new panel appeared in his vision.
[Mount: Winter (True Name), ?, ?]
[Species: Three-Headed Dragon (Hatchling)]
[Status: Loyal (Mental link established, but will control unavailable)]
[Description: A variant dragon birthed from ice-sealed dragon egg and true dragon blood. Possesses three independent heads, four legs, weak forelimbs. It recognizes you as its sole master, but ancient bloodline means it only obeys specific language commands.]
[Strength: 1 (Juvenile)]
[Agility: 2 (Juvenile)]
[Constitution: 1 (Juvenile)]
[Skills: Unlock upon reaching growth threshold]
[Dragonflame (Nascent), Dragon Speech (Growth), Dragon Presence (Mature)...]
Winter?
The name Maester Aemon spoke before death.
Even the system acknowledges this name?
That damned Three-Eyed Raven named it in advance!
Lynn's gaze locked onto that description line.
True Name?
Does obtaining dragon speech magic require the true name to be granted by the mystical?
Whatever. The name doesn't matter.
What matters—the dragon is his.
"Seems deformed..."
Lord Commander Mormont's voice broke the silence.
He slowly approached, tone carrying undisguised disappointment.
"But it has a dragon's presence."
"Still a dragon, in the end."
Mormont's gaze fell on Lynn. He saw Lynn's predicament.
"It won't obey you?"
Lynn nodded.
"I can feel it, but can't command it."
"Targaryen magic dragons only obey Targaryen language."
Mormont's voice dropped low, as if speaking an ancient secret.
"Maester Aemon... his collection should have what you need."
"He was a Targaryen. He studied dragons his whole life."
"I think he prepared everything for you long ago."
Lynn's heart jumped.
Maester Aemon prepared everything for him in advance.
He immediately stood, walking toward the smithy exit.
The three-headed little dragon named "Winter," after finishing the last shell piece, also moved its four legs, wobbling after Lynn.
Its weak forelimbs looked clumsy while running, but speed wasn't slow.
Mormont watched this man-and-dragon silhouette.
His aged face showed a bitter smile.
Maester Aemon's room remained as he'd left it.
Books neatly arranged on the desk. Air retaining the mixed scent of parchment and herbs.
Everything the same as before.
Except the room's owner would never return.
Lynn's gaze fell on the simple desk.
A thick stack of books neatly piled in the corner.
On top—a piece of parchment.
Lynn walked over, picking up the paper.
Maester Aemon's slightly trembling handwriting.
The script crooked, some characters overlapping.
Unimaginable how a blind old man wrote this.
"To Lynn:"
"When you read this letter, that little one has surely awakened."
"Don't grieve for me. This is the most glorious end a hundred-year-old man could imagine."
"Dragon bloodline requires a key to unlock. Valyrian is that key."
"These books are my life's work—the only things I brought from the Red Keep in King's Landing to the Wall."
"They contain Targaryen dragon speech, Old Valyrian history, and scattered dragon records."
"Learn it. Master it."
"Then fulfill your mission."
"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death."
"Your friend, Aemon."
The letter's end—no date.
As if he'd known this day would come all along.
Lynn gripped the thin parchment, fingers whitening from pressure.
He turned, looking at his feet.
The three-headed little dragon gently nuzzled his pant leg with its middle head, amber eyes full of dependence.
Lynn slowly crouched.
He extended his hand, touching the dragon's scales for the first time.
Cold. Hard. Yet carrying life's warmth.
"Winter..."
Lynn softly spoke its name.
Aemon had the right to name it. It will inherit Maester Aemon's legacy.
"From today, you are my sword. My shield."
The little dragon couldn't understand Lynn's words, but they understood his stroking gesture.
Three heads simultaneously released joyful hisses.
Lynn stood, holding the thick stack of books in his arms.
That weight—heavy.
Maester Aemon's life. Mormont's trust.
He'd stayed here too long.
Time to return to Winterfell, then continue south to King's Landing.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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