Three days later — deep inside the Ghost Woods.
Lynn moved silently beneath towering weirwoods and pines, the snow swallowing his lower legs with every step. Here, the world was white and still, the air biting enough to turn breath into glass.
He'd pushed the gifts of the dragon‑blood to their limits. Every sense honed razor‑sharp—he could hear a rabbit scraping through snow a dozen paces away, smell the faint trickle of moss under the ice, feel the slow churn of water somewhere beneath frozen ground.
But for all his heightened senses, he could find no one.
Rather, he could not see them.
Because they were already watching him.
Every instinct screamed it—the eyes hidden among the trees, the silence that wasn't silence at all. Somewhere nearby, the Free Folk were watching the stranger who had wandered into their woods.
It was impressive, he admitted silently. Anyone who could live and hunt in this death‑white wilderness wasn't mere rabble. They were born survivors—hunters who knew exactly how to become ghosts.
By the third night, his supplies were running low. He knelt in the snow beside the remnants of his fire and muttered, half to himself,
"If the mountain won't come to me…"
He glanced toward a narrow trail, half covered with animal tracks. "…then I'll go find the mountain."
The plan was simple: draw out the hunters by becoming bait.
He found a lonely stretch of forest trail that seemed safe—a few rabbit prints here, a wild boar's trail there—and stepped lightly into a trap he'd spotted minutes earlier.
The noose tightened instantly. With a snap and a hiss, the rope jerked him upward, leaving him dangling head‑down like a trussed fish.
He didn't struggle. He just hung there, calmly, waiting.
A few heartbeats later, a figure dropped from a snow‑laden pine. She landed light as a cat—hair the color of flame, cheeks flushed crimson from the cold.
A wildling girl.
"You're a stupid crow," she said with a smirk, eyes bright with amusement. "Only a fool from the Watch walks alone in the Haunted Forest."
From the shadows around her came the faint creak of pulled bowstrings—three, maybe four other hunters ready to loose the moment he moved wrong.
"What are you after, crow?" she demanded.
"Mance Rayder," Lynn replied evenly. "I've come north to find him—and to speak. I'm not one of the Watch. I'm here to propose an alliance that might save both our peoples."
The red‑haired girl raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. She drew a knife and rested it against his throat. "Talk pretty, don't you? There aren't many crows built like you. Who sent you—and what are you really doing here?"
"To talk," he said mildly. "To ask about the dead men walking south of the Frostfangs. You've seen them, haven't you?"
Her expression flickered for just a moment—but only a moment. Then, with a quick slash, she cut the rope and sent him plunging headfirst into the snowdrift below.
He landed with a muffled grunt.
"You don't sound like the other crows," she said at last. Then she tied his wrists behind his back, her knots meticulous, proud. "But you're still from south of the Wall. Let Mance decide what to do with you."
She mounted his horse, tugging his reins and dragging him along like a misbehaving dog. The cold bit deep, but Lynn smiled faintly under the hood. If she only knew how flimsy those knots really were…
Hours passed under the endless gray sky.
By the time they reached the camp, smoke was trailing from a cluster of fur tents gathered around the trees' roots. Children, hunters, and warriors alike stopped to gawk at the stranger tied up and led behind the fiery‑haired girl.
"Ygritte!" one red‑bearded giant of a man bellowed with a grin. "You bringing home a pet? Looks soft for a crow. Bet he screams like one, too!"
Laughter rippled through the camp.
"Shut it, Tormund," Ygritte snapped, cheeks burning more from irritation than the cold. "He's for Mance."
They stopped before the largest tent—skins patched from furs and bright bits of cloth that clashed in every color. A symbol of pride. Of defiance.
"Mance!" Ygritte called. "Got someone from the south who says he wants a word!"
A deep voice answered from within. The tent flap lifted, and out stepped a man in his forties, weathered but regal in his mismatched cloak of colors. His eyes were sharp and clever—the eyes of both soldier and schemer.
Mance Rayder. The King‑beyond‑the‑Wall.
He gave Ygritte a knowing smile, then studied Lynn. "So," he said. "You came all this way to find me."
"Came?" Ygritte protested. "I caught him!"
Mance chuckled. "Of course you did. Bring him inside."
The tent was warm, smoke thick from the brazier at its center. Mance lounged upon a chair of furs that looked suspiciously like a throne.
"Untie him," he said. Then, to Ygritte's wide‑eyed protest, added, "If he wanted me dead, that rope wouldn't stop him."
"No need," Lynn said lightly. One twist and the ropes fell apart.
Ygritte stared, offended and amazed in equal measure. She'd tied those knots herself—tight enough to hold Tormund Giantsbane!
Mance's amusement deepened. "You're no crow. No black cloak. No spy. So what are you?"
"An ally," Lynn replied. "Someone who doesn't plan to freeze to death when winter truly comes. You, me, your people—every living soul from the Wall to the Frostfangs—we share that much in common."
The tone sobered the tent. Mance leaned forward. "Start talking, then. Tell me why you risked your neck to walk into my woods."
---
By the time he finished recounting what he'd seen—the bodies, the wights, the blue‑eyed shadows even steel could barely harm—silence wrapped the tent.
"Wights," Mance repeated at last. "So, the South finally gives a name to the monsters our grandmothers feared."
Lynn gestured toward the flickering fire. "They're not just stories anymore. I've fought them. One of them took nearly a company. The rest… I barely burned them fast enough."
A burly man to Mance's left laughed harshly. "A boy claiming he's killed an Other? You spin fine tales, little crow."
Lynn ignored him. He turned to Mance instead. "You've seen them too, haven't you? Abandoned camps. Torn tents. Frozen corpses not touched by beasts."
Mance frowned. He had seen it. Entire hunting bands vanished without a trace. The few survivors spoke only of glowing eyes in the dark.
"Your people are dying, Mance," Lynn said quietly. "The old ways won't save them. The Wall's not just a prison—it's the only real shield left. You want your people to live? Then work with us, not against us."
Before Mance could answer, the tent flap burst open. A huge man ducked inside, coated in frost.
"I hear there's a crow singing lies in my camp," he growled. "Talk of alliance, of opening our gates. Do it, then. Let us march south and take your castles for warmth. You'll all die screaming like your lords."
"Tormund, enough," Mance said sharply.
But Tormund Giantsbane's glare burned through Lynn. "You think we'll bow to southern kings again? You cage us behind your Wall and call us free when we starve!"
Lynn rose slowly to his feet, meeting the bigger man's stare head‑on. "I didn't come here to beg. I came because the dead don't care about walls, crowns, or names. When they march, they'll kill you first—and then me. You can hate the South all you want, Tormund. It won't matter when the sky turns white and the rivers go still."
The giant huffed but didn't strike.
Mance studied him long and hard, then asked, "What does the North offer? What, exactly, does Lord Stark want in return for our cooperation?"
Lynn smiled. "Not submission. Not tribute. Just survival. A place in this war for every living being willing to stand."
The words hung in the smoky air like sparks over the brazier.
Mance Rayder, breaker of oaths, ex‑Black Brother, ex‑king's man, regarded him quietly. Somewhere outside, wolves howled in the deep woods.
"Then let's hear the rest of your proposal," he said finally, voice low. "Because if you're lying, Southron, those wolves won't waste time arguing."
Lynn smirked faintly. "Good thing I don't lie."