"What do your lords offer us, Southron?"
Mance Rayder's voice was calm but razor‑sharp.
"Land," Lynn answered steadily. "Freedom within the North. There are vast stretches of empty ground along the Wall—abandoned keeps and fallow plains left bare for years. We mean to give the Free Folk a place to live—beyond the reach of starvation and roaming wights. Fields to plant. Homes that hold warmth."
For a heartbeat, there was hope in the smoky air. Then the laughter came.
The tent filled with curses and derision.
"Right," Tormund Giantsbane sneered. "We move into your pretty houses, and once we settle down, your kings ride north and slaughter us like penned goats. Much easier than hunting us in the woods, eh?"
Lynn shook his head, raising his voice above the uproar. "No! The bargain is simple—your fighters will join the defense of the Wall. Not as slaves. Not as prisoners. As allies. The Watch gives you weapons, food, armor. In return, you fight beside us when the dead march."
He met Tormund's gaze squarely. "You know these lands better than any man alive. You know the forests, the frost, the sound of death in the trees. That's your strength. Use it—or lose it."
Tormund snorted and drew his axe, voice booming like thunder. "I'd rather freeze to death in the snow than kneel to southern lords!"
"No one's asking you to kneel," Lynn shot back. "You think winter cares about pride? When the dead come, where will you run—south, north, into the sea? You can't fight death alone!"
He looked around the tent, sweeping his gaze across the ring of hard‑eyed chieftains. "Mance Rayder gathered you together not to die braver, but to live longer. But raiding, burning, stealing—it won't keep your children breathing. The dead don't burn. They don't starve. And they don't stop."
The tent fell silent except for the crackle of the fire.
Mance rose slowly, stepping forward until his shadow swallowed the flames.
"You talk well, boy," he said quietly. "But trust isn't given here. The Free Folk believe in one god only—their own hands."
He turned, voice lifting so that even those outside could hear.
"This southerner claims the North would share its land. That they'd have us stand beside them as equals. Do you believe him?"
A chorus of voices answered at once: "No!"
"He says he's slain an Other with his own hands. Do you believe that?"
"No!"
Mance grinned. "You see, outsider? My people don't trust speeches—they trust scars. You want them to listen? Then prove you deserve to stand before them."
He gestured toward the crowd. "We settle such matters the Free Folk way—through blood and pride."
He looked over his shoulder. "Tormund, you first."
The red‑bearded giant bared his teeth in a savage grin and unsheathed a long iron sword. "If this crow‑speaker wants my attention, he'll have to earn it."
Lynn sighed softly, unclasping his cloak and letting it fall to the furs. "Sounds fair enough."
He drew his sword—dark steel gleaming like cold water. "Your move, big man."
Tormund chuckled. "Nice blade. I'll keep it when you're dead."
Outside, the villagers scrambled into a circle around them, stomping in the snow. Men placed wagers, women craned their necks to see, and even the children huddled to watch. Blood was part of every lesson here.
Mance Rayder waited by the tent's entrance, arms folded. Ygritte leaned against a post beside him, her hand brushing the hilt of her dagger. Her eyes flickered between fear and awe.
When the fight began, it was like watching fire meet ice.
Tormund struck first, his strength shaking the ground. His sword crashed down in colossal arcs, cutting the air hard enough to peel bark from trees.
Lynn didn't bother trading blows. He slipped away from every strike, sliding across the frozen ground like smoke.
Then he countered.
A single thrust—a flash of steel—cut across Tormund's shoulder before he could lift his weapon again. Not deep, but enough to sting.
The crowd roared and jeered at once.
Tormund barked a laugh, face splitting into a wild grin. "So the little fox bites!"
The duel rolled into chaos—power against precision, fury against focus. Each of Tormund's strikes was a hammerblow meant to shatter bone. Each of Lynn's ripostes was a needle's kiss, cutting muscle, drawing just enough blood to remind the bear he could die.
To the onlookers, it was a song of violence—the rhythm of survival that every Free Folk heart knew.
"Stand still and fight, mouse!" bellowed Tormund.
Lynn didn't answer. He was saving his breath.
Instead, he waited. Strength like Tormund's came with a price—fatigue.
When the giant swung again, Lynn pivoted, ducking low, and slammed his shoulder into Tormund's chest with all the force his dragon blood could muster.
The blow sent the wildling stumbling backward.
For a heartbeat, snow hung in the air—then Tormund hit the ground hard, his sword skidding through the dirt.
Lynn stepped forward, pressing his blade gently against the man's throat.
The ring of warriors went dead silent.
After a moment, Tormund threw back his head and laughed. "Seven hells! You've got teeth after all."
He sat up, taking the younger man's offered hand, and clapped him on the back with enough force to knock the wind out of him. "You've earned your say, crow‑boy. And your fine sword stays on your hip."
The crowd erupted into chaotic cheers, half‑laughter, half‑howl. Even those who'd bet against him now shouted his name.
Mance Rayder's measured voice rose above the din. "That'll do. For now."
He met Lynn's gaze, something like respect gleaming in the king's eyes. "You've proven you can fight. Next, we'll see if you can lead."
Outside, Ygritte exhaled slowly, confusion flickering across her freckled face. "You're crazy," she muttered under her breath. "But maybe the right kind of crazy."
Lynn only smiled faintly, sweat freezing in his hair. "That's the thing about hunters," he said, sheathing his sword. "Sometimes the best way to catch your prey is to walk straight into the trap."
read more inpat***
caveleather