The duels had finally ended.
By the time Lynn felled the last challenger—"Doghead" Harma—his sword hand barely held steady. His clothes were soaked through with sweat and blood, every breath came raw.
Dragon‑blood gave him endurance, but not infinity. He wasn't a machine—pain burned where flesh had torn, and his vision was already tunneling at the edges.
When Harma staggered off clutching her shoulder, a strange silence filled the camp. The jeers were gone. The laughter, too.
Dozens of hardened wildlings stared at the battered Southerner standing under the frozen sky, his sword buried in the ground just to keep him upright.
His shirt clung wet and red against his ribs. Steam curled from his skin. His knees shook—but he still hadn't fallen.
And that, more than the blood or the victories, made them finally shut up.
Mance Rayder broke the silence. "Enough."
The crowd parted instinctively. The King‑beyond‑the‑Wall stepped through, cloak fluttering with each deliberate stride.
"You've proven your courage," Mance said, his voice carrying over the crackling fires. "And your blade is sharper than your tongue."
Then his tone hardened. "But there's one test left. One final truth that decides whether you speak as a fool… or as an equal."
He drew his sword, eyes glinting. "Show me how long you can stand against me."
Lynn's lips twitched into what might've been a smile. There was no sense backing down now.
He straightened his grip on the hilt. "Then come, Mance Rayder. Let's finish this."
---
The fight was brutal.
If Tormund had been a bear and Harma a hound, then Mance Rayder was a storm—fast, relentless, impossible to predict.
His sword came from every direction at once, each stroke designed to break rhythm and patience alike. The former ranger fought with a grace born of both training and freedom—a man who'd known rules, and then thrown them away.
Ten strikes—Lynn's arm opened with a new line of blood.
Twenty—his defense faltered under sheer pressure.
Thirty—and his sword flew from his grip.
The last thing Lynn saw was Mance's fist, then the world flipped sideways.
Snow rushed to meet him, the cold rising like water. Then blackness swallowed all.
---
Warmth came first.
When he opened his eyes, he saw furs above him, stitched together in mismatched panels—the inside of a tent.
The scent of tar, pine resin, and crushed herbs clung thick in the air. Every inch of his skin ached, but the worst of it had already dulled. Dragon‑blood was working quietly beneath his flesh, weaving him back together.
Then a familiar rumble sounded at the tent flap.
"Ha! Look who's not dead."
Tormund Giantsbane shoved his flaming beard through the entrance, grinning ear to ear. A crowd of faces followed—Ding Dangsun, Styr, Harma—each crammed shoulder‑to‑shoulder, peering in like curious bears.
"You gave us a fine show!" Tormund roared, setting down a wooden cup filled with something cloudy and vile‑smelling. "To the warrior!"
"To the warrior!" the others echoed, raising their mugs.
Harma thumped him on the shoulder—right on a wound. "Nice sword work, little crow. Just don't aim for the shoulder next time. Some of us need to draw a bow!"
Lynn hissed between his teeth, but her laughter was genuine. That was their way of saying welcome.
When the laughter faded, a new figure filled the doorway.
Mance Rayder.
His gray‑blue eyes studied Lynn like a craftsman inspecting fine steel. "The Free Folk honor two things," he said. "Strength… and courage. You've shown both."
He folded his arms. "So now—we talk."
Lynn sat up carefully. "So you agree?"
A faint smile crossed Mance's mouth. "I said we'd talk, not agree. Moving thousands south is no small task—routes, food, shelter, keeping your black‑cloaked brothers from stabbing us in our sleep. There's work ahead of us."
He was about to say more when the tent flap opened again.
And in walked Ygritte.
She carried a wooden bowl in both hands, steam curling from its surface. The smell hit the room first—a humid, aggressive stench of boiled offal and something disturbingly cheesy.
The mood instantly shifted.
Tormund opened his mouth and stopped when she glared.
Ding Dangsun looked fascinated by his ale. Harma suddenly needed to check the state of her boots.
Even Mance Rayder lifted his eyes heavenward like a man silently praying.
Ygritte walked right up to Lynn, hope blazing in her blue eyes.
"This will help you heal," she said earnestly. "I made it myself."
Lynn eyed the bowl. It was thick and greenish‑gray, small chunks floating like boats in a swamp. A film of oil shimmered on top.
Every instinct screamed run.
But she looked so proud, so utterly expectant.
Maybe, he thought desperately, maybe it just smells bad. Maybe it tastes fine.
He took the bowl from her hands. The closer it came, the stronger the scent—like slaughterhouse steam mixed with rancid milk and herbal soap.
Mance had begun murmuring under his breath. Praying—or warning.
Then Lynn did the unthinkable. He drank.
A full mouthful.
For an instant, the whole tent froze in time.
His tongue met something unholy—a flavor beyond mortal comprehension. It was as if pig gut, sheep liver, and fish bladder had been fermented in an old boot for a full season—then boiled with moldy cheese and regret. And, somehow, she'd forgotten the salt.
The texture crawled down his throat, half solid, half glue. The aftertaste hit like an ambush—sour, oily, bitter, wrong.
Lynn's stomach lurched. His body screamed to reject it. But Ygritte was still watching him, eyes wide, trembling on the edge between pride and hope.
He swallowed. Somehow.
"Good soup," he rasped, forcing a smile that hurt worse than his wounds.
Ygritte's entire face lit up. "Really?"
"The best," he managed.
She beamed and skipped out of the tent like a child with a gold star.
The moment the flap dropped behind her, the tent exploded with laughter.
"Gods above!" roared Tormund, slapping his knee. "He said 'good soup!'"
Ding Dangsun's scarred face split into an awful grin.
Styr groaned. "I threw up three days straight after one bowl. Thought I'd been poisoned."
"I warned you," Harma chuckled, wiping tears from her eyes.
Mance Rayder sighed and clapped Lynn's shoulder. "If I'd known you had the stomach for that, we could've skipped all the duels."
He gestured toward the empty bowl. "Poor girl's been alone since she was small. No one ever told her she can't cook. She believes it heals wounds. Maybe she's right—every man who's tried it suddenly recovers just to avoid a second serving."
The whole tent shook with laughter again. Lynn could only groan, lying back against the furs.
"Next time," he muttered, "I'm bringing my own stew."