"We ain't kneeling!"
The big man's voice boomed through Winterfell's hall, thick with a wild northern accent and the kind of stubborn pride that came from living free beyond the Wall. Barrel-chested, arms like tree trunks, he stood with two younger versions of himself flanking him.
"Damn right we ain't!" one of the younger ones barked.
The grim one in the bone shirt and skull helmet added, "We got our own king."
The woman wrapped in dog pelts nodded along. They all looked to the red-haired man in the middle—Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall. Jon knew the stories. Mance had once slipped past the Wall, played the harp at a feast in this very castle while Robert was visiting, and walked out again without anyone the wiser.
Tormund, Rattleshirt, and the rest of Mance's inner circle all refused to bend the knee. Other wildling leaders from the smaller tribes echoed the same hard line. Jon didn't give a damn whether they knelt or not. He just needed them on the Iron Islands. Once they were there, he had plenty of ways to make them useful.
So he laid it out plain. Go to the Iron Islands and he wouldn't force them to kneel. Wouldn't even tax them. They could dig ore, trade it for grain, live their lives. Then he turned to the tall, lean father and son pair standing off to the side—the Thenns.
"There are still castles on those islands that haven't been claimed yet," Jon said. "I'll give you a couple."
The Thenns were different from the rest. More organized. They worked bronze, kept to themselves, and secretly wanted the kind of life Southern lords had. Jon's offer landed like an axe between the eyes.
Castles. Real stone castles.
"What do we gotta give up for it?" the older Thenn asked carefully.
Before Jon could answer, Mance's face tightened. He saw exactly what Jon was doing—splitting the free folk with real bait. But the offer was solid, and even Mance couldn't argue against cold, hard castles.
Jon kept his voice even. "Swear you'll go to the Iron Islands and the castles are yours. Kneel or don't kneel—that part's up to you. The only rule is you don't use my gift to fight me later, and you don't turn around and swear to somebody else. Call me a friend if you want. That's it."
"Friends?" The Thenns stared like Jon had grown a second head.
They'd fought Northern armies. They'd seen how Jon and Robb stood side by side, equals, maybe Jon carrying even more weight. A man like that offering friendship? It didn't fit the picture they had of Southern lords.
Even Mance and his captains looked thrown. Robb just looked confused as hell—why give away land they'd bled for?
The older Thenn rubbed his jaw. "My lord… can we talk it over?"
"You can," Jon said. "But the offer dies the second you walk out of this hall. Take it or leave it right here."
The friendliness dropped out of his voice like a blade leaving its sheath. He wasn't playing games.
The hall went quiet except for the fire popping in the hearth. The Thenns didn't need long. They stepped forward together.
"The Thenns will swear to the White Wolf Lord."
They dropped to one knee.
Even Rodrik Cassel looked surprised for a second, but ten towers as payment made the math work. "White Wolf Lord" had a solid ring to it.
Jon nodded. "Good. From now on your house name is Thenn. I name you Earl of Thenn. Ten Towers belongs to you."
He pulled out a drawing of the castle—ten towers rising like spears, thick walls, the works. The Thenns' eyes went wide. They had a name. They had stone walls. Nobody could call them wildlings anymore.
Other wildlings stared at the picture like starving men looking at a feast. Most of them had never seen anything bigger than a wooden hall or a cave.
A few started shifting their weight.
But one red-haired woman in dog pelts stepped out of the crowd, fire in her eyes. "You don't know shit! We free folk are born free!" She planted herself in front of Jon. "We don't want your fancy stone houses."
Jon raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. "Then why'd you plant your ass right next to the fire the second you walked in?"
Ygritte's cheeks went pink. She crossed her arms and looked away. "I just… happened to sit there."
Jon didn't push it. He turned back to the new House Thenn. At least somebody here had sense.
The Thenns moved to stand behind him. The rest of the wildlings were still processing what they'd just seen.
"Traitors!" Tormund roared.
"Shame of the free folk!" Rattleshirt spat.
The Thenns switching sides hit hard. They'd always been the "civilized" ones among the free folk.
Jon reached into his cloak and pulled out two more maps—smaller castles on the Iron Islands, nothing like Ten Towers but still real stone.
"I'm feeling generous today," he said. "Two more castles. Last ones. Same terms. Kneel if you want. Don't if you don't. Up to you."
Before he finished speaking, Rattleshirt lunged forward and snatched one of the maps. "I'll go. I'll swear."
"Rattleshirt, you spineless bastard!" the dogskin woman shouted. They'd been rivals forever; she wasn't about to follow him now.
But others did. A man in sealskin grabbed the last map and swore on the spot.
Mance watched his alliance crack and felt the ground shifting under his feet. Jon wasn't asking them to die for him. He was offering them safety, land, and a future their kids might actually live to see. Hard to fight that with pride alone.
"Think about your children," Jon said, voice carrying across the hall. "Think about the cold. Think about the monsters that are coming. My own child's due soon. I can't stay here forever. In three days I'm riding south. Decide now—come to the Iron Islands as my friends, or stay here and make me your enemy. Choose wisely."
He turned and walked out.
These wildlings were a headache right now, but Jon already saw the long game. The Iron Islands would have no independent fleets. No threat to the heart of the Westerlands. Any of them who got rich enough to want off those rocks would have to pay him for passage. The Thenns were the window showing the rest what Southern life could look like. Nice clothes. Good food. Real roofs. Once the smart ones started leaving, the rest would follow or fade.
Mance Rayder was the last loose end. Jon wanted him in King's Landing swearing to Stannis, taking some minor title, keeping the court busy while Jon stayed the hell away from the capital and built his power in the West.
With the wildlings mostly sorted, Jon made his decision. Time to go home to Casterly Rock.
Catelyn, grateful he'd cleaned up another mess for the North, decided to ride with him. She wanted to congratulate Margaery on the coming baby and see her own children again. A mother's heart didn't stop pulling just because the world kept turning.
Jon mounted up with Ghost at his side. The White Wolf Lord was done talking. Now it was time to ride.