When Nymo showed up, a group of Thenn warriors had already blocked Mance Rayder's party just a few dozen yards from the ritual ground.
Mountain without tigers, monkeys call themselves kings. With the most respected warriors now buried in the earth, the recently famous "Star Shield" had become the backbone of the Thenn fighters.
Young as he was, riding at Styr's side had proven his courage, and the legendary Son of the Stars had gifted him a divine artifact. Plenty of people had seen the heavy shield wrapped in silk-smooth fabric and covered in mysterious blessing runes.
Nymo stepped forward with his shield raised. The Thenn warriors parted to let him through.
"Mance, we're in the middle of the Magnar ritual. You're not welcome here right now—especially the giants."
Mance gave a half-smiling, half-troubled look. The man in bone armor laughed mockingly.
"Have all the real Thenn men died with Styr? Now they send a whelp to speak with the great King-Beyond-the-Wall."
The stocky gray-bearded man chimed in. "I told you we shouldn't bring Mag. If that big oaf steps on one of their burial pits, the new Magnar might never crawl out."
The man with the watery eyes stared at Nymo's shield and muttered, "The Weeper wants that white shield. It would go perfectly with my scythe."
Tension was rising fast, but Mance simply let out a sigh and everyone fell silent—even the usually fierce Thenns.
"I regret Styr's death," he said calmly. "I come with no ill will. I only want to know if you Thenns will still fight alongside the other free folk now that he's gone."
"When we have a new Magnar, he will give you your answer," Nymo shot back, neck stiff with defiance.
"Ha! This Thenn pup doesn't know his place. Let me teach him some manners," the stocky man said, reaching for his blade. Mance stopped him with a gesture.
Mance's eyes swept the crowd until they landed on Lynn. Everyone in front of Lynn instinctively stepped aside.
"'Son of the Stars' Lynn. Your name travels on the wind among the free folk."
Lynn stood without his helmet, his distinctly foreign face on full display. Every eye locked onto him. His sleek, armor-like spacesuit made the motley crowd of wildlings look like beggars by comparison.
"Looks like a soft southern lord," the Weeper licked his lips with clear malice. "Let me peel that fancy armor off him and see how he really killed a white walker… He doesn't even have a proper dagger. I bet the whole story is bullshit. Tormund, looks like you're about to lose your title as the biggest bullshitter around."
The stocky man roared with laughter. Nymo instantly drew the thick bronze sword at his waist. The rest of the Thenns followed, raising a forest of spears, axes, and blades.
They didn't shout or roar. Their faces held only silent, grim ferocity. Anyone who knew the Thenns understood this was the prelude to a fight to the death.
The giants rumbled uneasily. Even Mance's usually calm expression showed surprise.
He unslung the harp from his back, strummed a few notes as if no one else was there, then spoke:
"So the rumors are true. You really did kill a white walker. Then… do you truly have a dragon?"
Lynn watched the situation with interest. This Mance really did have a unique presence—no wonder he'd managed to unite the wild, independent free folk.
He stepped forward to stand beside Nymo. The Thenns instinctively lowered their weapons.
"Whether it's true or not, you can see for yourself."
Lynn smiled and pointed toward his tent. "Too bad the white walkers melt away. Otherwise I could have brought back a head for this constantly weeping 'man' here to learn a thing or two."
By splitting the Old Tongue name "Weeper" into its parts, Lynn turned the fearsome title into something pathetic and weak.
Nymo burst out laughing first. The Thenn warriors who had witnessed the white walker's death joined in with mocking laughter. The Weeper's face turned dark as a storm.
Mance didn't respond to the invitation, nor did he seem ready to leave.
Lynn guessed what he was thinking and spoke first:
"The Thenns understand the danger of the Others better than any other free folk. The Wall is the only way to survive. Once the new Magnar rises from the earth, he will give you the answer you want."
No one argued.
Mance gave Lynn a long, piercing look.
"It had better be so," he said openly. "The Thenns have the best equipment, the most discipline, and the strongest fighters. Without you, taking the Wall will be very difficult."
He had clearly included Lynn as one of the Thenns.
"'Son of the Stars' Lynn Morningstar—or 'Dragon Tamer,' 'White Walker Slayer,' or any other name you prefer, even White King if you like—there will always be a place for you in my tent. This is a promise from the King-Beyond-the-Wall."
With that, Mance turned and left with his men. As the giants slowly lumbered away, Nymo pointed at the one with gray-white fur.
"That's Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg—'Mighty Mag.' He's the leader of the giants. They don't have kings, just like the mammoths, snow bears, and the great whales in the Grey Sea."
Lynn, still haunted by the giants' stench, felt his stomach turn.
If I were their king, I'd make them bathe twice a day.
With the Thenns watching him in awe, he returned to his tent. Nymo later told him he was the only person so far who had managed to trade words with Mance and come out without losing ground.
That was the advantage of having an education.
After Mance left, the Magnar selection ritual continued.
Huge bonfires burned day and night. Men and women of the clan took turns dancing wild war dances while the elders led the children in prayers to the nameless gods.
The constant noise kept Lynn awake most of the night.
He naturally hoped Kassa would win, but there was no way to know. In a few days they might simply dig up three frozen corpses.
When the sky began to lighten, Lynn saw the corner of his tent flap open. Two figures slipped inside one after another.
He was busy sorting through a pile of smelly fur clothing Nymo had brought him the night before.
The spacesuit was incredibly warm and marked him as special, but it was bulky, hard to move in, and a nightmare to take on and off—especially when nature called. Getting a set of everyday clothes had become urgent.
As a modern man, Lynn had his limits when it came to cleanliness. He had been frowning at the foul-smelling pile of furs for a long time, unable to make up his mind.
The sudden visitors saved him from his dilemma. He looked up and saw it was the craftswoman Kuna.
In her hands she carried the newly adorned Valyrian steel sword. Behind her followed someone completely wrapped in a cloak. The two were similar in height and dressed almost identically.