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When Lynn walked through the wildling camp with the dragon on his shoulder, every eye turned to him exactly as he expected.
The creature perched there was something none of the free folk had ever seen. Small for now, but already showing teeth and claws, and that vivid blood-red color screamed danger.
He'd brought Weeping Blood on purpose. A living dragon was the best advertisement he could have. Even north of the Wall, everyone knew the old stories of Targaryen dragonlords. Wildlings loved following strength, and dragon riders were the ultimate strong.
If things kept moving in the right direction, he didn't mind following through on some of Kuna's plan.
Nymo brought ten Thenn warriors who marched behind Lynn like they owned the place. After about five minutes they reached Mance's tent.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall's tent was twice the size of the largest one Lynn had seen. It was sewn from pure white snow-bear hides, and a massive set of antlers rose from the peak—probably from one of the giant elk that had once roamed the Seven Kingdoms in the age of the First Men.
Two guards stood at the entrance, spears in hand, round leather shields on their arms. Lynn heard Nymo snort at the shields.
The kid was getting a little obsessed.
"The… the beast can't come in," one guard said, doing his job even while swallowing hard at Weeping Blood's hiss. Nymo shoved him aside and held the tent flap open for Lynn.
"You lot stay out here!" he ordered the rest of the Thenns, then followed Lynn inside.
The tent was overheated and thick with smoke. Charcoal braziers glowed dark red in every corner. Thick furs covered the ground like a carpet. It actually looked kingly—at least compared to Lynn's own tent.
Once his eyes adjusted to the red haze, Lynn counted six people inside.
A dark young man was sharing a horn of mead with a pretty blonde woman.
A pregnant woman stood by a brazier roasting a skewer of small chickens.
On a stool beside the brazier sat the short, barrel-thick man Lynn had seen with Mance the day before. He was happily devouring a roasted chicken, grease running down his chin into his beard while he laughed with his mouth full.
A tall, lean man with a dangerous stare sat sharpening a good steel sword. Most wildlings looked dangerous, but this one stood out. He wore black clothes; the sword was clearly stolen. No wildling clan except the Thenns knew how to mine, smelt, or forge steel hot enough for a blade like that.
Last of all was Mance. Still in his ragged red-and-black cloak, he sat cross-legged on a cushion, strumming his harp and singing:
The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,
and her kisses were warmer than spring.
But the Dornishman's blade was made of black iron,
and its kiss was a terrible thing.
The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,
sweet as a peach was her tone.
But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,
sharp as a leech and as cold as a stone.
He lay on the ground, and the dark echoed round,
and the taste of blood filled his tongue.
His brothers knelt down and prayed for his soul,
but he laughed as he sang this song:
"Brother, oh brother, my end has come,
the Dornishman took my life.
But what does it matter? I'm a dead man now—
I once tasted the Dornishman's wife!"
As the last notes faded, Mance looked up.
"Son of the Stars, welcome to the King-Beyond-the-Wall's tent. I saved you a comfortable seat—and one for your dragon."
He gave the hissing, clawing Weeping Blood a long look.
"But first, let me introduce my companions.
The man in black sharpening his claws is Alfyn Crowkiller. He earned the name by hunting down plenty of crows, and he's about to head out for another hunt. In case you didn't know, we call the men on the Wall 'crows' because of those black cloaks they wear."
Alfyn Crowkiller gave Lynn a cold stare, pretending the dragon didn't impress him. The act only showed how much it did.
Mance turned to the stocky man. "This fierce little chicken-eater is my loyal Tormund. And the woman over there—"
Tormund cut in, annoyed. "Wait, you gave Alfyn his title. I want mine too."
Mance smiled. "As you wish.
Son of the Stars, Lynn, before you stands Tormund Giantsbane, the Horn-Blower, the Breaker of Ice. He is also Thunderfist Tormund, Husband to Bears, Mead-King of the Red Hall, Father of Hosts, and Speaker to the Gods."
"That's more like it," Tormund said, satisfied, then turned to Lynn. "Pleased to meet you, Lynn Morningstar. I don't believe in any of this Son of the Stars or White Walker Slayer nonsense, but I am very interested in that dragon."
Lynn smiled back. "Mance introduced me to a dozen people, but I only see one short little chicken-eater in this tent."
Everyone laughed. Tormund laughed loudest.
"The good woman by the brazier," Mance continued after the laughter died, "is Dalla. She carries my child."
The pregnant woman gave Lynn a shy nod.
He gestured to the last two. "This beauty is her sister Val. The young man beside Val is Jarl, her newest pet."
Val's hair was honey-gold, different from Lyanna's darker shade. She was striking, but after seeing Lyanna, Lynn found it hard to feel much interest.
Val's eyes flicked between Lynn's face and the baby dragon with clear calculation.
"I'm nobody's pet!" Jarl snarled, dark and sullen. Tormund snorted.
"Enough," Mance said. "The other chiefs all have tasks. I'll introduce them later. You already met the Weeper, the Bone Lord, and the dog-head Harma yesterday. I'm sure you can match the names to the faces."
Lynn nodded and took the chair Mance indicated. A small fur nest really had been prepared for the dragon. He set Weeping Blood inside it.
A round wooden table stood between them, covered with food. Lynn noticed a small bowl of acorn paste—one he'd tried on the march. Bitter and almost impossible to swallow. Even the free folk only ate it when they had no choice.
Nymo took his place behind Lynn's shoulder, proudly wearing the Star Shield on his back, the thick bronze sword at his hip, Lynn's helmet tucked under one arm and the freshly finished Valyrian steel sword in the other.
The spacesuit didn't have a proper sword belt, so Nymo had insisted on carrying everything.
Kuna's work was flawless even after just half a day and one night. The new hilt had been carved from unicorn horn, shaped perfectly for Lynn's hand and glowing with a warm dark sheen. The dragon-egg pommel had been polished until it shone.
The scabbard was made from a single piece of swordbone-fish skin—tanned until it was gray-white and almost translucent, light, flexible, and still showing the beautiful scale pattern.
"Ha! Thenn pup, is that your new master's fire-demon sword?" Tormund noticed the slender, eye-catching Dark Sister and set down his chicken. "Tormund wants to see the blade that took a white walker's head!"