Nymo answered Tormund's taunt with a hard glare, but the second Lynn reached out, he placed the sword in his hand without hesitation.
Lynn drew the blade halfway. The narrow steel caught the firelight, dark patterns sliding along the edge like living smoke. Every eye in the tent locked on it.
He started talking, calm and easy, like he was telling a story around a campfire.
"It's not a fire-demon sword. This is one of the two ancestral blades of House Targaryen—Dark Sister. It was forged from dragonsteel. The Old Tongue doesn't have a word for Valyrian, so back then they just called it dragonsteel."
He let the words hang for a beat.
"Four famous people carried it.
The first was Visenya Targaryen, Aegon the Conqueror's sister and wife. She was a warrior herself—some say her sword work was even better than Aegon's.
There's a famous story. After an assassination attempt, she wanted to prove the king needed a permanent royal guard. So she pulled Dark Sister and slashed Aegon's face before the Kingsguard could blink. That single cut created the Kingsguard."
Lynn gave them a second to picture it.
"The second owner was the Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen, during the Dance of the Dragons.
After Visenya died the sword passed through a few hands. King Jaehaerys the Conciliator gave it to his sister Rhaena, and it eventually reached Daemon.
Daemon and Dark Sister fought side by side through the Stepstones and a dozen other wars. But the greatest moment came at the Gods Eye.
Daemon leapt from his dragon Caraxes straight onto his enemy's mount thousands of feet in the air. Then, holding Dark Sister, he drove the blade through Prince Aemond 'One-Eye' Targaryen's good eye and killed him. Both riders and both dragons died together.
Years later, when they pulled Aemond's bones from the lake bottom, the sword was still buried deep in his eye socket."
Lynn slid the full length of the blade free now, letting the firelight play along the edge.
"The third was Aemon the Dragonknight, the greatest knight who ever lived. In his day this sword stood for the absolute peak of chivalry—'sworn to courage, pledged to justice, sworn to defend the weak, women, and the innocent.'"
He paused.
"All three of those were Targaryens."
He finished drawing the sword completely.
"And the last owner was the man with a thousand and one eyes—Lord Bloodraven, Brynden Rivers. As a royal bastard he served as Hand to two kings and ruled the Seven Kingdoms for decades. He built the biggest spy network the realm has ever seen, stretching across the Narrow Sea. He crushed three Blackfyre Rebellions and earned the name kinslayer doing it.
In the end, to protect the rightful Targaryen line and the peace of the realm, he broke his own sworn oaths, beheaded a Blackfyre he had promised to spare, and was sent to the Wall. He became Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
Over his long life he once summed himself up perfectly: 'I loved one brother, I hated one brother, and I desired one woman.'"
The tent had gone dead quiet. Most of the wildlings had never heard these names, but Lynn's steady, rhythmic voice and the sheer weight of the history behind it still held them.
Everybody knew the Free Folk had no written histories—only a handful of half-forgotten tales passed mouth to mouth, most of them twisted by time.
When no one spoke, Lynn broke the silence himself.
"So, Tormund 'Little Chicken-Eater,'"
he said,
"if you really want to get a good look, wipe the grease off your hands first. I don't want you messing up my brand-new hilt."
Tormund stood up looking almost sheepish, that big dumb grin plastered across his face. He glanced around like he was worried everyone would notice how clumsy he felt, then started scrubbing his hands hard on his clothes.
His clothes weren't exactly clean, so Val finally tossed him a clean piece of linen.
Tormund took it with a sheepish smile, wrapped the hilt, and lifted the sword to study it.
"It's light as a damn stick!"
He swung it back and forth a couple times like a kid with a favorite toy branch.
"Sharp?"
"Sharp enough to split a hair in the air," Lynn answered.
Tormund had never heard that one before. Neither had the rest of them. It took a second to sink in.
He muttered something, yanked out a few white whiskers, and held them to the edge. Before he even blew, the tiny movement snapped them clean in half.
The sword was so light Tormund still wasn't used to the balance and nearly dropped it.
"Gods be good!"
He let out a low groan.
"Splitting my skull would be easier than chopping kindling with this thing."
Alfyn Crowkiller sneered from the side. "Everybody knows the sharper you grind a blade, the easier it breaks."
Lynn answered coolly, "This one was forged in dragonflame and magic. It barely wears at all."
Tormund spun toward Alfyn with a loud "Hah!"
"You spend all day sharpening that piece of junk. Hold it up and we'll see who's stronger!"
Alfyn's face flashed with anger, but before he could say anything Tormund swung at him without warning.
Caught off guard, Alfyn barely got his sword up. The two blades met with a harsh metallic ring.
The noise startled Weeping Blood. The little dragon reared up and let out an even shriller screech.
Tormund got what he wanted and jumped back two steps. He checked Dark Sister—not a scratch. Then he looked at Alfyn's blade.
"Ha! Crowkiller, what do you say now?"
Everyone saw the finger-deep notch in Alfyn's steel.
Alfyn's face burned red. He shot to his feet and charged at Tormund, sword raised.
Just as they were about to go at it for real, Mance's angry voice cut through the tent.
"Enough! No one draws steel in front of my pregnant wife! This is the King-Beyond-the-Wall's tent!"
They froze.
"Tormund, get the hell out. I'm sick of your bullshit."
Mance glared at his "loyal" Tormund, then turned to Alfyn.
"Crowkiller, you're supposed to be scouting the Wall. Go!"
Once both men were kicked out, Val and her pet Jarl slipped out too.
Mance rubbed his temples, looking tired as he strummed his harp. His wife Dalla stepped behind him and gently massaged his forehead.
He let out a tired sigh at Lynn.
"As you can see, I'm trying to lead a bunch of lawless savages with no discipline, no morals, and no rules. That's exactly why I need the Thenns on my side."
Lynn thought, This really is the King-Beyond-the-Wall. Even now the man could steer the conversation right back to testing the Thenns' loyalty.
If not for the very real murderous look in Alfyn's eyes a moment ago, Lynn might have thought the whole thing was a rehearsed little drama.
Mance clearly hadn't expected the mysterious young stranger to stay so calm.
Looking a little frustrated, he gently pushed Dalla's hands away and spoke with rare honesty.
"'Son of the Stars' Lynn, let's talk straight.
You walk into my tent with a dragon on your shoulder and spin this moving tale about one of the dragonlords' ancestral blades, so… am I right to assume you're an exiled Targaryen looking to use the Free Folk to reenact Aegon the Conqueror's story?"