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Game of Thrones: Azeroth? This Is Westeros!
Game of Thrones: Starborn Conqueror
Game of Thrones: My Pets Evolve Into Dragons
Game of Thrones: Joffrey the Ruthless Emperor
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If the details had been any different, Lynn would have sworn Kuna had leaked something—or that Mance had sent her to test him.
He saw Mance drop the carefully crafted mask, so he stopped dodging.
Lynn repeated exactly what he had told Kuna: he was not a Targaryen descendant. Plenty of families besides the Targaryens had ridden dragons in the past—it was just that one family had monopolized the dragon eggs for centuries.
Facing Mance's skepticism, Lynn gave him a quick history lesson. Even at the height of the Targaryen dynasty, House Velaryon of Driftmark had gained "dragonlord blood" through marriage and raised dragons of their own.
Not to mention that ancient Valyria once had forty dragonlord families. Even though most of those houses were wiped out when the Doom destroyed the peninsula, was it really impossible that a few bloodlines had survived?
Most likely they just didn't have any living dragon eggs left to hatch.
Besides, the Targaryens had always maintained a clear line of succession and carried the signature silver hair and purple eyes. Pretending to be one of them would be pointless. (Though legitimate Targaryens with different coloring had existed before, those stories rarely ended well.)
The only living legitimate Targaryen heirs right now were the exiled siblings Viserys and Daenerys. Daenerys had married a khal and borne him a child; Viserys had already died wearing a "golden crown" given to him by the same khal.
There was also a rumored Blackfyre descendant—a fake Aegon—being raised by the exiled Hand Jon Connington, but his identity was almost impossible to prove.
If Lynn raised the Targaryen banner, two major problems were obvious.
First, zero legitimacy. At best he could claim to be a royal bastard, which would never win noble support.
Second, the North's deep hatred. The last Targaryen king had brutally executed Lord Rickard Stark and his heir Brandon, along with the heirs of several other Northern lords. His son Rhaegar had then kidnapped "the Wolf Girl" Lyanna Stark—at least that's how the smallfolk saw it. The North despised House Targaryen.
Lynn laid out every detail for Mance, making it crystal clear he had nothing to do with the Targaryens and had neither the desire nor the ability to pretend to be the Mad King's bastard son.
Mance was clever and had a tongue sharper than most swords, but he had been born low and spent his life between the Night's Watch and the wildlings. His knowledge of the wider world still had gaps.
"So everything you just heard is pure speculation on my part," Lynn said. "My arrival really was an accident, and I have no intention of threatening your position as King-Beyond-the-Wall."
He picked up the cup of mead Dalla had poured for him and took a few sips. It tasted surprisingly good.
"If you still don't believe me," he added, "Nymo was with Magnar Styr when they saw my 'starship' with their own eyes. And that fireball two weeks ago was witnessed by countless free folk."
Nymo had grown impatient watching Lynn speak so politely to Mance.
He lifted his chin and declared, "I swear by the gods and by the name of the Magnar—everything 'Son of the Stars' Lynn has said is true. Twelve of our best warriors witnessed it alongside me!"
That oath carried real weight.
Mance sighed again, his voice heavy with weariness.
"I don't care about the title of King-Beyond-the-Wall. I just want to keep the free folk who trust me alive—including my wife and our unborn child.
And even without that little show earlier, you can probably see that the free folk don't really believe in kings."
"I've never worn a crown, and I've never sat on any damn throne—if that's what you're getting at."
Mance glanced at Lynn and continued.
"I was born lower than low. No septon ever anointed me with holy oils. I have no castle. My queen wears hides and amber, not silk and jewels. I am my own warrior, my own fool, and my own bard.
No King-Beyond-the-Wall has ever ruled by blood. The free folk don't follow names, and they don't care which brother was born first. They follow strength.
When I left Shadow Tower, five different men were shouting that they should be King-Beyond-the-Wall. Tormund was one. Styr was another. I killed the other three because they would rather fight than follow anyone.
They're just as brave as any southern knight, just as strong, just as quick, just as clever. The only thing they lack is discipline. They call themselves free folk, and every single one of them thinks he's as great as a king and as wise as a maester.
Right now they're only gathered here because the dead have scared them. They're following me only because they believe I can lead them through the ice wall."
Lynn caught the key point immediately. "You used to be a man of the Night's Watch?"
"No one told you? Fine, I'll tell it myself."
Mance scooped another mouthful of acorn paste and began.
"My name is Mance Rayder. 'Rayder' is a variation of 'raider'—the surname the Night's Watch gives to bastards.
They found me in the arms of a wildling raiding party they had wiped out. No one's ever been able to explain why those raiders would carry a baby across hundreds of feet of ice. Maybe they were trying to reach the warmer south.
Some say the child was stolen from a farmer's house. Either way, the crows took me in, raised me, and made me swear the oath while I was still too young to understand what it meant.
But I was born loving women and hating to kneel. I never saw anything wrong with that, but it went against the rules of the Watch. I loved the wild more than the Wall. It was in my blood. I loved the music of the free folk and I loved their women. Leaving Shadow Tower felt like going home.
One time we were out on a ranging. We killed a beautiful stag and were skinning it when the blood attracted a shadowcat from a nearby den. I drove the beast off, but my cloak got torn to shreds in the fight. You see these? Here, here, and here?"
He smiled and showed Lynn the red stitching on his ragged cloak.
"The cat also tore up my arm and back. I bled more than the stag. My brothers were afraid I'd die before we made it back to Shadow Tower, so they carried me to a wildling village. They'd heard an old witch there knew some healing.
She was already dead. Only her daughter was left. She washed my wounds, sewed me up, and fed me gruel and potions until I recovered.
She used crimson silk thread from Asshai to mend my torn cloak. Her grandmother had found it on a wrecked ship washed up on the Frozen Shore. It was her greatest treasure, and she gave it to me as a gift."
He settled the cloak back over his shoulders.
"When I returned to Shadow Tower they gave me a new wool cloak from the stores. A perfectly black cloak, clean and neat, along with black breeches, black boots, a black tunic, and black chainmail. The new cloak had no wear, no tears, no rips… and no red.
'A man of the Night's Watch wears black!' Ser Denys Mallister reminded me sternly, as if I were simple. He told me my old cloak should be burned.
The next morning I left… and went to a place where a kiss wasn't a sin and a man could choose the color of his own cloak."
Lynn hadn't expected that backstory.
Once the acorn paste was finished, so was the story.
Mance set down his spoon and said quietly,
"There. You told me your story, I told you mine. We're even. Now let's talk real business."