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A dragon is a hell of a weapon, but it can't stand guard over you every second of the day. In the end you still have to be able to protect yourself.
Luckily Bloodraven had been one of the deadliest fighters in the Seven Kingdoms. His archery was legendary—he'd dropped Daemon Blackfyre and both his twin sons from extreme range at the Battle of the Redgrass Field, ending the First Blackfyre Rebellion in a single volley. His sword work was just as sharp. In the same battle he'd dueled "Bittersteel" Aegor Rivers, the Blackfyre faction's top warrior, while Bittersteel wielded Blackfyre itself. Their clash was second only to Daemon's duel with Gwayne Corbray. Bloodraven lost an eye but still drove Bittersteel back and held the field.
He'd been lean and wiry, not the towering knight type, but his understanding of swordplay was unique. Those same techniques lived in the memories Lynn had inherited. They just needed endless drills and sparring before they became his own.
At least Lynn shared the same tall, slender build as Bloodraven, and they even used the same sword. The muscle memory transferred fast.
The only downside was Lynn's body. It was nowhere near as conditioned as Bloodraven's had been. Still, he was young. Starting hard training now wasn't too late.
Archery would have been even more natural for him. The stance, draw, breathing, and release were burned into his mind—he could use them right away. But Bloodraven's bow had been a custom weirwood longbow, extremely rare in Westeros. Weirwood gave it insane draw weight and power. Paired with Bloodraven's lifetime of training, it could punch through armor at three hundred yards. Only Bloodraven and his elite Raven's Teeth could manage that kind of shot.
Lynn's arms were still soft. He'd have to start with a much weaker bow and work his way up.
Inside the spacious tent he moved forward and back, side-stepping, lunging, Dark Sister slicing silver arcs through the air. Just the basic forms for now, but after a couple of days he was already starting to feel them.
The price showed in the fresh blood blisters on his palms and the deep ache in his hips and knees.
He knew this was only the beginning. To reach Bloodraven's level he'd need real sparring partners and actual combat.
Beside the fire Weeping Blood lay sprawled on a full belly, snoring softly. Everyone treated the little dragon like a priceless treasure. They were all counting on it growing fast and becoming the hammer their plan needed.
Mance had sent over a dozen different kinds of game so the dragon could "taste test." Turns out it liked sheep best.
Lyanna sat near the tent flap sewing clothes for him. Kuna had already torn apart and recut the washed hides; they looked far better already. Lyanna was finishing the seams, adjusting everything so the new fur tunic and trousers would fit snug and move with him.
Lynn stepped over, picked up a scrap of trimmed pelt, and tossed it into the air. Dark Sister flashed. The scrap split cleanly in two before it hit the ground.
He picked up the pieces. The cut was glass-smooth—Valyrian steel at its finest.
But the two halves weren't equal. His hands still lagged behind his mind. He knew exactly what angle and power the swing needed, yet his body was half a heartbeat slow.
He shook his head, spun the blade through a couple of Bloodraven's old flourishes, then slid it back into the scabbard.
After three days of Thenn celebration, Kassa formally invited Lynn to the Magnar's own tent.
Lynn had traded the spacesuit for wool and fur. Dark Sister hung at his left hip on a new sword belt. Except for his face, his manner, and the ever-present blood-red dragon, he could almost pass for just another wildling.
The wool itched against his skin, but the quick-dry base layer underneath helped. Kuna and Lyanna had tailored the fur tunic and trousers perfectly—warm, fitted, and a thousand times easier to move in than the bulky suit.
Kassa might be Magnar now, but his weapons, clothes, and attitude toward Lynn hadn't changed at all.
Thenns didn't judge status by fancy clothes or fancy seats. Everyone simply sat in a circle around the big fire.
A new, quiet authority had settled over Kassa, though the ritual potion had left his face a little sallow. He refused to rest. The moment the feasting ended he called the clan's most respected leaders together. Lynn sat in as an honored guest.
The Thenns had their own rough laws. Kassa settled a handful of old disputes the traditional way—usually by letting the parties fight it out—then turned the talk to the clan's future.
Lynn looked around. Almost every man present was one of the warriors he had saved from the White Walker. They were the best fighters from the strongest Thenn families, the ones who always rode with the Magnar. They had followed Styr; now they followed Kassa.
Three sat apart: Styr's son Sigorn, a huge bearded smith wearing only a thin shirt, and a drowsy old shaman.
Kassa mostly listened. Lynn had already told Nymo to lay out the full plan with Mance, so today's real question was simple: how did the Thenns make sure they came out ahead in it?
In Mance's scheme the Thenns would form the spearhead against any Northern army and lead the assault on the castles. That meant heavy casualties.
The Thenns had lived their whole lives in the remote northern valleys. Their worldview was narrow. Most of the talk circled back to wanting more food and better steel than bronze.
When the same arguments started looping, every eye finally turned to Lynn.
The scene felt familiar. Last time, during the final march, they had talked among themselves and then stared at him the same way—hoping he would become their Magnar.
This time they were ready to make him King-Beyond-the-Wall.
"Mance promised you first pick of any loot," Lynn said at last. He still kept a careful line between himself, the Thenns, and the rest of the Free Folk.
"But I think that's not enough.
If the Free Folk follow my orders, you'll get your own land and your own smallfolk. Maybe a hall with watchtowers. Maybe even a stone castle."