Another day, another shitshow.
The clans had agreed to send men, but the Free Folk's complete lack of discipline still made it feel hopeless.
Mance had done everything he could, yet he still couldn't get a ten-man squad to march forward or backward in anything resembling a straight line.
When he looked out over ten thousand dragging, bickering wildlings, even the King-Beyond-the-Wall—who usually wore calm confidence like armor—couldn't hide his frustration.
He was seriously starting to regret volunteering for this job.
"Free Folk go where they please."
Every time someone threw that classic wildling line in his face, Mance had no real comeback. The chiefs listened to him because they'd seen what he could do. The average clansman didn't give a damn, and half of them had never even met him.
Their weapons and armor were just as bad.
Most had no boiled leather at all. Their gear was a random mess of wood, bone, and stone. The few metal weapons they did have were rusted junk that looked like they'd been pulled off wights.
At the root of it all was how pitiful wildling craftsmanship actually was.
Seeing it up close finally made Lynn understand why Mance kept hammering on the same point: men in hides would never beat men in iron. The gap wasn't just equipment—it was organization, production, everything. No wonder every previous King-Beyond-the-Wall who marched south had been wiped out. No wonder the Thenns had pushed to make promotion harder rather than lead outsiders.
Lynn dropped the fantasy of waving his arm and magically fielding ten thousand disciplined troops. He ordered the half-formed army disbanded and sent everyone back to wait for new orders. At the same time he rescued an exhausted Mance.
"Let the clans and families fight alongside the Thenns," Lynn said after listening to Mance's report. "Scrap the individual merit system. Switch to group counting."
He'd already seen the new group-based merit system Mance was familiar with, so he told him to set the exact standards himself. The better raider bands would follow the same rules.
Mance refused to let Lynn leave, so the two of them stayed up late hammering out the final details of the revised group merit system.
The core idea was simple: hands-off leadership. Issue orders only to clan chiefs or family heads, then hand out rewards and punishments after the fight based on results.
They had just breathed a sigh of relief when a sharp eagle scream cut through the tent.
Varamyr Sixskins stepped inside a moment later.
"It's Orell. They're in trouble!"
The eagle that belonged to Orell perched on Varamyr's shoulder, wings beating, screeching. Lynn could feel raw human rage and pain in the cries—the clear sign that part of a skinchanger's soul had been left trapped inside the animal after death.
"Can you control his eagle?" Mance asked immediately.
"I need to know what happened."
Varamyr shook his head, though the hunger in his eyes was obvious. He wanted that bird badly.
"A saddled horse can be ridden by anyone," he said quietly. "A beast that has bonded with a skinchanger can be entered by any other skinchanger. But not yet. The bond goes both ways. Orell is drowning in the hatred that comes with death. If I slip in now, his emotions could overwhelm me. It's dangerous."
"I have to wait until his will fades inside the feathers."
Before Varamyr could finish, the eagle suddenly calmed. It spread its wings gently and dropped onto the table right in front of Lynn.
Lynn's eyes had turned milky white. He was already inside the bird.
There had been rumors that Lynn was a sheep-skins, but most people had never seen it.
Varamyr was gifted—nobody alive could control more beasts—but the power Lynn had inherited from the Three-Eyed Crow was on another level entirely.
A dozen heartbeats later Lynn's eyes cleared.
"Two attackers at the far end of the Windy Gorge entrance. Orell says they're crows. They dropped on him from higher ground. One of them is Jon Snow, bastard son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. They've taken a spearwife named Ygritte prisoner."
Lynn looked at Varamyr.
"Orell agrees to let you take the eagle, but only if you swear in front of me that you will not drive out what remains of him before he fades naturally."
The words hit Varamyr like a hammer.
Everything he had just said about waiting came from years of stealing other skinchangers' animals. Rush in too soon and the dead man's rage could swallow you whole. You had to be patient.
But Lynn had slipped into the eagle as easily as stepping through a door, and he had come back with clear, precise information—something Varamyr had never experienced. Usually he only caught the dead man's strongest emotions.
If Varamyr's earlier support for Lynn had been driven by the Long Night story and the dragon, this time it was pure, honest fear and respect.
Lynn's skinchanger strength was clearly enough to claim the eagle for himself if he wanted. Instead he had chosen to give it away.
What Varamyr didn't know was that Lynn simply had a cleanliness fetish—physical and mental. Plus he already had a dragon.
"As you command, Son of the Stars."
Varamyr swore the oath sincerely.
The moment he finished, Mance called for Quenn.
"Get every raider moving. The crows have reached the Windy Gorge. None of them can be allowed to return alive. The longer this camp stays hidden, the better our chances at the Wall."
Mance glanced at Varamyr.
"Take the eagle—Orell—with you. Make sure that ranging party dies."
Varamyr—now technically Seven-Skins—nodded and turned to leave, but Lynn stopped him.
"If you can, try to take them alive. Tell the raiders that capturing live rangers doubles the merit."
Varamyr hesitated, then left.
Mance looked puzzled.
"Lynn, Free Folk and crows have been killing each other for centuries. Getting raiders to take them alive is going to be almost impossible."
"It used to be," Lynn said with a small smile.
"Now every live crow is worth double merit. The raiders risk their necks climbing the Wall and crossing the Bay of Seals for exactly that."
Mance saw the logic, but he was still doubtful.
"What's the point of taking them alive? The only rangers who make it this deep into the Frostfangs are elite. They won't talk, and they sure as hell won't bend the knee."