In truth, Lynn had zero interest in the rangers. The one who actually mattered was the kid who called himself the bastard son of the Lord of the North—Jon Snow.
Since the day he crossed over, almost everything Lynn owned had come straight from Lord Bloodraven's gifts. That made this young man—another highborn bastard who'd ended up in the Night's Watch—feel like someone worth watching.
His position was nothing next to Brynden Rivers, but in the coming conquest of the North he could still prove useful.
Lynn held no grudge against bastards. They didn't choose how they were born, and the Free Folk didn't even have a word for the concept.
You never knew.
He ran the idea past Mance.
"Hope's thin," Mance said flatly.
"I met the boy once when I still wore the black. He's his father's son—honorable, stubborn, convinced the whole damn world runs on honor."
Mance kept going. "Southerners only respect blood. Hand them a legitimate heir—even a pig—and they'll kneel. But put a bastard on the high seat? Every lord from the Neck to the mountains will rise up. You'd be ripping the foundation out from under their bloodlines and their rule."
It was true. Bloodraven had spent his life crushing noble-born bastards like his half-brothers Daemon Blackfyre and Bittersteel. Yet when Aegon the Fourth legitimized every one of his bastards on his deathbed, half the realm still backed the Blackfyres. If Bloodraven hadn't put arrows through Daemon and both his sons, that rebellion might have ended very differently.
What if another king decided to legitimize the Stark bastard? The continent already had five kings. What was one more?
Mance saw Lynn still turning it over and twisted the knife.
"Besides, the boy swore the oath. 'I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children, wear no crowns, win no glory.'"
Lynn shot him a skeptical glance.
Mance shrugged. "I didn't swear it willingly. I was young and stupid, talked into it. Give me a few more years and some sense, I'd never have said those words."
Lynn was curious about the exact wording. Bloodraven's memories hadn't bothered keeping it, which told him plenty.
He asked Mance to recite it.
Mance resisted at first, then slipped into memory. In a flat, tightly controlled voice he began:
"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death.
I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.
I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.
I shall live and die at my post.
I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls.
I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.
I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."
It was an oath of total surrender—monk-like, a lifelong contract that stripped a man of every worldly tie.
Mance could have sung it like the bard he was and made it ring cold and proud.
Instead he delivered it flat, emotionless, as if trying to tear the words out of his own life.
Lynn could tell Mance hadn't managed it. Mance knew he could tell.
So he dismissed him.
"'Son of the Stars' Lynn, go back to your tent. That pretty handmaiden of yours has probably warmed the furs by now."
He was right.
Ever since the wildling chiefs had officially named him Guardian of All Living Beings in Westeros, Lyanna refused to go back to her mother's tent. She had planted herself at his side for good.
Lynn wasn't a saint, but he wasn't about to lay hands on a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old girl either. He kept her busy with chores and left it at that.
The Free Folk's moral standards were shockingly low. It was a daily reminder not to let this savage age drag him under.
Lynn stood and stretched. Weeping Blood, sprawled at his feet, rose too.
The dragon was growing fast—already the size of a small lamb. Lynn could barely carry him anymore.
At least the little red bastard could fly steadily now. Carrying a rider was still years away.
"If you take any alive, let me know," Lynn said on his way out.
Whether it mattered or not, it was a harmless side bet. If the kid didn't make it, that was that.
Lynn still slept in the same tent. No special treatment. When he stepped inside, Lyanna was waiting.
She brought water kept warm by the brazier, helped him wash his face and soak his feet, then pulled out fresh sheep ribs for Weeping Blood.
After some time together the young dragon no longer shied away from her, but it still wouldn't let her touch it.
The girl pinched one end of a rib bone like a cat toy, trying to coax a flame out of the dragon. Lynn watched, speechless.
If he hadn't ordered the dragon not to burn her, she'd have been roasted a dozen times already.
What did she think it was?
The next few days passed the same way. Mornings Lynn drilled with Dark Sister. Afternoons he practiced with the new white-oak longbow the Nightrunner chief had given him. They were fine archers—better at night than by day.
The bow wasn't Bloodraven's weirwood monster, but it matched the yew longbows common south of the Wall. North of it, the thing was a treasure.
After steady training, Lynn could now draw heavier hardwood bows. He had about seventy or eighty percent of Bloodraven's skill with the bow.
His accuracy was solid. Rate of fire and range still needed work.
No helping it. His body strength wasn't there yet, and the bow was a step down.