The sudden burst of dragonfire caught Lynn completely off guard. Dragons usually didn't breathe flame until they were much larger.
But there was no time to think about it. Wights still surrounded them, though they had fallen into chaos, stumbling around like headless flies.
Their behavior was clearly tied to the White Walker melting on the ground.
Worried the creature might not be fully dead, Lynn swung Dark Sister—now glowing faintly red from the dragonfire—and hacked off what remained of the Walker's head. The blade sliced through with almost no resistance, white mist boiling off the steel.
The surviving Thenns finally snapped out of their shock. Renewed courage surged through them. They roared and began cutting down the disorganized wights in droves.
Lynn suddenly realized this might be a bad idea. Without a Walker controlling them, wights instinctively attacked anything living. Right now they were confused, but once the Walker was truly gone, they might turn aggressive again.
He was already starting to regret chopping the head off.
He shoved aside a wight that stumbled into him. It was small, its skull shaped more like an ape than a man.
When he cut down another, the corpse immediately burst into flames, as if soaked in oil.
The Thenns who had drawn closer watched with even deeper awe.
"Lead the way. Run!" Lynn's voice came out muffled through the helmet. His Old Tongue was already shaky, and the helmet made it worse. He wasn't sure they could even understand him.
They answered with action. The group broke out through the thinnest part of the wight horde, then took a wide arc toward a distant snow-white mountain peak.
The Thenns could see Lynn was struggling in the bulky suit, but instead of abandoning him to save themselves, they slowed their pace to match his.
They trudged on for a long time. When they finally crested a gentle slope, Lynn couldn't go any farther. His undersuit was soaked with sweat. The temperature and humidity system was running at full blast and still couldn't keep up. It eventually shut down, and his visor began to fog.
He stabbed Dark Sister into the snow. The still-warm blade hissed and steamed where it touched the powder.
The baby dragon had been clinging to the gap between his helmet and the external battery pack the entire escape. After spitting fire, it was extremely weak.
Lynn moved it to his shoulder, then pulled off his helmet and shook out his sweat-damp black hair.
He gave the nearest Thenn warrior a harmless, friendly smile. The man looked startled, almost honored. The others stared at Lynn's face with clear reverence—and at the fire-breathing dragon perched on his shoulder.
Lynn didn't know much about the Thenns. He had only recognized them from their chant of "Magnar!" He knew a Magnar was their chief, and that was about it.
Still, these were the first living people he'd met in this world. Bloodraven's memories painted them as fierce wildlings, but right now it was the living against the dead. They were naturally on the same side. So he made an effort to seem approachable.
The silence grew awkward.
Lynn cleared his throat and broke it first, speaking in halting Old Tongue. "Let's rest. We've gone far enough."
The big warriors all nodded.
He let out a breath. These guys were surprisingly cooperative.
His throat was burning with thirst, but the water bags in his sling were frozen solid. He drew Dark Sister again and used the sword's residual heat to thaw one.
Valyrian steel was said to be forged in dragonflame and enchanted, which made it light, impossibly sharp, and nearly indestructible. He wondered if hitting it with dragonfire again would ruin any of its properties.
Something about tempering? He wasn't sure how it worked.
The Thenns watched him stare at the "fire demon sword" but didn't dare ask what he was doing.
When they saw him scoop snow into his mouth to melt it, they quickly offered their own wineskins.
Lynn didn't drink, but he didn't want to refuse their goodwill. He picked the cleanest-looking skin and took a cautious swig. It was harsh and spicy, but drinkable.
He politely handed it back and sat down to wait for his water to thaw.
"White King," one of the Thenns muttered.
"It's the White Prince. He's still young," another replied.
"No, his hair and eyes are black. And that face—I've never seen anyone who looks like that. Not to mention the armor."
A third man spoke louder. "He has a fire-breathing bird."
"That's a dragon, you idiot!" someone snapped. "I've heard the old tales. They grow bigger than ice mountains and can swallow a giant's mammoth in one bite."
"Mole's Mother told me the southern kings rode dragons and burned down the biggest castle in the world."
"If they could burn down the Wall, that'd be something."
"Burn down the Wall so the dead can just walk across?"
The group fell quiet.
After a long pause, one man said softly, "The Magnar is dead…"
"We still have Styr's son, Sigorn."
"The Thenns don't do blood succession. Otherwise we'd be no different from the kneelers in the south."
"Hah. Once we get past the Wall, I bet most free folk will end up kneeling anyway. The chiefs never stop talking about southern castles. The raiders have seen them with their own eyes."
The conversation died again. Lynn had been listening with interest when one of them killed the topic completely.
He decided to jump in himself.
"You're going to attack the Wall?"
The moment he asked, the Thenn warriors straightened up. The others crowded closer.
"Yes… My lord," one replied carefully, even using a respectful form of address in the Old Tongue. "Will you not be following Mance?"
Lynn wasn't sure how to answer. He didn't know enough about Mance yet. He stroked the baby dragon's head with a thoughtful expression instead. The little dragon made a hoarse, rasping sound in its throat.
"My lord, do you have a clan and a name?" another man asked, bolder now because Lynn had drunk from his wineskin. He still chose a very formal, old-fashioned word of respect.
"I have no clan…" Lynn started, then stopped and corrected himself.
"No. I come from a great clan. My clan is named after the River of Stars in the sky. We are descendants of the Yellow and Fire, inheritors of dragons."
At that moment, early morning light broke across the horizon, and a single bright star still shone clearly in the distance.
"My name is Lynn Morningstar. I come from one of the smaller branches of the clan."
The Thenns exchanged glances. But they had seen the blood-red dragon covered in fine scales perched on his shoulder. Nothing could be more convincing than that—a true inheritor of dragons.
Out here in the wild, a man made his own reputation.
Lynn could tell they already saw him as something out of legend. It made sense. Just the spacesuit alone was enough to show an enormous gap between him and these wildlings.
They weren't stupid—just primitive. They could tell power when they saw it.
Add in a fire-breathing dragon and killing a White Walker in one strike, and it was no wonder.
If he had shown up in a helicopter looking even weirder, they probably would've worshipped him as a god. That was how the First Men's cave paintings started, after all.
Since things had already gone this far, and he needed to establish himself in this world, he might as well lean all the way in.
Everything he said was true anyway.