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Lynn didn't lose sleep over Mors Umber's bluster. Last Hearth was gutted. The ironborn had taken Moat Cailin and Winterfell; Theon had burned the Stark seat and been flayed for it. Yet the Umbers—longtime Stark bannermen—had sent not one man north to help. Their entire fighting strength had ridden south with the Young Wolf and was now trapped in the Riverlands. Even in the books, when Ser Rodrik Cassel marched to retake Winterfell, the Umber banners were nowhere to be seen. Later, when Stannis faced the Boltons, the Umbers could only scrape together eight hundred old men and boys—four hundred under "Crowfood" Mors for Stannis, four hundred under his brother Hother "Whoresbane" for the Boltons. The castle was empty. Lynn knew it.
Ser Denys Mallister's party from Shadow Tower finally agreed to talk after days of back-and-forth. By then the faster-moving Free Folk bands had begun reaching the Wall. Under Mance's watchful eye they filed through the tunnel in small groups and made camp south of Castle Black. No one dared spread out yet; they were still waiting for the full host before they occupied the abandoned castles along the Wall.
The wildlings moved at their usual glacial pace. An entire day and they had only squeezed through four or five thousand. Livestock balked, carts jammed, fistfights over line-cutting broke out every few minutes. Mance finally resorted to cracked skulls and drawn steel before the traffic started flowing.
North of the Wall the forest had vanished under a sea of hide tents that stretched all the way to the ice.
A lone snow-bear hide pavilion stood apart from the main camp. Lynn waited inside with Nymo and thirty Thenn warriors. Four giants waited outside, each holding a massive stone hammer like it weighed nothing. The message was simple: behave.
At the appointed hour three riders emerged from the treeline, black wool cloaks stark against the snow.
As they drew closer Lynn saw the leader was an older man—blue-gray eyes, long white side-whiskers, almost no hair left, face deeply lined. He wore a fine black velvet doublet trimmed with marten fur and a cloak pinned by a pair of silver eagle talons, the sigil of House Mallister of Seagard.
The two younger black brothers behind him flinched hard at the sight of the giants. Denys snapped a single sharp word and they steadied.
"Ser Denys Mallister, commander of Shadow Tower," the old knight announced, stopping a respectful distance away. His gaze flicked over the Thenns' new mail and steel swords, then Nymo's mismatched knight's plate. "Bowen Marsh was badly wounded at the Bridge of Skulls, so I am acting in his place as Lord Commander for the duration of these talks."
In any other setting Nymo would have rattled off every one of Lynn's titles like a herald. But the Thenns' Common Tongue was rough at best, so Lynn kept it short.
"I'm Lynn Morningstar. Why didn't Qhorin come?"
Denys gave a thin, humorless smile. "The brothers have taken to calling him Brokenlimb now. His leg wound flared up again. Maester Mullin is tending him."
Lynn nodded once. "It's cold out here. Let's talk inside the tent."
He turned and ducked through the flap. Denys and his men started to follow, but Nymo blocked them.
"Weapons," the boy growled in thick Common, then patted the steel sword at his own hip for emphasis.
Denys protested, but finally unbuckled his blade and dropped it in the snow. The other two copied him.
"Savages," the old knight muttered. "By rights of guest custom I would have hung my sword on the tent wall once inside."
Nymo let it go, held the flap open, and stepped in behind them.
A good fire burned in the center. A thick log stump served as the table, two smaller stumps as stools. Lynn and Ser Denys sat facing each other; everyone else stood.
Weeping Blood had been dozing in the corner. At the newcomers' scent the little dragon lifted his narrow neck and fixed them with cold gold-red eyes.
Lynn felt the black brothers' breathing quicken.
"Does the king offer his guests nothing to warm their blood?" Denys asked, voice tight with forced bravado. "Or are we denied guest right?"
"My oversight," Lynn said easily. "You are still guests in my tent—there's no question of that. But I should be clear: I'm not a king."
He smiled. "Ser Denys, time is short. Let's speak plainly. First—do you believe the Others have returned? I sent word to half the lords in the North. Most either dismissed it or never answered."
Denys's face tightened. "We believe. The surviving rangers described the battle at the Fist and the mutiny at Craster's Keep."
Lynn nodded. "Good. First point of agreement. That's a start. Now name your terms for surrender. My patience ran out dealing with Qhorin—I'd prefer you be realistic."
Denys looked like he'd been punched. Color flooded his wrinkled cheeks.
"Surrender!" he repeated, voice rising. "The Night's Watch does not surrender to the Free Folk!"
The old knight drew a harsh breath. "We serve only the realm. The realm!"
"Five kings right now, each claiming the Seven Kingdoms," Lynn said mildly. "Though I hear one Baratheon is already dead."
Denys dropped the courtly dance. "This was decided by vote among the brothers. We swear loyalty only to a king. That is our single condition."
He met Lynn's eyes. "Qhorin told us you were not born among the wildlings. He said you are of the old Valyrian dragonlord blood. Three hundred years ago Aegon Targaryen conquered the Seven Kingdoms. Now you have conquered the Free Folk."
Lynn almost laughed out loud, then caught himself and schooled his face before he insulted the old man's dignity.