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American Horror: Grind Edition
Ser Denys looked pissed.
"Qhorin said you could actually keep the wildlings in line—better than that traitor Mance ever could. That makes you their king."
"Let's just make this damn deal, Son of the Stars. Seven gods forgive me, but the Night's Watch cannot die. Not on my watch. Westeros already has five kings who don't give a damn whether we live or die. What's one more?"
He wasn't wrong.
The Watch was full of criminals and cowards, but on paper it was still the shield of the realm. They had already lost Castle Black and Eastwatch—now held by Tormund's Red Hall clan and the Frozen Shore men. Shadow Tower was the last scrap they had left. If they publicly acknowledged Lynn's authority, it would give him real legitimacy in the coming war—worth more than a handful of nervous Northern lords.
Win-win. Why not?
"Fair enough," Lynn said. "It's a solid offer. I'm tempted."
He meant it. This gave the black brothers an honorable way out.
"We have other conditions," Denys continued. "Sentinel Stand, Greyguard, and Stone Gate must remain under our command. You will supply them. And every brother taken prisoner at Castle Black must be returned—unharmed."
Lynn shook his head. Denys's face darkened instantly.
"You're too few to hold them," Lynn said. "Free Folk will move in first. I'll pick clans with no blood feud against the Watch. They'll repair the castles and watch for the Others. In return, you teach them how to farm and everything else you know. Once your numbers grow, we can talk about handing the forts back."
Both men knew that was bullshit. Once wildlings settled in, they weren't leaving. Denys didn't call him on it.
"We can handle supplies," Lynn went on, "but the Free Folk don't have much either. I'll need to win over at least some Northern lords before I can feed everyone. Or you can strike your own deals with any lord you want—as long as it doesn't threaten the Free Folk. I won't stop you."
He'd said "game" instead of "war." Sounded less bloody. Denys nodded; he knew it was the truth.
"Returning the prisoners is fine," Lynn added, "but I want Qhorin in exchange. I assume you've got him in the ice cells by now?"
Denys gave a short nod.
"Half the brothers want him hanged for treason. Doesn't matter. I'll hand him over. One for forty—good trade."
Lynn thought for a second. "One more thing. Have Donal Noye teach our smiths how to work steel. The old man's stubborn as a mule. Maester Aemon already tried and got nowhere."
Denys ground his teeth but agreed. He was only acting commander, he warned; Noye might not listen. He'd try.
They spent the next hour hammering out the rest—Maester Aemon's status, how the Gift would be divided, who would hold the great gorge west of Shadow Tower. Lynn stayed calm and in control the whole time. Denys never gained an inch.
Still, both sides got what mattered most.
"A good negotiation leaves everyone a little unhappy," Denys said at the end, voice dry. "You don't look unhappy at all."
Lynn smiled. "You're only seeing the surface, Ser. Truth is I've got a hundred thousand mouths to feed. Some days I feel like throwing myself into the pot."
Denys sighed. "This will be the blackest page in the history of the Night's Watch. My name will be nailed to the pillar of shame forever. Seven gods alone know what they'll call me."
"It was the smart play," Lynn said quietly. "You kept the Watch alive. One day the black brothers will stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the children of the First Men against the Others. The singers will tell that story for a thousand years."
Denys gave a bitter little laugh. "I hope so. For now I should call you Your Grace… but allow me to kneel properly next time. By then you'll have a proper court, respectable ministers, guards, and your own banners and sigil."
Lynn chuckled. He didn't take it too seriously. The Free Folk would never bow to a king, and the Southern lords would have to be conquered by force. That day was still far off.
Right then, muffled through the snow-bear hide, a low, weak horn note drifted into the tent.
Everyone heard it. Lynn frowned and stepped outside. Denys followed.
The sound grew louder. A ripple of unease ran through the wildling camp.
"Hardfoot scout horn," Nymo said after listening a moment. "Something's coming. From the east."
"Others?" Denys asked, tense.
Lynn shook his head. "They're north of us, and they don't move in daylight."
Riders burst from the camp. When they yanked down their hoods, Lynn saw Mance and Val. Varamyr's bear was missing, but his wolves and shadowcat loped beside the horses. The eagle perched on the saddle behind him, staying well clear of Weeping Blood.
"You finished?" Mance called. "Small party of horsemen spotted east—looks like Eastwatch men came ashore at one of the shallows."
The second Denys saw Mance, the old knight's whole posture changed—like he was one heartbeat from drawing steel and settling every old grudge.
"Mance—" The name came out as a low growl.
"Ser Denys," Mance said cheerfully. "Been a long time. Good to see you still breathing."
He turned back to Lynn. "You reach an agreement? Because if Denys was playing straight, Carter Pyke wouldn't be poking around right now. I don't believe for a second they haven't been trading ravens. Mounted sailors—ha! Carter's always had more balls than brains. If he wanted to hit us, he'd have done it already. This timing stinks."