Above the Clouds.
The sea of clouds rolled below. Like a frozen ocean of milky white.
Occasional gaps revealed the vast snowfields beneath. The Kingsroad winding like black veins.
Arya's screams and excited shouts still echoed in memory.
But now, the dragon's back no longer held Arya.
Myrcella gripped the specially crafted saddle handles tightly. Her luxurious golden gown whipped in the bitter wind. Golden hair already blown into chaos.
Cheeks frozen red. Lips tinged purple. But she bit down hard. Made no sound.
Her green eyes held fear. But more—innate resilience.
Like a golden rose forcibly transplanted to the Wall. Struggling to maintain dignity and pride in extreme cold.
Beside her, Ygritte painted a completely different picture.
She'd shed that uncomfortable lady's gown. Back in familiar leather and furs.
This fire-kissed wildling girl was like an eagle freed from all chains.
Arms spread wide. Let the gale whip her fiery red hair. She laughed loudly. That laughter—crisp and wild, full of reclaimed freedom—quickly torn apart by howling wind.
She even stuck out her tongue. Caught snowflakes kicked up by wind. Tasted the North's biting cold.
"THIS is what living feels like!"
Ygritte shouted. Looked back at the calm Lynn.
"A million times better than rotting in Winterfell's stuffy rooms learning those Southern twits' prissy rules!"
Lynn just smiled. Said nothing.
He removed the thick bearskin cloak Robb had given him. Without asking, draped it over Myrcella. Blocked most of the wind.
Myrcella's body trembled. Felt Lynn's warmth from the cloak. That reassuring pine scent. She looked up. Green eyes flashed complex emotions. Whispered softly.
"Thank you."
Lynn's gesture made the previously jubilant wildcat behind him instantly quiet.
Ygritte's smile vanished. Her wild blue eyes narrowed. Like a she-wolf surveying territory.
She looked at Lynn. Then at the Southern princess huddled in the cloak—only green eyes visible.
An inexplicable irritation rose from her heart.
"Lynn, why didn't you give ME one too?! I'm cold too!"
In Winterfell, she'd heard serving girls chattering. Saying Lord Lynn would marry not only House Stark's wolf-cub second daughter, but a real princess too.
She hadn't cared then.
Princess? What's that? Can you eat it? Fight it?
To her, Southern noble ladies were hothouse flowers. One gust and they'd fall. Pretty. But useless.
But eventually, she learned that princess was Myrcella.
Now that princess sat before her.
Ygritte admitted: Myrcella was beautiful. Golden hair brighter than sunlight. Skin whiter than fresh snow. Even she sometimes couldn't resist wanting to steal a kiss.
And Myrcella wasn't as fragile as expected. In weather that could freeze your nose off, she'd endured silently this long. Nearly two months...
Most critically: Lynn's attitude toward her.
A gentleness tinged with respect Ygritte had never seen. Different from his brotherly indulgence toward Arya. Different from his teasing familiarity with herself.
This made Ygritte very unhappy. Not unhappy. Extremely unhappy!
Facing Ygritte's accusation, Lynn simply said: "You're fine. You can handle the cold..."
Ygritte rolled her eyes.
Thinking of something, she shifted closer to Lynn. Elbowed him.
"Hey."
Ygritte's voice was muffled by wind. But her impatience crystal clear.
Lynn turned. Looked at the wildling girl.
"How many women are you marrying exactly?"
Ygritte cut straight to the point. Voice loud enough for nearby Myrcella to hear clearly.
Myrcella's body visibly stiffened.
"Women?"
Lynn raised an eyebrow.
"Don't play dumb!"
Ygritte glared at Lynn. Extended a finger. Pointed rudely at Myrcella.
"One Stark she-wolf isn't enough? Now a golden-haired one too? I heard that old Maester Luwin say: your Southern rules—one man, one wife! This is TWO already! Don't your Seven Gods care?!"
Ygritte's voice brimmed with righteous indignation.
To her: like someone, steal her, treat only her well forever. Not this—eating from your bowl, eyeing the pot, AND bringing home another dish?!
Myrcella buried her face deeper. Ears flushed unnaturally red.
Such... crude language.
"They're not wives."
Lynn corrected. Expression caught between amusement and exasperation.
"Then what?"
Ygritte pressed.
"They're allies."
"Allies?"
Ygritte frowned. Clearly couldn't grasp the concept.
In her black-and-white worldview, only two relationships existed: Your people. And enemies.
Allies should count as your people, right?
"Personal factors aside, Myrcella is a princess. She represents Baratheon and Lannister. Marrying her gets me royal and Westerlands support."
Lynn patiently explained.
"Arya is a Stark. Marrying her gets me the entire North's friendship. In the South, marriage isn't just two people. It's a contract. One that binds two families together."
Lynn tried explaining this complex political marriage in terms she'd understand.
"So you don't like them? You don't even want to fuck them?"
Ygritte's focus was always so unique.
"You're just... using their names?"
This left Lynn momentarily speechless.
Not fuck them? Impossible.
Ygritte's words made nearby Myrcella tense again. She seemed nervous. But made no comment. Just listened quietly.
"In Free Folk tribes, if a man wants a woman, he steals her from her family's tent! Then takes her to his tent and fucks her. Done. Of course, you can't fuck women with husbands. You'll get beaten."
Ygritte's face showed pride in her people's ways.
"Then he proves to everyone he's strong enough to protect her, feed her! You're the strongest man I've ever seen, Lynn."
Ygritte's gaze burned into him.
"Whoever you want—just steal her! Why all this roundabout nonsense? By your logic, fuck a big shot's daughter and you get support. My way's definitely more effective!"
Myrcella quietly lifted her eyes. Through the cloak's gap, secretly studied this wildling girl talking about "stealing."
Her green eyes filled with confusion and curiosity.
Steal?
The word felt foreign. Her education taught her: Marriage is duty. Obligation. Exchange of family interests.
She'd never imagined marriage could be so... primal, direct, full of raw power. Even... free.
Being with whoever you want. That sounded appealing.
Still, marrying Lynn didn't repulse her. A blessing in disguise.
"Ygritte, this isn't beyond the Wall."
Lynn sighed.
"In the South, there are Southern rules. Sometimes brains work better than fists."
"Bullshit rules!"
Ygritte snorted disdainfully.
"Rules are made to break! You never follow those Southern rules either!"
"That's different."
"How's it different?!"
Just as this North-South marriage philosophy debate threatened to loop endlessly, the silent Myrcella suddenly spoke.
"Miss Ygritte."
Her voice was soft. But unusually clear in the howling wind.
Ygritte froze. Turned to her.
"What, my dear noble lady?"
Myrcella slowly raised her head from the cloak. Revealed her face—frozen red yet still beautiful and dignified.
"Becoming Lord Lynn's wife is my honor. And my duty."
She looked into Ygritte's wild blue eyes. Spoke each word clearly.
"As a Baratheon princess, my marriage belongs to the Seven Kingdoms. To the Iron Throne. This is my fate. I accept it gladly."
Myrcella's voice was calm yet firm. Carried something Ygritte couldn't understand... fatalism?
Ygritte opened her mouth. Wanted to say something. Found herself speechless.
She looked at this golden-haired princess. Suddenly realized: maybe she wasn't so fragile after all.
Inside that slender body seemed to hide something hard. Like rocks at the Wall's base. Ordinary-looking. Yet withstanding millennia of wind and snow.
"You Southerners... are fucking weird."
Ygritte finally managed only that. Turned away huffily. Said no more.
The dragon's back fell silent again.
Lynn looked at these two girls—completely different styles yet achieving strange balance. Couldn't help smiling inwardly.
The Gift.
The dragon descended. Below, a chaotic cluster of stone houses appeared. A massive castle under construction in the distance.
They'd arrived. Lynn's fief. Home for him and his people.
When Winter's massive form appeared above camp, the entire settlement erupted.
Wildlings who'd been drinking, eating, brawling around fires—all dropped everything. They rushed from tents. Sent frenzied cheers skyward.
They shouted Lynn's name. The sound wave nearly scattered the clouds.
Their king. The one who led them over the Wall. Gave them land and food. Protected them from the dead. Let them live like humans. The King-Beyond-the-Wall!
Winter landed smoothly in the camp's largest clearing.
Lynn leapt down. Ygritte followed immediately. When her feet hit solid ground, smelled the air's mix of fire, roasted meat, and sweat—every cell in her body cheered.
Familiar. She was back!
Lynn helped the still-wobbly Myrcella down. Wildling warriors immediately swarmed.
Tormund's massive figure pushed through the crowd.
"Lynn, you're finally back, you bastard!"
He gave Lynn a huge bear hug.
"If you'd stayed away longer, these whelps would've torn the whole Gift apart!"
Lynn patted his back. Signaled him to let go.
"I came back because I have work for you."
Lynn's gaze swept over these energetic, restless wildling warriors. Lips curved into a smile.
"A battle... requiring acting skills."
Tormund's eyes blazed instantly.
"Fighting? Who?!"
"Villages near Winterfell."
Lynn spoke unhurriedly.
"Your mission: play bandits. Burning, looting, raiding. Remember—make it look real. But absolutely don't hurt anyone. When it's done, everyone gets paid. Of course, you won't need money. I'll convert those gold dragons into more useful things."
"Bandits?"
Tormund froze. Then seemed to understand. Face broke into a grin.
"I get it, Lynn. You're... putting on a show for certain people?"
"Tormund, you're rarely this smart."
Lynn nodded with a smile.
Tormund scratched his head sheepishly.
"Of course. I'm a genius."
Just then, Ygritte pushed through.
"What about me? What's my job?"
She asked eagerly.
Lynn looked at her expectant blue eyes. Smiled.
"You?"
Lynn reached out. Smoothed her wind-tangled red hair.
"You'll lead these bandits."
Ygritte froze completely. She stared at Lynn blankly. Couldn't believe her ears.
Make her... the leader?
Indescribable wild joy instantly burned through her limbs!
All that earlier annoyance about "multiple wives" flew out the window.
Fuck Southern rules! Fuck princesses! I'm a rebel leader now!
Ygritte's face bloomed with a brilliant, wild smile.
She leapt up. Planted a heavy kiss on Lynn's face. Left a wet mark.
Then turned. Hands on hips. Faced the wildlings with unprecedented authority. Announced loudly:
"You all heard?! From now on, I'M YOUR BOSS!"
[END CHAPTER 204]
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