The Northern Snowfields.
Thick smoke billowed from a remote village.
Dozens of "bandits" on skeletal horses thundered in. They wore ragged furs. Faces smeared with bizarre paint. Mouths howled like beasts.
Leading them: a lithe red-haired woman.
She wore finely crafted leather armor. Fiery red hair whipped in the wind like burning flames. Strikingly conspicuous.
"Brothers!"
Ygritte raised her longbow high. Voice crisp and wild. Drowned out all other howls.
"Those Southern twits call us bandits! Today, let's show them what REAL fucking bandits look like! Steal their food! Drink their ale! Burn their shitty houses!"
"ROAR—!"
The wildlings erupted in frenzied cheers. Then swarmed into every corner of the village.
BANG!
A burly wildling kicked open a wooden door. Charged inside. The house was empty. Only the hearth fire still burned. A pot of stew gave off tempting aromas.
The wildling licked his lips. Unceremoniously grabbed the pot. Tilted his head back and chugged. Scalding stew made him grimace. But also roar with satisfaction.
In another tent, several wildlings "fought viciously" over a sack of flour. They shoved each other. Cursed. Scattered white flour everywhere. Everyone's faces and bodies covered in white powder. Looked ridiculous as clowns in a flea circus.
Ygritte sat on her horse. Watched this farce she'd personally directed with interest.
She saw a wildling warrior carefully load a barrel of ale onto his horse. But moved too roughly. Accidentally dropped the barrel. Ale splashed everywhere. The wildling nearly cried from heartbreak. Crawled on the ground licking the mud-mixed liquid.
She also saw several young wildlings light torches. Pretended to burn a hay-filled warehouse. But the moment the torch approached, another wildling rushed out with a bucket of snow. Doused it.
"Idiot! Lord Lynn said! Only act! Don't really burn houses!"
"YOU'RE the idiot! If you don't commit to the act, how do you fool those Southerners?!"
The two wildlings immediately wrestled. More like rolling in snow than fighting.
The entire village: complete chaos. Crying, cursing, smashing sounds. Plus wildlings' unrestrained wild laughter. Mixed together. Carried far.
This performance: realistic enough. Chaotic enough.
"Burn! Burn it all!"
Ygritte shouted in her bright, wild voice. But her arrow never touched the bowstring.
With Ygritte's permission, wildlings responded excitedly. But they didn't rush toward villagers' homes. Instead headed straight for the long-abandoned granary at the village entrance—only rotted wood remained.
BOOM!
Torches were thrown in. Dry timber ignited instantly. Flames shot skyward. Black smoke looked especially stark against the North's pure sky.
Village farmers screamed in terror. Fled with families.
A woman holding a child tripped. Seeing a scarred wildling swinging an axe charge over, she closed her eyes in fear.
But the expected pain never came. The wildling just rushed past. Snatched a hard bread she'd dropped. He even tripped on a stone from running too fast. Face-planted. Drew merciless laughter from companions.
"Steal! Take everything edible!"
Ygritte ordered again.
A group of wildlings rushed into a farmer's yard. Clumsily stuffed several fat hens into sacks.
The household's owner hid behind a window. He watched these "fierce demons." Face showed little fear. More like... heartache.
These chickens—just yesterday, someone claiming to be Winterfell's steward bought them at double price. Said they were for acting.
But watching his chickens stolen like this, he still felt uncomfortable.
"Boss! Look what I got!"
A young wildling excitedly held up a clay jar. Rushed to Ygritte for credit.
Ygritte glanced. The jar held half a pot of honey.
"Not bad. Extra rations tonight."
Ygritte nodded with satisfaction.
This "raid" lasted less than half an hour.
"Chief! We gotta go! Winterfell's wolf cubs are almost here!"
A lookout wildling rode over.
"Got it!"
Ygritte blew the retreat horn again. That long, wild horn call echoed across the snowfields.
Wildlings still "pillaging" immediately stopped. They howled. Shouldered their "spoils." Nimbly mounted horses.
"We'll be back!"
Ygritte left the empty village with a classic bandit line. Then waved.
"Retreat!"
The wildling cavalry came fast. Left fast. In moments, they vanished into the vast wind and snow. Left behind a "ransacked" village full of debris.
Soon after, a cavalry unit bearing direwolf banners arrived.
Leading them: Robb Stark.
He looked at the devastation. That young face showed "perfectly appropriate" anger.
"Damn bandits!"
Robb drew his longsword. Pointed at the North's gray sky. Voice brimmed with Northern heir's authority and fury.
"Spread my command! Kingdom-wide manhunt for these bandits! Also, immediately send word to my mother! Tell her rebellion has erupted in the North. Scale far exceeds imagination! Um... say there are a thousand bandits. Ten villages slaughtered! She must hold Winterfell. Stabilize the situation. Absolutely cannot leave now!"
Meanwhile, Far to the North.
Winter's massive form tore through clouds. With sharp whistling, flew toward that white wall like the world's edge.
The Wall.
Myrcella gripped the dragon saddle tightly. Lynn's bearskin cloak blocked most of the cold.
But seeing that legendary magnificent structure again, she still felt soul-deep trembling.
Indescribable wall.
It stretched between heaven and earth. Like a dam forged by gods from ice and snow. Splitting the world in two.
Sunlight reflected off the ice wall. Blinding brilliance.
Before it: Any castle, any tower seemed small as grains of sand.
Myrcella could even see tiny black dots atop the Wall. Night's Watch sentries.
She couldn't imagine: what enemy required such a miraculous structure to resist? Couldn't imagine: those who dedicated their lives here, facing this endless white wasteland daily—what loneliness and despair filled their hearts?
Winter didn't stop at the Wall. Instead crossed the ice barrier. Flew toward the oldest, most dilapidated castle at the Wall's base.
Castle Black.
When Winter's three ferocious heads appeared above the castle, the entire place erupted.
Night's Watchmen who'd just finished patrol, preparing to warm themselves with hot soup—all rushed out. They looked up. Stared dumbly at that legendary creature slowly descending. Faces showed shock and awe.
"It's a dragon! It's Winter! Lord Commander Lynn's dragon!"
In the crowd, a fat man in black clothes wheezed to the front.
Samwell Tarly.
When he saw Lynn leap from the dragon's back, his usually timid face instantly burst with wild joy.
"Lynn!"
Sam shouted excitedly.
Lynn smiled at him. Then helped the still-wobbly Myrcella down.
"Where's Jon?"
"Jon led rangers to collect blessed items. He's been gone a month. By agreement, he should return tonight."
Sam answered.
"I heard from Tormund that Lord Mormont couldn't adjust elsewhere. He returned to the Wall?" Lynn asked.
"Yes... yes!"
Sam nodded quickly.
"Lord Mormont... his health hasn't been good lately. He spends most time resting in his room."
Lynn nodded. Said nothing more. Walked straight toward the crude Lord Commander's Tower.
Myrcella hesitated. Then followed.
The Lord Commander's Room.
Very crude. Besides a brazier, table, chairs, and bed—almost no decoration.
The air smelled of herbs and dusty old books mixed.
A white-haired, white-bearded old man wrapped in thick bearskin sat before the brazier. Stared blankly at dancing flames.
His face bore deep wrinkles. Eyes once sharp as an eagle's now somewhat cloudy. As if covered by lingering twilight.
Jeor Mormont. The Night's Watch's 997th Lord Commander. "The Old Bear."
Since Lynn led wildlings south and single-handedly shouldered the banner against the White Walkers, this Lord Commander passed his position to successor Lynn.
From that day, he seemed drained of all vitality. He completely handed command to Lynn. Began truly "retiring" like an old man.
The Night's Watch's mission seemed to continue in his generation through another method.
But his heart always held a knot. A knot that kept him awake nights. A lifelong regret.
"Lord Mormont."
Lynn's voice woke the Old Bear from contemplation.
The old man slowly raised his head. Seeing Lynn, those cloudy eyes flashed light.
"Lynn, it's you. When did you return?"
His voice was somewhat aged. Carried an elder's warmth toward a junior.
"I heard you couldn't adjust elsewhere. Returned to Castle Black. This time I came specifically to see you."
Lynn pulled over a chair. Sat across from the Old Bear.
"Also, brought you something."
Lynn pulled a small leather pouch from his coat. Handed it over.
The Old Bear opened it. Inside: several pieces of venison sprinkled with Southern spices.
"You always manage to get these good things."
The Old Bear smiled. Picked up a piece. Slowly chewed.
Myrcella stood quietly at the door. Didn't interrupt.
She watched the old and young in the room. Watched their natural, familiar atmosphere. Felt a strange sensation.
The Lynn before her differed from any version she knew. Not the schemer stirring King's Landing's winds. Not the king surveying all from dragonback.
Now, he was more like an ordinary young man visiting his grandfather.
"This time I returned from Essos. First went to King's Landing. Then stopped by Winterfell."
Lynn spoke calmly.
"The Stark children, especially little Bran—are they well?"
The Old Bear asked.
"All well."
Lynn nodded.
"Arya returned to Winterfell. Sansa stayed in King's Landing. She's now the realm's Master of Coin."
"Master of Coin?"
The Old Bear froze. Then smiled bitterly. Shook his head.
"You always do things no one expects."
"I met someone in Essos."
Lynn changed topics.
"A knight from Bear Island."
The Old Bear's chewing stopped abruptly. His age-spotted hand trembled slightly.
"He's very brave. Now one of my most capable commanders in Essos."
Lynn's voice was unhurried. Like telling a story unrelated to them.
"He was once exiled for selling slaves. Wandered Essos for years. Was a sellsword. Did many things beyond his control. But in his bones, he's still a true Northerner. A true knight!"
The Old Bear slowly put down the venison. His breathing grew rapid. Those cloudy eyes stared at Lynn. Lips trembled.
"He's doing well now. Has his own honor. Earns everyone's respect."
Lynn looked at the Old Bear. Finally spoke that name:
"Jorah Mormont. He now serves me."
BOOM—!
The Old Bear's mind went blank.
Jorah... His only son... That name that made him proud, shamed him, haunted him for life.
He thought he'd never hear news of Jorah again. Thought his son died in a foreign land. Or completely became a dishonorable sellsword.
But now...
"Is he... is he well?"
The Old Bear's voice trembled violently.
"Don't worry. He's well."
Lynn nodded.
"He says he misses you. He asked me to tell you something."
Lynn looked into the Old Bear's eyes. Spoke each word clearly:
"He said he's never forgotten Bear Island's words. Here We Stand."
CRASH.
The Old Bear's long-dried tear ducts could no longer hold back. Two lines of scalding tears silently slid down his ravine-like wrinkles.
His entire life: fighting for the North. After Jorah's incident, he abandoned family glory. Abandoned his lordship. Gave everything to this cold Wall.
His only regret: his disappointing son. That son who went astray because of a woman's vanity.
This was his eternal pain. The shackle he could never remove.
Now, Lynn's news was like a key. Instantly unlocked that lock sealed in his heart for over a decade.
So Jorah never forgot Bear Island's words... Here We Stand...
The Old Bear smiled. He smiled and smiled. But tears flowed harder. Like a child, he roughly wiped his face with his rough hand.
All guilt. All longing. All regret. In this moment, vanished with those scalding tears.
"Don't worry, Lord Mormont. Once Astapor's business ends, Jorah can return immediately..."
Standing at the door, Myrcella saw everything clearly.
She watched the old man crying in firelight. Watched the solemn Lynn. Her heart felt gently struck by something.
She suddenly understood.
Lynn always seized power. Always manipulated hearts. Everything he did seemed to have deeper reasons.
Today he traveled thousands of miles to this corner forgotten by the world—just to untie an old man's years-long knot.
This man: lustful, calculating. But also: loyal, righteous. Like Northern winter: biting cold. Yet nurturing new life in deepest despair.
Myrcella watched Lynn's back. Her melancholic green eyes shimmered with indescribable light.
Departure.
Lynn waited for Jon. By evening, still no return. Probably delayed.
His time was tight. Didn't plan to linger. He needed to rush back to King's Landing. A pile of matters awaited.
Lynn and Myrcella mounted Winter again. Rose from Castle Black.
Myrcella finally couldn't help asking:
"Why do you do this?"
"What?"
Lynn looked back.
"Lord Mormont... and your friends... you do so much for them."
Myrcella looked into Lynn's eyes.
"Why?"
Lynn smiled. Didn't answer directly.
Lord Mormont was kind to him. Jorah was a capable subordinate. By emotion and reason, he should visit Jeor Mormont. The Gift was near Castle Black anyway. Didn't delay anything.
Lynn's gaze crossed the sea of clouds below. Looked toward the distant South.
"Winter is coming. I need every hand that can hold a sword to stand beside me without burdens."
"The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."
Lynn's voice was somewhat muffled in the howling wind. Yet clearly reached Myrcella's ears.
"Alright, my princess. Hold on tight. The show in King's Landing is about to begin."
[END CHAPTER 208]
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