The tent was far larger inside than it looked from the outside.
Thick beast hides kept out the wind and snow.
A huge brazier blazed in the center, driving away every trace of cold.
A strong, peculiar smell hung in the air.
It mingled the smoky aroma of roasted meat, the sourness of cheap ale, and the primal musk of sweat.
Thick pelts from unknown beasts covered the ground.
A dozen or so Wildlings, dressed in different styles and looking like tribal chieftains, sat around the brazier, laughing and talking loudly in a boisterous, rough-edged atmosphere.
An absurdly brawny man with a great, fiery-red beard held an enormous drinking horn, pouring its contents down his throat.
He was Tormund.
And in the seat of honor.
An even taller man sat upright, radiating menace in crude armor made of bones and black iron.
He looked every inch the rightful king of these Wildlings.
But Lynn's gaze did not linger on him.
He looked toward a man sitting in a corner, playing a lute.
The man wore plain black leather armor and had an unremarkable face, looking thoroughly inconspicuous.
His head was lowered, his fingers plucking the strings.
Yet his melody carried a hint of southern melancholy, utterly out of place here.
The singing stopped.
Every eye turned toward Lynn, Jon, and Ygritte as they entered.
The noisy tent fell silent in an instant.
A dozen gazes brimmed with scrutiny and hostility.
"Ygritte!"
Tormund, the red-bearded giant holding the drinking horn, stood up.
His eyes swept over Lynn and Jon, and he grinned, baring yellowed teeth.
"You little thing, you really did bring the Crows back?"
"I thought some big Crow had carried you off to breed little Crows!"
His words drew a roar of laughter.
Ygritte's face flushed scarlet, and she