When our tools shattered against frozen rock, or our boats capsized in rough seas, or bears and shadowcats snatched our game, we cursed the soft men of the green lands beyond the Wall. We cursed, and we envied.
Huddled around our fires, we told tales of how the southerners lived, how their stone houses touched the clouds, and their bellies touched the ground.
How their women fainted at the sight of blood, and wouldn't knife a man even when he slept. How they wouldn't miss a few swords, or rings, or daughters.
But now we've seen the real south, and we have to admit, we're disappointed.
Southerners live life bent-over in the fields, in courts, in bed. They drink too little beer, and they eat too many plants. In the north, a man's worth is in his hands and his stories, not his fancy name and fancy talk.
With good steel, a man can hunt, kill, and live. What can a man do with gold except shine? But what should I expect from a people who all want to sit on the iron chair? A waste of good metal. You can make better seats. I've used 'em. How am I supposed to get comfortable on a bunch of swords?
Now I see why all your queens are fighting over it. Maybe your southern arses are soft enough to take it. But give me a proper seat any day, or a proper southern arse. As long as it isn't in the south.