Chapter Text
Harrenhal was a castle for monsters.
Its five half-ruined towers were the size of small skyscrapers, some connected with high arched bridges at their middle points. Smaller but still huge buildings that would have been the centrepieces of towns clustered around their base, and evidence of underground construction poked through the mud here and there. It was all inside a holed curtain wall that was just as tall as Winterfell's but looked three times as thick and studded with bolt-throwers.
From a balcony on the bathhouse, Michael watched with no small degree of awe. Though he knew taking it even in its ruined state would've been a bitch even for his unit, its scale was not the source of the awe.
The books liberated from the library at Castle Black had some words to say about the place as being built by slaves at the demand of a king of the 'ironborn', and that it was burned by dragons pretty much as soon as it was finished. The towers and walls sagged, looking like melted wax at their edges and corners. From a distance they looked like they had been designed that way. Up close, it was obvious they weren't.
I am looking at the first physical proof of the existence of dragons, he thought with amusement, And thank the God of Gravel Technicians they're gone. The things were mentioned in pretty much every history book Zheng and Sayer had managed to get their hands on. He made a mental note to have pictures taken so they could be sent back to Earth. Maybe we can bullshit our way to some more firepower with this…
At the moment, he felt like they needed it. The 'godswood' was a huge loop off from the main castle, two hundred metres by four hundred metres according to Sayer's ranging laser, and there were thirty thousand men in it. Their stink could be smelled when the wind pouring in through the gap in the walls stopped, and there always seemed to be a collection of faces looking to the Canadian camp.
Michael was taking no chances. He had ordered the crawlers used to form the laager, a circular formation of the tracked vehicles around the hill in his sector with the giant scarred weirwood atop it. A small river wound its way around the hill and fed the bathhouse, which itself became part of the defences. Machineguns covered the main approaches. Was it enough? It would depend on how determined the locals were in wanting to get inside.
"Worried, sir?" sounded O'Neill's voice, "They know how to set a camp, lots of lovely rows of tents, but we've observed seven fist fights and no less than three parties creeping around, looking how watchful we are. I'd be worried, with that bunch of balubas right next door."
Michael smiled and turned to his new warrant-officer. The man had his full combat loadout layered on him. And I'm the one who was worried? What the hell is a baluba? "You say that like you're at a vacation camp somewhere else and not here with us?"
The man shrugged his large shoulders and winced. "Yeah, well, I reckon we'd knock the bollocks off them if they tried anything. Almost hoping they would, sir."
There was not much argument about that. "Yeah, but do they know that?" Michael asked, "Are the guys creeping around doing so because they themselves want to rob and rape us? Or are their noble masters looking for a way to kill us in our sleep?"
O'Neill shook with quiet laughter. "Would've thought blowing up the Lannisters would put the stop on the nobles trying shite like that?"
"Only some of the northerners and the Freys saw that. Plenty of others might need to see it for themselves to believe it."
"So you are worried."
Michael glared and looked back over the godswood again. They called the big meeting before I could arrange everything like I wanted. "I'll be taking a section to the great hall for the war council as soon as Zheng gets back to me on her talk with Lady Stark. I expect the lords will demand I hand over our prisoners again."
"Can we hand the shortass shite over at least?" O'Neill responded immediately, "He talks the ear off anyone who guards him, promising gold and castles."
It was Michael's turn to shrug. "We can trust the Free Folk by now, I think."
O'Neill frowned. "It's not the Free Folk we need to worry about," he said, "The way MacDonald and Teixeira look at you…"
Michael's jaw set on edge for a moment. Wouldn't that be an irony… "They won't do anything," he said, "They just aren't my biggest fans."
Looking down with O'Neill stared for a moment. "Want to tell me why, sir?" he asked, "Something to do with what happened overseas, I'd imagine? There were rumours."
Michael sighed, pausing to pull his uniform straight again. He was in No.1 Ceremonial for meeting the nobles; a scarlet tunic, black trousers with grey piping, ceremonial sword… he'd left the Wolseley helmet because it was a little too weird for a medieval audience. I'm a proper redcoat today.
"Teixeira is exactly the opposite type to someone who'd take a bribe like that," he said, "And the Great Scottish Moustache is married to the Army."
O'Neill snorted. "He's been in two armies, so that makes it a second marriage. I suppose ours is an improvement over the British one… I'll give you the benefit of the doubt for now, sir. I already know the broad strokes. But if they begin making trouble, I'll consider it my duty to get the full story out of you."
Michael shook his head. Never getting away from this, am I? "If it comes to that, I'll consider it my duty to tell you."
The comms crackled to life. Zheng's voice came through, tinged with no small amount of satisfaction. "Maple Actual, this is Foxtrot. We're good to go here. The mother has agreed to push the peace line. The lords are gathering. I can smell the cooking meat already."
Finally. Maybe we'll be able to avoid wading through a civil war.
That was it. The go signal. Michael waved O'Neill to follow and started down the stairs to the ground again. "Copy Foxtrot, stay with her." He switched channels. "Alpha, grab the good Doctor and mount up. We're going to the party now."
"Copy," Sergeant MacDonald replied, "Taking the scenic route, I hope?"
Michael halted and glanced at O'Neill. Only one chance for a first impression. "No, we're going to go straight through the locals' camp."
MacDonald groaned various curses under his breath, not realising his mic was still hot. "I'll issue more grenades, sir."
Probably a good idea, Michael thought.
The crawlers rumbled forwards, three of them in line, exiting the laager with a machine gunner atop the lead and rear vehicles, and quickly accelerated to something like top speed as they had been ordered. A quick check out the window and side door of the rear cabin, and it was clear the Stark and Tully armies were not inclined to fight or stand in the way.
Extra grenades were not necessary, yet.
Half a minute earlier, Michael had grabbed Sayer and a particular package, then piled into the middle vehicle's rear cabin with the civilian delegation. Dressed in their own civvie clothes now, Doctor Cloutier was waiting for him. He closed the side door again to speak to them, cutting off the roar of the engines as well as the mixed smells of burning diesel and guys who don't know what a shower was.
He found Cloutier fighting to keep her nerves off her face, her eyes wide and fixed out the window.
She hasn't been the same since that village. Michael took out his phone, pushing the first image he wanted to show her to its screen. "You've been briefed on the political situation?" he asked loudly.
The woman's nerves disappeared behind a veil of annoyance, her mouth tightening before she spoke. "Sergeant Zheng gave us the talk every night on the way, Captain," Cloutier confirmed, "We know the general political situation. North and central Westeros against the west and the capital."
Michael nodded. "It's gotten more complicated than that now," he said, "We found out today that two new players have ante'd up, two of the brothers of the dead king. That puts most of the continent in play now, everything except the far south and the east. Our job is to put a stop to it before the Others show up."
"How are we supposed to help?" Cloutier asked, with a flick of her wrist to indicate her fellow academics, "How are you going to get peace in the middle of a civil war?"
Michael decided to answer the second question first.
"The first step is to convince the Northerners and the rivermen to settle peace terms with the West. We've got an ally with ties to both allies, Lady Catelyn Stark." He raised his phone and showed the picture of the red-haired lady in her thirties, a picture taken when she had been at Moat Cailin. "She's the daughter of the lord of the central region, and mother to Lord Robb Stark who's leading most of the soldiers here."
Cloutier cocked an eyebrow, before she was thrown backwards against the wall of the cab by the crawler going over a rut in the ground. "Well connected lady," she said, "Not sure what I'm supposed to do with her though."
"She's too polite to say it, most of the time, but she thinks of us as barbarians," he explained, "We've made mistakes. I've made mistakes, cultural ones that caused us trouble. We need to understand the folks better. You're the one who studies ancient societies. I want you to listen and learn from now on. Sayer here will translate for you."
The Ranger gave a little wave at the professor and her two underlings for good measure.
"He won't speak your words though," Michael continued, "If you want to contribute, you can ask me and I'll relay what you're saying. If I like what you're saying."
Cloutier produced an angelic false smile that would've been more at home on the face of an infantryman who was just asked if he thought he knew better than someone else. "I'll just listen. I'm not so stupid that I'd tell them we're not really nobles just to screw you over, Captain."
You have been hanging around with Teixeira too much for me to believe that.
"Speak for yourself," Michael shot back, "I'm descended from royalty."
Cloutier scoffed at that. "You and everyone else on Earth, if you go back far enough."
There was a blast of static in Michael's ear, civilian headphones plugged into his radio thundering it out. "Sir, we're approaching the hall now," MacDonald reported, "The large doors at the end are open."
Michael craned his neck to look out the window, and saw the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. It was the shape and size of a grand cathedral, with flying-buttresses and high spires that were actually chimneys. The open doors waiting for them were guarded to either side by a dozen men, and the archway was wide enough to fit a tank through with room to spare.
A dastardly thought occurred to him.
"Sergeant, drive us straight into the hall," he commanded, "Perimeter to be to the front and rear after we get as far inside as possible."
MacDonald couldn't help but have a chuckle at that one. "Copy, sir. That'll really shite them up." The order was relayed accordingly.
In a few minutes and flying by scattering guards, the red-orange daylight was replaced by darkness and the engine noise echoed off the stone walls all around.
Seconds later, the crawler came to a lurching halt in the main aisle, and Michael stepped out the side door, careful to bring the package with him. The huge vaulted ceiling above was lit dully from fires further down the hall, its pillars decorated with half-smashed carvings of ships and sea creatures. A lot of the place was blackened with old soot. It smelled damp, though woodsmoke was creeping into the senses too.
He saw the first group of Alpha section pile out of their crawler ahead, MacDonald pointing them forwards. To the rear, Teixeira was getting his own group together to guard the way they came. No question of the Corporal's professionalism, at least when a fight might happen.
The engines cut out, and the sound of a shouting match replaced the noise. The lords ahead were obviously not very happy at the manner of the Canadian arrival. A quick glance to Cloutier, whose face said 'this is one of those mistakes', confirming she was at least not nervous any more.
Her house sigil should be a goose, Michael decided. He straightened his belt and sword with his spare hand, before pulling his pistol from his very out-of-place leg holster and made it ready to fire.
"Just in case," he explained to Cloutier, as he put it back in its holster.
Her eyes narrowed. "Uh huh."
Sayer appeared from the rear doors of the vehicle, holding the Canadian flag on a pole. "Soldiers having guns," he said mockingly, "So controversial."
The professor rolled her eyes but bit her tongue, evidently not wanting to get into an argument about it.
She hasn't got the full message yet about how much danger she's in. "Enough," Michael said, "Let's go." He marched away, towards MacDonald and his group.
"Bit of a problem here, sir," the sergeant reported as he approached. The others weren't quite aiming their weapons, but were close to it. And grenades were in hand.
Jumpy… "Ease off," Michael commanded loudly, "Follow me." He walked straight by the little battle line in front of the lead crawler and into the firelight from the five lit hearths beyond.
Standing or sitting around four long trestle tables in a broken square, the lords and a few maester attendants goggled and swore in the direction of the Canadians. Many swords were drawn, but it wasn't those Michael was searching for. No crossbows. Good.
Through the crowd, a bearded Robb Stark and Jon Stark were barely visible at the rear table. Their direwolves stood up alert, Ghost's white fur being what guided Michael to seeing them. Val was there too, the least surprised of the Westerosi present, her eyes almost half-closed. She was wearing a simply black dress, her long blonde braid looped around the back of her head twice like a figure of eight.
To their left was Catelyn Stark dressed in Stark grey, standing with an older lady wearing black and yellow. The latter had a very wrinkled face but stern eyes. The ruler of this castle.
Sergeant Zheng stood a little way behind, still in full equipment, fatigues and helmet. She had done well to negotiate with Lady Stark, and hopefully it put both parties in a position to win. There were three seats open by them, reserved for the Canadian delegation. The good sergeant was grinning like she was watching a schoolyard fight and not a potentially deadly situation.
If popcorn had been available, there was no doubt Zheng would be shovelling it into her mouth.
Lacking his headset, Michael retrieved his radio from his belt with his spare hand and held it briefly up to his mouth. "Any time now," he said quietly in English, "I'm getting close to those pointy sticks."
Zheng's grin widened, and her chest expanded as she took in a breath.
"My lords!" she declared, booming over the clamour, "Make way for Captain Michael Duquesne, Ambassador Plenipotentiary of Canada and Elector of Calgary, and Doctor Anne Cloutier, Elector of Westmount!"
The declaration shut every lord up, and some even deigned to put away their swords. It wasn't hard to notice that it was mostly the northerners doing the latter. They saw me fly the Lannisters to the moon, Michael thought with amusement, The riverlords haven't seen a similar feat yet. He paused for a moment and turned back to MacDonald. "Go back to the outer perimeter, I'm sure there are guards gathering to see what's going on in here. Dissuade them from interfering."
MacDonald's moustache twitched, the reaction unreadable as the rest of his face stayed placid. "Sir," he said curtly, before turning on his heel and waving the others back. Michael made sure Sayer would stay with him with a little wave of his own, and marched forward again, skirting the riverlords with swords as if they were holding plastic blow-up hammers instead.
Lady Stark and her companion both gave little curtsies as he approached, though Michael doubted very much either of them wanted to. He could see the older lady more clearly now, and saw the black bats on yellow of her sigil. Yeah, this is her.
In reply, he stopped and gave a quick salute to them and to Robb. "Lord Robb, Lady Stark, Lady Whent… sorry for being late and for the manner of our entrance. I figured I was late enough without having to walk all the way down this massive hall of yours."
There were a few amused noises from the lords, and they began to sit down. Even Robb Stark smirked at that.
Good, simmer down. Michael continued. "By way of thanks and apology, I have a gift," he said, putting down the package and beginning to open it, "The space you've given us is ideal. Particularly the bathhouse." The unicorn riders had never smelled better, truth be told.
The cardboard gave way quickly. He held up two boxes with plastic fronts, showing off their contents before offering them to the lady of the castle.
Lady Whent's hands shot forward with a speed he wouldn't have expected from a woman of her years, taking one. "Wine and ale cups made from glass?" she gasped, "I've never seen such fine work." She pulled off the plastic and held one of the wine glasses up into the firelight.
"Nor such clarity," Lady Stark agreed, "It's as if one made these from the lens of a Myrish spyglass. These must have cost a fortune in gold."
Time for a little flexing. Michael held up his hands. "I'd be lying if I said they were expensive where we come from," he said, "But I thought you would appreciate them."
"Thank you, my lord," Lady Whent smiled brightly, thoroughly charmed, "I take these in the spirit in which they are offered."
Yeah, nobles really aren't much different from gangsters, Michael decided, Gifts are always welcome at a sit-down. He saluted her again as response and took his seat.
Doctor Cloutier put herself down in the chair to the right, looking like she had just lost a bet. From Sayer's face as he stood with the flag behind her, it was possible she had. Zheng wandered over and took the third Canadian seat, as befitting her status as a princess, and the whole room began to sit in turn.
Only Robb Stark remained on his feet.
"Lord Duquesne, before we begin this war council, I would have an explanation from you," he said, "What has your Queen sent you here to do?"
Michael folded his hands in front of him on the table. "Defend Canada from the Others," he said, "But I can figure out your real question too. No, we're not here to conquer you. We're here to help you. The stronger you are, the more allies you can gather, the less likely the ice demons make it back to our home."
Robb Stark looked on, mind working for a little while, before he gave a little nod. "Very well," he said, before gesturing to another man in blue and red clothes opposite him, "This is Lord Edmure Tully. He speaks for his father, Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident."
Michael almost had to look at the man twice. Lord Tully looked like an older Robb Stark, complete with a beard that was slightly more red than the hair on his head and piercing blue eyes. "Pleasure to meet you, my lord."
Edmure Tully inclined his head, lips tugging slightly at the edges. "After what you did to Lord Lannister, the pleasure is entirely mine, Lord Duquesne," he said with cheer, "I only wish I could have been there to witness the Old Lion gored so. Alas, I was imprisoned in his bannermen's camp, until my nephew came to rescue me."
At least someone appreciates us. "Happy to do it." Michael leaned back in his chair and gestured to the professor. "Allow me to introduce my colleague, Doctor Cloutier. She is one of our maesters, for lack of a better comparison. She is here to observe and learn about your people."
Doctor Cloutier got to her feet again and bowed, which caused much whispering. The professor ignored it, and produced her laptop from her pack to take notes. The riverlords whispered louder, whereas the northerners simply looked on, familiar with the machine from the negotiations at Winterfell.
Michael wondered if she had violated some sexist rule. Things needed to be quickly moved on. "This is a war council, isn't it? Shouldn't we begin."
Lord Robb and Lord Tully agreed and the situation was explained.
The Lannister armies had withdrawn. The central region called the Riverlands were free again, and the enemy had not been in the country long enough to devastate it properly. Some Lannister forces had gone to the capital to reinforce the city, but the bulk was going west via the southern passes towards their own home region.
The reason for this was not just the defeats at Riverrun and the Ford, but the two new kings.
The brothers Baratheon had both declared themselves king over the claims of each other and their nephew in the capital. One had the support of the southwest region, the most powerful militarily of the kingdom, the other had naval forces just across the bay from King's Landing.
Michael was not surprised when it was announced that the Lannisters offered a truce after hearing all that. Tywin's cooked if he doesn't get us off his back.
The terms were simple enough; a truce for five years or until the end of the next winter, whichever was longer, the northern armies would march home, Lord Eddard Stark would be exchanged for Lord Tywin's own captured sons to assure compliance, the Stark daughters and all the captured riverlords would be held as hostage against refusal.
The threat to accept these terms was the Others were coming, the wildlings were already past the Wall and any attempt to besiege King's Landing would see the hostages treated badly.
The Lannisters were definitely overplaying their hand. What did surprise Michael was that Tywin openly admitted he believed in the Others. It seems the man had seen the wights that had been tied to a tree for him, and he had decided to use them for leverage.
All of this caused a great disagreement over what to do.
As Cloutier advised previously, every noble present had the right to speak and they weren't shy about exercising it. Shouting, cursing, attempting to be the voice of reason or craft a bargain, none of them accepted the Lannister terms but none could come up with an alternative that seemed reasonable.
Many of the lords wanted to march on King's Landing, and to put it how one lord did, 'end Lannister power for all time.' A younger lord instead said to strike west into Lord Lannister's home region and bring the Free Folk too, both as revenge and to get better terms. That was well received among another section of the lords.
Both parties seemed to imply Canadian firepower would assure their plan's success, to Michael's chagrin. The Frey representative, a man so old and frail that he looked like he might keel over and die at any moment, led a faction that urged caution and to send out a party to the capital to negotiate instead.
Then they argued about the two new kings.
When one man with a weirwood sigil on his shirt argued to march on King's Landing, another with a prancing red horse on his sleeves demanded they join the younger Baratheon, Renly. Robb Stark didn't buy that idea; the younger brother couldn't inherit the throne over the elder, Stannis. This set off an argument over what king was the rightful one and which one was the most likely to win, to which no one had any answer except that they'd not accept the young boy in the capital.
For hours, Michael listened and made little notes of his own, observing the shifting positions of each lord and trying to work out who was for what. There was a few interesting things; notably that Lord Karstark and Lord Umber had been strangely quiet, only supporting marching on King's Landing with a few words here and there.
Meanwhile, Sayer translated the words for Cloutier, who spent the time furiously typing away and only stopping to push up her glasses. The lord sitting beside her was the quietest of all; it was the new Lord Darry, the young boy who now owned the castle where Michael's force had stayed after the Bloody Ford. He was watching her work the whole time, fascinated by the computer.
"Are you going to speak?" Cloutier asked out of the blue, after the Frey urged caution once again, "They don't seem to be coming to a conclusion."
He glanced at Lady Catelyn. Michael has been waiting for her to start the pitch. He was a foreigner to these nobles and allied to the wildlings. He couldn't be the one to demand what needed to be demanded. "I think she's letting themselves wear each other out," he replied, "But it's gone on long enough."
Catelyn Stark soon caught his eye, and there was an understanding between them. As Lady Mormont was accusing the Frey across the table of cowardice, she rose to her feet.
"Why not a peace?" Lady Stark asked.
Michael held back a wince as the arguing died and the crackle of the wood in the fireplaces became the loudest thing in the room. All the lords turned to her, incredulous. And her own son seemed to be most judgemental of all.
"My lady, they murdered my father's retinue and my sister's ladies-in-waiting, and wrote their intent in bloody characters throughout the land," Robb Stark intoned gravely. He eased his sword out of its scabbard, holding it up before placing it on the table. "This is the only peace I have for Lannisters. I shall give them a reprieve to bring back my father and sisters, but not peace."
There was a roar of approval, from riverlords and northerners alike, followed by more swords being thrown on the tables and empty mugs banged down with them.
Michael's palms itched, his instinct to get up and begin his pitch, but Lady Stark pressed on.
"My lords, my husband and daughters live or die at the word of Tywin Lannister," she declared, "Lord Eddard is your liege lord, but I bore his children. The insult to me is greater than that given to you. We have Jaime and Tyrion Lannister. We have the riverlands once again. Many noble sons of the North and of the riverlands are dead already, for all the glory you have won."
"Plenty more to be won!" shouted the young Lord Piper.
Plenty more ways to get your ass gloriously crushed under a horse, Michael thought.
Lady Stark pressed on. "Winter is coming and it shall be the worst for centuries. Must more die to satisfy your need for revenge? Must my husband, your liege-lord? My daughters? Or your own kin when the cold and the dead come from the far north?"
"We've seen no walking dead men!" shouted a riverlord.
"Wildling lies!" said another.
They quickly quieted when the Greatjon got to his feet. He gave a respectful bow before speaking. "My lady, you're a woman," he spoke with a boom, "You cannot understand these things." Lady Stark's face reddened, evidently not lacking in feelings of vengeance despite being a woman.
Blowing out a breath through his teeth, Michael couldn't help but put his head in his hands at that. We're fucking doomed.
"You are the gentler sex," Lord Karstark agreed, "Vengeance is a man's prerogative, a vital need in times such as these. There can be no peace with misbegotten curs such as the Lannisters or the products of incest calling themselves Baratheon." A general drunken hum of agreement went around the tables like a Mexican wave. Others talked of fields laid waste, 'smallfolk' killed, their keeps burned as the Lannisters left to confront the northern host.
"What pricks," Zheng muttered loudly in English, "Should shoot them on general principle." That she didn't threaten exactly that was considerable progress, or at least Michael thought so. He hadn't even ordered her to control such outbursts. Maybe the sergeant's chevrons have given her more sense.
"Wouldn't cure the disease," Cloutier commented idly, "As much as they deserve the attempt." Zheng snorted, her hand flexing around the grip of her carbine nonetheless. At least she's learning restraint.
Michael couldn't disagree either. The lords were on the edge of dismissing the idea of peace entirely, all because it was a woman that suggested it. That piece of idiocy was the call to intervene if ever he had heard one, and he got to his feet. All eyes turned to him, expectant. Be polite, it'll stop you having to fight the entire continent.
"Lords of the North and of the Riverlands," he said, "Suggesting peace is the woman's way and so the weak way is a mistake. It's not weak to end one war before another begins. Especially when the next war will be worse. And my Queen demands peace, as well you know, Lord Robb."
Robb Stark's brow creased deeply. "I do know, Lord Duquesne," he responded, before he gazed up at the ceiling in deep thought.
That was not the answer Michael had hoped for. He doesn't know what to do.
"Your Queen is also a woman," Lord Bracken pointed out, sitting across the same corner as Lord Umber, "And you're a coward if you suggest we should forget the crimes committed against us, Lord Duquesne. We shall not be cowed by you, no matter your horseless carriages." Some riverlords got enthusiastic about that, but the more noticeable reaction was the Greatjon's grimace beside Bracken. Lord Umber knew full well that the riverlord could be cowed very easily.
The expression completely took any growing anger out of Michael's mood. There was something incredibly funny about such a large man being afraid of what he might do.
"I did not say forgive and forget," he said, "Only to consider that there's a threat against the whole world, mustering its armies. Those of you who say it's a lie are accusing every northern lord of lying. They've all seen the wights for themselves and spoken about it. If you fall, every man, woman and child that lives in Westeros will rise from the dead to attack my country."
Pausing for a moment, Michael gestured around the tables. "There's been a lot of talk here about using Canadian weapons to crack open King's Landing or Casterly Rock, and other talk about handing over Tyrion Lannister and the Mountain in exchange for this or that. Canada will not commit its arms or hand over its prisoners towards any cause that gets in the way of fighting the Others."
Lord Edmure leaned over the table. "Then we shall fight without you," he said, his tone regretful, "We are eternally grateful to you for showing Lord Tywin the error of his ways. With the Lannisters so weakened, we no longer require your help. Regardless, we are lords of Westeros. We cannot be dictated to by you or anyone else. You are not our king."
There was a shout not too dissimilar from here here to that, but not actually composed of any words. Even the northerners didn't like the idea of their orders coming down from foreigners, no matter how powerful the weapons on show.
Michael changed tack. "Nor can you dictate to us. If we have differing ideas about what victory looks like, then we can compromise or part ways. I would point out though that attacking the capital without our help is going to be bloody for you. You could even be repulsed."
"Or worse," Lady Catelyn chimed in, "Lord Renly is like as not to arrive before siege works and machines can be completed. Then we shall be dictated to, by the full strength of the Reach. We all care to see the Lannisters thrown down, but how many among you care to die to see Lord Stannis humbled? Or to make the second sons of the Reach into the new lords of the Westerlands?"
"I'll not die over that southron quarrel!" Lady Mormont declared, waving her spiked mace threateningly. Somehow exempt from being considered a weak woman, the lords made a noise of approval at her statement. Even the riverlords, who were 'southrons' by any definition. These people need to make up their minds.
Lady Stark became louder at once, clearly feeling the momentum for her cause building at last. Not a moment too soon.
"Nor shall I see my son die for it so," she said, "I want my lord husband back. I want my daughters back. Cersei Lannister holds them. We hold her brother and supposed lover, and her lesser brother too. Both sons of Lord Lannister, and a rake of other western lords. Trading them for your liege lord and my daughters is a gods-sent bargain, not one to be scorned."
She looked to her son, and her tone softened again.
"Robb, I want to see you live on, wed your betrothed and father a son. I want your own father to see it. I want to go home, and put behind this bloody business before it ends us all."
A lump in his throat, Michael had to admit he hadn't seen that little speech coming. The other lords were impressed too, they had no immediate response except dazed stares. Jon even seemed to be fighting tears building in his eyes. So much for peace being for women, he thought, The emotional appeal has begun to win them over.
The quiet seemed to stretch on forever, but it was likely only a few seconds before it was interrupted again.
Another man stood, older with grey hair, a hard face and the Tully trout on his shirt. "Peace may be the wise path," he said, "But how shall we walk it? Lord Lannister may agree terms, but Lord Renly could see that as treason. Lord Stannis is certain to, from what I know of the man, though he has less means to punish us for it. There is no use making peace with one of these kings only to provoke another."
There was only one answer.
"We make terms with all of them," Michael said, "A general peace is essential if we're all going to survive the next few years. More wights are being collected and sent to every part of the world a ship can reach before they rot. The sight of the undead should sharpen minds."
The older Tully cocked an eyebrow. "Lord Renly could march a hundred thousand men here long before he ever saw a wight, if he so wished. Why would he agree to terms not of his choosing? If I were him, I'd demand command of the war against the Others and the fealty of all those who wish to be sheltered from them."
Michael smiled. He knew exactly how he'd take hundred thousand men reliant on medieval logistics apart. "Lord Renly will negotiate in good faith or he'll face our weapons."
Lord Edmure gave a laugh. "Fine words for a man seeking peace," he joked in good humour, "I thought you said we should reserve our strength for the ice demons? Or did that mean only we lords of Westeros?"
"I do wonder why you are unwilling to put the same steel to Lord Tywin's throat." Lord Blackwood grumbled, "This war would be over in a matter of days, if the stories of your might are true."
He doesn't understand why I don't conquer wherever I go, like the first King Aegon.
"The Lannisters are ready to negotiate already," Michael replied, "Their truce offer is proof of it. I don't need to blow Tywin's army up a second time, even if you want better terms than you'd get now. So you see, I am reserving my strength."
The older Tully scowled. "It is easy to say we shall make terms with all of them. But difficult to say what exactly we shall offer and demand. No matter what the terms, we can still only declare one of them our king. We shall war with the other claimants for certain."
Michael struggled to answer that. His instinct was to say that he would attack anyone who refused peace, but the truth was his small force couldn't be everywhere at once. If the other kings proved stubborn, it wouldn't matter if he could destroy any individual army or take any particular castle.
Lord Karstark thumped his mug down, the metallic echo bouncing around the room. He looked around the table to each noble present, before settling on Robb Stark.
"My lords!" he said in a steady, firm tone. All stopped to listen.
"Twice in a lifetime I have marched south to battle kings who think nothing of murdering and imprisoning their highest born subjects. I have lost a son to the Kingslayer's blade, another son has lost his hand, and many loyal bannermen of noble and common birth have given their lives. All because we must follow the commands of him sitting on the Iron Throne. Targaryen, Baratheon, Lannister, it matters not. These houses have proven themselves unworthy."
He drew his sword and held it low, walking around his table to where Lord Umber was waiting for him. The bigger man was grinning now, and Michael could recognise a conspiratorial glint when he saw one. Lord Karstark put himself in the middle of the tables.
"But there is one house that has proven worthy. In the last war, Lord Eddard Stark brought us victory and saw to an honourable peace, though it was squandered later by others. In this one, Lord Robb Stark has not only shown courage in battle, but wisdom in negotiation, bringing the Lord Duquesne and his allies to our cause."
Dots connecting in his mind, Michael clenched his jaw. Is he going to suggest putting the Starks on the throne?
"Ser Brynden says we need terms? Here are mine. We bowed to the dragons. The dragons are no more. I say we take back what is ours, forever more," Karstark said, before dropping to his knee and pointing his sword towards Robb Stark, "There sits my prince, his father's heir! Let the southrons keep their red castle and iron chair! I say the North is free once more!"
Steel rang through the air as Lord Umber drew his own longsword and stepped to a place beside the kneeling Karstark. "Aye, a crown for Ned, the King in the North!" he roared, before going to his knee as well, "A crown for Robb, the Young Wolf!"
Independence, Michael thought, They want independence. He looked to Robb, and found the young man's chin raised ever so slightly, sword in hand again. He's accepting this.
"Eddard Stark! The King in the North!" shouted Lady Mormont, half-climbing over the table's corner to join them, "Robb Stark! The Prince of Winter!" That broke the dam. A flood of movement and noise began.
Michael watched in stunned silence as the entire hall erupted, the lords rushing to kneel and lay their weapons at Robb's feet. The little lord Darry beside Cloutier nearly slapped the laptop with his sword in his eagerness to join in. Surprise became shock when Val knelt with Jon before her brother-in-law, though her face was stormy with contradictory thoughts.
"What the hell is happening?" Zheng asked in English over the shouts, "How is this an answer to anything?"
Michael glanced to Catelyn, whose face had turned a deathly white. She glanced back, almost apologetic. We tried, my lady.
"We've been outmanoeuvred," Michael replied to the sergeant, "It'll be war with one faction or another."
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!"
"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"