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Chapter Text

The tree in the headlights laughed silently, the sap pouring from its carved eyes and mouth staining its bright white bark the colour of blood.

It was massive, twice the width of the vehicle that was illuminating it, the mouth almost large enough to drive into. The leaves hanging above from many wild branches were the same deep red, and swayed gently in a breeze that could not be felt inside.

In the blink of an eye, the snowy trail known only to the guiding Ranger had disappeared without a trace. The laughing tree had sprouted fully formed out of nowhere. The damn snow crawler had barely been able to stop in time to stop crashing into the huge gnarled roots that came up out of the ground.

Michael was drawn forward to lean on the dashboard, almost pressing his face against the glass of the windshield to look. The leaves were the same shape as those of a maple. The same shape in the flag icon on his shoulder. And when he met the eyes of the carved face… he could not look away.

"Lieutenant!" someone called from behind.

His trance broken, Michael raised himself off the dash again, wondering how long he had been locked in a stare with the tree.

The strange sense of awe evaporated, the loud rumble of the vehicle's engine resumed loudly in his ear, and he remembered who he was. He turned in his seat. The others sitting behind were blinking rapidly, shaking themselves awake. They had been staring at the tree too.

Only Sergeant O'Neill seemed to be fully awake, the tall and broad man sitting on the edge of his seat. He was half-glaring at Michael. A withering sight, rank be damned.

But the half-glare died slowly, as its owner's eyes glanced out of the front window. He seemed to realise the strangeness of the situation for the first time.

The last time Michael had seen him, the man had been asleep in the corner of the vehicle cabin. Had that been why he wasn't entranced?

"GPS is non-functional, we're off the trail," the Sergeant said, politely but firmly, "What are your orders, sir?"

A good question. The real question was 'What the hell is going on here and what do you want me to do about it?'

Carefully avoiding another look at the laughing tree, Michael quickly glanced out the side windows, trying to determine if the trail had simply curved away sharply. He could see nothing that helped. No ripple in the snow that might show the way. No beams or glow of artificial light but their own. The northern lights were still dancing in the sky. Everything seem peaceful, yet every instinct told him something had gone terribly wrong.

Only one thing for it.

Michael looked his Sergeant directly in the eye. "O'Neill, dismount everyone and form a perimeter. Look for any sign of the rest of the column. I'll see if I can raise the rest of the company. Private Sayer, stay with the Sergeant until I join you."

O'Neill smirked, but seemed to approve. "Yes, sir," the Sergeant said, before turning to the others, "You heard him, dismount!"

The side doors of the vehicle were opened and the occupants piled out, preparing their weapons to fire if required as soon as they did so. The cold from outside diluted the warmth inside. Michael was glad of that, it helped clear his mind a little.

Orders were barked at Singh and Arran to take up positions off the rear corners of the vehicle while O'Neill and Zheng took the front, Sayer in tow.

Satisfied and now sure he wouldn't be overheard, Michael reached for the radio between his seat and the driver's own. He put out a call to the rest of the company on exercise, dreading the conversation with his captain about getting lost.

When he got static, he tried again. He changed to the battalion network instead and tried that, on the off chance the combat support company was in range.

Nothing but dead air.

The sense of dread remained, but for an entirely different reason. Michael's instinct about something going wrong now had a foundation in reality. It was a familiar, sickening feeling.

O'Neill was looking from his position to see if anything was coming of the attempt. Michael simply shook his head, causing the Sergeant to kick some dirt and issue some more orders on the platoon's own radio channel. He wanted the others to spread out a little more, remaining in sight of the vehicle, to look for anything that might help. He pointed at Private Sayer to remain there while he joined the hunt for clues himself.

Michael exited the vehicle and found he didn't need his gloves or face covering. The temperature outside had risen by at least ten degrees. The snow underfoot wasn't as deep. The hits keep on coming, he thought to himself.

Tucking his gloves back into a pocket, Michael looked up at the aurora again, searching for the familiar stars as he had done any time he saw the night sky since he was a child. He froze. There were no recognisable constellations. What the hell is going on, he thought, how could the stars be different?

Possible explanations came to him at once, all of them unacceptably sci-fi. Thoughts of little green men abducting people in saucer-shaped spaceships, or people caught in time only to be spat out eons later. No, there had to be a better reason than those. Maybe the aurora was distorting the stars' positions or they were so far north that things merely appeared out of order.

Those answers did not satisfy him.

Urgently, Michael half-ran underneath the wide branches of the laughing tree to meet the one person who might have a clue what had happened.

Private Sayer was not part of Michael's unit. A young Metis part-timer from the Canadian Rangers, he stood out in that he was short, wore a deep red hoodie under his civilian-style arctic coat and carried a rifle more suited to hunting. He had been assigned because he knew the way they were supposed to go even without the aid of the maps or GPS. If anyone knew what the local conditions were, it was him.

The Private saw Michael coming and moved to join him under the tree reluctantly, trailing behind until the Sergeant cleared his throat pointedly from the side.

"Private, do you know where we are? " Michael asked, as soon as they were out of earshot of all but the Sergeant, "Are we still in the exercise area?"

Sayer shook his head, and looked up at the bloody grin in the bark of the tree again. "Everything is wrong," he said, "I have never seen or even heard of this thing before. On top of that, it's too warm for anywhere northwest of Yellowknife at this time of year, and all the other trees seem bigger than normal too... sir."

Michael's mouth thinned involuntarily. He hadn't noticed the other trees. Though how could he with such a strange one literally laughing in his face and weeping blood? "That's not all that's wrong," he admitted to the young man, "The stars are different. Is that usual up here?"

Sayer looked up in a snap, eyes widening. "The stars are different?!" he half-whispered, "You're right! But how!"

Michael sighed, realising the man clearly didn't know anything that might explain it. Which meant there was no way-up-north thing that could. The implications were troubling. "We may be very far from home, and might have to survive here a while," he said, "We'll be relying on your experience for that, Private."

Wobbling between a prideful smile and a nervous gulp of air, Sayer accepted the order by way of saluting, before his eyes were drawn aside by the arrival of Sergeant.

God, O'Neill looks like he was just told someone has shot his dog, Michael thought.

"The platoon… Hell, the whole of our company is missing, sir," O'Neill cut in, joining the pair under the tree, "We can't see them to the rear or flanks… and Arran reports that there are no tracks behind us either. It's like we were just airdropped here. There does seem to be a circle of disturbed snow around us, maybe indicating the downwash of a large helicopter."

Michael felt an eyebrow rise sharply. "I don't remember a helicopter ride, do you?" he said, "The stars above our heads are different entirely, Sergeant. Are you suggesting we were knocked out, airlifted wherever here is, and just left to do whatever?"

O'Neill straightened up, uncomfortably. He had been thinking exactly that, Michael realised. The Sergeant nonetheless defended his position with the obvious. "I can only tell you what we can see, sir. It would not be out of character for certain foreign powers to stage a false flag this way, sir."

Michael breathed out. The situation must have been getting to everyone, not just Private Sayer. "Anything else we can see? Buildings? Lights in the distance? Signs of people?"

"No, sir," O'Neill said with resignation, "We're in the middle of nowhere."

As if to defy him, a voice rang out over the radio;

"Hostile contact!"

The sudden declaration that they were not alone set everyone moving to cover. Michael found a pine and crouched down behind it. Sayer and O'Neill joined him. Somewhere to the rear, the crunch of snow told that Zheng had returned too.

Satisfied that he wasn't about to be shot for standing in the open, Michael made a quick scan of the woods around him with his NV goggles revealed no movement or lights except their own.

"Arran, report," Michael commanded by radio, as he flipped the goggles back up again, "I don't have eyes on any contacts."

"Jumpy little gobshite," O'Neill muttered to himself.

Michael had to agree. Private Arran's tone had been melodramatic, like he had just seen Timmi Taliban in the middle of the taiga forest and not some locals.

"Thirty plus foot mobiles, sir," Arran reported, his voice quiet like he trying not to be heard, "Armed and holding torches."

Michael glanced around the forest again, trying to see who and what the man was talking about. "Say again. Did you say torches? As in fiery torches?"

"Affirmative," Arran said, "They'll be coming round the big fuck-off rocks at 4 O'clock to the crawler. One hundred metres."

Michael searched for the rocks he was referencing and found them. Sure enough there was some movement. There was a wind from the north, it could have been anything moving up there.

"I saw them as well, sir," Singh pitched in, the awkward silence evidently too much for him.

Michael gestured to the Sergeant, asking silently Is that guy jumpy too? The response was a shake of the head. Singh was solid. So, there was a bunch of somebodies stumbling around in the dark. Armed somebodies. Not necessarily hostile, but their presence was certainly suspect.

Michael decided to hedge his bets. "Sergeant, get to Arran's position and stay hidden," he said, "I'll try and see if our friends out there are the helpful type."

O'Neill gave a salute, and then moved to join the pair at their position beyond the end of the vehicle. His movement cast long shadows from the headlights against the laughing tree.

Michael winced at his oversight. "Zheng, kill the lights, then join me."

"Killing the lights," the corporal repeated, followed by more snow crunching and a light metallic bang as she climbed back into the vehicle. The headlights disappeared and the world got darker still.

It was well timed.

A projectile hissed past Michael's ear, crunching into the snow behind him; an arrow. One made of wood and feathers, not modern plastics.

"Someone just shot an arrow at me!" he called over the comms, "Any eyes?"

"Copy," O'Neill replied, all business now, "No eyes yet."

Michael quickly huddled closer behind the pine tree for protection, pushed his NV back over his eyes and peeked out. At first, he could see nothing, but two more arrows came flying from beside the rocks, one clattering off the metal wheels holding the tracks of the vehicle.

Beyond the rocks, three dozen figures began moving out.

They seemed to be wearing furs and animal skins, many of them the same colours as the snow, rocks and trees of the forest around them; natural camouflage. Axes, spears and bows were in hand and ready to use among every single one of them. If they had torches, they had doused them, relying on the aurora overhead instead to light their way.

One held his arm out, and an eagle flew down from the top of the rocks to perch on him, like it was as much a part of the group as the people.

Micheal looked on, incredulous. Who are these people? Why are they trying to kill us?

More arrows flew, bouncing off the side of the vehicle near Zheng or among the trees shielding Sayer. The people armed with axes and spears were advancing in a rough line, at a fast walk, eyes searching.

The attack needed to be stopped. Michael considered giving the order to fire in return, but not knowing why they wanted him dead was bothering him. Some chance needed to be given to get them to stop first. Perhaps it was all a misunderstanding.

"Corporal Zheng, put a burst or two over their heads."

Zheng had her finger on the trigger already. Bullets swept into the air, tracers streaking above and to the left of the armed group. The sound of the shooting echoed back, as she followed up with a second stream. The menacing advance stopped at once, most of the attackers ducking.

Their leader did not however, his furs covered in bones. This time, Michael could hear the words as the man shouted at the others to 'pick their balls up and stand'.

In English.

"You, wearing the bones!" Michael declared, "There's no need for this to get messy! We can talk this out!"

The bone wearer pulled out a sword from behind his back, like something a knight of old would wield. "Kill the kneelers!" he roared at his people.

Michael did not know what a 'kneeler' was, but it didn't matter. The group had found their courage again and was beginning to sprint, mouths missing teeth wide open with an incoherent warcry. These were killers, intent on murder.

Zheng took the opportunity to send out a few more bursts of bullets without orders, trying to replicate her previous success. To no avail. That they hadn't been hit by the bullets seemed to embolden them.

"This is your final warning!" Michael shouted at the top of his voice, "Stay where you are or you will be fired upon!"

The only answer was an arrow, thumping into the bark of the pine and sticking, grey feathers for fletching. The group had heard him and turned their charge towards his position. This was it. They were the enemy. The rules of engagement, the laws of war and common sense all allowed the obvious response. The one Michael had been avoiding.

"Fire at will," he ordered.

His subordinates obliged like they had been waiting for the moment eagerly. Tracers and muzzle flashes erupted out of the dark to the right of the wild charge. O'Neill, Singh and Arran had set up to catch the attackers in enfilade. Their marksmanship was perfect, putting down each target with only a bullet or two.

The attack did not falter, the attackers kept coming. Michael raised his own weapon to fire, sure at least one or two would make it to where he was.

A loud crack from the side announced that Sayer had shot too. The fastest of the attackers, out in front and ahead of the pack, took the bullet in the chest. He tumbled over head first into the snow, axe flying off to the side.

"Good shot, Private," Michael half-muttered, to the bewildered young man.

"Very good," Zheng added cheerily, as she changed her mag, "Never mind centre mass, you hit him right in the heart."

The Private said nothing, staring out over the top of his weapon. Michael knew the look. The man was bewildered he had shot someone at all. There would need to be words about that later, but business still needed attending to.

Flipping down his NV over his eyes, he inspected the clearing and the treeline. "I count two dozen down. Where are the rest of them?"

"Trees, your side of the clearing," O'Neill reported, "Six of them heading your way. They grew a set of brains between them too. They're moving between trees for cover."

"The bone-wearing gentleman with them?" Michael asked.

"No, he did a runner, sir," O'Neill replied, "The lad with the eagle and a couple of others too. That six are not giving up though."

The hunt was on. Michael gestured for Zheng to follow and Sayer to stay put, and moved forwards. The infrared lasers on the front of their weapons shone out in lines, visible only to them, tracing where they were aiming. At least the NV was still working, he thought, this would've been far harder otherwise.

It didn't take long to find the surviving attackers.

In hiding from the Sergeant's fireteam using the trees, they were exposed to Michael's own. There were six; five axe-men and an archer. Some of them looked smaller. Younger men or women. A pang of guilt went through Michael. They attacked first, he reminded himself, before instructing Zheng to break off left a little to catch them in a crossfire.

The six leapfrogged from behind one tree to the next, peeking in the direction of the Sergeant each time. Michael saw an opportunity for some of them to come out of this alive, and for him to discover what the hell was going on.

As the six got within forty yards, Michael stepped out from behind his own tree.

"Drop your weapons!" he shouted. Zheng did the same. "Drop your weapons!"

They repeated the command two or three more times, as the attackers turned this way and that between them. They weren't deciding whether or not to surrender. They were deciding who to attack.

Michael groaned to himself as the attackers inevitably split the difference. Three broke off in the direction of Zheng, two in his, with the archer seeming to think better of the whole situation and disappearing.

Michael flicked the selector of his weapon to automatic. "Zip 'em up!"

Zheng was quicker on the draw again, tracers bouncing across Michael's vision as she tore into her targets with her carbine.

Hoping to intimidate at least one of the men coming to kill him, Michael aimed low on the first's body and held down the trigger. The automatic fire stitched the man from belly button to mouth, the last bullet shattering his jaw. No time to be disgusted at the sight. It bought only a few seconds; a brief stare at the damage done to first attacker's body before the second continued.

Groaning to himself at the stupidity and stubbornness, Michael took aim. One burst and then another through the man's chest. It did what it was supposed to. The man fell to his knees and slumped, but did not fall all the way.

"Who's the kneeler now," Michael grumbled idly at the dead man, aiming from left to right to be sure it was clear. Seeing Zheng had finished up with her trio with equal ease, he searched for the last attacker; the archer that had disappeared. The trees revealed nothing.

Until an axe came swinging onto his rifle from the left, outside his field of view.

The blade bit down, chipping off a corner of the Picatinny rail and almost jarring the weapon out of Michael's hand. Training took over. He was far too close to shoot with his rifle, so he let it hang. The axe withdrew, its owner trying to get behind him to avoid getting shot, but he twisted around. The attacker was smaller by almost a foot, which explained how they had been able to get the drop on him.

As the axe came down a second time, Michael managed to catch it with his left hand, as his right went for his sidearm. The impact of the axe's handle on his palm hurt like hell, but he stopped the second blow. His pistol was up, cocked with a click, and in the attacker's half-covered face.

The face of a young woman, eyes watching the weapon as she froze. She knew she was beaten. Game over.

Not stupid then, Michael thought, ripping the axe from her hands roughly, she knows it's a tool for killing. Zheng came up beside with her flashlight on, into view of the guest, who took a step back that was half a stagger and blinked rapidly at the artificial light.

"Cover her, corporal," Michael ordered, "Maybe now we can get some answers." Zheng gave a nod, planting the muzzle of her carbine against the young woman directly.

Michael pushed up his NV from his eyes and disarmed the prisoner. She was well stocked. He pulled away a long, roughly made knife from her belt, another from under her fur boots, the bow from her back and the quiver of arrows with iron tips from behind. There was probably another smaller blade hidden somewhere underneath the furs, but he wasn't about to strip-search her.

She made no noise as he did it, simply following him with her light-blue eyes. It made him strangely uncomfortable. Irritated, Michael pulled down the furs off her head, revealing a shock of red hair, a round face, a small nose and a frown of confusion. Pretty, he thought, in a certain way.

Eventually, it got to him. "Sergeant, we need check the dead for IDs ," Michael ordered over the radio, "I caught one, but I don't think she's going to be very cooperative."

The young woman's frown curled into a smile of sorts, eyes lighting up with amusement. O'Neill gave an affirmative, before ordering Arran and Singh to follow him into the clearing. The radio response seemed to shock the young woman. She leaned closer, as if trying to listen to it.

Zheng pushed her back with a jab from the muzzle of her weapon.

"First thing is first," Michael said, his breath smoking in the cold, "Who are you?"

"Ygritte," the young woman replied.

"That's an unusual name," he said.

"That what you think?" she scoffed, "Your mother never teach you to give your name when someone tells you theirs?"

"I'm Michael," he replied flatly, deciding full name and rank was unnecessary at this point, "But I wasn't really asking for your name. What was your group doing out here, attacking people at random?"

The young woman rolled her eyes, flippant as can be, like the question was stupid. "Could ask you the same thing?" Ygritte said, with a glance at the weapon Zheng was poking her with, "With your magic sticks that shoot thunder and lightning, and you talking to invisible men."

It was Michael's turn to be confused. Talking to invisible men? Did she mean the radio? Her speech was as strange to his ear as what she was actually saying. Ygritte's accent was somewhere between British and Nordic, without a trace of North America that he could hear. Granted, there were some odd accents among isolated communities in the northern territories. But they knew what a radio was.

"You ought to burn them you killed," Ygritte stated firmly, interrupting Michael's thoughts and pointing towards the men he had shot. The certainty of the statement seemed almost religious to him.

"Is that how you do last rites up here?" Zheng asked with sincerity.

"That's not why you ought to," Ygritte replied, leered at the corporal with a vicious grin, "Them bodies are dangerous. More dangerous than you could know, kneeler."

Zheng ignored her strange insult, but Michael understood the rest; corpses laying around were not good for anyone's health. Besides, a big fire was sounding like a better prospect with every passing minute. It seemed to be getting colder, so much so that Michael put on his gloves and covered his face.

"A pyre can be arranged," he said, like it was a concession, "Though we need some more answers first."

Ygritte opened her mouth to say something, but the comms interrupted her and she leaned in to listen again.

"We've got another contact, sir," O'Neill reported, "There's a man coming in from the forest. He's wearing medieval armour, don't think he is with this lot. You best come take a look."

"Copy, on the way," Michael responded, picking up Ygritte's weapons from the ground again. Zheng lowered her weapon and grabbed the prisoner by the arm, and they all moved through the trees to the clearing.

O'Neill, Singh, Arran and Sayer were all standing together among the corpses, their search for IDs paused in favour of watching the treeline beyond. A cold white mist was now hanging low off the ground. The four soldiers had buttoned up their uniforms. Both Sayer's red hoodie and Singh's CADPAT turban had disappeared underneath far more substantial coat hoods. They paid no attention to the loudly resistant prisoner as Zheng pulled her along.

O'Neill pointed off towards the rocks as Michael drew near. "Our new friend is following the same path the others did," he said, "He's behind the rocks right now, but he'll show soon."

Michael glanced in that direction but saw nothing. "You said he was wearing medieval armour?"

"Full breastplate, painted black and grey," O'Neill clarified, "Big fucking sword. I swear to God, sir."

Michael shook his head. "This just keeps getting stranger," he said, "And it's getting colder again." The temperature now resembled something far closer to that it had been before this whole incident had gotten them lost.

"Here he comes," O'Neill said, tapping his NV and gesturing out across the clearing. Michael deferred to the judgment of his sergeant and dropped his NV over his eyes once again.

The promised man stepped out from behind the rocks a few seconds later, as predicted.

His skin and long hair was so pale that he seemed to glow in infrared. His face and head were uncovered. He was thin but didn't seem unhealthy. Quite the opposite. Across his chest was a rounded breastplate, which was black and grey to match the surroundings.

A sword was held by the pommel in one of his hands and leaned upwards against his shoulder; a massive two-hander that was almost as long as the spears the attackers had used.

Michael watched as the newcomer with morbid fascination, following the tracks of the attackers, head down. The team hadn't been noticed yet, but soon would.

"We're dead," Ygritte croaked breathlessly behind him.

The newcomer's head slowly rose up as he continued walking, as if he had heard her. A pair of unnatural, luminous eyes were staring across the clearing at them.

Every gun was up in a split second, including Michael's own. With Zheng distracted, Ygritte broke free and scrambled to pick up her weapons from the place Michael had dropped them. To his surprise, she didn't immediately run off or try and kill him, but joined in aiming at their mutual target.

The newcomer stopped, reversing his sword in his hand and planting it in the snow and dirt in front of him, so it stood on its own. He had gotten the not one more step message loud and clear, it seemed. But he said nothing, just staring at them.

Michael supposed that rationally speaking he shouldn't fear this man. Six rifles were easily enough to kill someone wearing primitive armour. But the more the newcomer stared, the less certain he was.

The man seemed entirely disinterested in the very deadly weapons aimed at him. That stare, it's not a deer-in-the-headlights one, Michael knew.

Ygritte lowered her bow and walked over furiously, grabbing his shoulder to pull his ear closer. He didn't have time to react before she whispered.

"Use your magicks!" Ygritte said desperately, "Before he…"

The rest never came out. The newcomer raised both his hands up slowly to either side of him, inch by inch, until they were halfway above his head. Ygritte shivered hard enough for Michael to feel it through her grip on him.

"Is he surrendering?" O'Neill asked. Michael had no answer.

Ygritte released her hold. "No! I won't let you take them!"

That was enough to turn all heads at her, just in time to witness her loose an arrow. Without any cover to get in the way, she made her mark, the arrow striking the newcomer in the chest. His armour was protection enough, and it glanced off to the side, arrowhead cracking away from wooden shaft.

The newcomer did not flinch from fear, nor did his face twist with anger. The same impassive, inhuman stare continued. He simply lowered his arms again. Michael felt the cold creep up his back. It wasn't the temperature this time.

It didn't matter that the man hadn't reacted, if he even was a man. Rage poured off of him. The only question was why had he not attacked?

A scream of pain erupted from the right.

Turning on the spot, Michael turned his rifle in the direction of the sound and immediately wished to be spared from the sight that greeted him.

A dead man had planted an axe in Arran's neck, biting deep.

It was one of the attackers that had been shot down before, the furs and skins ripped and bloodied with through-and-through gunshot wounds. The dead man yawned a silent scream as he wretched the axe from Arran, twitching this way and that. And just like the newcomer, his eyes glowed in infrared.

"Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph," the Sergeant swore under his breath, as the dead man pushed Arran bleeding out to the snow and stepped forward.

Cold fury running through his veins, Michael raised his weapon and let off a single round, aiming for the head and hitting it. The bullet burst through the dead man's skull no problem… but it did not end him. The pallid eyelids blinked once, like a bullet to the head was more like getting slapped in the face with a fish.

Sergeant O'Neill brought his rifle to bear on the dead man's legs and shot the knees out with two precise shots. The thing collapsed to the ground immediately, though it did not stop moving as if it was alive, clawing at the snow to try and move forwards.

Another scream.

Singh dropped to his knees, a spear through his gut held by a dead woman twisting and turning it cruelly. Her lips moved in a sick parody of a laugh. Did they remember who killed them? Michael thought in a panic, Did this woman remember who had shot her down?

Singh spat blood as the movement of the spear slowed, and at the top of his voice shouted, "Waheguru!" With the last of his strength, he raised his rifle and shoved it towards his killer. The weapon burped its entire magazine… and the dead woman burst into flames, dropping to the ground and rolling around.

On the edges of his sight, Michael could see more movement in the white mist. More of those that he had thought killed were getting to their feet and collecting their dropped weapons.

"Open fire," he commanded with a calm that surprised even himself.

The team did as they were told.

Zheng was first off the mark once again quickly followed by all the others. The air filled with the staccato of the rifles, the shooting disciplined but rapid. Sayer ran over and picked up Arran's rifle, Ygritte helping him by bringing her axe down on the crawling corpse beside it, like she was chopping wood.

All around them, corpses ran in with weapons raised, and were set alight like the torches their living selves had carried before. The bullets rippled out in every direction, but not every one seemed to set the dead ablaze.

Michael saw the pattern quickly. The tracer rounds kill them. Now he knew he could deal with the thing who had brought the dead back to life to be cannon fodder, and turned to do just that.

The newcomer had taken its massive sword back into it hands. It was walking towards them, to join the fight. Its glowing stare was locked onto Michael now, identifying him as the leader. The camouflage of its medieval armour changed shape and colour with every step, like it was trying to match the colours of the forest behind.

Not having enough time to change out the almost-empty magazine in his weapon, Michael took aim nonetheless, the infrared laser drawing a line from the muzzle to breastplate. The newcomer paused for a second, and opened its mouth.

The sound it produced was like ice cubes being crushed on metal, a harsh guttural stream of noise that clearly had some meaning. It sounded like mockery. The newcomer broke into a run, faster than humanly possible, and lowered the point of his sword straight at his target.

Michael emptied his weapon the second he was sure every bullet would hit.

The newcomer's armour did not stand up to the rifle, every shot breaching it with ease, though none of them seemed to exit behind. The thing kept running, the sword ever closer. Michael's heart dropped, as he reached for a new magazine.

But the thing stumbled to a crawl less than ten yards away, Michael's legs almost giving out with relief. Steam poured out of its wounds. Its teeth chattered as if it was cold, and it rolled over onto its back, convulsing.

So did the dead it had raised. They fell to the ground, writhing in pain transmitted from their master. Even the cold seemed to retreat, but not leave entirely.

Yet still the newcomer did not die. He simply kept shaking on the ground, the tracers burning his insides. And a creature that could raise the dead wasn't likely to die so easily itself.

What the hell have we got ourselves into, Michael thought, wanting to scream it. Magic human looking things that could raise the dead? This was the department of exorcists, priests and sorcerers, not soldiers.

"Zheng, bring the vehicle up! We need to get out of here. O'Neill, Sayer, secure Arran and Singh's bodies for transport. I'm not leaving them here for this thing."

No one questioned the assumption that the newcomer would get back up again. The corporal rushed off at once.

Michael completed reloading his weapon, and sent another burst into the newcomer on the ground, making sure at least one tracer round hit. That refreshed the twitching, and splattered the snow with dark blood that he couldn't see the colour of in his night-vision.

"You hurt it," Ygritte breathed from beside him, "No one's ever hurt one. Not no one who didn't have dragonglass. Even they didn't hurt it none, just shattered it."

"If it bleeds, we can kill it," Michael replied, summoning the phrase from somewhere at the back of his mind, "And that thing bleeds." He shot it again for good measure, drawing still more of its blood to mix with the snow. Still, it would not stop tossing and turning, yet more steam rising from the holes in its armour.

The engine of the vehicle roared as Zheng drove it up, managing to avoid the burning and writhing dead with its wide tracks. Michael was thankful for her attention. The snow-crawler was ideally suited to the terrain, but he imagined it running over a body would be like crushing a tube of toothpaste from one end. No one needed that piece of nasty in addition to the helping already on their plate.

Ygritte looked on with fascination as the vehicle came to a halt beside them, crouching down to try and figure out how it was moving.

The corporal rolled down the window. "Want me to drive over this undead asshole, sir?" Zheng asked from the driver's seat, half-shouting over the noise of the engine, "Maybe being flattened will keep him down longer."

Michael shook his head. The vehicle didn't have the weight to do the job, he was sure of it. Instead, he opened the back doors of the front cabin and grabbed Ygritte from the ground by the arm. "Inside," he ordered, "I wasn't kidding about getting answers, and I don't think you want to stick around here."

The woman resisted briefly, before glancing at the newcomer's shaking body. It sat up straight, apparently having recovered from the gunshot wounds. Ygritte wasted not another second in jumping into the loud, smelly metal box that moved after seeing that.

Michael found her haste comical, but he could not smile or laugh. Men under his command had died, and this was not the first time. So he instead shot the inhuman creature, causing it to once again convulse and shake involuntarily. He felt better at once, if only relatively.

Keeping watch the same way, Michael ended up having to shoot the thing every few minutes. This lasted until the others had secured the bodies of Singh and Arran to the top of the rear cabin under a tarp with rope and stripped them of equipment. Once that was complete, he used an entire magazine of bullets to buy time, and hopped back into his seat in the vehicle.

Finally, Zheng drove them all away with all possible haste, headed due west, the same direction they had been travelling before.

All energy fleeing his body, Michael spied the Laughing Tree once again, as it passed by his window. I want to laugh while crying blood myself right now, he thought bitterly.

Cover image part of a non-copyright rendition of the Canadian coat of arms drawn from its heraldic description by Jorge Compassio, retrieved from Wikipedia. Find it under Wikimedia as Coat_of_arms_of_Canada_rendition.

The vehicle (an image by Harald_Hansen )

Chapter Text

Corporal Zheng kept driving without any order as to where.

No direction save ‘west’ had been given to her. There were no roads and only the most primitive of trails, but she never once questioned where they were all supposed to be going. Michael knew she was too smart for that. The dead did not need to sleep, eat, or drink. So they would not stop. Nor would they slow. They did not have the burden of carrying bedding, food or water.

They could run all day and all night, he assumed. The only advantage his remaining fireteam had was that they were in a machine that allowed them to travel far faster than a running corpse.

Eventually the fuel in the tanks would have to be replaced from the supply in the hitched sled trailer behind the rear cabin. That couldn’t be done on the move, so the vehicle would have to be stopped. There would be a short window of a couple of hours before the dead and their master caught up. Time that Michael planned to spend wisely.

No one else said a word either. Not even their prisoner. Any time Zheng really opened up the gas on the vehicle, speeding forwards, the girl called Ygritte clawed at Michael and O’Neill both to steady herself. Her gaze was fixed to the front windows. Michael couldn’t imagine how it must be like to experience, as an adult, being in any sort of engine-driven vehicle for the first time. In a world where there was no such thing.

It must’ve been like being shoved into a UFO. Something he could relate to. They still had no idea what had taken them from their world, and that Ygritte wasn’t in a different situation entirely distracted him exactly when he needed to be distracted.

Or maybe he just liked a pretty-ish girl clinging to him. It had been a while.

When the inevitable happened, they had just made across a flat floodplain of a small river. It was difficult. The fuel trailer wasn’t as amphibious as the snow crawler pulling it, but they got across.

As soon as they had, Zheng announced that she had taken the thing as far as she was comfortable. The machine needed fuel. She pulled it to a halt behind a large evergreen bush, a sort of holly but deadlier. The dark green leaves with spikes on their edges brushed against the left windows and doors briefly as she parked it up.

All eyes turned to Michael. And he was prepared.

“We have two hours, three at best,” he said, “Before that thing catches up.”

Every face turned stony at that possibility now that it was voiced, and Michael regretted mentioning it at all. Sometimes the truth wasn’t the best option. So he went back to practicalities. “Zheng, refuel this thing and make sure it’s ready to start at a moment’s notice.”

The corporal nodded, half-kicking her door open and moving rearwards to the fuel trailer.

“Sayer, you’re on watch back the way we came,” Michael continued, “If you see any of Ygritte’s people, just radio back. But if it’s that thing again, ignore the dead ones and shoot it. Only thing that will work against either is a tracer, so keep Private Arran’s rifle with you.” The young Ranger breathed a casual acknowledgement and dismounted.

Which left the two less pleasant tasks. Michael dreaded the Sergeant’s response already, and he was sure their prisoner would object too.

“The three of us are going to burn Arran and Singh’s bodies,” he said, “They are literally dead weight.”

Both were silent for a moment, but it was the Sergeant who spoke first.

“Sir, we can’t do that,” he said, “Those boys need to be brought home.”

Michael shook his head. “Ygritte here was right, bodies are dangerous,” he said, “If that thing comes back, Singh and Arran will rise off that roof back there to try and kill us.”

O’Neill leaned forwards over Ygritte, who shuffled away from him as best she could.

“Burning those boys is a disrespect to their sacrifice,” he said, “Their mothers deserve to see them one last time. Their funeral arrangements should be done properly.”

“I agree,” Michael replied at once, “But it’s also a luxury we can’t afford. As for funerals, Singh is Sikh and Arran didn’t strike me as the religious type. Fairly sure cremation is in line with both of those beliefs.”

O’Neill glared, but failed to gain any traction by it. Under normal circumstances, Michael may have even rebuked him. But not now. The Sergeant had known Arran and Singh for years. Michael had known them for a couple of months. And besides that, the situation was as far from normal as it was possible to get.

“I’ll have to take your word for it, sir,” the man said at last, before he grabbed Ygritte by the scruff, “What about this one? Isn’t she dead weight too?”

The prisoner struggled, but O’Neill was too strong. Lucky for you she isn’t stupid enough to knife you before hearing my answer , Michael thought to himself. That lucky wouldn’t hold though. It was easy to misunderstand what O’Neill was asking.

“I’m not dead weight,” Ygritte protested, “I stood with you against the walkers, didn’t I? I shot the first arrow! You don’t need to kill me!”

Michael exhaled, wanting to point out she was the only one shooting arrows in the first place. “Walkers?” he asked, “That your name for the corpses?” Not an unfamiliar term for the undead , he thought.

Ygritte looked between the two of them. “No, the dead are wights,” she said, like she was talking to children, “The walker was the thing that raised up the dead, made them its own. You’ve never heard of White Walkers in the South? The Others?”

Because that sort of thing is just regular around here, Michael realised. This was going to be a problem.

O’Neill’s eyes widened slowly, his jaw working. At first, Michael thought the Sergeant was angry with her, but he released his grip. “Where are we?” he asked.

Michael shook his head slowly. He did not know. The Sergeant had just put together all the pieces; the undead, the demons, the strange woman sitting beside him, and her talk of places and things that made no sense. But Michael had known in his heart the moment he had seen the wrong stars through the aurora.

They were no longer on Earth.

Michael let O’Neill process it, as he had processed it during the journey. The prisoner needed to know too. She needed to know his people were not involved in this place’s political conflict. “We’re not from anywhere near here. We aren’t from the South. We’re not from this world. At all.”

Ygritte’s eyes bulged with shock. She jumped clear of the two of them, scrambling forwards. Michael and O’Neill made to grab her legs, but she wriggled free. Before any weapons could be brought to bear to threaten her to stop, she was out the door left open by Zheng.

Hoping to intercept her before she ran off, Michael opened his own door and rounded the front of the vehicle. He found her backing off into the gloom of the night, gaze wary. Her brain caught up and realised we could shoot her in the back too easily, he thought. She hadn’t gone for her bow yet, but that was clearly coming.

“Shit,” O’Neill growled as he joined Michael, snapping on his handheld flashlight, “Would it be bad if I said I know how she feels, sir?”

“Not at all, I do too,” Michael mumbled back, before raising his voice, “It’s alright! We don’t want to hurt you. We’re here by accident, not to invade.”

“What are you?” Ygritte demanded.

Michael had no real answer to that. Time travellers? Aliens? Would she even recognise those concepts? There was only one response that came to mind at once.

“We’re Canadians,” he said.

“What the bugger’s a Canadian?” Ygritte asked, backing off some more.

O’Neill chuckled under his breath. “There’s a whole collection of academics who would like to know the same thing.”

“Our country is called Canada,” Michael explained, “We’re … warriors of Canada.”

“And what are warriors of Canada doing in the North by accident?” Ygritte said, pulling her bow into her hands, “You use magicks like the Children of the Forest, travelling between worlds with metal carts that move themselves, seeing with torches that don’t come from fire and killing with weapons of lightning.”

She nocked an arrow. “Magic doesn’t happen by accident!”

Michael raised his hands a little in peaceful gesture, trying to forestall any violence.

“I don’t know how we got here, but our weapons and the vehicle are not magic. They’re just complicated machines. Bows that use a different way to shoot things, a cart with a mechanism that turns the wheels.”

Ygritte tilted her head slightly. She didn’t understand. Getting an idea, Michael reached for his rifle and pulled the charging handle, picking up the bullet that was ejected. He turned on his own flashlight and held it up. “See, this is what we shoot. Little metal bullets, very fast. Not magic lightning.”

Ygritte stopped moving backwards and squinted, trying to see the bullet in the beam of light. Giving Zheng the opportunity to get the drop on her.

The corporal was not tall. She could move just as unseen as Ygritte herself had at the Laughing Tree. Surprising even Michael, she stepped out from behind the nearest tree and pointed her carbine against the prisoner’s temple.

“Drop the bow, bitch,” Zheng growled at the prisoner, “Or you’re going to get lightning through your skull.”

Closing her eyes as if waiting for the shot, Ygritte complied at once. “I yield,” she said, bending over to carefully place the bow and the nocked arrow on the ground.

She’s proud of that weapon , Michael thought, wondering why as he stepped closer and collected it. “That’s enough corporal,” he said to Zheng, “Just a misunderstanding. Adjusting to the fact we’re not local.”

Zheng lowered her carbine and pulled down her face covering, a scowl on her face. “I think we’re all adjusting to that, sir,” she said sourly, “As if I don’t have regrets about enlisting by now.” She’s figured it out too, then Michael thought.

“Police that talk, corporal,” O’Neill responded at once, “Go back to the vehicle, and check the cargo for anything we can use against those fucking corpses chasing us. Move!”

Her face blank, Zheng made a perfect parade ground salute. So perfect that it had to be mockery, before she marched off, slinging her carbine over her shoulder again.

“Cheeky,” O’Neill growled at her back from a distance. He moved off towards a fallen tree to follow the order to prep the pyre, with a glance towards the prisoner. The implication was simple. ‘Do something about her, now’.

Michael watched him go and thought about that something. Ideally, he’d just let Ygritte go. But maybe she would be hunted even if she was, and letting her go alone would be the same thing as killing her.

They also didn’t know anywhere near enough to stay alive. Never mind getting back home. They needed intel and help, and the young woman in front of him was the only source of either available.

With a sigh, Michael handed Ygritte back her bow and arrow. A gesture of trust. “Like I said, we’re not here to hurt you. Or anyone else. We want to stay alive. We don’t know anything about this place.”

Ygritte raised herself to her not-impressive full height. “You killed a lot of Free Folk! That’s hurt from where I’m standing!”

Done with her defiance, Michael craned his neck forward, getting closer. “And who shot the first arrow? First one that flew by me had grey feathers. And what do we have here?”

He pinched an arrow by the tail from her canvas quiver, raising it half out by the grey feather in between his fingers. “You were the one who shot that arrow, weren’t you?”

The prisoner pushed her chin out defiantly. “Rattleshirt commanded it,” she said, “And you were a kneeler, trespassing on our land. How was I to know you were some Canadian ?”

“How was I to know you had cause to attack us?” Michael shot back, “Seems to me that we’ve both got reasons to mistrust each other. But you’re standing here breathing and armed. That should tell you that I didn’t take you with the intent of hurting you.”

Ygritte opened her mouth to respond and closed it just as quickly. Her glare softened. She was considering his words in a different light, one Michael did not understand. He straightened up again. He hadn’t expected such a reaction. She gripped her bow and brought it close to herself, before letting out a colossal sigh.

“What do you need to know?”

Michael and O’Neill piled up pine wood and kindling, while Ygritte helped and answered about … everything they could think to ask about.

That they were on a continent called Westeros , which stretched for thousands of clicks north-to-south.

That the Others were an ancient enemy of all life, wishing to bring about the Long Night and enslave the living in death.

That there was a massive Wall stretching across the width of the continent less than a hundred kilometres from where they were standing, keeping the Free Folk out and trapped with the undead ice demons.

That there was an ancient conflict with the guards of the Wall, whom Ygritte called ‘Crows’ on account of their all black clothing and armour.

That there was a King Beyond the Wall organising resistance to the Others and the Crows alike, to save the people and bring them out of the North.

That south of the Wall was a whole set of inhabited kingdoms, where people were not free and knelt to noble lords.

Michael was relieved to know what the insult ‘kneeler’ was referring to at last, and Ygritte was duly informed that they did not in fact kneel, even to the monarch. She did not know anything about how to get back to Earth, or anything special about the Laughing Tree. There were so many more things that they could talk about, but they did not have the time.

They had brothers-in-arms to burn, and dead men to flee from.

Michael and O’Neill took on the job of carrying the fallen to the piled wood. It took some doing; their bodies had frozen solid in the hours since they were put up there.

Michael was privately glad that O’Neill had taken the time to remove their boots and jackets before. Waste not, want not. The dead don’t need shoes or coats. Especially when we’re trying to burn them. If they hadn’t been frozen, we could’ve dressed them in their walking-out uniforms.

Ygritte looked on, nervous that the fallen might get up and start trying to kill her. To Michael’s relief, she kept her hands away from her weapons for once.

Zheng returned with a Jerry can. She doused the wood with the liquid fuel underneath the bodies, sloshing it through to the middle of the pile. With that done, they all withdrew to a safe distance. Michael himself through the small collection of burning kindling into the pyre.

The extra boost did its job, and the pyre burned merrily. It began slowly eating both Singh and Arran’s bodies with smokey orange flames. The ash was carried downwind away from them, and with it, most of the smell. The Canadians present stood to attention and saluted as one, coordinated by O’Neill’s commands, their way of saying their last goodbye to the fallen.

It was not a proper send off. But it was the only one they could give.

Michael gazed at the flames for what seemed like an age, feeling the warmth on his face. He imagined he saw battles happening in the flames like the one he had already fought, and larger still. People with weapons centuries out of date charging at him across a shallow, wide river. Men on horses.

Great, now I’m having nightmares while awake , he thought, as if the ice demons weren’t enough. No one was immune from the shock of their situation. Not even him. He turned away from the fire.

“Corporal Zheng,” Michael said, breaking the silence, “Report.”

The corporal slowly dropped her salute and turned her attention to him. “Sir, we’re refuelled. And the supply unit very helpfully wrote down everything they put inside the rear cabin and how much fuel we have. Check out the circled item though.” She offered a piece of paper, which had an obvious grid printed across it.

Michael took the document and read quickly. He followed her advice and found the circle in pencil. It was the very last entry. “A C6?” he asked, “We had a machinegun sitting in the back this entire time?!”

“Last minute addition according to the log, sir,” Zheng replied, “Supposed to be for the vehicle, according to that note at the bottom.”

“Every BV206 to have own C6,” Michael read aloud, incredulous, “And of course, no one told us.” He wanted to magic himself back to Canada and drag the idiot responsible to the snowy taiga forest to give to the ‘White Walkers’.

“FUBAR, sir,” Zheng agreed, her tone and expression bitter, “Maybe Singh and Arran would’ve lived if the reservist dogfucker assholes packing the crawler had a single thought to share between them.”

Michael ignored Ygritte repeating ‘ dogfucker ?’ to herself in amusement. He found himself unable to disagree with the corporal’s assessment. It was quite the piece of stupidity to put a weapon intended for use on a vehicle in its cargo space and tell no one catching a ride in it about the weapon either.

“Welcome to the Army,” O’Neill snorted, “The whole deployment was rushed to begin with, a dog and pony show as much as a mission. Sir, what else do we have and what do we need?”

Michael scanned the page. In some ways, what was there was good news. In others, very much not. “No extra food?” he asked the corporal, “We have no idea how long we’re going to be here, and there’s no food?”

“None,” Zheng said, wearily, “What we have in our rucks will be the only food we’re going to see, sir.”

Michael scratched his chin as he palmed the inventory off to O’Neill to examine, before the man got impatient. “Thanks, Corporal. Find that C6. I want it up on the ring mount and ready to feed a belt-fed goodbye to that demon the second it shows up again.”

Zheng saluted and departed, radioing ahead so Private Sayer would know that he had backup.

The Sergeant examined the inventory closely, Ygritte looking from the side to see what it was. Michael wondered if she could even read. It didn’t seem likely.

“Sir, this stuff is a little heavy for a domestic deployment,” O’Neill stated, “Not a single blank cartridge box on the list. Between that, the Robocop shit they handed out and the new FOB… Something is going on back home. War, or a serious skirmish at least. But I don’t see how, the Russians or Chinese couldn’t possibly come in via the Arctic.”

“Agreed, we need to get back,” Michael said, “What’s your assessment of that list for our situation?”

The answer that the Sergeant brewed up was almost poetic, and not as exaggerated as it seemed. “In short? We have enough food for three days, enough fuel for three thousand clicks, enough bullets and explosives for three years...”

Michael gave a single, large nod. “But once the fuel for the Jesus Machine over there runs out, we’re not going anywhere with that much firepower. You’d need a platoon to move it even a short distance. And we’ll need something to eat far sooner than that.”

“Food we can hunt for,” Ygritte chipped in, “Never been hungry for more than a day since I learned to shoot a bow.”

A statement Michael could believe easily.

“Can’t hunt the food that a Bandvagn will eat,” he replied, thumbing over his shoulder at the crawler, “Sure, we can eat game, but we’ve got three weeks, more likely half that, before that thing starves and won’t move. Then we either have to leave the ammunition, or stay with it.”

The Sergeant crumpled up the page and shoved it in a pocket. “And the ‘White Walker’ is still stalking us,” he said, “Don’t suppose there’s any way to kill the damn things, for good?”

Ygritte rolled on her heels a little as she thought. “They hate fire. The hotter the better. That pyre would keep them away, for a little while. Same reason they don’t like the daytime. Some say there’s magic swords that can kill them, made of smokey black metal. And like I said before, dragonglass. Not a lot of things.”

Michael remembered the Jerry can, wondering if a Molotov cocktail might do the job. Not a theory he was eager to put to the test. That would’ve meant getting close to the thing again. “At least we might get some distance away during the day. Still need to survive the few hours until dawn though.”

“What’s dragonglass?” O’Neill asked.

The prisoner frowned at him. The constant ignorance was annoying her. “A black stone, like glass but harder,” she said, “Frozen fire, some call it. Sharp as shadowcat claws when it’s chipped right. Sharper even.”

Michael recognised the description. “Obsidian. She’s talking about obsidian.”

O’Neill winced. “Not something we’ve got laying around in heaps, is it?”

Ygritte snorted. “Nor us neither. Only place you can get dragonglass north of the Wall got snowed in when I was but a babe. Probably the Walkers what did it. Folk kill each other to get a dagger made of it now, if Mance isn’t around.”

Which meant organising a resistance with obsidian armed folks was made impossible, because everyone wanted the only weapon that could kill the ice demons. Too badly. Michael pondered why the King Beyond the Wall hadn’t done more about that.

O’Neill clicked his tongue. “I guess we can’t just kill someone ourselves to take one. So we don’t have a way to kill the Walker. What do we do?”

“For now? We find a strongpoint,” Michael replied, “Somewhere the Walkers would hesitate to follow, with good sightlines.” He looked to Ygritte. “Any settlements with walls around?”

“Many, but wood and mud won’t stop wights,” she responded, “We were sent out to move anyone still in the villages Mance’s army. We should join it too.”

Conveniently giving her people access to our firepower, Michael thought, And where did this ‘we’ thing come from all of a sudden . “Ygritte, we told you our origin and you lost your mind. How do you think the rest of your people will react?”

Ygritte smiled, revealing white teeth that were slightly crooked. “Mance will understand. He’s got wisdom like I’ve got arrows.” She had no shortage of arrows, so the King Beyond the Wall was a smart cookie. In her opinion.

“Or we drive to the Wall,” O’Neill said, “A wall that big is the definition of a strongpoint. Though I doubt it’s as high as you say. Maybe these Crows of yours will let us through.”

Ygritte poked him in the chest with her heavily gloved hand, punctuating her words. “They’re not my Crows, Canadian. You’re in the True North. You’re their enemy just for being here. You’re not their people. They will look at you the same way they look at me. They have to know about the Others, they couldn’t not know. And they do nothing. Your fancy talk and not-magic sticks won’t help you.”

Michael saw O’Neill’s hand reach for his sidearm. The man’s patience with her had run out. He pulled Ygritte away gently. “You’re likely right, but we can’t fight people who don’t attack us first. It’s a law we have. So, are there any other places we can hole up?”

Ygritte crossed her arms, staring at him for a moment. Considering whether or not to tell? “Two places, but you’re not going to like them. Craster’s or the Fist of the First Men.”

“Why won’t we like them?” Michael asked.

Ygritte crossed her arms. “Craster refused to leave. Claimed he has some way of keeping the Others away. Nobody knows what, but he is cruel and has taken many wives. Some of them are his own daughters.” She paused. “He’ll try and take me for a wife for certain. What say you about that?”

Michael let out a flat half-laugh. As if she wouldn’t fill such a man full of arrows . “Not while you’re rolling with us,” he responded, “What about the other option? The Fist of the First Men?”

Ygritte seemed to warm at the promise of protection. I’m missing something here , Michael thought. She could handle herself, after all. “An old stronghold on a hill, where the First Men fought the White Walkers,” she said, “It’s too big for five to defend it. We couldn’t set fires up there or everyone for leagues around would see it. And the Walkers know it well.”

There’s the ‘we’ again , Michael thought. He knew that holing up was a temporary solution to the problem of dead men walking. But it was a good starting point for the next step. “Which is closer to your King?”

“Sir?” O’Neill interrupted, before Ygritte could reply, “Would the Wall not be the better idea? These Crows might not be as hostile as the girl thinks. And if they are, we have the firepower to unfuck the situation.”

“Problem is that those ice demons exist, Sergeant,” Michael said, “And since I don’t see a big door marked ‘This Way To Canada’ anywhere, the locals are the only people who might know where it’s at. And if it doesn’t exist, we’re in the same boat as the locals. Kneelers, Crows and Free Folk. Maybe with another party to mediate, a diplomatic solution can be found.”

O’Neill’s face was unreadable. “We need to concentrate on getting home ourselves,” he stated politely, “We’re not diplomats, sir,”

Michael rounded on him. “We are as of this moment, Sergeant. And we’re the best kind of diplomats too.”

“How so?”

“We’re armed.”

O’Neill’s brow raised. “Well said, sir,” he smirked.

Ygritte’s eyes narrowed. “You speak our language right well,” she agreed, “But you say words that don’t make sense. What’s a diplomat? ” She mangled the word, as if tongue tied by it entirely.

“I can tell this is going to be a long journey already,” O’Neill murmured in response.

Michael did not address that. “I’ll tell you later, Ygritte. Which is closer to King Mance, the Fist or Craster?”

“The Fist,” Ygritte said, “Mance is taking everyone up the Skirling Pass. The Fist guards the way, so there’ll….”

The comms crackled to life in Michael’s ear.

“They’re here,” Sayer whispered.

Dread pulled at Michael’s insides.

How did the ‘White Walker’ catch up so quickly? he thought, It has barely been more than an hour since we stopped.

Michael gestured at once for O’Neill to go back to the crawler, which he did at a sprint. Ygritte cocked her head slightly, expecting an explanation. He held up a hand, began walking and got onto his comms.

“Private, I gave you an order earlier. Shoot the leader. Now.”

“There’s more than one,” Sayer breathed back, “Three of those demons. Fifty plus walking dead that I can see too, and they’ve been dead a while. Rotting skin and bone, sir. They’re at the edge of the water, just staring across towards the fire. They don’t see me yet.”

Michael stopped and hung his head. A certain suspicion itched at his skin. “The demons, can you see the same one from before?”

There was silence for a couple of seconds. “No, sir,” Sayer replied, “Their swords are too small and the hair is different.”

Michael nodded to himself. “I think the first one told the others to look for us.”

Ygritte heard and understood what he was saying. She nocked her bow with a grey-fletched arrow, scanning the trees around for a target. Not that she could have done anything with it. Michael tugged the sleeve of her stitched-fur jacket and waved her to follow him.

“How?” Zheng asked.

“Magic radio?” O’Neill mused, “It wouldn’t be the strangest thing we’ve seen so far.”

“We need to get to the Fist, now,” Michael stated, “Sayer, withdraw to the crawler. Zheng, start it up. O’Neill, you’re on the MG.”

The engine of the vehicle whined for a second before roaring to life. Michael and Ygritte ran up to it and hopped inside. Before the door closed, the crack-crack-crack of a rifle burst sounded through the bush.

“They’re chasing me!” Sayer said, “All of them!”

Michael slammed the door shut and sat down. “Move this thing, corporal!”

Zheng gave the gas her full attention, and the vehicle lurched forward. O’Neill swayed and almost fell back down into the cabin from his standing position into the open roof. Only his grip on the machinegun mount kept him up. The whole crawler cleared the death-holly bushes in two seconds, and went parallel to the river along the top of the bank.

Michael spotted Sayer running down from a small hillock less than fifty yards away. The Ranger had slung both his own rifle and Arran’s, swinging his arms hard as he ran for his life.

To the left, in the water, corpses shambled and stumbled through the freezing water of the stream straight towards the Ranger. Behind them on the opposite bank, three of the White Walkers in their medieval armour stood and watched.

Sayer’s not going to make it, Michael mind whispered, They’re going to catch him.

“What are you waiting for, Sergeant! Chew them up!”

Growling something incomprehensible in Irish, O’Neill opened fire from the roof. A river of tracers flowed off the top of the vehicle. The nearest corpses to Sayer were the first target. Some burst into flames and fell into the stream. The water did not stop them burning. Some lost limbs or fell apart under the force of the bigger bullets. Empty brass cartridges fell down through the hatch in the roof and pinged onto the floor of the cabin.

The Sergeant’s marksmanship and disregard for conserving ammo saved the young Ranger’s life. Zheng slowed the vehicle to a crawl as Sayer came alongside, letting Michael open the door and help lift the Private inside.

“Which direction is the Fist?!” Michael shouted to Ygritte, over the sound of the engine and O’Neill’s shooting. She didn’t have a radio.

“North!” the young woman said at the top of her voice.

Of course.

“Zheng, turn us around and past the pyre,” Michael said using his radio, “We need to go North.”

“Copy,” the corporal replied through clenched teeth.

The crawler began a slow, wide turn. The corporal had to keep it to the flattest possible surfaces. It could go almost anywhere on its own, but not with the fuel trailer hooked up.

The corpses kept coming. Sayer’s estimate of fifty was way off. More kept coming out from the woods across the river. Their masters wisely stayed behind but in sight, as the dead ran alongside the vehicle and clawed at the sides.

A very dead woman wearing nothing but a dark fur cloak and a gut wound banged on the bottom of the window next to Michael. He grimaced, fearing they’d climb on to the connection between the units of the crawler. Exactly where they couldn’t shoot for fear of detonating ammunition or fuel.

“Sergeant, can you hit the White Walkers?” Michael shouted up at O’Neill.

“Not a chance!” he shouted back, “We’re bumping around too much!”

Leaving speed as the only defence.

“Zheng, floor it!” Michael commanded, “Take a longer route if you have to!”

The engine roared again as the tracks churned the snow and dirt underneath. The crawler pulled away from the undead chasing it. Its path took it into the light of the flames again.

When Michael looked at pyre, horror threatened to empty his stomach. Singh and Arran’s bodies stood up before his eyes. Burning like torches, they stumbled off the burning wood towards them. Even as they fell to a crawl, their skin dripping and smoking off of their faces and limbs, their hands were outstretched towards him.

He knew they did this because their masters wanted them to kill him. To strangle and claw. But he could not help but think it looked like they were desperately seeking help, hands seeking his own.

We’re not on another world, he thought , We’re in Hell.

Chapter Text

The vehicle kept moving for another six hours.

No sign of the Others followed, even before sunrise. Ygritte lost enough of her fear of the vehicle’s speed and gave instructions to the best routes. Soon, it was speeding along relatively wide paths and game trails that wound through the forest. Luckily, the pines did not like to grow close to one another, so it was a relatively straight shot to their destination.

They all slept in rotation, except for Zheng. She was the only one who could drive the crawler smoothly. Michael and the others napped as best they could in the shifting and rolling of the trail. The man on watch spent their time up on the machinegun mount, canvass covering the hole in the roof around their waist.

Michael was on duty when the Fist of the First Men came into view, the vehicle approaching from the south-east.

As places that could be called a strongpoint, it was impressive. It had the geometry of a ramp. A gentle but still defensible slope from south to north, finishing with a near sheer drop at the north and ones nearly as bad on the east side. The peak was flat, topped with small ruined buildings, and was surrounded by a short and broken wall, looking like a broken crown from a distance. It had to be a hundred feet higher than the ground around it at least.

Michael had to admit it was well named. Its overall shape looked like a titan had punched up through the ground at an angle.

It was also inhabited. The smoke of camp fires and cooking could be seen and smelled. Tents and lean-tos covered any surface from the bottom of the slope to the very top, stitched furs draped over wood and whalebone supports.

It was not a pleasant surprise.

“Zheng, stop and wake Ygritte,” Michael growled with his comms open, “Send her up to me. Now.”

“Copy,” the corporal yawned back. The crawler came to a gentle halt. There was a muffled cry from under the canvass. Zheng had not been gentle about waking their prisoner-guide.

Ygritte appeared from below, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She had popped up rather close, and Michael repositioned a little to give her room.

“Are we here?” she mumbled, “I couldn’t keep my eyes open…”

“Yeah, we’re here,” Michael said sternly, “Care to explain why there’s an army camped out?”

Ygritte stared bleary eyed across the valley around the Fist. “Told you Mance was closer to here,” she smiled sleepily, “Looks like he’s gathered all the clans from the Frozen Shore and the south forest.”

“I didn’t want to meet your King until I had found a place to retreat to,” Michael warned, “You lied to me.”

“Didn’t know Mance would be here,” Ygritte countered, waking up enough to sound as defiant as she had the night before, “How was I to know that he’d move sooner? I don’t have your radio to speak to my people, Canadian.”

Michael looked away, unable to decide if she was lying or had genuinely just been overtaken by events. Dead men were rising, it seemed like moving quickly was common sense by now. But then, so was safety in numbers. Either way, it moved up his schedule.

“You’re staying up here,” he said to Ygritte, changing places with her, “Front and centre, so your people can see you. Soon as we see any Free Folk, you better start waving and acting friendly. I do not want to get into a fight.”

“You’d lose that fight.”

“I know, that’s the point.”

Michael ordered Zheng to get the crawler moving again, at a ‘polite’ pace. O’Neill and Sayer woke up groggily, but the situation acted like a shot of strong coffee. They soon had their weapons back in their hands and their eyes on the swivel for threats.

It did not take long before Michael spotted Free Folk archers atop platforms and the among the massive trees. Almost all of them armed themselves or fled at the sight of the vehicle.

Ygritte played her role, waving to them. It prevented any immediate violence, because she was dressed and presented herself quite obviously as one of them. Though she still kept her own bow close by. The weapon was made of the same species of wood as the Laughing Tree, and to Michael, seemed almost like some sort of polymer in sunlight.

The closer to the camp they got, the more remains of fires could be seen. Charred pits blackened with soot ringed it. Defence against the Others. At least we know big fires work, Michael thought, as they passed a pyre for the dead.

A company of warriors made its appearance to block their entry to the camp-proper. It was far larger than that the bone-wearing ‘Rattleshirt’ had sent to kill Michael’s fireteam, at least twice as big. Spears, axes, bows and clubs all in hand.

It was led by a man of average height, thick arms and a large belly. A great white beard descended from his chin. He wore chainmail on his upper torso and brown bearskin across his shoulders.

The leader did not seem particularly afraid of the metal monstrosity slowly and loudly rumbling towards him. He barked orders at his troops and a triple line of spearmen assembled at his back. More disciplined than Rattleshirt’s people, Michael noted. He aimed the GPMG to bear at the leader as Zheng stopped the vehicle. But he did not light up the man. The Free Folk refrained from shooting their arrows too. Both sides examined the other.

It was a stand-off for about a minute, until a shout from the ranks behind broke the stare of the Free Folk leader. “Ygritte!” the call sounded over the massed mumbling.

A short man with an unfortunately narrow head pushed his way through the warriors. Michael was reminded a little of a fish, if a fish had a twisted brown beard. He couldn’t have been much older than Ygritte was. Michael trained the MG on him instead, as he ran past the Free Folk leader and towards the crawler.

“Hold,” Ygritte urged, before shouting back, “Ryk! I bet you never dreamed to see me return like this!”

“You could say that!” ‘Ryk’ replied with a strained smile, gesturing to the vehicle, “Who are these? What is this beast?”

Ygritte glanced at Michael. “’tis a long tale.”

“Then come down and tell it,” Ryk said, “There are a great many people who would hear.” He turned to the spear line behind him, every man and woman in which was listening with great interest.

Without asking, Ygritte ducked back down into the crawler.

“Hey, wait!” Michael said, “I didn’t…”

Too late. She was already down and out the front rightside door, O’Neill too far to grab her. She half-ran over to ‘Ryk’ and they briefly embraced, before exchanged words rapidly. And too quietly for Michael to hear over the sound of the engine.

O’Neill cursed like a sailor for a moment. “We take any more prisoners, I’m tying them up with duct-tape and zip-ties. Do you want me to go out there and drag her back, sir? She was the only leverage we had over these… gentlemen.”

Michael frowned, doubting they would care. Ygritte had been a warrior in a warband, not a leader of any kind, as far as he could tell. The only leverage she provided was of a different type. “No, take my place on the MG.”

“Armed diplomacy time, is it sir?”

“I always was a gambler.”

Michael disembarked the crawler through the same door that Ygritte had, closing it loudly behind him.

Heads turned as he approached her, her friend reaching for a knife but being stopped by her. Michael put his thumb on the selector of his rifle, flicking it to full auto again. Every step he took seemed to cause the Free Folk to bristle more.

Ygritte waved him over. “This is Michael,” she said to Ryk, “He’s the one.”

Her friend looked him up and down with no shortage of scepticism.

Well, that’s vague, Michael thought, She must be referring to shooting the White Walker. At least she doesn’t seem to want me flayed and displayed for taking her prisoner.

Swallowing any pride he might have about parlaying with people who attack at random, he offered his gloved hand to the man. “Good to meet you,” he said with a slight smile, “You people must be brave to live where dead men walk around killing folks.”

Ryk’s brow raised up. He accepted the hand. “We don’t have a choice,” he said, amiably enough, “We be brave or we be dead.” His accent was the same strange Nordic-British as Ygritte’s, albeit deeper.

“True,” Michael said, “It seems we’re in the same boat now.”

Nodding, Ryk approved of the sentiment.

Another man emerged from behind the spear line.

Michael’s eyes were drawn to the iron helmet he was wearing; large black wings spread backwards from the temples. It had bronze reinforcements that were polished to a shine. Long greying brown hair flowed from it onto more chainmail made of a darker iron. A strange cloak of black wool and red silk billowed from his frame in the wind. He was about average height for the Free Folk.

Michael knew at once who this was.

Even before he strode across the light snow and the white-bearded leader fell in behind. It was the way everyone looked at him. Ygritte, Ryk, the spearmen and archers… they all watched carefully, waiting for the penny to drop.

The King Beyond the Wall stepped forwards and took off his ravenwing helmet, revealing a sharp face and piercing brown eyes, his mouth flanked by laughter-lines.

Best foot forward, Michael thought to himself. He turned to the man and stood to attention, and gave the man as formal a salute as he could muster. “Your Majesty.”

A broad grin erupted from the King, the laughter-lines creasing deeply.

“Har!” shouted the white-bearded man with him, “That’s a new one! And what is he doing with his hand?”

“I believe that is a salute, Tormund,” the King said in good humour, “But an unusual one to be sure.”

“Kneelers and their strange ways,” the white-bearded Tormund agreed.

Michael found the exchange disarming in the extreme. This was not how he thought meeting a king would go in the slightest. But it was nothing that prevented him from making his play. “I am Lieutenant Michael Duquesne. Third Battalion, Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry. If at all possible, I’d like to sit and speak with you. We require assistance.”

The King regarded him coolly. “As you already seem to know, I am Mance Rayder,” he said, “You are trespassing, Lord Duquesne. In the strangest of manners, but trespassing nonetheless. Why should any man, King or not, sit and speak with a trespasser? Give him aid?”

Just as prickly as Michael expected. He knew the next part would require some finesse.

“We are not on your lands of our own free will. We were shipwrecked.”

“That strikes my ear as not entirely the truth,” the King said, an edge of menace in his tone now, “Now I want to know why I should not seize you all and take what is yours for my own.”

A mistep then. Michael shifted his weight, trying to play it off as awkwardness. But he was really moving so it would be easier to bring his rifle to bear on the man.

In response, the one called Tormund drew a short spear from a loop of leather behind his back and held it down by his leg. The King did nothing, awaiting a more verbal response. Michael did not have a verbal answer. Anything he might offer would mean fighting a war he felt he had no part in. Anything he might threaten would mean death.

“He killed an Walker!” Ygritte blurted out, “With that weapon he is holding.”

That’s a lie, Michael thought. He was sure that the thing he had shot more than fifty times got up again, and he was sure that Ygritte knew that too. The King however, took note, and not just because of the words but who was speaking them.

“He’s no Crow, no kneeler,” she insisted, “He is not from the South or anywhere we know. Look at him. Have you ever seen cloth like he is wearing? Or runes like those on it?”

That must’ve rung true to the King. He frowned, scanning Michael from top to bottom. The ice had been broken. “The girl speaks well on your behalf,” he said, “What has she seen, Lord Duquesne? What happened exactly for you to make an ally of a spearwife? Did you save her from the White Walkers? And if you are not from the South, where do you hail from?”

And there it was. The big problem. The question had been asked. Time to bite the bullet. “We are not from this world,” Michael replied, “We were shipwrecked on yours.”

There was nothing but silence for what seemed like ten minutes.

The King’s eyes bored into him. He did not seem to disbelieve, but there was something about the news he did not like. The one called Tormund scoffed, once his mind had processed what he had just heard. “What nonsense is this? Have you been eating the wrong mushrooms?”

Michael shrugged. “You should believe your eyes,” he said, “As Ygritte here pointed out, surely nothing I am carrying or have is like anything you have ever seen. A carriage that moves without horses? My clothes? My weapons and armour?”

“Your way of speaking too,” the King chipped in, “You speak the Common tongue, but you add words from High Valyrian. Yet I get the impression that neither of them are the words of your mother.”

Michael blinked. He had assumed that everyone just spoke English. Magic, he realised, My words are being translated by magic. In hindsight, it seemed obvious. How could a person on another world be speaking a language from his own?

He recovered just before his pause got awkward. “Exactly. Either I am from so far away that it is impossible for you to know that I am lying, or I am telling you the truth.”

The King turned his helmet in his hands for a moment. Considering it.

“Here is what I propose,” Michael continued, “You may not believe what happened from my mouth, but you will from Ygritte’s.” He gestured to her. “She is one of your people. She is a free woman with no obligation to lie on my behalf. Speak to her. We will withdraw to a safe distance.”

“Then what?” Tormund asked.

“If you agree to talk with me, I want to hear about anything you know about moving to other worlds,” Michael replied, “Any legends to do with magic like that. We can speak about fair exchange for that information as well.”

The King smiled again. “And if I decide I do not want you to return?”

“We’ll leave,” Michael promised, “We’ll head south to the Wall and try our luck with the Crows that guard it. I know you are at war with them. We will say nothing about you or this army. I suspect keeping that quiet is in both of our interests. If I told them we had come to you first or they suspected that, conflict would be inevitable.”

“Smart man,” the King agreed. He exchanged looks with Tormund, who seemed to deflate and put away his spear.

The King smiled. “Very well. You claim to have seen and fought our enemy. You have earned the trust of one of our people. I think you’re utterly mad, myself, but I cannot refute your words either. I will speak with Ygritte, and see if we cannot help each other.” He offered his hand.

Michael shook it. The King squeezed hard and enjoyed it. Michael squeezed right back. The contest only ended when Tormund held up the roughest loaf of bread Michael had ever seen, sprinkled with salt of all things.

The King must’ve detected confusion about the offer. “You and your company should eat this. It will make you my guest. Which will protect you under guest right and myself as your host. There is no need for you to withdraw, until I make a decision or the next day dawns.”

Wondering if that was simply an excuse to Michael took the bread, tore off a piece and ate it. It was as rough on the tongue as it was on the eyes, though its taste was not bad.

“Enjoy that,” the King smirked, “It’s one of the last pieces of real bread North of the Wall.” He turned to leave, Tormund following him, before sending a look towards Ygritte. He expected her to follow.

She held up a hand, asking him to wait, which caused both the Free Folk leaders to smile as she turned to her former captor.

“I’ll see you again soon, Michael Duquesne,” she promised.

Michael let out an amused breath. “Happy to have you,” he replied, honestly enough.

Ygritte seemed satisfied with that answer.

She walked off with her King, her friend in tow.

He walked back to the vehicle to share the bread.

The conversations between the King Beyond the Wall and Ygritte the Spearwife took most of the day.

In the mean time, the Free Folk established a perimeter around the Canadian position, and the Canadians watched them with their firearms, eating candy to keep themselves going.

Zheng and Sayer were caught up by O’Neill on what information Ygritte had provided at the pyre site. Michael also informed them they were the only ones in fact speaking English.

“More magic,” O’Neill complained, “What next? Dragons?”

“At least this magic is on our side,” Sayer said, “It’s better than ‘White Walkers’ and Night of the Living Dead.”

“Could be very useful if we’re stuck here,” Zheng agreed, “And I think that’s exactly what we are. Nothing Ygritte told you about matches anything about Earth.”

“Enough of that talk,” Michael warned, “If there is a door to here, there is a door home. If there’s a door home, someone knows about it. It’s a matter of finding them, and they’re more likely to be near the door than far away from it.”

The fatigue for the fresh revelations rendered them all silent for a long time afterwards.

As sieges went, it was casual. It had been clear some sort of accord with the King, and there was no desire among the Free Folk to provoke the people that rode a roaring metal beast with glowing eyes.

The quiet was broken at last when O’Neill called out from the MG on the roof.

“Jesus Christ!” he said, “There’s fecking sasquatches coming up the path!”

There was a commotion as everyone inside the vehicle climbed to look. Michael pulled himself up to join the Sergeant above the roof hatch. The man had not been hallucinating.

From the path to the Free Folk camp, a group was approaching. Most of them were men. One of those was Tormund. An envoy from the King? Or there to command the attack? Michael could not tell, but he did not care.

Because there were three shaggy sasquatches leading the way. They had to be ten feet tall, long shaggy brown hair flowing off them. Their faces too were classic Bigfoot; small eyes, noses that barely protruded, wide mouths. They all carried tree trunks blackened from fire as clubs.

The Sergeant immediately aimed the MG at them. “If those things get close, I’m not sure we can kill them fast enough, sir,” he said, “Permission to feed them lead from here?”

Michael remembered the bread and salt. “No, they’re not here to harm us,” he said, “I get the feeling they take their little hospitality ceremony with the food seriously.”

“That’s no reason to let them get close enough to smack us with those clubs, sir.”

“Agreed. Tell me when and I’ll warn them off. The fat man walking with them will recognise me. If they don’t comply, warning shots first.”

“Grand.”

Sayer laughed randomly, his voice coming over the comms. “I’ve just realised something,” he chuckled, “What if the sasquatches from our world are actually originally from this one? Wouldn’t that mean there is a way home? Maybe they come back here when they’re not hunting on Earth or something, which is why they’re so hard to find?”

Michael’s spirits raised immediately. The sasquatch was a legend he had not believed back home, a tale for conspiracy theorists. But he could not shake the feeling that the creatures moving up the trail towards him were intelligent. Perhaps they could hide in the vastness of North America temporarily, if they were smart.

Perhaps the way home was not so hidden after all.

“I hope so,” Zheng replied to the Private, “And if you’re right Sayer, I will buy your drinks for the rest of your life.”

“Hear hear,” O’Neill sounded off, “Lieutenant, they’re getting as close to us as I feel comfortable with. If you wouldn’t mind?”

Michael sat on the roof of the vehicle, raising himself up a little higher. “That’s far enough!” he called, addressing the sasquatches rather than Tormund. A test to see if they were in fact intelligent.

The sasquatches stopped and rested their clubs against their shoulders. “You are ones from other world?” the lead Bigfoot said, the bass of his voice shaking the air.

Michael grinned at O’Neill. The magic translator was working.

“We are, and I’d be happy to discuss it!” he continued, “But first we must speak with the one called Tormund!” The sasquatches inclined their heads in agreement, and waved the barrel of a man in question to approach.

Tormund came forward alone. “You speak the Old Tongue?” he asked as he got close, “And well enough that the giants could understand you. How could that be if you are not from here?”

So they’re called giants by the Free Folk. Michael wasn’t sure if Tormund was actually speaking the language from before or this ‘Old Tongue’. The magic seemed to translate everything. Though the complexity of what he was saying did seem to suggest it was the language from before.

“We’re a people of many talents. What is the decision of your King?”

“He agrees to your terms,” Tormund said, “Says to join him in his tent.”

“And where is that?”

“Top of the hill.”

Michael looked on. That was some distance away. No wonder it had taken so long to get back with the reply. Time he had no intention of waiting again. And there was something else to consider too. It could be a trap, he thought, a ruse to get us in amongst his army, where we can’t run away as easily. Guest right or otherwise.

There was an easy way to test that, however. Michael leaned over the side of the crawler. “Want a ride?” he asked Tormund.

The man’s eyes widened, before warming and being joined with a wide toothy smile.

“Har! I thought you would never ask!”

The crawler made good speed as the trails opened up to those cleared by the people in the camp, only having to slow where some of the Free Folk had pitched their tents too closely together. Zheng handled the machine like an expert however, and the sasquatches had tried sprinting in an odd loping manner to catch up.

The sight of Tormund Giantsbane riding the metal beast while outrunning actual giants was enough to drop the jaw of every man, woman and child who saw it. Cooking food over open fires, tending to shaggy sheep and goats, making weapons, playing, dancing; it all paused for a moment as the vehicle passed.

Michael enjoyed it, despite the smell of stale roast chicken and sweat off of the man in close proximity to him. Such awe would prevent enthusiasm for attacking him and his team. But it was also just fun to bamboozle people with the technology too.

Or perhaps it was just the continuing shock of his situation that made it feel that way.

The climb to the top of the Fist of the First Men was a piece of cake for the Bandvagn, though its engine made a little more noise. Soon, Zheng had manoeuvred it into a defensible place away from most of the tents, in the shattered remains of a one-floor building built of large stones.

“That was bracing! Har!” Tormund joked, slapping Michael on the shoulder, “I really hope you go along with what Mance has to say. With a beast like this, you would be a great ally against the Crows. And who knows what the Others must think of such a thing!”

The Others were not as impressed, Michael thought. “Well, let’s hear what he has to say,” he said, indulging the chieftain a little, “I hope he has what we need. We want to go home.”

“And we want to live free of dead men killing us,” Tormund said, “Follow me. Take one other only.” The man climbed out of the vehicle by swivelling on the roof and jumping down directly, rather than through the cabin and doors. He made his way out of the shattered building.

“Christ he smelled,” O’Neill complained from below, “Having his arse that close to my head put the fear of God into me.”

Michael was glad himself that he had been out in the open air, cold or no cold.

“Orders, sir?” Zheng asked.

“You’ll come with me, Corporal. You’re the one who’s tamed the metal beast, after all.”

Zheng liked that description, wiping tears of utter tiredness out of her eyes.

Michael tapped his sergeant on the arm. “O’Neill, Sayer, you’ll guard the vehicle. There’ll be curious folks and thieves. Keep the former off it. Warn then shoot the latter. Don’t tolerate threats. Refuel as well. If we need to make an exit, I don’t want to have to stop at night.”

“Yes, sir,” O’Neill said with enthusiasm.

Michael climbed down and exited, Zheng following. They followed Tormund’s tracks in the crunchy snow, finding him waiting by another collapsed building in the midst of tents. Other Free Folk kept their distance, but whispered to one another. Kids and dogs were kept away too.

The King’s Tent was the largest that Michael had seen in camp.

Its surface was made from polar bear pelts, over a whalebone frame. Huge antlers from an elk crowned the thing. Advertising it was the royal residence, perhaps. Two spearmen stood guard outside, but they parted for Tormund. They held up the hanging furs over the entrance and waved the two Canadians inside.

The floor of the tent was covered with furs, brown ones this time. In the four corners of the tent, there were crude iron braziers, the peat inside producing an earthy burning smell, plenty of warmth and quite a bit of reddish light. The space was as big as an apartment, and it was occupied by more than just the King too.

Michael took off his gloves, helmet and undid his coat, trying not to look uncomfortable. A half-dozen sitting men and women were staring at Zheng and him from a circle in the middle. All dressed in skins or furs, with mugs and drinking horns. Chieftains all.

Ygritte was not present.

The King himself was directly opposite the entrance at the far end of the circle. His helmet was on his lap. To either side of him were two beautiful women who had to be sisters, both having blonde hair in braids down to their waists. It is good to be King, Michael thought to himself, finding it difficult to look away from the pair.

“Lord Duquesne,” the King greeted, “Welcome. Please, would you and your companion sit? You too, Tormund.” He gestured to an open section in the sitting circle, to his left.

Michael and Zheng stepped behind those already sitting carefully to reach the spot, while Tormund went the other way to another place on the King’s right.

“You know I’m not a lord, right?” Michael said as he sat down, crosslegged, “An officer, someone who commands soldiers, yes. But not a lord.”

The King’s brow descended. “I must say that surprises me,” he said, “You are well dressed, well fed, quite obviously possess wealth. The way you carry yourself is not unlike the highborns I have met in my life either. Except you do not hold contempt for us, or hide it better than they ever could.”

“I’m not here to judge your people,” Michael replied, “And I keep my own opinion of them private unless it is necessary, your Majesty.”

Laughter rolled around the circle, the Majesty thing getting the same reaction out of the other chieftains as it had with Tormund.

“Spare me the majesty and I shall spare you the Lord,” the King said, “And who is your companion?”

“Leanne Zheng,” the corporal replied, “A soldier.”

The King leaned back, holding onto his knees. “If I did not know better, I would say you were from YiTi. Though I have only read about what the people of YiTi look like. Your name sounds like their language too.”

“Well, I’m from Vancouver,” Zheng smiled viciously, “Pretty sure you’ve never read about the people from there.”

The King smiled back at her. “Well said, Lady Zheng of Vancouver. Let us get the introductions out of the way, and we can talk about the exchange I propose.”

Each member of the circle was named.

Tormund Giantsbane was first, confirming his place as the King’s right hand man.

Varamyr Six-Skins, a small grey man and a warg, or in other words a man who could enter the minds of animals and control them. The King claimed Varamyr had spotted their approach through the eyes of his eagle, which was why they had been able to muster Tormund’s spears quickly enough to stop the Canadians reaching the camp proper.

Harma Dogshead, a squat and rotund woman with obvious strength in her arms. Michael couldn’t see any reason she would be called Dogshead. She didn’t look like a dog or have any canine ornaments. He doubted it was pleasant.

Ygon Oldfather, an older heavily bearded man who the King stated had eighteen wives over the course of his life, and enough children and grandchildren to make up his own clan.

And last but not least, Dalla and Val, the blonde sisters.

Dalla was the Queen, the King warmly proclaimed, and this was a recent development. He claimed to have met her on returning from a trip south of the Wall, and that she was wiser than he was. Val was her younger sister and advisor. Together they had helped convince their clan to join Mance’s army, which had been a holdout.

Michael listened to each introduction and offered his hand to those in range to do so. Only Dalla and Tormund accepted. When it was his turn, he spoke about each person who had come through with him to the Lands Beyond the Wall. O’Neill, Zheng, Sayer, Arran, Singh and himself. He did not have as much to say as the King had about his chieftains, but they listened all the same.

Now, business could begin.

“I take it from what you said to Corporal Zheng that you believe us,” Michael said, “That we are from another world.”

The King’s sister-in-law curled her lips inwards, an action that drew Michael’s eye. If only because it was the first real reaction the woman had. She did not believe.

“Some do, some do not,” the King replied, “All agree that your joining us would be for the best. Ygritte told her story. She did not seem to be lying to me, though we are not without doubts. The power of your weapons is something I would like to see for myself.”

“I’m sure a suitable demonstration can be arranged,” Michael said, “Though if you plan on asking us to provide you with them, I cannot agree. We have enough for our own use, not enough to equip an army. And they are not ours to give in the first place.”

“A pity,” the King frowned, “Weapons that can kill wights so easily would save many lives. But I assumed you would say something like that.”

“What do you propose?” Michael asked.

The King rubbed his chin, and took a drink from a horn. From the smell, it was mead.

“I must first tell you some disappointing news. I spoke to the men and women before you about magic, and the giants we have in camp. Only the giants knew anything about moving to another world. An old tale whereby the Children of the Forest attempted to flee this world and brought giants along. But they did not know if it was true, or how such magic works.”

Feeling sorrow like he had never felt before, Michael exhaled to steady himself.

“Children of the Forest?” Zheng asked, her voice wobbling slightly.

She is having just as hard a time hearing the news, Michael thought.

“The Children of the Forest inhabited this world before Men,” the King explained, “They are said to possess great magic, and were enemies of the First Men until the Others came during the first Long Night. Occasionally someone will claim to have met them even today. They have not joined our cause. Even the giants do not know where they are.”

Michael rubbed his face, wondering what to do with this news. It meant that he was trapped on this other world. Which was potentially convenient for the cause of Mance Rayder. Is it a lie? “So you have nothing to exchange for our help?”

The King shook his head. “There may be a place where you can find the answers you seek. But it is south of the Wall.”

“So our only hope is past the Wall you also want to get past.” Zheng asked bluntly, “How do we know you’re not feeding us a bowl of shit?”

Michael winced. Talking to a king like that struck him as a poor decision. Sleep deprivation had taken its toll on the corporal’s patience.

This King was tolerant of such talk. Far from being offended, he looked to his Queen. Dalla rummaged around behind her briefly, before producing a leatherbound book of considerable size.

The King took it and opened it, revealing yellowed parchment pages. The two he opened it on had a series of illustrations in red.

“The Isle of Faces. The place where peace was made between the First Men and the Children. A holy site that has avoided every invasion of Westeros that there ever was. If the Children of the Forest yet live, this is the only place it is certain that they can be found.”

He pushed the book over to Michael.

The inked drawings inside showed a series of small thin people, not particularly child-like, meeting with men dressed in much the same way the Free Folk were. Around them were trees with faces carved into them. Michael was again reminded of UFOs and aliens. The ‘Children’ had very wide eyes, not unlike a Roswell Grey.

“More laughing trees,” Zheng said flatly, “Great.”

The King smiled inwardly at a joke only he heard in her words.

“It indicates that maybe Mance here isn’t lying through his teeth though,” Michael said, flicking through the pages and finding he couldn’t read any of the words. No magic text translation then.
“We were brought to a foot of a tree like that, and I doubt he had an entire book written, illustrated and bound in a day.”

Refusing to accept it fully, Zheng took the book to look through it herself, hoping to find any sort of clue that might help.

“So you see the exchange I want?” the King asked, spreading his hands in front of him, “I give you the path to the Isle of Faces. And you help us take the Wall, which is something you will need to do to get to the Isle regardless.”

Michael shook his head. “Not good enough,” he said, “Directions, yes, we need them. But if Ygritte told you her story, you know that the first reaction of your own people was to attack. The kneelers as you call them would have the same instinct.”

“You killed Rattleshirt’s warband in less than a hundred breaths,” Tormund snorted, “Crows and kneelers would be no harder a fight for you. If they could even catch you in that metal carriage of yours, har!”

“We defended ourselves…” Michael began.

“Tormund is not accusing you of murder,” the King interrupted, “He is simply making the argument that the southerners would not be able to resist you.”

“How would I know that?” Michael replied, “There is a whole other set of peoples behind that Wall that we know nothing about. Their culture, their money, their politics, their military. Directions are a start. Every piece of information you have about what we’ll face past the Wall is next.”

“I do not know everything, but I will tell you what I can,” the King conceded, “Is that all?”

“No,” Michael said, “The other thing is something I don’t think your friends here are going to like.”

“You sit here under guest right, lad,” the King said, “Speak your mind.”

“You need to talk to the Crows,” Michael said, “The threat of dead men is just as real for them as it is for you. If we do this, I insist you let me try and bring them to negotiate.”

“He wants us to talk to the Crows?” Ygon Oldfather growled, “Mance, I would sooner let a wight fuck me than speak peace to a Crow.”

“It can be arranged if you don’t shut your mouth,” Harma Dogshead countered, “Did you see that metal beast of theirs climb the Fist, Ygon? Faster than any mount? Or are your eyes failing you? I want the Crows to shit themselves at the sight of it, knowing that those who ride it are with us.”

The Oldfather replied only with an obscene gesture, which was returned in kind.

“Let Michael propose his solution,” the King said gently, “There’s no harm in talking about talking.” He gestured to the Canadians to continue.

Michael inclined his head in thanks. “I am bound by our laws to try for a peaceful solution,” he said, “I go to them, tell them about the threat of the White Walkers. Tell them where they can find out for themselves. I’m not from here, they should believe me. Give them some time to make sure I am not lying, and when they are sure of that, I can propose to bring your people through the Wall.”

“They already know,” the King said, “About the White Walkers, I mean. Their ranging parties have visited villages that have been attacked or abandoned. They must have lost brothers to the Others by now. Their masters in the South would not believe them, even on your word of honour, or theirs. So they could never agree to let us pass the Wall in peace.”

“Our people have raided their lands for centuries,” Tormund added, “It is not easily forgiven. Many of the clans of this host would kill each other for the same reason, except they have seen their families killed by the Others.”

Michael hesitated. “I have to try,” he said, “If we make it home, we will have to account for our actions.”

Zheng snorted from beside him. “Yeah, it wouldn’t be fun for us to get back, only to be cashiered or thrown in prison.”

A man rushed into the tent, the cold blowing in. That grabbed the attention of every person inside. The late arrival rushed over to where Varamyr Six-Skins was sitting, before kneeling behind and whispering in his ear. The King and the rest watched with interest. Michael tried to listen in.

Varamyr cleared his throat and looked to the King. “A ranging party of ten men is two day’s ride away,” he said, “It’s the Halfhand. He’s following the tracks of their beast.”

The tent looked to Michael.

“It appears you’ll have your chance to talk to the Crows after all,” the King said, “Qhorin Halfhand has killed many of our number over the years, but I knew him when I was a Crow. Yes, I used to be a brother of theirs. He is a reasonable man, someone who would accept offers of parlay. You should ride out to meet him. If I cannot convince you that your talk will achieve nothing, he will.”

Michael nodded, understanding the ball was now in his court. “It’ll be dark soon. We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow.” He stood up, Zheng doing the same, and made to leave.

“Michael, one more thing,” the King called, causing him to stop in his tracks, “By asking to bring us through the Wall, you will be revealing that we plan to try to do that soon. He will also ask how many we are. If he returns to the Lord-Commander with that knowledge, the kneelers will call their banners. Which will doom any chance of getting through the Wall easily. Yours and ours.”

“I’m not sure I understand?” Michael said.

“If you meet him and he does not agree that your idea can work,” the King said, “You will have no choice.”

“You must kill him.”

Chapter Text

YGRITTE

Her sleep that first night at the Fist had been restless. She lay under her furs well into the day, her mind racing in and out of consciousness, the events of the night itching in her head.

In the sky above, the Thief had been within the Moonmaid.

A sudden flash of light in the dark forest. Rattleshirt, the Lord O’ Bones himself, ordering the entire war party to investigate. A battle fairly started and fairly ended. The White Walker arriving. The victors of the battle standing strong against it. The dead rising, killing two of their number. Their weapons striking down the Other, torturing it with the burning fire shot into its body. The journey in a machine that travelled faster than any horse. The questioning by the clan chiefs and Mance himself about it all.

But it wasn’t any of that that kept Ygritte shifting and turning under the furs.

It was the one called Michael.

He stole her from Rattleshirt’s warband.

He stole her from the Others!

He declared that he would be glad to have her in front of Mance himself!

And where was he?

She did not know, and that made her feel unease like she had never felt before. When a man steals a woman while the Thief is within the Moonmaid, it was said to be fateful. And everything about how she had been stolen screamed the same thing.

And where was he?!

The voice of reason whispered in her head every now and then. He isn’t from the True North. He isn’t from this world. He doesn’t know that when a man takes a woman and she does not slit his throat in his sleep, she is his and he is hers. He doesn’t even know where your tent is. It took most of the night for that voice to be heard over the roar of embarrassed anger, but as the sun rose towards noon, she had determined her next act.

If he does not know what he is supposed to do, by all the gods I’ll teach him or cut his manhood.

Ygritte stirred from the pile of furs she had slept under, jaw clenched, reaching for her woollen undershirts and her rabbitskin vest. There would be time for real sleep, after she had found him and he had kept the promise of his acts.

The tent flap was pulled aside and Ryk’s head appeared in the gap. “Mornin’. Wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

So now you know he has not come, Ygritte thought bitterly. “Aye, still here. What brings you? Need a second for hunting?” Her stomach burned with hunger as well as anger.

Ryk shook his head. “Wanted to know if you’d heard what's going on,” he said, “And maybe you can tell me true about the rumours?”

Ygritte frowned. She had been alone all night, and hadn’t heard a thing. “What now? The Thenns not coming down from their valley?” she asked, stepping into her boots and tying them on.

Ryk looked at her blankly. “Don’t know how you slept. Your Canadians? They stopped a wight attack last night from the north. You spoke true before. Their weapons are like magic. Lights flew and set the wights ablaze. You didn’t say how loud they were.”

Ygritte slowed down her dressing. Was that why he had not come to her? she wondered, Between his own sleep of the journey and the fight to defend the Fist, had he just been exhausted? She shook that thought away. It was ridiculous and an excuse.

“The whole camp is talking about it,” Ryk said, “And the new rumour. They say they’re going today to talk to Qhorin Halfhand. They were supposed to go at dawn, but the attack last night delayed them.”

Ygritte froze. Slowly, she turned her head toward her clansman. “What?!”

“The Halfhand is close, they say. Close enough to see our fires tonight. Mance is sending them out as a test. If the Canadians return without having killed him, they’ll be killed. The Weeper arrived at sunset and is laying claim to their metal beast already.”

“Mance would break guest right?”

“The sun has risen on another day. No offer of food or shelter has been made or asked for. The Canadians will’ve left camp. There is no guest right once they return.”

Ygritte felt weak. It couldn’t be. She was stolen under the perfect stars by a man who might die through his own choices. Choices he knew nothing about. Snapping herself out of it by clenching her fists, she hurried layering herself in her clothes. “Get your weapons,” she said to Ryk, “We’re going with them. Make sure they don’t die because they don’t hate Crows enough to kill on sight.”

Ryk’s mouth turned to a flat line. Not for the first time. Ygritte usually found it funny because it made him look like a fish, but she was in no mood. It only reminded her of what had changed. “Shouldn’t get involved,” he said.

Expecting that response, Ygritte grabbed her sheepskin helm and pulled it over her tangled hair to prevent herself saying something she would regret. Like she was containing the anger exploding out of her head. “Ryk, when my first tried to steal me again, you stopped him. You’re my clan brother. I’m going with the Canadians. Are you saying you’ll leave me to go alone? To face the Halfhand?”

Ryk snorted. “Michael Duquesne is more than a match for the Halfhand.”

“Aye, in a fight. But what happens when the Halfhand pours lies in his ear? Who speaks for the Free Folk when the Crow sings about our raids and how we’re just savages not worthy of livin’? It’ll be me. And who’ll defend me when the Crows try to shut me up?”

With a sigh, Ryk hung his head. “I will,” he said, before withdrawing from the tent.

Ygritte felt a warmth of relief rush over her. The old certainties were not all dead, at least. She could rely on her clan brother still. She tied her gloves to her wrists, and slung her weirwood bow and took both bags of grey-fletched arrows she had hidden under the furs. She expected to use every one of them.

Ryk was waiting outside with his own bow, arrows and axe, his own tent right beside hers.

“Where are they?” Ygritte asked.

“Top of the hill.”

“Fuck.”

Together, they made their way through camp, avoiding playing children, still smouldering watchfires from the night before and frozen cesspits. The climb to the top of the Fist took some time, and every step of the way, Ygritte half-expected to see the ‘Bandvagn’ roll by at a speed no man or woman could ever hope to match.

But after rushing up and breathing heavily, they both made it. Beside Mance’s tent among those of the chiefs, the crawler stood. She spotted the large one, O’Neill, standing out of the roof and preparing the machine-gun. His large bulk filled out the hole in the roof, and Ygritte had identified him from the beginning as the most dangerous member of the group.

The youngest was sat cross-legged on the roof with his bright red hooded cloak and strange grey-red weapon. She had glimpsed that the part on top of the weapon was a spyglass. Something she had only ever seen from a distance in the hands of Crows atop the wall. He was also not unlike the clansmen of the far west of the Frozen Shore in his looks, having slightly darker skin and a broad face.

“He’s not here,” Ryk said.

“He’s in the tent with Mance,” Ygritte replied with absolute certainty, “Means we’re not too late. Come.”

She stepped forward, the chiefs’ families watching her bold approach with interest. Ygritte felt pride swell in herself. She was recognised.

“Hello there!” the one called Private Sayer called, “Didn’t expect to see you again!”

Ygritte turned a vicious grin on him. “I told Michael Duquesne I would meet him again,” she said, “I’m a woman of my word. I bring my clan brother, Longspear Ryk. We’ll ride with you against the Crows. ”

“Will you now?” the O’Neill muttered just loudly enough to be heard by her, “I think you’re under the wrong impression about our gaomilaksir, little lady.”

Ygritte did not return the insult or question the strange foreign word. The former because it had been said quietly and the latter because asking for an explanation would show ignorance. She knew these Canadians valued strength and wisdom. The O’Neill could easily tell Michael Duquesne to leave her behind if he thought her weak-willed or stupid. There was a trust between the two men.

Sayer climbed down from the roof, his weapon in hand. He approached them, friendly smile on his face. What does he want? Ygritte wondered, watching him carefully.

The Private held out his hand to Ryk. “Louis Sayer,” he said, “Good to meet you.”

Ryk returned the warm smile, and took Sayer’s whole arm instead of just the hand.

“Longspear Ryk.”

“Yeah, heard that,” Sayer nodded, shoulder shaking as his arm was shook by Ryk, “Not heard a name like that before. Why Longspear? You don’t have a spear?”

Laughter rumbled from O’Neill and burst out of Ygritte like water had gone down the wrong way. This one is a child, she thought, looking to her clan brother. Ryk’s smile merely widened. Sayer looked around, startled.

“The thing between his legs, Private,” O’Neill clarified, “He’s a big hit with the girls.”

“Ahhhhhh,” Sayer said, slapping himself on the forehead.

“Yeah,” the O’Neill grunted.

Sayer looked again to Ryk. “I guess that makes you the Rickest Ryk north of the Wall?” he said, in a tone that suggested a joke.

“They won’t get that gīmigare, Sayer,” Zheng called, appearing from inside Mance’s tent, “Especially considering I’m not even sure I do.”

Ygritte’s jaw dropped. This was the first time she had seen Zheng with her head and face uncovered in the full light of day.

She had hair so black that it seemed to suck the light out of the air, parted to either side of a face that men would fight over. The colour of her eyes was such a deep brown that they were almost black too. She had strong arms and legs, was large at the chest, despite being the smallest of the group.

Ygritte had never seen anyone like her before. Even before this, the Canadian spearwife was the most mysterious member of the group. She seemed to be the only one who could control the crawler . She spoke like a spearwife, and fought like one too. And bickered with the O’Neill. He must have claimed her as a wife . Only a man as strong as he could have fought off others.

Zheng paused when she spotted the two of them.

“I see we picked up some strays. Again.”

Ygritte bristled, forgetting her admiration for the woman at once. “You’re going to see the Crows,” she said, “We’re going to see you don’t get tricked and killed. Can’t use your not-magic sticks if you don’t think you need to. Crows are tricksy.”

“Okay, Gollum,” Zheng yawned, dismissing her with a wave and opening the door to the seat she controlled the crawler from. Ygritte’s lip curled at her attitude, but she restrained herself. What she needed to do was too important.

“Zheng is still very tired,” Sayer confided quietly, “Because of the attack last night, she still hasn’t got enough sleep.”

“None of us have,” came a familiar voice. Sayer half jumped as he straightened himself up.

Michael emerged from Mance’s tent, quickly followed by Tormund Giantsbane and Mance himself. Ygritte saw that his hair was a light brown, the sort that probably turned lighter still if it was warm enough to be allowed in the light of summer. He had deep blue eyes like daggers too. Do all these Canadians have dark eyes? she wondered.

He acknowledged her first. Before even his own. His eyes briefly hovered in their gaze below her own, though her body was still mostly covered with her clothing. He wonders what is underneath it all , she thought, All is not lost.

Mance gave a small nod in greeting, their brief acquaintance enough to earn her that.

Tormund Giantsbane grinned wildly from behind, his gaze moving between Ygritte and Michael knowingly. She raised her chin slightly, pleased that someone had recognised what was happening.

Michael himself came over after a quiet word with O’Neill above him. Ygritte’s heart pumped faster, against her will. “Morning Ygritte,” he said, “Where have you been?”

“My tent,” she replied, “It's by the lonely sentinel off the eastern trail.”

Ryk made a noise, one that sounded like a cough to anyone else but one Ygritte knew was mockery. She promised herself to punch him later for it.

Michael took a step away from Ryk, like he thought the man ill. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re coming with you,” Ygritte stated, brooking no disagreement.

Michael’s brow creased. “You and your friend?”

“Ryk. My clan brother.”

The leader of the Canadians looked over the two of them, considering. But didn’t reject them, by word or gesture. Of course he didn’t. She was a fine archer, kissed by fire and the woman he had stolen. She was certain now. He just does not know our ways.

Michael turned at the waist to look back at the King. “You have any objection to this?” he asked.

“None,” Mance said politely, “But it will not make your task any easier.”

“No, but it’ll make getting back by another route easier,” Michael countered, “We’re already late by nearly six hours. If snow falls and covered our tracks, we can’t find our way back on our own.”

“As you say,” Mance conceded.

“I’m sure you know how to keep warm even if you do get lost,” the Giantsbane said with a wink, talking to Michael’s back but aiming the wink at Ygritte.

“We’re not babes sucking milk from our mothers, Giantsbane,” she said, “Let's away. I don’t want to be caught out in the dark.” When the Others and their dead men stalk you.

Michael turned on his radio by fiddling with a box on his hip . “Zheng, start the crawler.”

The metal beast roared to life, and Ygritte felt happy to hear it again.

They did not travel long. Without night's darkness anywhere to be found, the one called Zheng bade the crawler to move even faster than Ygritte had experienced before. Ryk whooped and roared with laughter every time they moved over a bump or it was driven downhill. Ygritte found herself joining in before long, the fear replaced by thrill.

It was more fun when they were not running for their life. Though soon we may be.

The Canadians liked Ryk, and it wasn’t for his long-spear. Just as he always did, he talked to people like he was also their clan brother. They did the same in turn. The opposite of Ygritte’s blunt honesty in some ways, she knew, but not in others.

The crawler followed the tracks it had made the night before last, until they curved around a large hill. A large white owl flew by the crystal-glass on its sides three times. One of Tormund’s wargs, Ygritte knew, A warning; the Halfhand is coming.

“Three passes,” Michael said, just loudly enough to be heard over the crawler’s growling, “Close but not on top of us. This is as good a place as any. Pull over in there.” He pointed off to the left.

“Looks like the King is good for his word,” Zheng said idly. She turned the crawler in behind the hill and turned off the engine.

Good , Ygritte thought, The Halfhand will not see it there with such a mound in the way.

Michael clicked his tongue. “Mance is good for his word on this,” he said doubtfully, “But he’s a nādrēsy-jentys under the whole Viking warlord laehurlītos.”

More strange words Ygritte did not recognise, and this time, she didn’t understand what he was saying at all. What tongue is that? Their mother tongue?

The Canadians got out of their metal beast without another word, moving up to the peak of the hill. Ygritte and Ryk followed behind. From there, you could see the whole line of the trail going back half a league. The snow had melted in places, turning the ground into a soft bed of tree needles and leaves. Ygritte hated when it was like that. The mud always seeped into her boots somehow.

“They’ll keep inside our tracks,” the O’Neill said, “King said they were riding horses?”

“Yeah,” Zheng replied.

“Do we kill the horses?” Sayer asked.

“Not unless the men riding them are getting away,” Michael said sternly, “The horses didn’t do anything to deserve death. Plus they’re probably very valuable. We’re not so far away from the camp here.”

“I hope you’re as smart as you think you are, Corporal,” the O’Neill said to Zheng.

“I am” she replied, “You’re under no obligation to accept my observations as fact, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir,” O’Neill grimaced, “I work for a living.”

Michael gave a ‘Har!’ that Giantsbane would have been proud of.

The joke was that they all called him sir. Ygritte knew that the kneelers called their knights ‘ser’, but this seemed different. It was clear who was in charge, but not that he thought he was better than any of them.

Michael turned to Ygritte and Ryk,

“You two know how to ride a horse?”

“We do,” Ygritte said.

“Good, because I don’t. Can you get back to camp before dark from here? Even with lots of horses roped together?”

“Aye,” Ryk said, “If we leave in the next few hours.”

“Good. If things get messy, you’ll take the horses back and I’ll give you half of them for the trouble. Or half the price if it’s only one.”

Ygritte nodded, but said nothing about the offer. Canadians really were like kneelers on some matters. She was not of his clan, yet. Any thing he gave her was hers. Yet he was acting like he expected gifts to be returned. And there was always the chance that the Canadians would be killed, by the Halfhand or Mance, leaving her with all the horses in the end anyway. I don’t want your horses, I want you.

Michael pointed to a place near the bottom of the hill, in the direction they had come from the Fist. “The hill can hide the vehicle,” he said to O’Neill, “Reckon they’ll ride right past.”

The O’Neill grunted. “Reverse L-shaped ambush,” he said, “How very textbook of you, sir. We’ll still need to camouflage the vehicle. Maybe they have outriders that’ll ride past and then back to report.”

“Idea is to demoralise them into surrender,” Michael said, “And if they aren’t…”

“Yes, sir,” the O’Neill replied, “They’d regret charging you down, that's for sure. Surrender or run are their only options, and running would seem like certain death.”

Michael bared his teeth, looking predatory in a way that made Ygritte warm up and melt inside. “That's the point, Sergeant.”

He looked to Private Sayer. “You’re with me, Private. Take Arran’s rifle.”

Sayer blanched and did the strange hand movement to his head that they all did, what Mance called a sort of salute. He’s no seasoned warrior , Ygritte thought, How could he not have killed many men? She imagined killing at least five men would be required to even be part of Michael’s clan, since killing was so easy with their weapons.

The three of Michael’s warriors began to move, already knowing what they were supposed to do. The O’Neill and Zheng returned to the crawler to cover it in a large canvass coloured like dirt and snow and what looked like fishing net with . They were soon moving off to the right, to a nook beside the trail. Sayer crouched down by a tree to the left, aiming his weapon with its spyglass down the trail.

“What about us?” Ygritte asked, “We can fight.”

“True,” Michael said, “But we’re not here to fight if we can help it.”

Ygritte took a breath to steady herself. She needed to tell him the talking was pointless.

“Mance is testing you,” she said, “If you return without killing Qhorin Halfhand, he’ll set the host on you.”

There was silence for a moment. Ygritte nudged her clan brother with her elbow. He knew more than she did about it.

“Clans are already claiming the spoils to come,” Ryk admitted.

Michael looked out over the trail. “I know,” he said.

“You know?” Ryk said disbelieving, “How could you know?”

“The King does not trust me,” Michael said, “He sent me here knowing that talking to the Crows would reveal my existence and the plan to attack the Wall. We both need to get past the Wall. Mance to get you all safe from the White Walkers. Me to bring my soldiers home. He is counting on Halfhand’s reaction convincing me that the Crows would never let us through. Which would make the Crows my enemy as well as his.”

What about me? Ygritte thought, Will you bring me to your home once you understand what you have done?

“So what'll you do?” Ryk asked.

“We’ll do it our way,” Michael shrugged, “We don’t serve Mance and I can’t take the chance the Night's Watch would betray us if I told them about us. But I am also bound by our laws to try a peaceful solution.” He scratched his chin. “Well, as peaceful as it ever seems to get out here.”

Ygritte shook her head. She agreed with Mance. This would not work. “What're you going to talk to him about anyway?” she asked, “The only answers Crows ever give are ‘no’ and ‘die’, when their lordly lords and commanders are around anyway.”

“I don’t know if the Crows really know about the White Walkers,” Michael said, “But I aim to find out. I’ll drag them back to the Fist and show them with their own eyes. Then sit them down with Mance, talk about getting us all south of the Wall.”

There was not a chance Qhorin Halfhand would agree letting the Free Folk through the Wall was a good idea. Wight or no wight. Which left the two futures ahead.

“Will ya kill the Crows if they refuse?” Ygritte asked, “What’ll you do if Mance kills them instead of talking?”

Michael hummed to himself, as if not hearing the question. “I’ve planned as best I can.” That was no answer.

He finally looked back from the trail to her.

“If you want to help,” he said, “We’ll need to get you radios quick.”

It had taken some pushing and pulling to get the straps and helm with the ‘radio’ over Ygritte’s hair.

Once they were on her head and Michael had explained what to do to talk, she had spoken from a distance with all of them for nearly an hour. There was no time to explain how it worked, but Michael insisted it was not magic. Ygritte couldn’t understand how it could be anything else.

As the Canadians prepared their ambush, they explained what they expected of she and Ryk. Follow orders. Don’t kill unless they were killing. Stop immediately if they stopped. No names if they captured any Crows. And finally, Michael explained the plan.

Not soon afterwards, he and Ygritte sat just behind a pile of unmelted snow to the side of the trail, underneath more of the strange fishing nets. Their white-and-grey clothing let them blend in with the mud-splattered ice. A rope

The others had been split into two pairs.

The O’Neill and Zheng were by the crawler, watching the road from the peak of the hill with something called fleer, a strange device shaped like the hilt of a sword in the black bone of some animal, with a box and small spyglass attached. It let them see the heat of a person’s body. More magic that is not magic.

Sayer and Ryk were in between Ygritte’s place and the O’Neill’s, where the rear of the column of horses would be when the ambush began.

When the Crows arrived, the Canadians would shoot every bullet that their rifles could.

Not into the black brothers, but around them. The flying lights, whistling through the air and thumping on the ground and trees would scare the shit out of them. The crawler would emerge behind, across the trail, blocking the way south.

Only then would the Crows be called on to surrender, as the Canadians fed their rifles more bullets to shoot. Even then, only those who made to kill in reply to this call would themselves be killed. Those running would be allowed to run, for they would know nothing except that a mysterious force using magic had asked them to yield. No one south of the Wall would believe such a thing, just as they did not believe in the Others.

Michael had said the runners would probably be as good as dead anyway. This close to the Fist, wights slept in the daytime. The craven would not escape darkness in time to escape the notice of the White Walkers.

Ygritte did not like the plan. If they want the Halfhand, they should kill the rest , she thought to herself, The Others had returned. Whether or not some Rangers died was nothing to compare to that. The Halfhand would recognise that or he didn’t deserve to live anyway.

Michael agreed that would be most ‘effective’ when she voiced these thoughts. But there were laws that he had sworn to follow by sacred oath. Doing what Ygritte suggested might not have broken those laws, but he could not be certain.

In the end, it did not matter. They waited for hours in the cold. The Crows did not come.

The answer why appeared a little while after Michael warned they would have to abandon the day’s efforts. First, smoke rose in the distance behind the next hill, indicating a large fire. Next, a snowstorm blew in from the southeast, exactly where the Crows were coming from.

“They must’ve stopped for the night,” Michael said, “We need to get out of here before the wights show or we freeze to death. Withdraw back to the crawler.”

Ygritte could not argue with that. The snow she caught on her hand fell thick, the flakes as big as she had ever seen in the south forest. So they made their way back. By the time they made it, the canvass and netting covering the crawler had been tied to the roof.

“What now?” O’Neill asked Michael as they arrived back, “Aren’t we a bit too close to the Fist? A few hours ride tomorrow, he’ll be able to take a look at that camp back there and run back to his superiors.”

Michael nodded. “We’ll only go back as far as the watchfires, not all the way to Mance’s tent. The giants are waiting for us back there anyway. Strike out at the crack of dawn, soon as we know it’s safe.”

“The giants?” Ygritte asked, “What do the giants owe you?”

“Nothing,” Michael shrugged, “They want to hear about the giants back home. So I asked them for a few favours in return.”

“What favours?”

“You’ll see.”

“Tell me now.”

“No.”

Why won’t he trust me? Ygritte slung her bow in frustration, and left him there. She marched off to talk to Ryk. He hadn’t been there when she returned.

She found him relieving himself against the largest tree nearby, a little bit further into the forest. He was using it to shield himself from the rising winds. He stood with his back was turned to her and he made no sign that he had heard her approach.

“Hurry up,” Ygritte shouted to him, “We’re leaving!”

“Be patient!” Ryk shouted back, “Held this in for an age!”

“Why?”

“The fight could’ve started at any time. Didn’t want to miss the look on the Crows’ faces when the bullets started flying!”

Ygritte grumbled incoherently to herself that he was an idiot sometimes, but turned away and waited for him to finish.

A second later, Ryk shouted in pain. Ygritte spun on the spot, and found a crossbow bolt had sprouted in his shoulder. He turned and fell back against the tree, into his own steaming piss, his cock still out of his breeches.

Figures began rising from the snow mere yards behind him. Snow-covered black cloaks, black boots, black souls. And they were moving for Ryk. A trio aimed crossbows at her from behind a bush.

Fear shaking her into moving, Ygritte bolted forwards towards her clan brother. Her fingers clawed for her radio, as bolts zipped into the air where she had been standing a second before.

“Crows! The Crows are here!” she said, holding the radio mouthpiece closer to her mouth with a hand as she ran. The Canadians said something in reply, but she couldn’t hear over the sound of the blood rushing to her head and the warcry of the black brothers.

“FOR THE WATCH!” shouted a half dozen throats, over each other.

“GO FUCK A DOG, CROWS!” Ygritte roared back, her mind summoning the dogfucker insult she had heard two nights earlier. She gathered her axe and knife into each hand, making it to Ryk. She pulled him around the girth of the tree, out of the way of the crossbows.

“How many?” he asked, gripping the bolt in his shoulder, blood all over his fingers.

“Too many,” Ygritte replied, peeking around tree.

Her heart skipped a beat. The Crow in front was missing fingers and would reach her in a matter of a dozen breaths. The Halfhand himself was striding towards her at the head of his men. A sword in his whole hand and a small shield strapped to his other arm. Behind were another three, which meant at least that number were coming from the other side.

Pressing herself against the dark bark of the tree, she waited. The Halfhand had killed many, possibly hundreds, in his time as a Crow Ranger. There was no sign of the Canadians, their crawler apparently abandoned. The radio in her ear chattered about ‘imminent threat’. She forced herself to breath.

The Halfhand rounded the tree, too far for her to spring at him. Swordpoint lowered.

“Take her,” he said to his brothers that appeared from both sides, “We’ll keep going up the hill. Looks like the others ran off, but we need to be sure.” With that, he kept moving, towards the crawler. There was still no sign of the Canadians.

The man to his left approached, the other moving to come from the side. He was as young as she was.

His sword thrusted. Ygritte stood out of the way, and brought her axe down on the man’s hand. The blade bit into his gloved fingers, half-severing some. He dropped the sword. Blood bubbled out of the wound, coating the fresh snow with red drops. He screamed and went to his knees. His brother hesitated.

“Now there’s two Halfhands!” Ygritte roared at the Crow leader, shaking her bloodied axe in the air.

Qhorin Halfhand stopped and returned to her, his brothers following behind closely with faces twisted in rage. “It’s over, girl,” he said, “Yield.”

“Never,” said a voice from within her, “I belong to another.”

He looked to her side, and then back at her. Inviting her to look the same way. Not trusting it wasn’t a trick, she glanced with a snap of her head as quickly as she could. The crossbowmen had moved up to join. Their weapons aimed right at her. He opened his mouth to say something more.

The Canadians’ rifles and machinegun spoke first.

Flashes of light in the growing darkness reflected off of every falling snowflake around Ygritte. The tracers flew in a stream through the crossbowmen aiming at her, bloody wounds erupting from all over their bodies, one-by-one. More flew over the heads of Halfhand and those around her, slamming into the tree above her head. Wood splinters showered down with the snow.

The brave Crows ducked, Halfhand first. The cowardly ones ran away in any direction that seemed to put trees between them and the attack.

When the shooting stopped, the Crows rose again to find Michael Duquesne, Zheng and Sayer advancing on them. Rifles and carbine raised. As they got closer, the O’Neill emerged from under the nets with the leaves sewn onto them with the machinegun and rushed forwards to join them.

“Drop your weapons!” Michael shouted, “Drop them now!” The others with him did the same. They repeated it. “Drop your weapons!”

The Halfhand did not do what he was told at once. His eyes looked around, trying to work out what had happened. He was breathing hard, tongue working inside his mouth. Distracted.

Ygritte saw her chance. She grabbed the man whose fingers she had chopped by the hood and put her blade to his throat.

“Yield, old man!” she hissed, throwing his own words back at him, “It’s over!”

The Halfhand said and did nothing. His eyes locked with hers. Considering.

Michael and Sayer stepped closer. Zheng moved off to the side, to check if the crossbowmen were dead.

Without warning or noise, a Crow burst forward from his crouched position. His sword held at a low guard, he went for Sayer, who had strayed too near. The Private turned the rifle of the dead man Arran upon the attacker, its bark sounding like cloth ripping deeply. The bullets flew straight through the Crow and into the forest again.

Sayer watched as the man fell at his feet, his face steely.

Not a child , Ygritte thought, correcting her former opinion, A warrior of Canada indeed.

The Halfhand glanced between the scene and Ygritte, before hanging his head briefly in defeat. He stood, drawing the aim of the Canadians’ weapons, and dropped his sword to the ground. The black brothers who remained did the same. “We yield,” he asked, “Who are you?”

The way the Crow had said it, he meant What are you? Ygritte had asked the same thing herself, and still she did not know the whole truth.

“People whose names and birthplace would mean nothing to you,” Michael responded, “We’re not what you would call Wildlings, but that doesn’t matter.”

The Halfhand nodded to himself. “It’s clear you’re no wildling,” he said, “Though the girl with the knife to my man’s throat is. And her friend against the tree too.”

Michael looked at Ygritte. “Release the guy,” he said, “We’ve won.”

She showed the man her knife before releasing her grip on him. “Your lucky day, Crow.”

Michael was right. They had won. She had won. She had spilled the blood of her enemy with Michael’s clan, and her clansman had spilled his blood for them.

The look on the faces of the crows when the crawler moved from the top of the hill with a roar was something Ygritte knew she would remember for the rest of her life. They trembled as it came. All except the Halfhand. He just watched.

She also understood why the Canadians had not revealed themselves to the Crows as soon as Ryk had been hit. They would’ve run or attacked without hesitation. For her life to be saved and for the Halfhand to be captured, the Canadians needed to get in close and Ygritte had provided the perfect bait. You don’t hunt hares or deer by shouting and jumping , she thought, And that’s all anyone is to a Canadian. Prey.

A few Crows were taken into the crawler, with Zheng driving and O’Neill guarding. It returned, the captive Crows riding the horses from their camp. The animals had been tied together with rope in two lines of five, riding ahead of the ‘vehicle’ with the machinegun aimed at their riders the whole way.

Their swords were claimed by the Canadians, and each Crow was searched for more. This added a collection of daggers, axes and knives. Their water, food, tools and sleeping furs were also taken from them. Aside from the weapons, it was all piled up on top of the crawler, at its middle section, under the strange canvass and netting.

The Crows could not run even if they escaped. Not without anything to sustain them or keep them warm at night. They were too far from the Wall to make it, and all the villages in between were empty. Ygritte had been part of the effort to make it so.

The crossbow bolt was removed from Ryk’s shoulder by Zheng, alcohol administered to the wound to stop it festering. A bandage was wrapped around him, taken from a box with a red cross painted on its side. Ygritte was surprised they didn’t have some near-magic healing tool.

Final preparations were made to leave. So no one could be tempted to slip away from the back, the horses were moved in front of the crawler. They didn’t like the smell of the thing and it was taking time. Torches were lit as sunset rolled by, and the crawler’s strange not-magic lights were lit. The O’Neill supervised, Zheng guarded and Sayer watched with Ryk.

Ygritte bit her lip. Michael was nowhere to be seen.

She found him on the other side of the crawler. His coats made of materials she had never seen before was open at the front, revealing a deep green undercoat. He held the sword of Halfhand in his hand, unsheathed. He looked at it with interest, and tried swinging it, lips pursed with concentration.

Opening her mouth to ask what he was doing, Ygritte stopped herself. Now, said a voice from within, Find out if he will do what he promised. Show that you are willing. That he stole me.

She went to him, his attention only turning to her at the last moment. She pulled him closer and stood on her toes. He was tall. She gently pressed her lips to his.

For a few seconds, he did not respond. A terrible fear grew inside her. That she had made a mistake. That he wasn’t only ignorant of what he was supposed to do with a woman he had stolen, but he did not want to do it.

As she began to break off, a hand went to the side of her neck and face. His fingers moved against her skin. His lips moved against hers. His body moved in closer, though her furs meant she felt only a pressure on hers. Their tongues met. He tasted like mint. Warmth began to pool inside her.

The sword dropped to the ground with a clink.

Michael pushed Ygritte away gently. “I’m not sure what that was for,” he said, “And it was nice. I needed it more than I realised. But this can’t happen.”

Ygritte had never been more confused in her life.

A throat was cleared from the front of the crawler. The O’Neill stood there, watching. Ygritte recoiled in surprise. She had hoped to have more time.

Michael straightened up. “Sergeant.”

“Lieutenant,” the O’Neill replied sternly, “We are ready to get going, sir.”

“Good,” Michael replied, “We’ll talk later about this… situation.”

“Yes, we will,” the O’Neill promised. He turned and disappeared to the other side of the crawler again.

“What’s he all tight-arsed about?” Ygritte asked, “He has his own woman.”

“The Sergeant is as responsible for upholding our laws as I am,” Michael explained, “It’s starting to get dark. I’ll talk to you too about all this, later. When the threat of being killed by dead men isn’t hanging over us.”

Ygritte felt her chance slipping away. For that day, anyway.

“This isn’t over,” she said, “You stole me, Michael Duquesne. Under the stars.”

With those parting words, like parting arrows, she left him. This battle was over.

The war was just beginning.

Chapter Text

Michael slept through most of the ride back to the Fist of the First Men.

The Sergeant had insisted, the look on his face when he had done so telling the reason why. As embarrassing as that reason was, Michael was immensely grateful. He hadn’t slept more than two hours in a stretch, between the times he was on watch, his conversations with Mance and the previous night’s brief but intense combat against the undead.

Luckily, no wights made an appearance the entire time. Even when O’Neill woke him up again, as they came into sight of the mass of watchfires stretching throughout the valley around the hill from the forest to the river called Milkwater. It seems the Others had thought better of attempting to add to their army of dead for the moment.

There were plenty of far softer targets.

Mance had said his army did not represent even a quarter of the people north of the Wall. The reason he knew that was because there were three other armies out there, marching to join this one, all about the same size as it. But there were also plenty of people who refused to join. Refused to follow anyone called King. They would soon be calling Death that title, Michael knew.

The welcoming committee was waiting for them, as promised. Giants stood guard on the trail. The watchfires at their back cloaked their fronts in shadow. The Crows stopped without orders, fearful of the massive figures. Zheng applied the brakes hard. The jolt was enough to nearly throw everyone from their seat and O’Neill from his perch on the roof.

Time for yet another roll of the dice, Michael thought to himself, as the sasquatch squad advanced. “Sergeant, shout to the giants that these are our prisoners and to the Crows that they’re to follow the giants.”

“Yes, sir.”

Though both the giants and the Crows objected, O’Neill was able to smooth over things. Michael did not listen closely. He felt the fatigue in his bones. Which meant it was more than his body that was hurting, he knew. He had been without real sleep for longer than this before without the sensation seeming to be that deep.

The giants did not lead them to Mance at the peak. Instead, they went back to their own camp where the southern treeline met the river. As they got closer, Michael woke up fully as his eyes and nose showed him something new.

In amongst the flora, woolly mammoths stood.

Shaggy, long-haired elephants, some with massive tusks. Some even had riders, that approached. The Crows being on horseback had apparently been unexpected.

Michael had once seen elephants up close in a zoo in Québec. Though they had been African elephants and didn’t have hair to protect from the cold, he still remembered the smell as being overpowering and bad. The cold kept the mammoths’ scent from spreading very far, or numbing the nose enough, but they smelled just as bad as their cousins back in the zoo.

Ammonia and crap and dirt. A small price to pay for what we needed , Michael reminded himself as they passed by a mammoth and rider closely. He was nonetheless grateful when the giants directed them to a place away from the pens of the animals.

There was a nook in the ground created by a large rock, easily large enough to shelter from the north wind. To say nothing of the army of Crow-hating Free Folk. Out of sight, out of mind , Michael thought. Zheng pulled the crawler parallel to the rock, the Crows moved their horses to a set of nearby trees, and all dismounted.

The ‘leader’ of this particular clan of giants was waiting for them, a massive being that towered over the others. At least, he was the one nominated to guard and watch over Michael’s group. “Magic ones,” he greeted, his voice rumbling loudly like an avalanche, “Have place, as promised.”

Michael had to summon the giant’s name from his memory, after drawing a blank for a second. “Thank you, Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun,” he replied, “We’ve brought the men of the Wall as prisoners.”

Wun looked at the Crows as other giants shepherded them towards the rock. “King will be pleased. But other small men will not.”

King will absolutely not be pleased , Michael’s mind whispered to him, But best not tell the giant that. “If there is trouble, tell us,” he said instead, “And if you can send a message to the king, that would help.”

Wun inclined his head in what was probably a nod, but it was hard to tell.

“You tell stories now,” the giant said. It was a casual demand, but not one to be waved off as something to fulfil later.

Michael called for O’Neill, Sayer and Ygritte. They came, the Sergeant replaced on the GPMG by Zheng as the Crows flinched, another two giants dumping a pile of firewood beside them and a sack of apples.

“Sergeant, Private, set up over there and tell the giants about sasquatches like we agreed,” Michael ordered, pointing to another clearing nearby, “As much as you can remember. Stay in sight, and make sure you eat something.” Because we need guest right again.

“Understood,” O’Neill said, “Though I’m not sure some story from a drunken Yank soldier at Fort Campbell about Bigfoot is going to translate well.”

“It’s more than I know,” Michael replied, “And since Sayer knows sasquatch stories too, you’ll have to make do between the pair of you.”

“We’ll try, sir,” Sayer said, “Giants though… If we ever get home, this’ll be some story to tell.”

“No one will ever believe us,” O’Neill complained, “I thought the air assault guy at Campbell was crazy at the time. We’ll sound crazy even compared to him.”

“We’ll take what proof we can back,” Michael reassured him, “Sergeant, on the other thing… I need to gather some information, but can we speak tonight?”

O’Neill scowled, not wanting to be reminded of the situation. “Yes, sir. But I’ll insist on the others coming along too. Get in front of this thing before they find out on their own.”

Michael agreed and the man saluted in return.

The Sergeant made to leave, but was interrupted by the fourth person present.

“What about me?” Ygritte asked.

Michael had called her but hadn’t so much as looked at her. Time for a bluff. “You’ll want to hear the stories too. Go listen as a witness of the Free Folk, while I deal with the Crows and change Ryk’s bandage.”

Ygritte looked at him, no doubt suspecting the truth; that Michael was preventing her from taking any more action on her feelings by directing her to other tasks. But when O’Neill and Sayer left with Wun Wun, to his relief she went with them.

First thing is first.

Michael went back to the crawler. He returned food, tents, basic tools and personal property to the men of the Night’s Watch. Now that they and their horses were under guard by giants, there was little fear of them being able to escape. They knew it and began setting their own tents up, getting a fire going. They also ate the donated apples quickly, getting that vital guest right.

Michael grabbed two apples himself, one for him and another for Zheng. He received no thanks for returning the Crows’ property, nor expected any.

Except from Qhorin Halfhand.

The man received his saddlebags back with the motions of gratitude but not the real warmth of it. The things had been thoroughly searched for weapons before and the man knew it. The only reason Michael returned any of it was because he was obligated to.

Perhaps the Crow Ranger sensed the hesitation. The questions came the second his bag was slung over his shoulder.

“I asked you something before. You did not answer,” Halfhand said, “Since then, I’ve seen you move this carriage without horses. You speak the Old Tongue, like it was the one you were born with. I ask again. Who are you?”

Knowing this had been coming, Michael waved the Crow to follow. They went to beside the crawler. Zheng watched with one curious eye while the other watched the other prisoners. Ryk was inside, laying down to rest. It was still warmer in the crawler than elsewhere, for the moment. Or maybe he’s just checking out the Corporal’s ass, Michael thought as noted the man was positioned to achieve that with ease, Man will be dead if she catches him.

He leaned back against the crawler, and delivered his prepared response to Halfhand’s question. “Foreigners from as distant a land as you can imagine,” Michael said, “The name of the place wouldn’t mean a thing to you. We were shipwrecked here.”

“If you’re from so far away, how do you speak our language?”

Michael saw no point in lying about this point. “Magic. Same thing that brought us here, though that was not intentional.”

The Halfhand scratched his chin with the single digit left on his ‘half-hand’, looking up at the tops of the trees. That fits a piece of the puzzle he has in his mind somehow, Michael thought.

“Let us suppose you are from so far away. Do you have a name?”

Here, Michael knew he had to lie.

If this man ever returned to the Night’s Watch and the plan failed in any aspect, it would be best if the kings south of the Wall did not know the name Michael Duquesne. Or Canada, for that matter. I am tempted to say my name is No Man, he thought, Like I’m Odysseus in the cave of the Cyclops. The temptation gave him a far better answer than that.

“You can call me Ulysses,” Michael said, “We are from Ithaca.”

Zheng let out a noise that may or may not have been amused, but she was quick enough about it that she played it off as a sneeze by the time Michael had looked up at her.

The Halfhand hadn’t failed to notice her either. “You’re lying to me.”

“Yes,” Michael admitted, “I’ll happily tell you my real name and where we are from, once we are safely south of the Wall. With the Free Folk.”

The Halfhand stared and bit into an apple, holding it with his good hand. “Hostage or no, the Lord Commander will never let a wildling army south of the Wall. Though now I know you’re telling me the truth about being foreign. No wildling would ever be so mad as to think five captured Crows could be the toll price at the gates of Castle Black.”

Michael became curious. “Wildlings? They call themselves the Free Folk.”

“Wildlings is the more truthful title for them,” the Halfhand replied, chewing, “Do not mistake me. These people you have fallen in with have many virtues. They are brave, stubborn, resourceful. But they are also a menace. Their way of life is thieving, raping and murdering. They share that way with the people in the south more and more each year. It is my duty to stop them. You would be wise to leave them.”

Given what he had seen and heard, Michael believed the Crow Ranger, and easily. The attack by Rattleshirt’s warband, the strength of the guest-right culture… and what Ygritte had said to him a few hours before. You stole me under the stars .

He suppressed a shudder, moving his talk with Ryk on the matter up a notch in urgency. But it still didn’t trump the main issue.

“I think your Lord Commander will be more willing to talk than you think.”

“Why is that, Ulysses?”

“Because dead men are rising to kill the living. Because the White Walkers are the ones responsible. Because soon every ‘wildling’ will be a part of their army and your Wall is not guarded by enough men to stop them.”

There was silence. Would he believe?

The Crow had stopped chewing his apple, and hurriedly swallowed whatever was in his mouth. “You have seen this,” the Halfhand breathed, “You have seen the White Walkers.”

Michael’s voice dropped deeply, beyond his control. “A few. One of them up close, as close as you are to me now. It was almost the first thing I saw when I landed here. The weapons we used against your men only slowed it down, though the dead men with it did not like being tickled with them.”

“Is that why the villages are emptying? Why hillsides are surrounded by watchfires every night?”

“Yes. Safety in numbers.”

Recognition clicked in the Crow’s mind. “This is Mance Rayder’s camp. He plans to attack the Wall with those numbers, invade the Seven Kingdoms. Get clear of the things.”

“I don’t know what the King intends to do once past the Wall, but if some agreement isn’t reached, an attack is certain. First by the Free Folk. Then by the dead.”

Halfhand nodded to himself, and Michael saw it. He knew. He knew all along.

“You knew,” he accused the Crow, “You knew there were dead people attacking the living and you’re still more worried about the ‘wildlings’.”

The Halfhand glared at him. “A ranger went back to Castle Black claiming that an Other had killed his patrol. We did not know what to believe. The man deserted the night after he returned. Took a horse and rode south, so hard he killed his mount. He is now dead, executed for his crime by Lord Stark. We did not have time to find the whole truth of it from him. And I ride from the Shadow Tower, I only heard of this by message, not with my own ears.”

Michael had no intention of letting the matter slide that easily. “But you noticed all the wildlings have packed up and left their homes. It didn’t occur to you that they did that for a good reason? You call this an army? It’s more of a refugee camp. People getting their families out of the way of the ‘Others’.”

“Wildling families are well armed. It matters little.”

“Every single one of them deserves a chance to live if dying means being a slave to the creatures I saw.” Michael was surprised with how strongly he felt that way, but it was the truth as he saw it.

The Halfhand’s lips curled back, revealing his teeth. “You may be right. It does not matter, as I said. The lords of the Seven Kingdoms will never agree.”

Michael crossed his arms. “You’re the ones guarding the Wall. Practically speaking, you can let whoever you want through your gates.”

“The lords would march on us. And stop granting us gifts of food and steel.”

“Only if what happened was a threat to them.”

“Or if they saw it as an insult, which they will,” the Halfhand replied sourly, “How could it not be a threat? You think you can control these Free Folk?”

It was a good argument. The name ‘Free Folk’ gives away the problem , Michael thought, T hey don’t seem to want to bow to any law but their own individual conscience and a couple of shared traditions . Yet they were still together here and hadn’t murdered each other. And there was one man responsible for that. The man with the plan, a plan to be changed.

“No, but Mance can. We’ll negotiate. It’s the reason you are still alive, the reason I set out to capture you in the first place.” He purposefully left out the real reason for his wanting south of the Wall. It would have sounded truly crazy to someone who hadn’t seen magic or dead men walking.

“Negotiate with the Wildlings,” the Halfhand half-laughed, “The mere suggestion would kill any Lord Commander tried. Many of my brothers would never allow it. Especially the anointed knights and the southerners. I would be a dead man for agreeing to it.”

Michael shrugged. “We’ll bring a dead man to convince them, then.” He did not need to clarify what he meant by that.

Qhorin Halfhand paled. “You have a wight? Here?”

Michael shook his head. “Not yet. But this camp was attacked only last night. The things stalk the forest. Finding a few shouldn’t be hard. It’s finding one without the damned White Walker to go along with it that might be an issue.”

The thought of the Walker he had shot again and again came without being asked. Michael felt his face contort, the thing’s eyes glowing in his infrared night vision, staring at him from his memory.

“A wight or two would convince many to talk, especially if we could send it south,” the Halfhand admitted, “But I do wonder why none of my brothers have ever seen them, even from a distance, and lived to tell the tale?”

“The Walker I saw was as intelligent as a person, easily. Maybe it knows to stay just far enough away for you to mistake wights for wildlings. Or maybe it knows you are the vanguard of an entire civilisation. That would make me hesitant to attack your Wall.”

The Halfhand had ‘gotcha’ written all over his face. “This is the reason you won’t give me your true name.”

“I see you’re intelligent yourself.”

The Halfhand gave a mirthless laugh. “Very well. I’ll sit down with Mance.”

Michael cocked an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Too easy , Michael’s mind calculated, He’s up to something . His hand went to the pistol on his hip, a movement the Crow Ranger followed with his eyes. “I wouldn’t recommend trying anything. I’ll be there when you meet the King. If you’ve got some hidden knife under all that black fur, it won’t do you any good to try and kill him. Or me. I’ll riddle you with holes before you can draw blood.”

Halfhand smiled. “You think me a man who would violate guest right?” He took another bite of apple, as if to remind Michael who had given him it.

“I don’t know. Maybe you take your vow to your brotherhood more seriously than that right?”

“My vow to the Night’s Watch says we are the shields that guard the realms of men. The Wildlings are such a realm. Our brotherhood was created and the Wall built to fight more than wild men.”

Halfhand opened and closed his wrecked hand, as if it still hurt him. “Lord Commander Mormont will want to hear everything you have said to me. He will want to see a wight. Killing Mance would serve my vows well. Reporting all of this to the Old Bear serves them better.”

Michael’s doubts rose further. He didn’t know a single command officer back home that would believe that the dead were rising or would move an inch to see a wight. That this ‘Lord Commander’ would believe depended only on the proof being brought and thrown on the floor in front of him. The Halfhand’s quick willingness to talk had something else behind it.

Perhaps they’re too weak to defend the Wall , Michael thought, Or he fears my weapons enough. “Then I guess we’ll find out if you’re lying,” he said.

The Halfhand made to leave. “So we shall.”

Michael watched the Crow Ranger return to his brothers, who gathered around their campfire and listened as he explained, quietly enough that he couldn’t be heard.

“He’s a slippery one, sir,” Zheng commented from above, “But I hope the King agrees to talk with him.”

“Mance will talk,” Michael replied, “He likes talking, he knew this guy and he has nothing to lose at this point. It’s if and when we go see this ‘Lord Commander’ that the stakes will rise.”

“Or ‘Mance’ will be pissed that we didn’t kill this Crow,” Zheng countered, “And he’ll send his massive army after us.”

Michael smirked. “At which point we shoot our way out, run with Mr. Crow there to the Wall, a new alliance in hand.”

“Negotiations or a free ticket past the wall…A win-win situation. Clever, sir.”

“I try. It would be nice if you had a little more confidence in my abilities.”

“Don’t know you long enough for that, sir.”

With the top priority item dealt with for the moment, Michael turned to deal with the other thing. He peered through the window of the crawler. Ryk was asleep in a corner seat at the back opposite, leaning his weight away from his wounded shoulder.

“Corporal,” Michael called to Zheng, “Unfortunately I have to damage your confidence in me a little. I need you to be a witness to the conversation I’m about to have. It’ll almost certainly be evidence for a disciplinary.”

Zheng looked down at him with a carefully neutral expression. The many scandals that the Forces had seen over recent years hung over her next question. “What did you do, sir?”

Michael couldn’t explain. “I don’t know exactly,” he sighed, “That’s the problem. I’m going to wake our friend there up and talk to him about it. I’ll need you to take notes.”

Zheng rummaged around under her camo overcoat, producing a notepad and ballpoint pen. “Can do, sir. There are enough giants that I don’t think the Crows will try anything.”

Michael opened the door and called to Longspear Ryk.

The man stirred awake quickly, before letting out a breath through his teeth in pain, his rapid movement ill advised. He searched for the person calling him sleepily but angrily, before his annoyance subsided when he saw who it had been. With a flicker of a look towards the weapon hanging off the front of Michael’s chest.

“Michael Duquesne,” Ryk said, “What’s wrong? Where’s Ygritte?”

“Ygritte is listening to a story with the giants,” Michael replied, “I need to talk to you. She said something earlier I don’t understand. I was hoping you could explain.”

Ryk climbed out of the crawler, pulling his fur coat around his wounded shoulder. “What’d she say?”

Michael glanced up at Zheng, who was watching and listening intently, notepad at the ready. Looking like a journalist a little too much there, Corporal, Michael thought. With reluctance, he took the leap. “That I ‘stole her under the stars’,” he replied to Ryk.

A knowing smile spread over Ryk’s face. “Told her you didn’t know what you’d done,” he said, before explaining exactly what he had in fact done and what Ygritte’s attitude towards it was.

“Bride kidnapping.”

O’Neill flinched at the words. “Bride kidnapping?” he asked, no one else in the crawler willing to speak.

The giants had greatly enjoyed the stories of sasquatches of all kinds. Michael’s fellow Canadians had gathered for a different story now; the Ygritte situation. Necessary witnesses to the conversation to occur, so it simply was not a conflict between a lieutenant and his sergeant.

“They practice bride kidnapping,” Michael repeated, “If a man wants a woman, he goes to a different clan and tries to steal an unmarried daughter. Not a wife, that sort of thing leads to war. If he succeeds and the woman doesn’t kill him or escape, they’re married.”

“So basically, rape,” Zheng added with disgust, “A lot of the time anyway.”

“Qhorin Halfhand did say that rape was a part of their way of life,” Michael confirmed, “Though Ryk clarified that they had teas that stopped pregnancies and women who end up kidnapped by men they don’t like almost always kill the men.”

“Doesn’t make it right,” Zheng said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Michael agreed, “But it does put me right up the creek without a paddle. The argument that it was kidnapping or attempted rape isn’t a thing here. I took Ygritte from Rattleshirt’s warband and bundled her into our vehicle, exactly as expected if I were out looking for a wife. Except the vehicle part.”

“And he did it at the absolute best time,” Zheng added for the benefit of the others, “When a certain planet appears within one of the constellations, it’s a fated time to take a woman. Because the cosmos wants you to rape.”

“Don’t forget the distance thing too,” Michael added wearily, “Taking a woman from further away is considered better than a clan nearby. And we’re from as far away as anyone could ever get.”

Sayer raised a hand, like he was still in school. “So, you’re married, sir?” he said.

The Sergeant cleared his throat. “They don’t have the rule of law, so he isn’t really,” O’Neill replied, “She just thinks they are, because he inadvertently made all the moves to do so.”

The Corporal and the Private both waited, expectantly, to hear about what moves had been made.

Michael did not want to admit the truth. Particularly as it might lead to a breakdown in discipline. If he couldn’t follow the rules, why should they? There were no MPs waiting to take them to a cell if they disobeyed him now. “I doubt that will be much comfort to Ygritte,” he answered, “I did return the interest, after all.”

“How?” Zheng asked, an edge in her tone.

“She kissed me, and I was tired and stressed enough to let it happen. We had just put those Crows through the meat grinder. Then I went around cutting off their heads with that sword so they wouldn’t rise and kill us. I stared at the blade, wondering if we’d ever get home, if that sort of thing was all we had left. That’s when it happened.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Told you I should’ve done the chopping. That was a piece of utter fucking stupidity, sir,” O’Neill said, nearing outright insubordination in his tone, “I understand a little better now. But it doesn’t lock you into a marriage. You have to reject it. The regs are clear. Fraternization can have detrimental effects on unit operation effectiveness due to potential threats to the security, morale, cohesion and discipline of a unit. Task force commanders must issue orders and guidance on fraternization appropriate to the situation in their area of operations.”

Michael was not surprised the Sergeant had that particular reg memorised. “I’m the task force commander for all intents and purposes here,” he countered.

“You are, but I am the ranking NCO,” O’Neill stated with absolute authority, “You issuing the order on your own fraternisation with a local inhabitant isn’t going to fly here, or at home. And you know it. We’re in a position of obvious power here. True consent is a big problem, especially in the cultural context.”

Michael nodded. “I know,” he said, “But I think rejecting her outright may impact negatively on our operation effectiveness. Ryk said that the entire camp knew that I ‘stole’ Ygritte. That I gained approval and respect for it, because she’s considered a beauty and Rattleshirt is, and I quote, ‘a prick’. Even the comments that guy Tormund threw around make sense now. I reject her and we look weak or foolish or too much like the kneelers . I accept her and we tie ourselves to the Free Folk in a way most recognise. I’m trapped, but one way is definitely less of a problem than the other.”

O’Neill glared at him. “Do you want to marry this girl, sir ?” he asked.

Michael glared back. “No I do not, Sergeant. I will admit being attracted to her, but even that might just be the shared trauma effect. Most likely is, if I’m being honest. I don’t really know her. I view it as my duty to get us all home, first and foremost. Beyond that, not dying in an ice zombie apocalypse is next. I’m weighing this against those duties. If I get cashiered or charged when we get back as a result, that’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

To hell with staying in Hell, he thought.

Zheng h’mmed to herself. “There is something you are not considering, sir,” she said, “She knows more about us than anyone else on this world. If you reject her, given everything that has happened, I don’t think she’ll be happy about it. She won’t accept our ‘cultural context’ as an excuse to break it off.”

“Why does that matter?” O’Neill asked.

The Corporal straightened up. “The leaders of her people would want to know everything the second they heard you had fallen out. How exactly our weapons work, how much ammunition we carry on our persons, the fact we can see in the dark a certain way. Given they’re not idiots and they have the numbers, that could really screw us. Especially if the Crows aren’t cooperative. Turns everything into a lose-lose, sir.”

“Don’t the Free Folk know everything already?” Sayer asked, “They questioned Ygritte for most of a day.”

“That was before they saw us in action at night against the wights,” Zheng replied, “I doubt the questions they were asking were tactical in nature. They get her alone again and the next ones will be.”

Both Zheng and Sayer looked to their lieutenant and sergeant for comment.

Michael thought Zheng had reasoned it out well, though he required the Sergeant to agree. “So I can’t reject her,” he said, “It would cause reputational damage and grant an intel source to people we can’t fully trust, both of which are threats to our survival.”

O’Neill leaned forwards on his knees. “You absolutely cannot sleep with her, sir.”

“I know,” Michael said, “But there are plenty of sexless marriages out there.”

“I don’t think that’s the case here,” O’Neill disagreed, “And you can’t even have an outward appearance of sleeping with her. We’re in uniform, in the same unit.”

“You are both thinking too rigidly,” Zheng stated matter-of-factly, “Who said anything about marriage? Ygritte wants to be with the lieutenant. She can’t be, at least until we know for sure if we’re actually able to get back home. Then we either leave or you can do whatever the hell you want. What we need to do is delay her until we know which it is, since rejecting her could get us killed. Or in my case, raped. And fuck that.”

“Corporal, you and I are going to have a chat of our own about the regs on policing your flapping mouth,” O’Neill said coolly, “She said he stole her. That’s marriage here. What the hell do you mean delay her?”

“Marriage means joining our clan or something, I’ll bet,” Zheng replied, ignoring the reprimand, “Well, our ‘clan’ has regs. Rules we follow. Accept the whole ‘the lieutenant stole her’ thing, but impose those rules on her. Until she masters them, she can’t be with him. Like she was a member of the unit, or an allied force if that’s too far.”

Sayer held up a hand again. “Maybe even bring Big Dick Ryk in too, and anyone else who’s willing to follow our orders. We could use some more allies.”

O’Neill frowned. “Doesn’t fix the problem,” he said, “It would no longer be fraternising, assuming they’d accept the idea of an allied unit back home. But the lieutenant would still be in a personal relationship with someone he is in command of. That’ll go down like the fucking Hindenburg.“

“They have to make some allowances back home,” Zheng complained, “We’re on another world! If command is such a problem, we’ll create two fireteams. One under your command, Sergeant, one under the lieutenant’s command. Ygritte can go to yours. Or if more people want to sign up, you can command an allied unit with Ygritte as your second or some shit.”

Michael saw where she was coming from. “What you’re saying is that you think best efforts will be enough? If we deliberately separate Ygritte and myself as much as possible, leadership will accept the circumstances.”

“I think we’re stuck here,” Zheng corrected him, “But if we do get home, I think the letter of the law is going to be far less important than the image of what we do. You reject her and I think we’ll have to kill a lot more people, if we even survive. That looks far worse than fraternisation, and it won’t just be on you. It’ll be all of us on trial. Killing the indigenous after we violated their cultural norms? That’s what would go down like the Hindenburg.”

“A compromise solution…” Michael mused, “It might be worth a shot.” He looked to the Sergeant, whose opinion was the deciding vote on the matter.

O’Neill sighed, and threw up his hands. “I surrender. The compromise is the best we can do, for now at least. It preserves the letter of the law. But sir, if I hear you’re fucking her…”

Wanting to roll his eyes, Michael nonetheless chose his words with sincerity. “I’ll try and resist the massive temptation,” he said, with no small amount of sarcasm.

O’Neill grinned. “You think it’s easy now,” he said, “Wait until Ygritte’s crawling into your tent. I have noticed the way she looks at you. After all this BS talk about how we’re dead if you reject her, don’t expect me to stop her. I’ll just be there to say I told you so and relieve you of command.”

“Who knew you were an ambitious man?” Michael replied flatly, promising himself it would never happen.

Chapter Text

The King Beyond the Wall sent word that there would be a gathering of the available chieftains in three days time, to allow a chance for a tribe called 'the Thenns' and other clans from the far north to arrive. Two of the Free Folk armies standing against the Others were to unite.

Finding it strange that one of the tribes would be named and the others would just be tacked on as an afterthought, Michael went to Ygritte and Ryk. "Who are the Thenns?" he asked, "Why would Mance wait for them?"

Ygritte spat a chunk of apple into the fire she and her clan brother were sitting beside. "Fucking Thenns," she said, "They're right evil ones. Not Free Folk. They've got lords, and kneel to their Magnar. Think that he's a god. If he was, more of his people would still have their ears. Including him."

Michael grimaced. "Their ears?"

"The Thenns live furthest north," Ryk replied, "Their valley has many hot springs, but they often hunt and raid elsewhere in the mountains. Their hunters and warriors often lose their ears to frostbite. Including the Magnar of the Thenns."

"Who ever heard of a god losing their ears to the cold?" Ygritte snorted, "We're no gods and we've managed to keep ours."

"We don't live that far north," Ryk countered.

Ygritte shrugged. "Which is another reason we're less fools. And more brave. Thenns never have to fight Crows' steel. Doubt they've even seen the Wall before."

"I've never seen the Wall before," Michael pointed out with amusement.

The Free Folk woman dismissed that with her hand. "Thenns do fight well enough. Only saw them the once, but they all moved in one big clump, shields raised, bows behind. Like a walking village wall. Rattleshirt was the only leader that got away from that fight with more than half his warriors."

"Rallied us all before the Thenns took us," Ryk agreed, "Managed to get back to Mance with word. The next three battles went our way and they agreed to join him."

Michael raised a brow. A faction that uses tactics? "The Thenns fight as one unit?"

The two Free Folk chewed, considering the word Michael had used. Something has been lost in translation. The context was enough of a clue though.

"Aye, they fight as one and don't run as easily," Ryk said, "Only way to beat them was to avoid their spears, wear them down with arrows, javelins, slings. Or have much bigger numbers."

"Which Mance did," Ygritte added.

Everything clicked into place. "So that's why he wants them," Michael said, "They're the only ones with disciplined troops north of the Wall."

Ygritte sniffed, offended that Michael was impressed by such a thing. "They're worse than kneelers. White Walkers hit them first, but still their Magnar wouldn't even talk with Mance until after he beat them the three times. They won't like you, Michael Duquesne. Nor your plans to talk to the Crows."

Feeling the cold creep through him a little, Michael sat down by the fire. Ygritte shuffled on her knees over to him, close enough to lean on him. Ryk watched with knowing eyes, which Michael avoided.

"The reason Mance is bringing them is to show what the Crows will face if they say no," he said, "And the Thenns don't have to like me, no more than the carrot has to like the stick."

Ryk grinned widely. "You're a stick too, Canadian," he said, "A big one. And big sticks often mislike each other."

Figures that they'd understand the carrot and stick idea, Michael thought, throwing a stone into the fire for no reason.

Ygritte snorted again, before a low rumbling giggle came out of her. "As long as the Magnar hasn't lost his big stick to frostbite too." She shook with laughter. Ryk joined there, while Michael watched the pair of them, exasperated.

Cock jokes, he thought, They'll fit right in with O'Neill and Zheng.

"I hope you've still got yours, Michael Duquesne," Ygritte said, coyly.

Michael knew where this was going. "I've still got mine."

"Prove it," Ygritte said, leaning back on her elbows, "Ryk told me you talked to him, you and Zheng. Laws against warriors taking women? You're stranger than the Thenns, and they follow an earless, cockless god."

Michael didn't want to explain. No Free Folk would understand. But he tried anyway, out of a strange defensiveness that seemed to come from nowhere. "Our women choose who they want to be with. People who steal women, touch them without permission, are punished. Or, that's the law anyway."

"Our women choose who they want to be with too," Ygritte insisted, "Many a man who's taken a woman has never woken again. You think you'd still be breathing otherwise, Canadian?"

It isn't so simple. Not everyone is as strong or determined as you.

Michael glanced at her clan brother, who was enjoying just listening to this. "Ryk did tell you that I didn't know what I was doing, right?"

"Aye, but it doesn't matter. I know what you really want. You showed me, right after you took the Crows. You were going to have me right there and then, until your Sergeant showed up. And until you stop pretending like your cock fell off, I'll be here."

Just as expected, there's no chance she'll just drop this. Michael looked up at the foreign sky, in defeat. It was time to propose the compromise.

"What you want would require that you join our … clan. I spoke with the others. They're willing to accept you, if you follow our laws."

Ygritte's little nose twisted a little. "But your laws say you can't have me?"

Michael cleared his throat. "Depends what you mean by that. Sleeping with you? Not while we're in uniform. So probably not until we find out if we can go home. But the law does let it be recognised that we belong to one another. If we find some peaceful place, then we can work out what we're doing."

Ygritte pursed her lips, staring at the flames.

"Do you want to belong to me, Michael Duquesne?" she asked, "If you did, you wouldn't care about this law or that law."

Michael shook his head. "I have to care. Our laws were made for good reasons. We're not supposed to be screwing around when we could be fighting at any moment."

"That's the best time to be screwing around, you can die as quick as the weather turns."

Michael grumbled to himself. I'm not getting through to her, his mind told him, And I won't unless I put this in a way she can relate to. Crudely.

"My people fight like the Thenns. Warriors working close together. You know this, you've seen it yourself, right?"

"Aye," Ygritte confirmed.

"What do you think would happen if the men were told 'yeah, you can go fuck whoever you want'? They'd start fighting each other out of jealousy, or start thinking 'wouldn't it be nice if that guy died so I can have his woman?'. They'd pay more attention to their cocks than about killing the enemy, see?"

Revelation seemed to cross Ygritte's face. "Aye, I can see that. Men do love their cocks. But fighting over women keeps the clan strong too. And fighting like Thenns and kneelers doesn't win a man any woman either."

I won you that way, Michael thought, but did not say. "Fighting over women means fewer living men to fight other people. Fewer men means you're less likely to win a fight. And winning fights also wins you women, according to your logic anyway."

"What about honour?" Ryk asked, "Having your name known by all as a great warrior?"

"There's nothing more honourable than victory," Michael smiled, "As for glory? Plenty of that to go around in war. You can get it just as easily leading as you can from fighting as an individual. We don't hold it very highly ourselves though. Truth is that war is bloody, dirty and mostly evil. We go to war because it's necessary, not because it's glorious."

"You really sound like a kneeler now," Ygritte accused.

"Oh, I'd bet good money that the kneelers think war is glorious," Michael said, "They have lords and knights, after all. Anyway, I'm saying all of this so you know what joining us would mean, and how you'd have to wait to be with me in the way you want."

Michael looked to Ryk. "Offer is open to you as well. The joining our clan part, anyway. You're not my sort where being with me is concerned."

"How disappointing," Ryk replied with much mirth.

Michael appreciated his good humour about the whole thing. It would've been harder if he had been hostile. "You don't have to decide right away," he said, "We've got three days until we meet with Mance and the chieftains. By the time we get back from that, I'd like your answer."

Ygritte sat up again. "And if I say no?"

"Then I'll have to ask you to leave us. If you believe that I stole you under the stars, that this was fate, then you have no choice but to accept our laws. I would not be your lord, you would not have to kneel, but you would swear a sacred oath."

Ygritte kicked the dirt, and rose to her feet, walking off in the direction of the other campfire, where O'Neill, Zheng and Sayer were sitting. The three of them looked up as she approached and spoke, listening with blank faces.

Michael wondered if she would take the offer. "What about you?" he asked Ryk.

"If she agrees, I'll agree," he said, poking at the firewood in the flames, "Been protecting her since she was little."

"From others or herself?"

"Both."

Michael examined Ryk's face again, trying to figure out any similarities between him and Ygritte. He couldn't find one. "Are you her brother?" he asked, "Same mother or father?"

"No… Don't think so anyway," Ryk said, "Same village. We look out for each other in our villages, particularly for the girls. Not all men who steal girls do it for marriage or leave the women alive afterwards. Not all women are spearwives like Ygritte, and even she was too young to be one once."

"No, I didn't think so," Michael agreed. Ryk's stock just went up in his book, and for reasons that seemed bone deep.

There was comfortable silence between them after that.

For the three mornings before the gathering, food was delivered from the main camp to the Giants, with a message that it was to be shared with the Crows and the Canadians. A gesture establishing guest right not only from the giants themselves but from Mance.

Despite the protection this would give, Michael did not like the implication that his group and the Crows had been grouped together in the mind of the King.

Perhaps the single message had simply been more efficient than sending two, one for the Canadians and one for the Night's Watch. But Michael didn't think Mance did anything without a political purpose.

On the afternoon of the second day, the army led by the Thenns began to arrive. Michael and Zheng went to see. Another twenty thousand Free Folk, with at least as many animals along with them; goats, sheep, sled dogs, even some large cows with massive horns. The Free Folk gathered to cheer and watch, or perhaps to steal some food. But the Thenns were ready to protect their group.

The tribe and its allies set up on the north side, where the wights had appeared a few nights before. A phalanx of spearmen, armed and armoured in polished bronze over leather and furs, lined up in between the main camp and their own. Other warriors appeared as well, including bare-footed axemen, savage-looking slingers with their teeth filed to points, and men with small kayaks on their backs doubling as pavise-shields.

A sight that drew any wandering eyes away from Michael and the corporal as they watched from the slope of the Fist, a fact he was very glad for. Mance and a party of leaders including Tormund Giantsbane descended past them on horseback, not noticing the Canadian presence at all, and down towards the new arrivals.

Michael knew the Thenn leaders would be brought back and briefed on what had happened with the Crows, at which point anything could happen. He and Zheng marched back to camp, and prepared for the worst. The crawler was fuelled up and warmed up, the GPMG remounted onto it, the weapons of the Crows placed in an easy to access place so they could be handed back at a moment's notice.

The attack never came. Only another message, confirming the meeting would go ahead. Michael kept everything at a high alert for the rest of the day and all night regardless.

In the morning, Ygritte and Ryk were dispatched half a click out to the Fist with a radio to check things out quietly. They found that some of the tents had been moved, and a firepit was being dug by a trio of 'woods witches'. They were preparing the ground for a sacred sit-down, as O'Neill put it.

Noon approached, the appointed hour of the meeting. The sky was a deep blue and clear of clouds, the sun beamed down, turning the old snow from three nights before to slush. It was warm, even. Enough that arctic camo overclothes were not necessary and even the Michael ordered Qhorin Halfhand and his fireteam into the crawler. They were driving along when Ryk sent word.

"Rattleshirt is back, Michael Duquesne," he said, "He's talking to Mance right now."

Michael felt like slapping himself in the face. He had really hoped his first encounter with that man would have been his last. How did the man get away from the White Walker? he asked himself."Thanks for the warning. Get back to camp. If we don't make it back… good luck. To both of you."

The Halfhand squinted at this, disapproving of something.

"You'll make it back," Ygritte answered, with certainty she didn't really have.

Not about to talk her down from that position, Michael gave the order to drive up to the top of the Fist.

Without an escort of sasquatches to prevent them, the Free Folk and even some Thenns ran to watch the crawler drive by. They crowded the short route between the Giant's camp and the start of the Fist's southern slope, forcing Zheng to slow to prevent hitting anyone.

At first, Michael thought they had come to mob them, to kill the Qhorin Halfhand. But no rain of rocks, arrows and men came. Instead, men and spearwives tried to touch the crawler as it moved, like it was a true test of bravery. Children did the adults one better. They seemed to have come up with a game, trying to see how close they could get to being hit by the vehicle before jumping away.

Zheng eventually sounded the horn, which scared or surprised them all away enough to get back up to speed. At the bottom of the Fist itself, Tormund's spearmen waited and guarded the way in small groups, allowing no one to follow up to the peak. The climb was faster than the travel on the flats below had been.

The gathering of chieftains was just in front of Mance's tent, and the number of them seemed to have doubled since the last time Michael had been up to the peak. They stood in a circle around a large firepit that had been dug low into the snow and dirt below. Ygritte and Ryk had been right about one thing; the fire was tended by what could only be described as witches. Older women, with headdresses of feathers, bones and claws, poking at the wood with long bronze rods.

Zheng did what she had been ordered to do. She pulled the vehicle side-on to the gathering, and stopped just long enough for Michael and Halfhand to dismount, before moving the vehicle on. They had already picked out a nice spot at the highest point of the Fist to park and overwatch the meeting.

The chieftains watched the thing move off and climb the last part of the hill. Just as they should, Michael thought, Look at the magic metal carriage. Don't forget who you're dealing with. He waited where he was, about twenty yards from the firepit, until he was satisfied his team was in position; O'Neill on the GPMG to kill everyone, Sayer with his bolt-action to kill particular assholes, Zheng to watch their back.

"Remember your orders," he radioed to them.

"We will, sir. Get it done," O'Neill replied.

With that, Michael grabbed Halfhand by the back of his cloak and shoved him forwards. The Crow did not resist. This was an agreed upon piece of acting. Together, they moved to join the circle of chieftains.

Most of the now-familiar faces looked to him with something approaching respect, for the show he was putting on if not the man; Mance himself, beautiful Dalla and even more beautiful Val, the jolly Giantsbane, the warg Six-Skins, the ancient Oldfather and the amused Harma Dogshead. Why Harma was called Dogshead was finally revealed; behind her, there was a standard made up of a dead dog's head on a pike. The others had their own banners, mostly made of up different arrangements of bones and furs.

The others present around the fire looked on with anger, fear or something in between.

A thick-set, blonde man with watery eyes could only be the Weeper.

A tall, wiry man with a shaved head and no ears was the Magnar of the Thenn, without a doubt. He was accompanied by another, vaguely similar looking man with a receding hairline.

Last and least, a small man, snarling at Michael wordlessly, his teeth and eyes peering yellow out from underneath a giant's skull doubling as a helmet. He made to step forwards, the bones on his furs rattling, before shooting a look at the witches by the fire and thinking better of it.

"Hold!" shouted the nearest witch in a voice like she smoked forty cigarettes a day, "Who comes before the Firekeepers' Hearth!"

Michael stopped in his tracks, not having expected the question. It was something of a problem, as he didn't want Halfhand to know his real name. He decided that was a reason the Free Folk would accept easily enough.

"I won't say my real name in front of this Crow," he shouted back, gesturing to Halfhand, "But for now, you can call me Ulysses of Ithaca."

The leading witch turned to her sisters, who convened and whispered with each other. Michael looked to Mance, as if to ask what was up. The King merely smiled back, apparently approving of his decision to give the Crow the mushroom treatment; keep them in the dark and feed them shit.

"There is power in a man's true name!" the lead witch proclaimed, "You are wise to keep it from the ears of the Crows. Very well! Ulysses of Ithaca, we welcome you to this meeting of the chiefs of the True North. Take your place with your prisoner."

Michael moved forwards with Halfhand again, and took the empty space nearest to him, between Harma Dogshead and Varamyr Six-Skins. The latter looked at the Crow with hate, touching his dagger. Halfhand moved to the other side, where Harma seemed less hostile. Bad idea, old man, Michael thought, She is probably more deadly than the warg without his animals. She's certainly bigger.

"Qhorin," Mance called out, "It has been a long time."

"Aye, it has," Halfhand replied, "I see you've taken a wife."

"A queen," Mance corrected him.

"As you say," Halfhand conceded, "I did not expect to live to see this."

"You still might not, Crow," declared Val from the side, to the general amusement of the chiefs around the fire.

Calming things down by holding out his hands, Mance moved up to the fire and spoke. "I've brought you here because… Ulysses… has brought us Qhorin Halfhand. He says we should try talking to the Crows before attacking the Wall, that we should capture wights to show them the real enemy. I have claimed to be King Beyond the Wall, and as King, I would hear your thoughts on this."

There was some chatter between chieftains, but Tormund got to the point first.

"Not all the Free Folk have someone to speak for them here. Should we not wait for the gathering to be complete?"

Mance shook his head. "If we are to take the path Ulysses has suggested, we should make haste. If we succeed on walking it, the rest can choose to come along or they can choose not to. Just as they can choose to fight with us or try themselves. If we fail, nothing has changed."

"Any tribe that refuses would be left without protection of numbers," the Weeper growled, "They would be doomed. We should wait for them."

Mance's face soured, as he shot a deadly glare at the dissenter. "If we fight or if we talk our way past the Wall, the Free Folk will move as one and those left behind will die. This is the whole reason I have gathered you. If you feel differently, go charge the Bridge of Skulls and see where it leads you."

"Har!" Tormund laughed, "It will lead him to being eaten and shat out by the seals in the Gorge!"

Weeper stared at Giantsbane. Promising himself he'll kill the man, Michael knew.

The Magnar of the Thenn moved to beside Mance by the fire, sending the witches scattering out of the way as he moved. When he spoke, it was in the Old Tongue. Michael could tell by the inflection somehow, even though every word was translated. "The King is right. Disagree and die. Any tribe who refuses the decision of this gathering, the Thenn will fight." The younger Thenn behind made an approving noise, and thumped his chest.

The others seemed cowed, even the Weeper. All except Rattleshirt, who was distracted with his hatred of all present things Canadian.

So that's what the deal was, Michael thought, The Thenns joined up to become enforcers. The right hand of the King. All the better to replace him or rebel when things are settled.

The Magnar looked to Michael and his prisoner, gesturing to them.

"We Thenns cannot know what talking will do. We do not know Ulysses or the Crows. We do not know the Wall. Fighting could work, if what Mance says is true. Can their word be trusted? This is what we must know before deciding."

Kettle, meet pot, Michael's mind joked, before he replied, whatever magic that was inside him translating to the Old Tongue in turn. "Magnar, that question is the same one the Crows will ask when we offer to talk. The answer is no. You cannot trust the Crows. They cannot trust you."

The Magnar cocked his head. He was not expecting a reply in his own language.

"Then why would we agree to talk?" the Thenn asked.

"Because you don't need trust, at first. Once the Crows learn of the Others, see dead men moving with their own eyes, they will want the same thing you do; to be safe from the Others, to defeat the Others. And after that, both sides will not want to be interfered with. On these things, you can both agree, and all that is left are the details."

"So speaks the Crow lover," Rattleshirt interrupted, in the Common Tongue, "You kill us, like a Crow. You take our women, like a Crow. Now you want us to kneel, like a Crow. You are a craven, kneeling bastard. You have no place among us. I will wear your skin as a cloak by this day's end. So says the Lord o' Bones."

I have to discredit him, Michael knew, He's tapping into old hate to try and do the same to me.

"Last time I saw you, Rattleshirt, you were running away leaking piss, while your warriors fought and died. How is it that you're standing here among chieftains? I killed your warband. The survivors who didn't run with you follow me now. You lead no one. You are no one."

There was a wave smirks around the other chieftains. Word of the man's defeat must have gotten around, and Michael doubted that anyone one liked the guy to begin with.

"Har!" Tormund shouted, "What say you to that, o Lord o' Bones?"

The man exploded with anger, hand going for his sword's hilt as he began shifting on his feet side to side. He glanced at the witches, as if to ask permission to strike, but did not receive it. "I have many more than the ones you slew, kneeler! I have wardogs and wargs! I'll set all of them upon you. I'll take back that betraying bitch you stole, fuck her to death and use her skull as a drinking cup!"

Michael lifted his arms to either side of him. "You're free to try it. I've fought a White Walker and lived to tell the tale. A small man with teeth rotting out of his gums wearing a shirt of bones doesn't scare me."

Rattleshirt drew his sword and began moving around the fire to get at Michael, no longer caring about the witches. They hissed at him in the Old Tongue that he was blaspheming and the gods would punish him, but that did not stop him.

Not about to let himself get chopped up, Michael drew his pistol into both hands from his hip and aimed at the approaching chief. The witches cried out and pointed at the aggressor. Rattleshirt was intercepted by the Magnar of Thenn. Not expecting to be struck from the side, he took a hard blow from the flat of a bronze sword to the side of his head, crumpling to the ground unconscious.

Eyes turned back to Michael.

"Put away that weapon," Mance commanded, "It's over."

"What will you do with him?" Michael replied, not complying with the order.

"Nothing," Mance stated, "If he wishes to feud with you, that is no business of ours, only that he is not allowed to act upon it here, around this fire. Neither are you."

Shoot him while he's down, whispered someone in Michael's head, using his own voice, Rattleshirt will come back to kill you later. You will have to kill all his followers if he lives. Kill him now. Save them.

Michael shook his head. He couldn't do it. The man was defenceless, his sword now plucked away by the Thenn. He holstered his pistol again, feeling it was a massive mistake.

You should've killed him while you had the chance, the voice whispered, before going away.

"Rattleshirt did not speak entirely wrongly," Harma Dogshead weighed in, getting everything back on track as the man was dragged away by Mance's people, "Would kneeling be the price of passing the Wall? To the Crows or to the Starks behind them?" She looked to Qhorin Halfhand for the answer.

The Crow was quick to respond. "I do not know for certain. I cannot speak for the Lord Commander or what he will do when you bring him a wight."

Michael waved his hand in a rolling gesture.

A little help here, your life is on the line, Mr. Crow.

Halfhand got the idea. "But the Night's Watch has land of its own that we could settle you on. At the very least, we would require oaths to follow our laws, to not raid, and to support bringing justice to those who break those oaths. But if the lords further south disapprove, kneeling may be the price of your survival, aye."

There were hisses and grunts of anger at that. But fewer than Michael expected.

"There are many who would kneel," Tormund said, running his fingers through his long grey beard, "Most sincerely, some to deceive the southrons."

"There are just as many who would prefer to die," the Weeper declared, counting himself among them.

"I cannot tell each man or woman what to do if that is the demand," Mance cut in, "And I'll not stop any man or woman from saving their life, or their babes. But we should at least find out what the price would be."

"It might not be all or nothing either," Michael added quickly, "Maybe those who kneel get to go further south, some can take oaths and stay close by to help defend those lands Halfhand has mentioned, and the rest can stay beyond the Wall as scouts until the Others attack. You won't know what is possible until you start talking with the Crows. It could be that everyone gets their way in the end."

"You would make some of us Crows?" Varamyr Six-Skins asked, half spitting the last word in anger. Fearing a repeat of the Rattleshirt incident from the warg, Michael oriented himself to shoot the man if he went for his dagger, as he had threatened before.

"No, we would not make you Crows," Halfhand replied, "My brothers would not stand for it. As I said, we might require oaths, but not our oaths. Most of you are not stupid enough to defy the gods on such things. But if there are others who wish to kneel, they may be sent beyond the lands of the Night's Watch. If the Starks agree."

"And after all of this is over, you can simply go north again if you don't want to kneel," Michael said, "The oaths don't have to hold you forever, you can return things to the way they were before."

The Weeper grit his teeth and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I will never kneel or pretend to kneel."

"No one is saying you should," Mance stated coolly, before addressing the whole circle, "I have heard your words. I would hear one more thing before I make the decision."

The King's eyes came to rest on Michael.

"Ulysses, talking to the Crows is your idea," he said, "If it fails, will you fight for the living? Will you join the attack on the Wall?"

He's been waiting for this the whole time, Michael realised. If he said yes, then maybe the King would sabotage the talks deliberately. If he said no, he'd more or less be siding with the Crows, which he didn't want to do. The latter was the lesser of two evils, in theory, assuming he could get away alive from the Free Folk's camp.

But his conscience rebelled. The damn kids… the little boys and girls stupidly jumping in front of the crawler. If he said no, they'd all die worse ways than an vehicle impact. As would their parents, their grandparents, their culture, their civilisation such as it was. All dead and their meat raised to serve literal demons. It would be standing by as a genocide unfolded.

Michael rubbed his face, knowing what the law said about that. The genocide part anyway.

"If the Lord Commander does not agree to let you through or offer what I feel are reasonable terms after you genuinely try to come to agreement, I have no choice. I have to side with you."

The Halfhand turned to face him. "What do you mean you have no choice?!"

Michael felt anger rise up at his objection.

"I'm not going to stand by while women and children are left to die at the hands of demons because your people can't understand the scale of the threat. The Night's Watch would be responsible for that death if they do not set reasonable terms. Our laws do not permit me to do nothing."

The other chiefs talked to each other quietly, reacting to the declaration. The Crow Ranger scowled but said nothing, moving back to his previous place.

But it was Mance and his 'royal' family who Michael noticed first and foremost. He looks positively triumphant, his Queen is smiling and her sister is frowning. Michael understood at once. The King had gotten what he wanted; a commitment from the strangers with deadly magic to support his cause. Michael felt like he had just walked in on a cartel deal and been asked to sign up. The talks were vulnerable to sabotage by both sides, and he'd just told one of them he'd back their play if things went south.

King Mance held up a hand to silence the chatter. "I've made the decision. We'll see what the Lord Commander says. Ulysses, you and I will discuss what we should offer. Tormund, when the time comes, you'll go to Craster's and onto Castle Black to do the talking. The host stays here until word gets back … or doesn't."

The King paused, looking at each of the chieftains in turn. "If any of you don't like this decision, you are free to leave. But don't expect help from the rest of us ever again. I would have every single one of us through that Wall. If I can do that without fighting, that just leaves more of us to fight the Seven Kingdoms or the dead later."

There was grumbling and insults over that, but no one declared they would be leaving. Though Michael knew the unconscious man on the snow a little ways off probably would once he woke up.

"What about the wight?" he asked, "The Night's Watch aren't going to negotiate if we don't show up with one. They'll see the talks as a trick and nothing else."

Mance frowned, looking up at the blue sky above. "The dead have not been seen for days. Since you fought them off last. The good weather is proof that their masters are far from here. But there is still time, and they have no doubt left watchers."

The King looked to Six-Skins. "Varamyr, use your skins. Bring a wight or two to Craster's. A human one. Don't need to have all their parts."

Chapter Text

Lian 'Leanne' Zheng listened to Wild Girl Merida and the Funny Man take an oath of their own making, that they would obey the Sergeant as an ally and do nothing that would offend him as liaison. A word neither one of the Free Folk understood.

As the words were spoken, Lian wondered idly if the Lieutenant had been a law student before joining the Army. What our allies do isn't our responsibility, she thought, So if they fuck something up, we have better odds against the lawyers when we get back.

If we get back, she reminded herself. Survival was first in Lian's mind, most of the time.

Any time she thought of the other goal, the logical one of getting home, her throat closed with fear and despair.

Her mind and gut both agreed; there was no way back. What had happened was a freak occurrence. The so-called King Beyond the Wall was indulging his Canadian guests with tales of a magic island so he could get what he wanted. She'd never see her family again. To say nothing of her two homelands or the conveniences and safety of modernity.

Lian crushed the existential dread viciously in her head, imagining smashing the King's face to the point of caving in the front of it with the butt of her carbine.

She had said nothing through arrangement of the summit. Pessimism or defeatism would kill any sense of purpose the small group had and she knew it. So while she had admitted that she thought they were stuck on this world, she did not draw attention to the problems with the others' supposed belief in getting home.

Like the strong possibility that a doorway that could move you from one world to another likely could go to many worlds, and they had no way to be sure they'd arrive on the right one .

Or that the doorway was likely to be exactly where they had landed, so by the time they got back to it, the ice demons would likely have turned it into a hotel for the walking dead.

Or that the King Beyond the Wall didn't know jack shit about magic south of the Wall and was lying about it, so the magical science to open the doorway might be lost forever.

Lian was sure that the Lieutenant had considered these problems himself. Which was why he had chosen to involve them in the affairs of this world so quickly. It was an immediate problem to solve, one that mattered, and a convenient place to start on pretending there was a way home.

She looked at the Weeping Tree to her left. The oaths were being spoken in front of the weirwood tree nearest to Craster's Keep. The thing was the polar opposite of the tree that had watched them enter this fucked up world. Its mouth was turned down with a wailing grimace of pure sorrow.

"Ugly thing, isn't it?" Sayer remarked from beside her, quietly so the Free Folk wouldn't hear. They were touchy about their gods.

Smart kid, Lian thought. "Uglier than the first one," she agreed, "And that one scared the hell out of me."

Sayer nodded. "So… do you think this alliance thing is going to work out?"

Don't ask me that, Lian thought, crossing her arms under her weapon. "Do you want the truth the Sergeant would want me to tell you?" she asked, "Or the one the Lieutenant would want?"

The Private frowned. "Which is the truth?"

"Neither," Lian said with amusement, "But the Sergeant's line has more elements of truth at least. Shut up and make it work, because all our arses are on the line."

Sayer snorted. "You said arse just like he does."

"Not sure it's possible to say arse without sounding Irish."

"I can do it in an English accent if you'd like."

"Another time."

Ryk and Ygritte were proceeding to get a lecture from O'Neill, about how much of a 'bollocking' they would get if they disobeyed him, while the Lieutenant watched, giving the polite glare that he was taught to give when looking like a superior asshole. Our new friends look unhappy, but they haven't stabbed O'Neill yet. Progress, Lian figured.

"We're never getting home, are we?" Sayer said.

Lian flinched. Where did that come from?

"I know Duquesne and O'Neill don't want to believe it," Sayer continued, "But some way, I know it's true."

Time to do my duty. "We see and use magic every day here, the idea that there's magic to get us home isn't so crazy," Lian lied, "As for the Sergeant… you wouldn't know this, but he has kids. They're with his ex-wife. Not sure what the Lieutenant's reasons are. Don't think he's married, or he is and he's a complete prick for stringing that girl along."

Sayer grinned at that. It's not a funny thing, Private.

"And how do you feel about it then?" Lian asked, "If we can't get home, I mean."

Sayer shrugged, his grin not dying. "Didn't have much of a future anyway. Except maybe working in the mines, which is good money but a bad way to live. I'll miss my mother, and I'd like to think she knows I'm still alive. But here… I feel like I could be somebody. An explorer or something. Not in the crappy colonial way, but like Marco Polo or something. Travel the world, write about it."

Lian couldn't meet his eyes after hearing that. He's been here a couple of weeks and he's already planning to be a great explorer. So optimistic, it's like looking at a laser pointer. "Well, that's a healthy attitude, I guess."

"What about you?" Sayer asked.

"I want to go home too. I have parents, siblings, and I'm not happy about living in a place where kidnapping and rape is how you get proposed to."

"That's just here though. Maybe there are other places that are better?"

"Maybe, but I doubt it."

"What language is that?" came a question from nowhere.

Lian turned her head, to find Ryk approaching with a hand raised in greeting. "Is that your mother's tongue?" he asked.

"You didn't understand what we were saying?" Sayer asked.

"Barely heard it, but it wasn't any tongue I know of," Ryk answered.

Is the magic malfunctioning? Lian asked herself, before it clicked, No, maybe it's just more complex than we thought. "Ryk, can you listen to us for a second? I want to try something."

The man looked back blankly, but waited. Satisfied he'd do what he was asked to, Lian turned to Sayer. English, she thought, I want to speak English.

"Private, what time is it?" she asked.

Sayer's eyebrows raised up, but he looked at his watch. "It's sixteen-hundred, almost. But my watch isn't really set to this world's time. Why?"

Ignoring his question, Lian looked to Ryk. "Did you understand what I said to him?"

"You asked him what time it was," the man replied, glancing dubiously at Sayer's watch.

Okay, so it isn't based on what language I want to speak. That would be too easy. Maybe it has an off switch. She remembered that they were trying to be quiet, so the Free Folk wouldn't hear their comments about the weirwood tree. Is that the key?

Lian tried again, this time thinking to herself that she wanted the words to convey only to Sayer. "Private, what time is it?" she repeated.

Sayer shook his head. "I don't get it."

With a smirk, Lian looked again to Ryk. His blank face was now one of interest, his eyes wider and posture straighter. "What'd you say this time?" Ryk asked, "You were speaking in that language again."

Lian shook her fist in triumph. She had cracked it.

"Yes! Private, try saying something to me but intended only for me. Anything at all. I don't want Ryk to know what we're talking about."

Sayer's eyes widened in surprise, but he paused, as if preparing his statement and its secrecy. "I'm afraid all the time," he admitted, "And excited."

Feeling immediate sympathy wash over her, Lian pat him on the shoulder. "It didn't need to be a secret, Private," she replied, "But so am I. If you felt any different, we'd need to take your gun away." Sayer snorted again at that.

They both looked to Ryk once more, to see if he understood. He shook his head. "Just sounds like you're babblin'."

Lian smacked Sayer on the back, laughing. "I've cracked the code! Or part of it, at least."

"What code?" the Private asked.

"The magic that lets us speak to the people here. I've been wondering how it works. We can activate and deactivate it whenever we want, so we can speak to each other without them understanding. And we'll always understand each other, because auto-translation is always on for us. "

Ryk cleared his throat. Lian saw that the man was annoyed, which put a surprisingly threatening look across his narrow face. "Go back to speaking our language. Don't like not knowing what you're saying."

Easily able to relate to that, Lian smiled at him. His annoyance melted at once. Useful, she thought, before mentally flicking the switch to let him back into the conversation.

Sayer scratched the back of his neck for a second, before clicking his fingers.

"Do you speak Chinese?" he said, "Have you tried to see if it translates that? I can try some Dogrib or North Slavey if you don't?"

Lian sighed at his ignorance. "There is no one spoken Chinese language, Sayer. Most of them are related, like French and Spanish are, but they're separate except for the written characters. Because Chinese characters relate word concepts first. Their sounds vary by region and language. The character for dog is the same in all of them, for example."

Sayer's eyes moved from side to side, as he processed the information.

"Ah, sorry. Still, you speak one of them, right?"

"Yeah, Taiwanese Guoyu. Mandarin, more or less. Bit of Hokkien too."

"So try it out."

Figuring it hurt nothing to do just that, Lian turned to a very confused Ryk. She wondered about what to say, and came up with something that would send a message. She turned off the magic with a thought, so Ryk could hear the phrase in its true language first.

"Wú guīju bù chéng fāngyuán."

Ryk tilted his head. "What's that?" he asked, "It's different." He gave his best attempt at saying it back to her, but mangled it and stopped halfway.

Well, at least he tried. Lian turned the magic back on so he could understand the explanation. "It's my mother tongue."

"I didn't understand it either," Sayer confirmed.

"What's it mean?" Ryk asked with narrowed eyes, "What'd you say to me?"

"Without boundaries, no standards are set," Lian replied, "A lesson for you, now that you're our ally. It means that nothing can be accomplished without norms or rules, we're nothing but savages without law. All of us."

Lian felt regret rake her for a moment. Her mother used the phrase to lecture her to become more 'normal' as a kid. She never listened. She was the family rebel, in most things. Now that she'd never be lectured by her mother ever again, she questioned every life choice she ever made.

Ryk grunted, dissatisfied. "You too?" he asked, "You Canadians seem very afraid that I'll do something you don't like. The O'Neill just finished telling how you all follow laws as best you can, and that anyone who doesn't has no place among you."

How to explain without referring to lawyers and court martials…

"Because we are afraid," Lian replied, "We can't live like you, Ryk. It's not our way. Anything you do wrong as our ally, it reflects on us, and we feel further from home. We can't live like the Crows or 'kneelers' either, which is why we don't just go to the Wall. Accept it or move on."

Feeling like she was projecting her mother's lecture energy a little too much, Lian left Ryk and Sayer, and went to inform her superiors of what she had discovered about the translation magic. Her own hypocrisy was left behind too, she hoped.

They reached Craster's Hall, or Craster's Keep according to the tied-up-in-the-back-seat Qhorin Halfhand, as darkness was falling. It was a longhouse made of mud and wood on top of a small hill, surrounded by the forest as well as an circular earthen rampart with sharpened wooden stakes forming a palisade on top.

Smoke rose gently from small cuts in the clay walls of the hall, the cold making it visible in the dying light. There were other outhouses and roofed animal pens around it. A stream flowed around the base of the hill at the north, a bucket and pole standing up against the palisade.

Wondering about how they were going to announce themselves to the incestuous rapist who owned the place, Lian eased off the speed and brought the crawler to a halt on a hill of the same size a little ways off. She turned around in the driver's seat. O'Neill crouched down from his position in the roof hatch to see why she had stopped.

"What approach do you want to make, sir?" she asked the Lieutenant, before the Sergeant could open his mouth to complain, "Should we take him by surprise?"

So hopefully he'll be spooked, shoot something at us and he can be dealt with.

Lieutenant Duquesne shook his head, scratching his chin. He looked to Halfhand.

"It's just this Craster guy and his… family, right?" the Lieutenant asked, "No others living there?"

The Crow nodded, a little too quickly. "Just him."

"What about your people?" Lian asked, "Any Crows there?"

A sly grin broke on Halfhand's face. "How should I know a thing like that?"

Of course he knows, he passed through here, Lian thought to herself, Probably knows what other patrols are nearby too.

"I saw into the shack being used as a stable," O'Neill said, "Only one horse. Reckon we're clear, for now."

The Lieutenant leaned back in his seat. "Good, no battle then. Where's the gate?"

"Southwest side," the Halfhand replied.

Duquesne looked again to Lian. "Drive us straight to the gate. Stop just before it. O'Neill, Mr. Halfhand and myself will talk to this Craster. See if we can't reason with him."

A choking sound of disapproval erupted from the seat directly behind Lian.

"Reason?" Ygritte said, "He is cursed. Mance sent a man to 'reason' with him before. Craster cut out his tongue."

Lian found herself agreeing with the wild girl with all her heart.

"We should take this 'keep' as a necessary military asset, sir. We don't negotiate with everyone who owns a building we have to use, sir."

"And if he objects?" the Lieutenant asked.

Fuck around and find out, Lian's mind joked at her. "Detain him," her mouth said instead.

"He's a fuckin' bastard anyway," Ryk added for good measure, "Even if he agrees, he'll ask something in return. Might be one of the women. Might be your strong drink."

"I wouldn't recommend you offer me, sir," Lian stated to the Lieutenant, to his great amusement.

"Nor me neither," Ygritte agreed.

"And he'll have to pry my strong drink from my dead hands," O'Neill stated, "I'm keeping it for the first occasion we are in any way safe."

"We have to try talking," the Lieutenant said, "When Tormund and Six-Skins show up, I don't want Craster dead in case they use it to say 'look, this foreigner killed him, you're next' to their people."

"Tormund's tribe would cheer it," Ygritte countered, "And Six-Skins don't come this far west, usually. They won't care."

"You're probably right, but we'll still conduct ourselves diplomatically unless Craster does otherwise," the Lieutenant said, "Corporal Zheng. Take us in."

Seeing that she wasn't going to get her way, Lian resumed driving. She sent the vehicle around the western side of the hall's hill and across the stream. A few faces had appeared in between the wooden stakes to see what the noise was, but these disappeared quickly. Their arrival did not go unannounced.

By the time the vehicle reached the gates, Lian could see a crowd of a dozen women and just as many little girls at the entrance to the hall, staring with interest. Little girls, Lian thought with horror, Soon to be wives.

A man appeared from within with a crossbow. Tall with a frame that spoke of strength, but old, grey haired, with a flat nose and mouth that gaped open. He wore sheepskin and a thick gold ring around one wrist.

To Lian's eyes, he could've been just another one of the Free Folk. But she remembered what this Craster was, and what he was said to possess; some way of holding the ice demons at bay. This ugly rapist isn't a sorcerer, so how has he not been attacked by dead men? What does he know that no one else does?

The Lieutenant, the Sergeant and Halfhand got out and walked towards Craster. He barked, and the women began pushing each other in a rush to get back inside the hall. Only those hanging around outside near the animal pens remained, looking from behind whatever object would give them the most cover.

The anger at trespassing seemed to disappear as Craster spotted their prisoner and his situation. Halfhand had his hands bound with duct tape. Maybe the LT knows what he's doing, she thought idly, Tying up the Crow seems to have been a good icebreaker.

"Here we go," Lian sighed, "Negotiating with assholes. Again."

Ygritte moved to sit in the LT's seat, just opposite her. "Asshole? First dogfucker and now asshole. You Canadians have such mad insults… As for Craster, just wait 'til you meet the Crows. Halfhand's gentle in manner compared to most. And he's killed more of us than anyone else except Starks."

Lian rubbed her face. Someone save me. "Mance was a fucking manipulative asshole too."

The talks between Craster and the Lieutenant did not take long. A brief demonstration of a rifle, a few items handed over, something offered to eat… Threats and bribes. O'Neill was soon waving to bring the vehicle up.

Lian obeyed, driving straight into the compound at a snail's pace, parking by the stable. The horse neighed and pigs squealed loudly in protest, the horse straining against the rope keeping it inside. She turned the engine off and dismounted.

The smell of dung and the sight of the rapist himself met her. Craster walked quickly towards her and the others with his crossbow. Three or four dogs followed, looking up at him and barking, as if asking what the hurry was. The Sergeant soon strode around the hall's corner too, rushing to keep up with him from behind.

A cold fury descended through Lian, as she flicked the safety of her carbine off with her thumb. Come on, you prick, do something, she begged the world, If even half of what they say about you is true, you deserve a bullet.

When Craster locked eyes with her, she felt physically ill. An effect that doubled as he drank in the sight of her body; she had ditched her coat and most of her combat webbing, and was side on to him, so her profile was visible to him. She turned her body so her armour would hide it. His rushing gait slowed, and the direction changed straight towards her. He touches me, I kill him. Her spare hand brushed against the handle of the bayonet at her hip.

Sayer in his red hoodie moved next to her, aiming his scout rifle right at the approaching man, not caring for diplomatic niceties. There's that male territoriality.

"Put that weapon down, boy!" Craster called, raising his own weapon, "This is my home!" This is a prison and you're the raping Warden, Lian thought, biting down so she wouldn't say it.

Sayer did not budge. "Do as he says, Private," O'Neill ordered, arriving at last.

Not taking his eyes off the rapist, Sayer reluctantly lowered his weapon. Craster sneered back at him, revealing half-rotted teeth. Their host generously lowered his crossbow in response, while moving closer. Lian now grabbed the bayonet, using her carbine to cover the movement. I stick him, then turn the bang-stick on the dogs she calculated to herself.

Craster's eyes moved to Ygritte and Ryk.

"What are you doing with these?" he hissed at O'Neill, "I recognise the red one. She's one of Rattleshirt's bitches. She was with the lot that picked up Mance's rider after I'd shown him what I thought of kings and kingly commands. The horse made a nice gift, I admit."

Ryk grabbed Ygritte by the wrist, just as she was about to launch herself at the man, axe in hand. Craster laughed at this. He had a lot of weight on the tiny Ygritte.

"They're guides," O'Neill replied, "We put down a group led that Rattleshirt. She was the only survivor. Ulysses took her prisoner."

Craster licked his lips. "Oh, taken to wife then. Your leader knows what to do, I see." His eyes flickered back to Lian. "What about this one? She has a strange look about her."

Lian gave a false smile. "It would be a true charlie foxtrot, you whiskey tango," she stated.

The rapist grimaced. "Talk to me like that again, I'll cut out your tongue," he said, "Doubt it not."

"Talk to me like that again, and they'll need a bucket to collect your remains," Lian quipped back.

O'Neill stepped in between, using his greater size to prevent Craster from turning the situation into an execution. "You've exchanged insults," he said to the man, "She'll stay out of your hall."

"Mayhaps not," Craster replied, "Mayhaps I'll drag her into the hall for my own pleasure-taking."

"She'll kill you if you try," O'Neill said, "Now hand over what you were supposed to. Or Mance's warbands will descend on this place and we won't stop him. I could even make a few suggestions. Ever see someone being burned alive in a wicker man?"

Lian's mood improved instantly. Who knew the Sergeant could be so creative?

The rapist's eyes bulged, and he grumbled fierce insults, but complied. Out of a pouch, he retrieved some small carrots and handed one each to Ryk, Ygritte, Sayer and Lian. His hand was yellowed, particularly under the nails.

"Guest right time," O'Neill said, "You know what to do."

Craster watched as all of them bit into their carrots and chewed. Looking for protection from being killed in his sleep by any of them. Lian kept chewing, but did not swallow. Instead, she tucked the small piece she had bit off under her tongue, guessing what the man would want. Correctly.

"Open your mouths," Craster ordered.

Everyone did. Including Lian. He looked inside each of their mouths, from where he was standing. Not close enough to see the pulped vegetable under her tongue.

"Stay away from my women," the rapist grunted, turned on the spot and left, his dogs staying behind to try for the rest of the carrots.

Lian hocked and spat the chewed carrot out. She had no need of protection from that man. And she wasn't pledging to leave him unharmed either. She pet a dog as it went over and ate up the remains she had ejected, before giving her a number one puppy beg for more. She threw it the rest of her carrot, and it chewed it happily, tail wagging wildly.

O'Neill glared at her. "If he finds out you did that…"

"I'll straight up murder him, Sergeant," Lian warned back, "One more little comment. A single touch. If I see him touch one of those little girls. I won't care. You will have to disarm me right now if you want to stop me."

O'Neill blanched. "I didn't hear that," he said, "What happens… happens. We're a long way from judges, and Craster's a long way from a sympathetic victim. But that isn't license to go kill him right now. He gets one chance, you hear? No Canadian can kill him without provocation. Remember the regs. Am I making myself understood, corporal?"

The message was loud and clear. Imminent threat. Wait until he's an imminent threat again, then ask permission. "Clear as mud, sergeant," she said, her confidence in her NCO restored fully.

The Sergeant nodded to her. "Good, because I want a check on what we have versus what the gobshite reservists wrote we had. A full inventory of everything," he said, "It'll be a week before Tormund shows up, probably longer until that warg gets here with a wight or two. I have determined that each of you will do something useful in that time, or so help me God, I will make you regret it."

Taking a manual inventory of the contents of the vehicle's rear cabin took two hours.

Ryk volunteered to provide the muscle to move things around, to avoid being voluntold to do something less pleasant by O'Neill. Ygritte and Sayer had gone to hunt, and had brought back a large deer by the time the process was finishing up. They were dressing it in a hut on the other side of the compound.

We've been shooting like it's a World War, Lian thought to herself as she inspected the list she had written down, And we still have a damn arsenal. Plastic explosives for 'tree clearing', flares, grenades of various types, bullets, maintenance kits, tools. Everything the rear-echelons said was there, accounted for.

It wasn't all weapons and equipment, of course.

Their No.3 Service Dress uniforms were still there. The Prime Minister himself had been scheduled to drop in on them as soon as the exercise was over. Their operational uniforms would not be suitable for dog and pony shows after all that screwing around in the wilderness, so leadership wisely ordered that all of the troops bring their more camera-friendly walking-out ones. What the hell are we supposed to do with shined black shoes in the fucking snow?

All the Robo-Cop stuff like the solar and leg-brace chargers, night vision goggles, rail-attachments, multi-tools, GPS, the radio pack… And the less impressive stuff, like the jack for the crawler, Jerry cans, rope, traps and camo-netting, shovels and picks, etc etc etc.

Two extra phones, now useless because no one but the dead knew the codes. Two spare helmets, two spare pairs of boots, two spare uniform jackets, six more rations, a bunch more candy and some booze. Arran and Singh's final gifts to the cause.

A bunch of snacks and instant coffee, which were untouched by order of the Lieutenant himself. The temptation of the Pringles and a cup of the strongest stuff she could brew called to Lian, but she resisted. If I don't get a cup of coffee soon, I might have to kill Duquesne.

"What?" Ryk asked.

Oops.

"Ah, did I say that out loud?" Lian replied sheepishly, "Sorry. Joke."

The Free Folk man looked at her like she was a little crazy for a second. Just a second, then the look changed to the usual gaze-given-when-I-think-she-can't-notice. A glance up from the notepad, and his target shifted from her ass to her eyes. Don't even think about trying it.

"What's coffee?" Ryk asked, almost as a dodge.

"Nectar of the gods. Keeps you awake."

Ryk accepted this as truth, and got back to putting the metal ammunition boxes back into the vehicle. "What about charlie foxtrot and whiskey tango?"

Lian hmm'ed to herself. She knew the translations probably wouldn't start with the correct letter. "Cluster Fuck and White Trash," she replied without translation, before repeating both terms with the addition of 'in one of our languages'.

Ryk laughed. "Cluster fuck?"

"Something bad."

"Sounds like somethin' good."

"Well, it isn.."

Movement in her peripheral vision stopped Lian's explanation cold. Heart lurching with fear, she span on the spot and brought her carbine up. The pen and notepad she had been using dropped onto the dry mud, her fingers flying until they were squeezed around the foregrip.

Big brown eyes looked over the top of the weapon, wide with surprise. A young girl. Younger than Ygritte. Fifteen or sixteen, tops. She's not Craster, Lian's brain told her, Easy. Maybe you're a little too paranoid, Ryk is here. Though Ryk also wants to take his pleasure, he has seen enough to not be that stupid.

Lian slung the weapon and held up both hands to the newcomer in a gesture of peace, taking in the sight of her as a person and not just a target. Thin, about the same height, draped in sewed animal skins. Face that's younger than the rest of her. There was a strange familiarity there too, something across the nose. Ah, one of his daughters.

Rage boiling up in her belly at the girl's father, Lian controlled herself. She didn't want the girl to think the anger was directed at her. "A piece of advice for you. Don't sneak up on us."

"I had to sneak, m'lady," the girl squeaked back, barely above a whisper, "H-he can't know."

M'lady? What?

"Craster?" Ryk mumbled.

The girl nodded. "He doesn't want us to talk to you," she breathed, water pooling in her eyes, "We saw you spit out the carrot."

"We?"

"Me and two of my sisters. You didn't eat the food. The others know now too. All except him."

Lian rubbed a temple in frustration. Should've made sure no one else was watching. Now they know I didn't accept guest right. "What's your name?"

The girl fidgeted. "Gilly. After the flower."

"Gilly, why are you defying Craster's order?"

"He wants to marry me. I-I don't want to. He's old. His teeth are rotting and his mouth tastes bad. He's my…"

"Father," Ryk said, completing the sentence, "He's your father. And he's cursed."

Gilly nodded rapidly.

Not as cursed as he's about to be, Lian promised herself.

"Ryk, go to the front and make sure we're clear. Now."

The man gave a nod and wandered off, taking his bow and arrowbag with him.

Lian waited until he was gone, before moving closer to Gilly. "You don't want to marry him. What do you want?" Come on, just say you want to be rescued.

The girl knelt and clasped both her hands over one of Lian's own.

"Please, m'lady, I need to leave, else he'll put a baby in me. If it's a girl, he'll marry it. That's not so bad. But if it's a boy… he gives the boys to the blue-eyed gods at night."

Lian froze, like the White Walker the girl spoke of was in front of her. It was beyond anger now. So that is how he avoids the walking dead breaking in here. He serves their masters his sons. He'll bring them down on our heads.

Her hand went to her radio control, to inform Duquesne and O'Neill. But she stopped it. They had taken the food. So had Sayer, Ryk and Ygritte. If word got back to Mance's army that they had broken the tradition, they could never count on it again.

I have to deal with this, she realised, I'm the only one who didn't eat. And even that might not be enough. We need to provoke him.

Shaking free of the girl's grasp, Lian took her by the shoulders gently. "Gilly, go tell your father you won't marry him. Shout it at him from the doorway, so he can't grab you. Then run as fast as you can, around the other side of the hall so we can't see him. , to that stable. Close the door. I'll be waiting for him."

Gilly's mouth dropped open. "What are you going to do?"

I'm going to give him more holes than a fucking pasta strainer, Lian's mind declared darkly.

"Teach him a lesson he'll never forget. Go, do it now. Tell him you won't marry him."

The girl sucked in a breath, but gave a firm nod, and marched away past the returning Ryk towards the front of the hall.

"What's she running for?" he asked.

"Wait and see. Craster's going to come. Watch and listen. Can I count on you to watch my back?"

Ryk's face warmed up, delighted he had been asked. My back, not my ass, idiot.

"If y'mean watching out for you."

"Good enough," Lian sighed, hearing a ruckus from the hall already, "Show's starting. Put an arrow on your bow there."

The exact words of Gilly's screamed declaration of her own freedom from being raped by her father were not audible, nor were the roared words of reply by Craster, but it was clear that the message had been delivered. I really wish I had been able to see his face, Lian thought to herself,

The exchange ended as abruptly as it had begun, and twenty seconds later, Gilly appeared from the other side of the hall at a sprint that tore part of her sewed furs. She ducked into the only fully enclosed part of the stable, and slammed the rough-made door behind her. That is a brave girl, Lian thought, genuinely impressed, Lived her entire life under that rapist's abusive rule, still she took the first real chance to escape with both hands.

Craster himself arrived soon afterwards, crossbow cocked and a bolt nocked. "Open that door, you ungrateful little… You know would happen to you without me?! What is going on beyond my lands?!" He grabbed the hole in the door to push it open, but it wouldn't give.

Show time.

Lian activated her radio. "This is Zheng. Craster is going to shoot one of his daughters. I have imminent threat on civilian. Request permission to open fire, over."

"Permissi…" the Lieutenant began.

"Warn him first," O'Neill interrupted, "We're stuck in here. The wives are stopping us from leaving, over."

Lian waited for a beat, for the Lieutenant to repeat his order and overrule the Sergeant… But it didn't happen. The Sergeant was being cautious and had the LT by the balls over the Ygritte thing. For the moment. Whatever, better to not to shoot the rapist in the back anyway. Ryk is watching.

"Roger."

She moved away from the vehicle and towards the stable, where the single, shaggy horse was becoming restless. She raised her weapon, and then her voice. "Craster, put down the crossbow and step away from the door!"

The rapist swivelled on the spot, swaying, his mouth drooped open and face red. He's angry AND drunk, perfect.

"What I do with my family is mine to decide," Craster slurred at top volume, "My roof, my rule."

"Your rule? You give your sons to the White Walkers," Lian called back, "They rule you."

There was a gasp from the side, followed by the knock of an arrow on wood. Ryk had followed her.

"I am right with the gods," Craster shouted, taking a step towards them, "I will survive! You have not the right to deny me that!"

"Stay where you are, put down the crossbow!" Lian shouted back, "This is your last warning!"

Craster spat, and moved sharply to the right towards one of the empty stable stalls, bringing up his crossbow to loose a bolt at her.

Lian put a burst through him, hitting the right side of his chest. The bullets were faster than he was. One of Ryk's arrows sprouted in his gut for good measure. He fell down into the dirt and shit, legs splayed open, arms waving like he was trying to swim in the air, the crossbow still in his hand.

Still, the rapist lived, snarling as his lungs filled with blood. Determined to send at least one bolt in revenge for his death.

Lian shot him again. A burst at the arm still holding the crossbow. Another at his groin. Both became bloody ruins of meat, the man possessing them screaming with the pain. The crossbow clattered away, while his remaining hand went to his destroyed genitals. Two weapons he'll never use again.

Fifteen seconds later, he had bled out enough. Craster the Rapist stopped moving at last, his eyes rolling back and his head hitting the ground with an audible thump.

Within a moment, the whole population of the hall arrived all at once, led by the Lieutenant and the others. Ygritte bypassed him to look down at Craster, a satisfied grin on her face. The LT soon followed her, to examine the man and his weapon.

"He refused to drop his weapon and attempted to evade me, sir," Lian reported, before she could be asked, "He was menacing both myself and Ryk, as well as the girl inside. He broke guest right against Ryk, and I didn't eat the carrot he offered. I believe I'm right with the regs and local customs, sir."

"Aye, we're in the right," Ryk declared, confirming the locals wouldn't have a problem with it. Or at least, Mance's group wouldn't.

"The Lord Commander will not be pleased," said Qhorin Halfhand, his hands still taped up, "This man was a friend to the Watch."

Every woman and man present glared at him, showing just how much anyone gave a crap about what the Night's Watch thought.

"He deserved it," one of Craster's 'wives' told him, "Every time he gave you Crows food, he took it from our mouths." Halfhand had the dignity to look embarrassed at that retort.

How did this man keep these women down for so long? Lian wondered, They don't seem to take shit from anyone. Was it the threat of the White Walker?

The lieutenant said nothing about any of it, taking Craster's crossbow and rifling his body until he found a chocolate bar tucked away in a pouch. So that was the bribe.

"It was a legal kill, sir," Lian repeated.

O'Neill scowled at her, but was unwilling to say anything to the contrary given the crowd. "I leave you for two hours... Not sure blowing his balls off counts as a legal action, Corporal, but very well. We can leave it out of the report, if there ever is one. The evidence seems to be in your favour in general. Where's the girl?"

"Gilly! You can come out now! He's dead!" Lian called.

The door on the stable opened a crack, and the girl stuck her head out.

"Come out!" one of the older women shouted, "It's over!"

Gilly practically jumped out of the stables after that, avoiding the body of her father and abuser. "Why'd you kill him? Who'll protect us from the gods now?"

Lian was surprised. She would've wanted such a man dead more than life itself. "Because he didn't drop his weapon. Because he deserved it. Because of the story you told me about his sons. As for the gods… There is an alliance of tribes against them. You should join it."
The fate of being kidnapped is still better than being made undead.

The same old woman who had called out agreed. "Aye, he left many a son in the woods for the gods. My sons. And the gods came to take them. Mance's man spoke sense when he was here, before Craster took his tongue."

The Lieutenant perked up at once, and stood from where he was kneeling beside the dead man. "The gods took his sons?" he asked.

"Blue eyed gods, according to Gilly," Lian replied, "She saw them too."

The Lieutenant's brow creased, and he looked at the young girl. "We'll need to talk to you about that." He understands what it means, Lian thought, relieved.

Gilly shook with fear, until Lian steadied her with her hand. "It'll be okay, don't worry. He just means talk, nothing else."

"What you did, Gilly," the Lieutenant added gently, "It took a lot of courage. More than I have, I think. You're safe from us, you hear?" The girl smiled, and wiped tears away. Oh boy, another one. Lian looked at Ygritte, who seemed to be having the same thought about the pretty big-eyed daughter of Craster. Ah well, I'll just let her take care of it, she thought.

O'Neill grumbled something to himself. "What now, sir?"

A smile spread slowly over Lieutenant Duquesne's face, like he had wanted this outcome all along. Maybe he did, Lian thought.

"Run up our colours, Sergeant," he commanded, "This is now CFB Gilly's Hall."

Chapter Text

Two weeks.

Since their arrival at the hall.

Since Craster got drunk, tried to kill his daughter and got disassembled by Zheng.

Since the daughter in question was more or less declared puppet queen of this little kingdom.

Since the daughters and wives and daughter-wives of Craster were freed.

Twice as long as they had been prepared to wait for Tormund's arrival, and there was no sign. No fires on the horizon at night, or sight of troops moving in the distance in daylight. There was no sign of Varamyr Six Skins either, wight or otherwise.

Michael knew he should've been worried. Some great disaster or betrayal could be responsible. The longer they stayed, the more likely it was another Night's Watch patrol would blunder in too, leading to many questions. To say nothing of the threat of the dead, a few of which were occasionally visible in their night-vision scopes at night at a great distance, never moving towards the newly minted CFB.

But the time at Gilly's Hall was practically idyllic compared to the days before. No spectre of a massive, undefeatable Free Folk army breathing down his neck. Logistics were a lot more easy too. The liberated women were happy to provide decent food, albeit not in the portions a civilian might be used to.

The extra time had been used wisely too. The group had reinforced the defences and cleaned up the place a great deal, both initiatives of O'Neill. Complete with sign, informing any would-be passers by of what the place now was. If they could read English.

The only real problems Michael had were keeping Ygritte from unzipping into his sleeping bag when no one else was around to see, dealing with the strangely overfriendly attitude of the hallswomen as they now called themselves, and keeping Halfhand from escaping. Of course, a close watch had to be kept at the darkest hours for the White Walkers, but that threat never materialised.

So, on the night of the fourteenth day, it was almost a surprise to see fires on the horizon to the north. Too many of them to be a returning Night's Watch patrol or a Free Folk raiding party.

On the rainy morning of the fifteenth day, the warbands of Tormund Giantsbane and Six-Skins both finally arrived. Giantsbane was first, his spears marching in close column with nearly Thenn style discipline. They had four thousand warriors between them, by the Sergeant's eyeball guess.

After seeing Halfhand guarded by Ryk in the stables, Michael brought O'Neill and a rather scared Gilly along to greet the two war chiefs at the gate of the hall compound. The others took up defensive positions on top of two new roofed platforms, acting as guard towers. Hope to be pleasantly surprised, prepare to be disappointed, he thought.

Tormund arrived first naturally, stroking his long grey beard as if to try and wring the water out of it, a hood over the top of his head to protect it. The barrel of a man was practically running to say hello.

"Michael! Or is it Ulysses? A good day for a march, no?" he called, splashing through the mud at the bottom of the hill.

"Why is he so cheery?" Michael asked O'Neill under his breath, "Don't remember making too friendly with him."

"Haven't the foggiest," the Sergeant replied.

"Good to see you Tormund!"

The Free Folk chieftain's hands clapped in from either side, colliding with the top of his arms in greeting. "So, lad, how's Ygritte? She brought you luck yet?" Tormund gestured to his belly, cupping his fingers to indicate a curve… though the man's belly was big enough already to match what state he was indicating.

Michael felt all his blood rise to his face, unable to identify if what he was feeling was anger, embarrassment, exasperation or pure weapons-grade frustration. The Sergeant coughed repeatedly, trying to drown out his own feelings of great amusement. "Jesus Christ," he mumbled into his closed fist, which was now in front of his mouth.

"No, Ygritte isn't pregnant," Michael replied politely, not about to explain the culture difference to a warlord, "Even so… it's a bit early to know that?"

Tormund's lips curled upwards. "Hasn't stopped you trying though, har!" he said, turning to Gilly and waggling his eyebrows, "Who's this string of a girl? Another of yours? Where's Craster?"

"Dead," O'Neill pronounced.

"Dead?" Tormund asked, "How?"

"Killed by one of mine," Michael said, "Short story is that she didn't take guest right, he looked like killing her, she killed him first. Burned his body two weeks ago. There's more to it than that, but Gilly here can confirm."

Tormund looked to the girl, who nodded. "'tis like they say," she said, with surprising confidence, "She freed us, Lord Tormund."

"I'm no Lord, girl," Tormund replied gravely, "Was Craster your father?"

Gilly nodded.

"Explains the Lording," the chieftain replied, "He always was more a Crow kneeler than Free Folk. But you're one of us now, girl. You don't call anyone lord, except to mock them."

"Can we get out of the damn rain?" O'Neill complained, before Gilly could respond in any way, "You can pass on the wisdom of your people later. We've got business to attend to. Especially now since you're fecking late, Mr. Giantsbane."

"Aye, I am," Tormund agreed, not offended, "There's been a change of plans. Best discussed over a fire."

He made to enter the compound, but Michael stepped in front of him.

"Gilly," Michael said, while looking the chieftain dead in the eye.

A carrot was soon held out for Tormund to take and eat. The chieftain grinned widely and toothily. "You've some balls, boy," he said, without malice, "Killing a man in his own home, a cursed man aye, and then demanding I take guest right."

"Like I said," Michael replied, "The one who killed him never took guest right. Craster threatened her and was going to break it himself."

Tormund's grin opened, and he crunched into the carrot merrily. "I like you, Canadian," he spoke, spraying little orange bits from his mouth, "You've lit a fire under many an arse that needed scorching. Rattleshirt, the Weeper, now Craster." He bit into the carrot a second time and then another.

Wondering what the hell he had done to provoke the Weeper, Michael shook his head in mock disbelief, before stepping aside and letting the chief walk through. He sent a quick word over the radio for Zheng and Ygritte to return from their positions.

They all followed him into the hall, the hallswomen making way for the large man quickly. The front entrance was uncovered to let the humidity out, so Tormund strolled right in.

The firepit that ran almost the length of the whole hall was lit, more to dry people off than to keep the space warm. It gave off the smell of woodsmoke with a hint of animal fat, as multiple spits remained over the flames empty after breakfast. There were few women inside, but most of the children were up in the lofts, peering down at the newcomer.

Tormund did not sit on the nearest bench, but went the whole way down. The chief sat in the only chair in the place, picking carrot out of his teeth with a sigh. The chair formerly belonging to Craster. The wood structure covered with padded leather creaked under his weight.

The dead rapist's oldest wife hissed at him from the side at once, almost sending the chief up over the back of the chair in surprise. "That's not for you!" she said, "Get up or I'll smack you over the head!" She raised a homemade broom towards him in a threatening gesture.

Tormund looked at her like she was mad, but complied. He stood up slowly and away from her. "If not mine, then whose arse is it for?"

"Not yours, that's all you need know!" the woman replied, before hurrying off to leave the hall.

Michael and O'Neill sat on a bench, neither moving for the chair. Gilly briefly eyed the chair but sat down beside them instead. Seeing that not even the Canadians' leader was taking it, Tormund finally sat on the bench opposite without further comment.

"First thing is first," Michael said, "How are my prisoners?"

"The Crows are fine," Tormund replied, "They rode with us. One or two got into fights. They've still got all their pieces. None of them wanted to join us either, the Halfhand chooses them well."

Michael breathed out in relief. Leaving the Night's Watch prisoners behind was a necessity, but they were so hated by the Free Folk that he had feared they would be killed. Only an oath by Mance to protect them on the way resolved the issue. Tormund had followed the word of his King.

"One less legal trouble," O'Neill said flatly. The treatment of their prisoners was their responsibility, after all.

"Good," Michael agreed, "What's this about a change of plan?"

Tormund took a waterskin from under his cloak, and took a swig of something that was definitely not water. "We were supposed to move up the Skirling Pass. Good place to hide from the Crows while we build our numbers."

He spat into the firepit, causing a sizzling sound.

"But since we're going to talk with the Crows, we'll be giving away that we've got the numbers, so Mance has ordered all to move here. It's warmer, the animals aren't all dead or dead. We'll lose fewer to the cold and hunger. And we're closer to the Wall if the Crows don't like our song."

Michael nodded. It was a sound strategic move all around. It seems Mance understands that logistics and deception wins wars as much as bravery and aggression. No wonder he was made King. "So you had to stay behind to knock a few heads together?"

"Har!" Tormund laughed, "You're beginning to understand us, I see."

"So how long until the army arrives?" Zheng called, joining the conversation as she and Ygritte walked through the hall.

"Half a moon's turn," Tormund replied, as the Corporal came around behind him, "Though it'll be the same as long again for the whole number to arrive."

Zheng nodded, and sat down in the chair, laying her carbine across her lap and giving Gilly a small smile of greeting. The girl smiled back.

Tormund stared at Zheng until she noticed. She stared back.

"Is there a problem?" she asked.

"So the chair's yours?" he asked in reply.

"Used to be Craster's," Zheng smiled.

"How's that?" Tormund asked.

The Corporal looked up for a few seconds, thinking or making a show of thinking at least. "To quote Sayer about your people," she said, "In your culture, you keep what you kill. Quod erat demonstrandum." She held her arms out to either side in a victory pose, and draped a leg over the arm of the chair.

"Where does an infanteer learn Latin shite?" O'Neill frowned.

"Middle school math class, Sergeant," Zheng replied with a shrug, returning to her former seating posture, "Don't ask me to give you directions though."

Tormund returned his attention to Michael with a comical lack of emotion. This was evidently too confusing for him. "Mance wants us to go to Castle Black as soon as possible," he said, "How many can you take on that metal carriage of yours?"

"None," Michael said with finality, "We're not taking it. It stays here to defend the hall." And the women inside it from your barbarians, he thought, Where it won't burn fuel on what might be a fool's errand.

"Then how will you and I go to Castle Black?" Tormund asked.

"We'll ride there on horses," Michael said, "Sayer and I will come with you, we'll take four of the Crows' mounts."

Ygritte cocked her head at that. She doesn't want to be left behind, but she knows she's to stick with O'Neill. Michael almost wished he could bring her, as a Free Folk voice in his favour. But that would mean bringing O'Neill and the others, which meant bringing the crawler. They had plenty of fuel left thanks to the fuel trailer, but not enough to drive absolutely everywhere.

"That'll be slower," Tormund said.

"Yes," Michael said.

The radio crackled in all the Canadians' ear, causing Tormund to flinch as all of them in the hall looked up from the fire as one.

"Got a guy riding a big polar bear coming in," Sayer reported from his tower, "It's carrying something wrapped up in furs in its mouth. "

"Six Skins," Ygritte said, "He's the only one mad enough."

Michael had to agree. The diminutive warg had crazy-eyes and he wondered if the man or other wargs could take control of a person. "Probably why Mance gave him the job of catching a wight. Hopefully that's what the bear is carrying."

He activated his comms. "Ryk, bring Halfhand to the gate."

"Aye," Ryk replied.

Michael stood up. "Let's go." He left the hall, back into the rain. The others followed closely behind.

Six Skins' bear was bigger than any polar bear Michael had ever seen in pictures or in person. The Free Folk at the bottom of the hill gave it a wide berth as it loped by through the puddles, though it seemed absolutely docile. So do ordinary polar bears from a distance.

Michael, his team, Halfhand and almost every inhabitant of the hall watched as the bear and the man riding it approached the gate. The package in its mouth moved.

"Ulysses," Six Skins said, "Here's your wight."

The bear opened its jaws and the package dropped. The furs wrapped around it dropped away, revealing a young woman. One who would never grow old.

She was half-dressed in animal skins, plenty of her flesh uncovered and dead grey. A nasty wound in her side revealed how she died; a large animal had gotten to her. She was tied up at the ankles, knees, hips and elbows. She writhed on the ground, head swivelling around violently, shaking hair so matted with blood and dirt that it was impossible to see what colour it had originally been.

Michael stepped forward, and the wight stopped, staring at the ground. For a moment, nothing could be heard except the rain hitting the ground and the panting of the bear.

The wight raised its head slowly, bright and slightly luminescent eyes meeting his gaze. It just stared. Oh, you know what I am, don't you? he thought, You're a surveillance drone, not just a fighting one.

A few others moved in closer to see. Gilly. Ygritte. The Crow.

"Gods," Halfhand gasped from the side, "They're real… I had hoped you were lying."

"I really wish I was too," Michael replied.

One month after arriving on Westeros, Michael finally got a good look at the Wall.

It had started a while before. A few days hard riding atop the Crows' horses, more or less being led the whole way behind the Crows themselves, and one morning he saw it. A continuous line on the horizon, lit up orange by the low sun from the east over the mountains.

Every click they rode from that moment onwards, the larger the line got. It was red orange in the late mornings and early evenings, bright white in the day, and an almost glowing grey in the moonlight. The closer it got, the less even it appeared at the top, following the rolling of hills underneath it.

By the time the column of riders, charioteers and dog-sleds reached the village of Whitetree, Michael would catch himself glancing at the Wall every little while. Sayer instead waited for the moments they were stopped, and looked at it through his scout rifle's scope.

The village was still inhabited, though preparations to leave were well under way. Being so close to the Wall, these places were in the least danger for the moment and would be the last to be evacuated. Mance didn't want to tip off the Night's Watch before his forces had gathered.

They stayed the night without lighting any fires, to prevent sentries on top of the wall noticing their approach, and moved on the next day. They moved east, before abruptly turning south. By the time the sun set, they arrived barely more than two kilometres from the Wall itself. It was no longer a line of any sort, but a true structure, towering ice looming over everything.

But for once, that was not what Michael's eyes were drawn to.

Nine weirwood trees with faces carved into them stood in a circle, creating a clearing. The floor was covered with their blood red leaves, making it look like there had been a massacre there only moments ago. The column didn't enter the clearing, but stopped directly north. Here, Michael and Sayer dismounted, and got their things off the backs of some of the spare horses.

As the Free Folk began making camp, setting large stakes around and putting up their tents, Michael wandered into the middle of the clearing among the leaves. He looked at each of the weirwoods. They're all sad or angry, he thought to himself, Not one laughing tree among them.

"What now?" came a voice from behind.

Michael turned and found Halfhand standing there with Sayer, his hands unbound. There was no need for binding him now.

"Now we negotiate. I'll send the youngest of your men back to Castle Black with an offer to talk and an ultimatum that if we don't hear back within a certain, short time, we'll consider the offer rejected."

Halfhand shook his head. "You should send me," he said, "If I should tell the Lord Commander you have a wight, he will come at my word."

Michael smirked. "You watched us a little too closely," he said, "The less your commander knows about my little group, the better. Until we're allies, anyway."

Halfhand scratched at his eye with his half-hand idly. "You need to stop thinking of us as the enemy, boy," he said, "That dead girl you have with us, she is proof that the Others have returned. The Night's Watch was not founded to fight wildlings. It was founded to fight them."

Michael scoffed. "If that was true, we wouldn't need to negotiate to get south, would we? I don't consider myself your enemy, whatever you might think, but we both know I'll never just stroll through your castle gate. I came from out of the Truth North, from nowhere."

"The gods are just, men are not," Halfhand replied, "And it's men who run the Seven Kingdoms. Still, luck is a lady who could grant you her favour. The North remembers the Others, and the Starks are honourable Wardens. On the other hand, their vassal lords are not likely to be friendly to the idea of wildlings south of the Wall."

A light flicking on in his head, Michael realised he had a chance for some intelligence gathering of his own. "How exactly do people live south of the Wall? Both you and the Free Folk say there are lords and kings, but maybe those words mean something different to us."

Halfhand paused, considering his answer. "Smallfolk farm, weave and craft. Merchants trade. Knights, their squires and men-at-arms train for war. All of those owe allegiance to lords, who administer their land, sit in judgment, and make laws. The King is the greatest lord, to whom all swear fealty."

Sounds like medieval Europe, Michael thought, the Ranger's words confirming his assumptions. "So, there are no serfs? Slaves?"

Halfhand narrowed his eyes. "I know not what a serf is, but no, there are no slaves in Westeros. There are in Essos."

Michael chewed his cheek, considering whether or not to ask about Essos. He decided against it, given that he was supposed to be a foreigner. Foreigners had to come from somewhere, and from the 'os' in the name, he assumed it was another continent. That got him thinking about O'Neill and Zheng, given they were both from other continents to Canada.

"What about foreigners and women? Are they treated with equal standing?"

Halfhand's brow knit tightly in an instant. "Women? Equal standing?" he asked, "I do not follow."

Michael sighed. That response more or less answered the question for him. Still, there was a practical question to be answered. "I mean if we make it south, am I going to have to deal with lords trying to take my property, or carry off the woman who travels with me?" Though Zheng would feed them their own entrails before allowing that.

Halfhand crossed his arms. "Either is possible, I will admit. Though you are in much greater danger of such things here."

As if to illustrate the problem, Tormund trudged into view, holding something that was clearly not his. "Ulysses, you have very strange snow shoes," he said, turning the pair over in his hands.

Halfhand looked at Michael as if to say 'See?', which soured his mood.

"Tormund, why do you have my snow shoes?" he asked.

"They looked interesting," the chief replied, like it was natural for him to just take interesting things from other people.

"Am I going to go back to the horses to find your people taking interesting things?"

Tormund looked up from the snow-shoes. "How should I know? If they find something they like, they could take it. I don't know."

Michael let out an angry noise, and turned to Sayer. "Private, go back to the horses, make sure all our stuff is still there. If there's anyone thieving when you get back, warn them. If they don't stop, shoot them."

A bewildered Sayer gave a crisp salute and took off back towards camp at a run, unslinging Arran's rifle as he moved.

Tormund's curious demeanour was washed over with anger now. "You don't get to kill my men, Ulysses," he said.

"We're all free men in a free land. They're free to steal, I'm free to kill them, you're free to stop me," Michael replied, unholstering his pistol and showing it to the chieftain, "Well, you're free to try. If you don't want to tangle with us, Tormund, not taking our things is as good a plan as any. So you better start caring about your men stealing, or I'll make them myself." With that, he grabbed the snow-shoes out of Tormund's hand roughly with his own free one.

Surprisingly, the chieftain nodded. "Since you're crying about it, I'll talk to them," he said, "But know this. If it was anyone else, I would have opened your stomach. I am not fool enough to face your weapons."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Michael replied, "I'm not saying any of this to insult you. Someone steals my things, maybe I don't have what I need to help you get through the Wall. It's in your interest that your people don't steal from me."

Tormund's mouth turned to a thin line as he thought about this.

"Eh, lieutenant?" Sayer asked over the radio, "There was someone about to start looking through your pack."

Michael sighed. In his mind, he willed himself to stop the translation magic, the way Zheng had instructed them all. "Go to English," he replied, as Halfhand and Tormund leaned closer to try and listen in. A little too close for comfort. "Did you have to kill him?"

"No, she stopped with just a warning," Sayer said, "It was a spearwife."

Michael rubbed his face. The march had been too frantic for anyone to have the energy for thieving, but the minute anyone wasn't too tired or busy, the stealing began. Maybe the spearwife had thought because Ygritte was spared, she would be too. Or maybe she was fishing, looking to get stolen herself.

He hoped O'Neill didn't have the same problem back at the hall. There were thousands of Free Folk there, after all, not just the five hundred or so that had come to the Nine Weirwoods. And more to steal, including young women. "Okay, Tormund is going to talk to his people. I'll come back and grab the guy I mentioned earlier, you stand guard."

"What are you saying?" Tormund demanded.

Well, Zheng's theory is correct, Michael thought, They only understand us if we want them to. "That you'll talk to your people about not stealing from us."

Tormund grumbled. "It will do no good."

Michael slapped him on the shoulder. "Cheer up. Tomorrow, you'll get to show the Crows a wight and watch them shit themselves."

"Har!"

The Crow sent to Castle Black returned barely two hours later, in accordance with the instructions that he was given, just as it began to snow again.

The message Michael had concocted for delivery was a simple one. We have Qhorin Halfhand and a handful of other Rangers. We wish to negotiate for their safe return and to pass through the Wall, the terms of which we will also settle. Any hostile move and they'll be killed. It was sent on behalf of Mance Rayder alone.

No mention of dead men. Michael was certain he didn't need to add that detail. Every captured Crow had been given an up close and personal meeting with the wight, so there could be no doubt what it was. The young man who had been chosen had even touched it, the only one to do so.

Michael was uncomfortable with including the threat in the message, but it was simple truth. He wouldn't be the one to execute the threat, it would be the Free Folk. All through the ride there, they'd spit at Halfhand's general direction, something he took in remarkably good spirit.

Diabolical brutality would be the result of any Crow betrayal or refusal to negotiate, and there was no way that Michael could've prevented it. Four hundred Free Folk warriors in close proximity was easily enough to overwhelm even the full fire-team with the crawler. Not that he was planning on telling the Free Folk that.

So, when Sayer spotted riders approaching the following morning from atop the tallest weirwood, it was a relief.

Less hopeful was the number. Hundreds of Crows had sortied out of Castle Black, half on horseback. Michael wondered if it was just a bluff, an escort for the Lord Commander's safety or a genuine attempt to recover their captured brothers.

He ordered Sayer to try and get a count on the numbers approaching, Tormund to set a line of battle among the weirwoods on the north end of the circle where the stakes would protect their flanks from cavalry, and Six-Skins to bring the wight to the middle of the circle.

There, Michael lit a large camp fire, the wight writhing in its fur-wrapping like a unliving burrito. After covering his face, he waited for the Men of the Night's Watch.

The first sign of them was an outrider, to scouting the situation. No doubt there were others moving around the sides. Six-Skins had stationed his warged polar bear and 'shadowcat' there. Michael didn't know what a shadowcat was, but he was sure horses wouldn't like to be around one.

Next, a larger mounted party of thirty or so rode to the southern edge of the circle and waited. Michael gave them a wave, to signal he was friendly. Their arrival forced Sayer from his tree, and the young Canadian Ranger moved to one on the western point of the circle instead.

Finally, the Crow's main force arrived. Another seventy mounted soldiers, which looked as much like knights as it was possible to get. On foot, another hundred, almost entirely made up of swordsmen, most with knightly looking shields. There were archers here and there, but not enough to worry Michael. Every single man was dressed in chainmail at the very least. Some of the riders had plate cuirasses.

While thinking himself back in some re-enactment of a battle from medieval Sweden or something, Michael could not help but notice the Crows were way, way better equipped than the Free Folk. And more disciplined too. The infantry were forming a line of battle that mirror Tormund's, and most of the cavalry were trotting to the flanks. The Lord Commander planned to envelop and destroy Tormund and Six-Skin's combined forces, not just scatter them.

"Sayer, what's your count on the Crows?" Michael asked over the radio.

"Two hundred or so, sir," Sayer replied.

Michael scowled. That was half the size of the Free Folk force, and given they had the Wall to observe the numbers from, the Lord Commander would've known that. So why the smaller force? Confidence in their arms, armour and discipline? Or was this the largest force they could muster?

If they wanted Qhorin Halfhand and the others back unharmed, putting as large a force in the field as possible for pure intimidation factor and a big stick for negotiations would've been wiser.

They don't have the numbers, Michael decided, Perhaps we took them entirely by surprise and the troops are spread out across the Wall.

In front of the Crow battle line, a smaller group of horsemen remained, taking off their helmets. The military leadership, Michael knew, deciding whether or not to attack or talk.

The Lord Commander was at the centre of the group, a large but old man with a bald head and a shaggy white beard. No doubt Tormund and his beard have a quip or two in mind for meeting this guy, Michael thought.

Beside and a little behind was a teenager, shorter in stature than the Commander, with a long face, brown hair to his ears. Like a prettier, not-fish faced Ryk, Michael joked to himself. The kid was clearly the Lord Commander's squire, quietly listening to what the older men around him had to say, though failing to keep his displeasure about what was being said off of his features. More like Zheng there.

The others were another man of smaller stature in his fifties with salt and pepper hair and yet another in his thirties with dirty blonde hair, both of them of obvious military bearing. Probably nobles, Michael thought with disdain, I'll have to pretend I'm one too. How hard can that be? Even the King Beyond the Wall thought I was a lord.

At last, the decision was made, and the Lord Commander's horse trotted forwards, with only his squire as company. The other two sat on their horses and waited to see.

The two Crows made their approach, first on horseback, and after dismounting when two thirds of the way to the middle of the clearing, on foot. The squire held the reins as the commander walked in front. Neither said a word until coming close enough to the fire for the Lord Commander to take off his gloves and warm his hands in its warmth. He paused on seeing the wriggling wrap of furs on the ground by Michael's feed, but recovered quickly.

"I am Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," the older man said.

"Ulysses of Ithaca," Michael replied, "And your friend?"

"Jon Snow," Mormont stated, "Lord Eddard Stark's bastard. Stark is the Warden of the North. The boy is here to tell you why whatever folly you are planning will fail, if you do not believe it from my lips."

Michael cocked an eyebrow. It was the first time anyone had ever been introduced to him as someone's bastard. He looked at the younger man, wondering what the subject of the introduction thought of all of it.

Jon 'Snow's' eyes, grey as can be, were aimed downward. In shame.

For reasons he couldn't quite explain, this offended Michael. I'm tired of living among people with backwards ass ideas. I can't change them, but I don't have to put up with them in every little thing either. Though perhaps that's the colonialist in me talking.

"In my country, a person's child is their child," he declared, "As a matter of law, no child is guilty of their parents' mistakes. So, Jon Stark, if you're going to stay here, come to the fire. Look me in the eye when you make your threats. Otherwise, you can return to your little army."

The Lord Commander made a brief choking sound, which Michael enjoyed hearing. Jon Stark's eyes lifted, and so did the shame. Both of which Michael enjoyed seeing even more. Perhaps the boy had never heard himself called by his father's name before. The 'bastard' stepped forward, level with his superior, doing as he was told. "If you insist," he said, politely.

Mormont moved on quickly. "It is as was said, you are not from Westeros. Because of that, I will give you the benefit of the doubt where your ignorance of our ways are concerned. If you wish to negotiate, you must release our men."

Resisting the urge to laugh in the man's face, Michael breathed out through his nose and contained himself. "I was born in another place, not yesterday, Mormont. You'll get your men back when you have made an agreement with the Free Folk. Not with me. Normally, my country's laws would prevent me from interfering at all. I'm only here to facilitate the negotiations, because I happen to be stuck on this side of the Wall."

He pointed at the wrapped up wight. "Trapped with these things."

Mormont and Jon Stark both glanced down at wight-burrito. This was what they really came for. Michael sighed, bent down, undid the outer ropes and pulled off the furs one by one. The ageless woman seemed to stop moving as he did so, as if allowing it to happen faster.

But as soon as the process was complete and she was fully revealed in the light of both the sun and the fire, the wight began to move again. Struggling against her bonds to get away from the flames.

Eyes bulging and taking a stride forwards, Mormont and Stark both drew their swords in fear. Brave sons of guns, Michael thought, while moving to intercept them.

"I have the shot," Sayer announced over the comms.

"Hold," Michael said, as much to the Crows as to Sayer, "She's tied up. It's safe. Mostly."

"Roger," Sayer replied, while Mormont lowered his sword at once.

It took Jon Stark a few more seconds of watching the wight, to make sure the rope around her would hold. "Gods save us," Mormont said, "It's true."

"Yes, it is," Michael agreed, "And these things aren't the worst of it. Unfortunately, they have masters. Demons in the shape of men, except made from… I'm not sure how to describe it. Living ice?"

"White Walkers?" Jon Stark asked, "You saw a White Walker?"

"I shot a White Walker," Michael said, "I'm sure the man we sent described our weapons. Powerful as they are, the demon was only incapacitated, not killed. But it was enough to escape."

Both Mormont and Jon looked at each other, and then at the rifle hanging off the front of Michael's armour. He took it into his hands, but didn't aim it anywhere. "No, I won't show you," he said, before they asked, "You can go on imagining what a weapon that can stop a White Walker. Because that's what you'll face if you decide negotiation isn't what you want."

Mormont growled something incoherent, and sheathed his sword in a smooth motion. "Four of you cannot defeat the Night's Watch. To say nothing of the Stark forces."

So you did interrogate your Ranger. "We're not alone," Michael countered, "If you refuse to negotiate, then the law no longer prevents me openly allying with the Free Folk. At the moment, we merely have mutual interests, it may even be possible that we have more in common with you. No talking means I join with Mance Rayder, King Beyond the Wall."

"The Free Folk are no match for my father's host," Jon Stark replied, "They have no discipline, poorer weapons, and they fight only for every man's own will, not a greater cause."

Sounds like something he learned by heart in school, Michael thought. "I'll make it my life's work to correct each of those flaws," he shrugged, "Because my life will be short if I don't. And the Free Folk will be well motivated to cooperate. Because their lives will be short too. If we fail, we'll attack your Wall anyway, as the undead foot soldiers of the White Walkers. So you better cooperate too."

The wight gargled, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, rolling onto her back and squirming. The tongue was dark with rot. Michael flicked it with his foot, back onto its side. Good timing on your part, he said to her in his head, But no more interruptions.

Mormont grimly watched, before looking up at the sky for a few seconds. "What do you propose?" he asked.

Can't speak about them in front of the wight, Michael thought, No idea if she's like a camera, a way for her masters to see and hear things, or if she's just a puppet on strings. "Proposals are for later," he replied, "Today, every single one of your officers, record keepers, anyone who can write is going to come to this campfire. To see her." He gestured to the wight once again.

"So no one can deny the reality," Jon guessed, correctly.

Michael nodded. "Then tomorrow, we'll talk about proposals. Two envoys of the King Beyond the Wall will join us at this fire. Another of my countrymen will be here, and Qhorin Halfhand to report on the wellbeing of your men. You can bring two of your own. Plus Jon Stark here, so we can test our proposals against what he knows of his father."

Mormont moved closer to his squire to confer. For a moment, Michael thought he was going to reject the idea, but the Lord Commander suddenly stepped around the fire, and offered his hand. "I'll begin sending the officers in groups of four," he said, "But I'm keeping my men ready. Any sign of treachery…"

Michael shook the hand. "You'll rip me a new one. I would do the same in your position."

Chapter Text

The leaders of the Night's Watch slowly but methodically made their way to see the captured wight. Always in a certain pattern; two warriors, two support personnel. A transparent attempt to protect the non-combatants.

Michael was sure the outward reason was to prevent him from taking more hostages, but Mormont's reaction to the wight had been genuine shock and terror. Maybe he's more afraid of the wight than me.

Regardless, it was an opportunity too good to pass up. Michael's phone had a damn good camera. As the wight provided a great distraction, he discreetly took pictures of every single one of the spectators while they were busy dropping jaws and drawing swords. Special attention was paid to the top military personnel.

Two familiar figures came first; the knights whom the Lord Commander had rode out with. Ser Alliser Thorne and Ser Jaremy Rykker, the small and sinewy 'master-at-arms' in his fifties and the sardonic noble-looking 'acting First Ranger' respectively.

They were the first two to approach and the only two to introduce themselves.

Rykker with his name, all polite but eyes taking in the details of armour and weaponry. Thorne by spitting on the ground at Michael's feet, declaring name and title, and telling him to remember both, because they belonged to the man who would kill him and his wildling friends. Michael would remember him for another reason entirely.

They escorted a guy who was a candidate for a heart attack or serious skin condition, given how red he was in the cold, and some sort of priest who smelled strongly of alcohol.

The wight made all of them lose the colour in their faces, even the red-faced one.

Another five groups came through without much to notice. A one-armed man here, a warrior worth noting there. The more interesting thing was that the number of them was far fewer than Michael had thought. They have very few military officers at all.

Michael again put this down to the Night's Watch being spread out in garrisons across the full length of the Wall, but something felt off about the hypothesis. 'Lord-Commander' seemed too grand a title for such a decentralised system. No one had been introduced as the local sub-commander. I'm missing something that might be important, Michael thought to himself, Maybe Mance will know.

The seventh and last group defied all expectations. The Lord Commander and Jon Stark made their reappearance, but this time on the front bench of a cart. Two more men in black cloaks were in the back, it turned out.

One of the cart's passengers was the oldest man Michael had ever seen, on either world. Wrinkled, bald, his eyes sunk back into his skull and obviously not working any more, the man wore a chain with wide links in a large variety of metals. The neck they were supported by barely seemed strong enough to hold the weight.

The other was a young man that seemed to be the same age as Jon Stark, though there the similarities ended. He was heavy set to a degree Michael didn't think possible from someone in a medieval society. His fingers, which were fidgeting and drawing attention to themselves, were freshly stained with ink. Literate and fat. Definitely a noble, Michael noted, But what on Earth is he doing at the Wall? Did he join to become an administrator?

The last group dismounted the cart close by the fire, which by now was running low on wood. The heavy guy helped the old man along as he walked with a black cane, and towards the wight. Michael didn't like where the scenario was going. Old man, lived long beyond what his circumstances should allow, marching headlong at a mortal threat to society?

"Wow, wow, hold on a minute," he said, stepping in front of the pair, "Where do you think you're going?"

"To see the wight," the Lord-Commander replied gruffly, like it was his right.

"More precisely, to have it described to me," the old man added, his voice far softer, "Samwell and Jon are both astute boys, soon to be men of the Night's Watch. Lord Commander Mormont is an honest and honourable leader. Between them, I will be able to understand just what it is they are seeing."

Michael wondered about the old man. What was a blind man's position in an active military organisation? Some sort of advisor? "And why is it important that you understand in particular? Who are you?"

"The boy you have not met before is Samwell Tarly," the old man replied, "He will record these events for posterity in my words. I am Aemon Targaryen, maester to the Night's Watch." The Tarly kid produced a sort of small writing tablet from under his cloak, as if to show it as proof.

Michael frowned. The word 'maester' hadn't translated. Does the concept simply not exist back home? Is that how you actually say it or is the magic compensating by making it sound close to 'master' in some way?

Wondering about it, he almost let slip his real name out of sheer politeness and distraction, but caught himself just in time. "Ulysses of Ithaca. I'm sorry, but what is a maester? That's not a word I'm familiar with."

The old man's brow knit, deepening its many furrows. The Lord-Commander looked on with scepticism too. Jon Stark on the other hand didn't seem all that surprised. But it was not any of them who spoke up.

"H-how do you speak the Common tongue but not know what the maesters are?" said Tarly, "All of the books on the language are written by the maesters."

"I didn't learn your language from a book," Michael replied honestly, "I can't read or write in letters from the countries near here to begin with." Though maybe I should put Zheng on thinking about how we can learn to quickly, he thought to himself, The magic must be able to help somehow.

"Maesters are an order of scholars, messengers and healers," Jon Stark explained, again like he was reciting something he learned in school, "They assist lords in ruling, tend to the sick, record events, care for and dispatch the ravens that carry messages between different parts of the realm, and investigate the world's mysteries."

Ravens? Michael wondered, Like carrier pigeons? They're supposed to be pretty smart. He was impressed that such a thing had been thought of. Communications in Westeros must be far quicker than in medieval Europe.

"May I ask where you are from, Lord Ulysses?" Maester Aemon inquired, "Your accent is unidentifiable, yet you speak the Common Tongue with great precision for someone from so far away that the Maesters of the Citadel are unknown."

Michael straightened up to his full height. "That's not information I am willing to give at this time. You came here to see… to have the wight described. Get on with it."

"Ulysses is not your real name, is it?" Jon Stark blurted out, "How can we trust a man who won't tell us his name?"

The Lord Commander's straight line of a mouth cracked a slight smile of approval at the question. Clearly being groomed for some sort of position.

"Enlightened self-interest," Michael stated, stepping aside to let Samwell Tarly and Maester Aemon have the access they wanted to the wight, "Neither of us want to end up like the young lady on the floor, do we?"

"Indeed not," the Maester agreed, "I can smell and hear her already. Most definitely dead, and from the wheezing… she has a wound to the upper torso, deep, into the lungs, does she not Samwell?"

Michael knew people who lost certain senses often gained stronger perceptions in their remaining ones, but that was quite a diagnosis.

Tarly looked like he was turning green, but bit down his nausea to do his duty. Not what I would've expected from a spoiled noble, Michael noted. The heavy young man handed off the writing tablet to Jon Stark and took up a stick from the much reduced pile of firewood. With a very shaky hold on it, he lifted the remaining furs protecting the wight's modesty.

Michael wanted to stop him. He wanted the dead girl to have some dignity in death, even if it was necessary to show her off, but Tarly's distaste for what he was doing was written all over his face. The girl had been pretty once, and Tarly's expression told that he shared Michael's sadness that she had been killed so young.

"A large bite or claw wound to the upper left side of her body, maester," Tarly said, "Also, her eyes are glowing blue."

Michael curled his lips, the stare of the White Walker he had shot coming to him at once. "All their eyes glow blue. Matches their puppet masters, though the White Walker's ones were brighter." He searched for a comparison they'd understand. "Like torches compared with candles."

"This is consistent with the tales of such creatures," Aemon sniffed, "Is there anything else you can tell us, Lord Ulysses?"

Michael considered withholding information on the wights too. But he didn't know if he'd live long enough to pass it on otherwise. An open hand with intel about the Others seemed like one way to build trust when he had no intention of revealing anything more about himself if he could help it.

And there were observations that had been brewing in his mind since that first night in front of the Laughing Tree.

"I think White Walkers control the minds of the wights," he said, "Those that are raised by a Walker are slaved to that particular walker. Commands seem to be given instantly without words. The Walker might even be able to see and hear through the wights, if they still have eyes and ears to hear with. I'm not sure if the Walkers have to be close to do that."

The Crows' faces instantly became stony. Raising the dead and puppeting them in such a way was no mean feat, even to Michael. Lord Commander Mormont grimaced, looking down at the wight.

"You mean they could be watching us right now?" he asked, "Listening to us speak?"

Michael turned his hands from side to side. "Could be, I'm guessing based on behaviour I've seen," he stated, "The wights seem far more … directed when a White Walker is near. Sometimes they're just sent out without any master to cause chaos or attack large population centres. But it's a disadvantage too. If you hurt the Walker, all the wights it raised feel that pain as if they were still alive. They drop to the ground, and flail about like a fish out of water."

"Not all of our number believe the Walkers are real, even now," the Lord Commander frowned, "I don't suppose you have one of those tied up somewhere?"

Michael shook his head. "I doubt rope or chains would hold them," he said, "Those things are magic. They'd freeze whatever was holding them until it cracked."

"Nonetheless, you have discovered a key to defeating them," the maester noted, "If there are weapons that can harm the White Walkers, save your own."

Michael rubbed the back of his neck. He didn't want to admit their weapons were limited in ammunition, but he didn't want to talk them up beyond their capabilities either. "Our weapons hurt the Walkers and cut through wights like a hot knife through butter. But there are not many of them."

"And even his weapons cannot be shot forever," the Lord Commander observed to the maester, before looking to Michael again, "Unless I am mistaken and your armaments are magical in nature too, they must shoot shoot some manner of object. Such things must be limited in number."

Michael frowned. Just by standing there, he was giving away intelligence on his team's capabilities. I made the right move leaving the others back at Gilly's hall with the crawler.

"We've got more than enough of ammunition to deal with you," he replied cheerily, "Don't forget that when we sit down tomorrow. The White Walkers don't stay down when we shoot them, but you would."

The Lord Commander looked back blankly with doubt. Real or feigned? Michael couldn't tell.

"There must be other weapons," Jon Stark insisted, "How else did the First Men defeat them? Push them back and buy time to build the Wall?"

"You're not wrong," Michael answered, "Any sort of fire works against the wights, though it takes a few seconds. It hurts but doesn't kill the Walkers too. The Free Folk say obsidian is lethal to both the Walkers and the wights. I haven't seen that work in-person yet, but I don't see how anyone could have survived here if it was untrue."

"Then we are in luck," Aemon pronounced, "There is abundant obsidian in the Seven Kingdoms, at Dragonstone and other places. Nor is it considered valuable. Our own coffers could secure enough to arm many of our brothers."

"It's something at least," Mormont agreed, "Though obsidian is brittle and not commonly worked by smiths. It is a great pity that steel is not effective."

"Not unless you want to hack up dead bodies that are trying to kill you," Michael said, "Wights can't get up and kill you if they have no heads, legs or arms. There is a rumour of magic swords made of 'smokey' metal that is just as good as dragonglass, but I don't recognise that description."

The four men all looked at each other. The Lord-Commander even seemed distraught briefly. "I recognise it," he said, "I've seen such a blade before."

"So have I," Jon added, "My father's sword is like that."

"My father's sword too," Tarly said.

"And I have seen many such blades over the years," Aemon said, finishing the round up.

Michael crossed his arms. "Is there a woman in a pond, distributing magic swords to young noblemen or something?" Jon Stark grinned at that, the absurdity of it being just as funny as the reference to King Arthur and Monty Python. Michael was pleased to entertain, if only to ingratiate himself a little.

"Not quite," Mormont replied, "The rumour refers to Valyrian steel swords, blades forged with the magicks of Old Valyria. There are not many blades or even much of the metal left."

"Fewer and less every year," Aemon stated, "The secret to forging it was lost, though there are smiths that can rework it. I have a Valyrian steel link, myself."

The maester's slightly shaking hands moved to his chain, which had many more links than Michael had initially thought. They jangled and jingled, until at last, a dark metal ring was held up, bright-as-silver waves weaving through it.

Looks familiar, Michael noted, But where have I seen something like that before? "Well, we're just assuming the rumour is true. And without someone to make the steel, your troops have to use dragonglass and fire then."

Aemon gave a long, deliberate nod. "With your permission, we would like to conduct a series of tests on the wight," he said, "It shall not take long."

Michael saw no harm. Perhaps they'd discover something. "As long as you don't kill it and you share what you discover, go right ahead."

The next morning, the two armies again reassembled at the north and south sides of the Nine Weirwoods. Michael kept near the re-lit campfire in the centre of the space between them, waiting with Sayer for the leaders of both to arrive. Piles of furs had been laid out over some low logs for those talking, a piece of comfort deliberately chosen by him to make it more difficult for the parties to get up and attack each other over this insult or that.

He also knew that wouldn't stop either side trying to provoke the other.

The Crows arrived first. Instead of the Lord Commander, his plus two and Jon Stark, nearly double that number showed up. It was Mormont, Stark, Thorne, Rykker, Tarly with a little writing table and parchment, the red-faced man, and 'Maester' Aemon.

Michael and Sayer watched them approach and said nothing about it. Just coming to talk was good enough.

"Lord Commander," Michael said in greeting.

"Lord Ulysses," Mormont replied, "No wight today?"

Not until I'm sure it isn't an undead surveillance camera. "No. Take a seat. All of you."

The Men of the Night's Watch were not too good for furs, and took their places. The ones that were supposed to be there, anyway. The add-ons simply stood behind, so Michael and Sayer stayed standing too.

All continued waiting in increasingly uncomfortable silence for the Free Folk. They were late. The first of their own battery of insults against the Crows, Michael knew. The next arrived when they did.

Tormund Giantsbane pulled Qhorin Halfhand along, the Crow Ranger gagged to shut him up. Varamyr Six-Skins followed behind, walking on his own two feet for once. Not good signs from either man. Gagging Halfhand was an obvious insult, but Six Skins not having a single animal with him meant that they were hidden somewhere nearby, ready to attack.

Michael waved them to sit opposite the Crows, which they did, without greeting. They had already seen him at camp an hour before, for a little chat about not screwing the summit up by opening their mouths. Mance had given the word that Michael was to do the negotiating and their role was to listen. All the better to hang me with my own words.

"Remove Halfhand's gag," he ordered.

Tormund frowned, but shrugged and untied the strips of leather holding the large ball of cloth in the Crow's mouth. Halfhand coughed deeply as the gag was pulled out. Sayer offered him a drink from his canteen, which the Crow accepted, drinking deeply.

"Thank you," he said, as he handed the flask back, "I don't know where Giantsbane got that cloth. I am sure I do not want to know."

"Har!" laughed the man in question.

"This is Tormund Giantsbane?" Ser Alliser asked, contempt dripping from every syllable.

"And the other is Varamyr Six-Skins," Halfhand replied, "Men we have hunted for years, at our doorstep."

"But not within reach," Six Skins stated.

"We'll see," Ser Alliser said with an ugly smirk.

Michael sighed, already exhausted by the experience. "As you can see, Lord Commander, your man is unharmed," he said, turning to Mormont, "Feel free to ask about the others."

Mormont kept his face a mask. "Qhorin. Make your report. What happened out there?"

Halfhand rubbed his hands in front of him, as close to the fire as possible. "I rode out of the Shadow Tower a month ago as instructed, with a double-strength ranging party. Looking for Benjen. No one in the south-western villages had seen him, so we moved further north. We discovered Lord Ulysses and his people on the western ranger-road leading to the Fist of the First Men. They looked to be setting an ambush for someone, most likely us."

"You never did tell me how you detected us," Michael interrupted.

"Scout on a higher hill nearby," Halfhand answered, to the Lieutenant's surprise, "With a small Myrish spyglass. One of the men you killed used to be a sailor, see."

As I thought, Michael said to himself.

"Continue," grumbled Ser Rykker, "I wish to hear it all."

Halfhand gave him a glare before Michael could. "I knew the place well. So, I gave the order to go around their ambush, to catch them unawares. But it took most of the remaining daylight to move around unseen. By the time we were ready, they were preparing to leave. Their two wildling guides had went off for a piss, right beside where we were hiding. One of them was about to spot us, so we commenced the attack."

"Long story short, they lost," Michael interrupted again, "Half the Rangers died in combat. The rest were captured. Not a single one of us died. I'm afraid full descriptions of our weapons, tactics and other capabilities will have to wait until a time all of the people at this fire are allies."

"And what will you do if he speaks about such matters in front of us?" the Lord Commander asked, "Will you kill to protect your secrets?"

Michael felt a great desire to put his face in his hands. "No, I'll just smack him on the head and gag him again," he replied flatly, "Qhorin Halfhand. Can you confirm that those of you we captured have not been badly hurt and that your personal property has not been taken, other than your weapons? Including that of the dead?"

Halfhand said nothing for a moment. "I can," he said, "Though you seem to be fond of using our horses as your own mounts."

I wouldn't use the word fond, Michael thought, My rear still hurts from the long journey on their backs. "They'll be returned, if we make peace, along with your swords."

Ser Alliser spat into the fire, over the top of the maester's shoulder. "How gracious of you, Lord Ulysses."

Michael smiled back at him with false innocence. "I have my moments," he said, before returning to the topic, "Lord Commander, we've established that your remaining men are alive, well and retain all the dignity that can be expected. Would you agree?"

Mormont's mouth moved like he was chewing a particularly tough bit of meat for a moment. "I disagree on the last matter," he said, "I would point out that they remain hostages. Which is beneath their dignity. They serve the realm, they gave up their lives to do so. Release them."

Michael shook his head. "They are prisoners of war," he said, "No sane leader would release prisoners for nothing. If you want them back, end the war. Make an agreement. Otherwise, they'll remain prisoners."

"Your threat to kill them if we attacked was dishonourable," Ser Rykker said, "And I see you continue your dishonour…"

"The threat was from the Free Folk, not me," Michael pointed out, "A promise from Mance. The peaceful talking idea, that was mine. I may have called this parley, but don't mistake me for one of the Free Folk."

"They're your prisoners," the Lord Commander said, pointing at Michael, "If they are killed by the 'Free Folk', you are responsible."

"I agree, which is another reason why I am negotiating. But you have a legitimate grievance, because we did plan on taking your men prisoner in the ambush. So, if you hear me out today, and I'll release the youngest back to you again, alive and unharmed." The one least likely to know anything because he's barely a Crow. Every night, the older men teach him survival skills.

The Lord Commander narrowed his eyes. "Very well, Ulysses. Make your proposals. But if you break that promise, I'll order an immediate attack."

At last, progress, Michael thought with relief. "The problem is that as many people north of the Wall need to be south of it before the White Walkers begin a large attack on the Free Folk. That will require a political settlement."

He held up his hand balled into a fist and put out his thumb. "One, some are willing to kneel, to accept your laws entirely and become vassals of your lords. Their property will not be touched."

"Cowards," Six Skins muttered.

Michael ignored him, and released his forefinger to join the thumb. "Two, some will swear sacred oaths on these weirwoods to defend the Wall and maintain the peace, though they will not join the Night's Watch. Their property won't be touched either."

Another finger. "Three, those that wish neither to kneel or swear an oath, but do not oppose us, we can use as scouts out here. Their families can be kept in strong positions to be built near the Wall, and they'll require supplies. In the event of a major attack by the Others, they'll be let through the Wall."

Michael held up all his fingers. "Four and Five. Those Free Folk who oppose the plan will be dealt with, and Mance will count on your assistance in doing so."

He put down his hand again. "These are our propositions."

The Lord Commander ran his fingers through his bushy beard, considering this.

"And if I refuse them?"

Michael made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "The Free Folk will be made into wights that will attack the Wall, or they'll attack the Wall themselves to avoid that fate."

"So it would seem," the Lord Commander agreed, "But what about you, Lord Ulysses? What will you do?"

Thank you, Nuremburg Trials, Michael thought. "My country's laws are clear," he said, "I'm not permitted to stand by while an entire people are annihilated. If you refuse, I have no choice but to assist the Free Folk."

"We may not need his help," Tormund added, with a nasty grin, "I see very few Crows behind you, Lord Commander. And Mance has many more than us."

Mormont was not impressed by the threat. "I do not have the authority to unleash the whole wildling population on the Seven Kingdoms. My own home has been attacked by them repeatedly in the past, and not so long ago as to forget or forgive."

Michael held up a hand to stop him. "My country's laws wouldn't allow me to tolerate the Free Folk taking people, property or the lives of civilians either," he said, "Anyone who breaks their word and commits a crime, I would be compelled to arrest and hand them over to you or the lords."

Tormund pulled his beard. "You didn't tell us that before."

"You didn't ask," Michael replied, "But like I told you before. Taking other people's property will just cause conflict we can't afford with White Walkers coming to kill us all."

Mormont baulked."At the very least, I would require permission to agree to your terms from the Starks of Winterfell."

Where the hell is Winterfell? Michael wondered.

"And my father will not give permission," Jon Stark added, "Not without seeing a wight with his own eyes. His lords wouldn't allow it."

Michael clenched his fist, hidden behind the side of the rifle hanging off his front. They do not seem to be treating this as urgently as it should. "Not good enough," he said, "Every day that passes, more Free Folk gather and the army of wights gets bigger too. If you didn't have the authority, then it would be royal troops or Stark troops guarding the gates of the Wall."

"The Night's Watch relies on the realm for supplies," Maester Aemon replied, "The King or the Lord of Winterfell may not command us, but they can show their displeasure at our actions with great ease."

"They're Crows, Ulysses," Tormund complained, "They can't scratch their arse without their lord's word."

Mormont leaned forward onto his knees. "And you can't scratch your arse without someone trying to stick a spear up it, Giantsbane," he said, "The support of the King and the Starks and the realm makes us stronger, not weaker."

Michael cut in to prevent the beards going off further on a tangent. "Let's be clear. There's no chance of us getting past the Wall until we transport a wight south of it, Lord Eddard Stark sees it, consults his lords and makes a decision. Is that correct?"

"More wights would be better," Mormont replied, "We can send them to the lords directly. Those nearest the Wall will be far more receptive to your plan if they have seen the threat for themselves."

"More wights aren't going to be a problem, trust me," Michael said, "How long would the whole process take?"

The Lord Commander shifted his weight on the furs underneath him, glancing at Jon Stark briefly. "Six months at least," he said.

Michael's brow raised. "Where does Lord Stark live? The Moon?" he asked, "Is Winterfell that far away?"

Mormont moved uncomfortably in his place. "Lord Stark is not presently in Winterfell," he stated, "He is serving as Hand of the King in the capital, many hundreds of leagues to the south."

Michael felt a lurch in his gut. Thousands of clicks, if a league is the same as one back home. When were they planning on telling me this? "Let's put aside the fact I have no idea if a wight could survive warmer climes… Is there someone else we can ask? Does Lord Stark have a regent that's closer?"

"My brother, Lord Robb Stark," Jon Stark began.

"Half-brother," Ser Alliser interrupted, "Don't forget yourself in the presence of your betters, boy."

Jon Stark shot a look of pure hatred at the 'knight', which seemed to amuse him. "Does the truth offend you, bastard?" Ser Alliser asked.

Where the hell does this guy think he is? The local bar?

"Kindly be quiet," Michael said in rebuke, "We aren't here to discuss the subject of Jon Stark's parents. If you can't restrain yourself, leave. Adults are speaking."

"Snow," Ser Alliser growled back, "His name is Snow." The knight's fingers wrapped around his sword's grip, ready to draw it out from its scabbard.

Michael took his rifle in hand and flicked the safety off. "Snow is what I'll bury you under if you intend to try that blade on me. Walk away. You're not longer welcome."

Halfhand stood. "I would do as he says, Ser Alliser," he said, "That rifle he holds is not to be trifled with. Cuts through armour like it was parchment." Ser Alliser did not heed the Ranger's advice. He didn't even seem to hear it.

"Kill him and be done with it," Six Skins said to Michael, his voice rising slightly with excitement, "Show the Crows what they face."

No, I won't kill a man for arrogance and stupidity, Michael thought, But if he draws that sword and takes a single step in my direction…

"Enough," the Lord Commander said in a commanding tone, "Ser Alliser. Leave."

The knight took his fingers off his sword, and swept his cloak around himself as he turned around. Ser Alliser Thorne left at once. Without a word of complaint or insult to anyone. Like it had all not mattered.

Maybe it doesn't matter, Michael wondered, At the end of the day, Alliser Thorne looked like he was always going to be a voice against us. Jon Stark is still a bastard in a society that seems to hate illegitimate children. My own insistence on treating him otherwise is just as stubborn.

Still, Michael was relieved by the sudden willing departure of the overzealous knight. He flicked his weapon's safety back on and let it hang by its sling again. "Jon Stark, you have a brother who is your father's regent? Why can't we just send the wight to him and have him make the decision?"

Jon Stark flinched, woken from deep thought. He answered cogently. "My brother would not take a decision on his own. He would send a raven to our father at once. I do not know if Father would believe my brother's word without seeing the wight himself. The lords should act on my brother's command, as they swore to do."

"But this is not an ordinary matter," Mormont added, "There will be great unrest among the lords if word of your proposals spreads before the wights are delivered."

Michael did not believe they were telling the whole truth. There was some piece of the puzzle he was missing. "Then we'll capture more as you suggested," he said, "Varamyr, can you do that quickly?"

Six Skins inclined his head. "A matter of weeks," he said.

"So the lords won't be a problem unless they're insane," Michael insisted.

"You have already seen what pride can do to a man's reason," Mormont stated, "I brought Ser Alliser here so you would understand the attitudes you would face south of the Wall. Your proposals will simply not work. The lords will accept those who bend the knee, unarmed women and children most like. But unless they take the vows of the Night's Watch, the lords will never accept armed wildlings south of the wall."

"Some of the Free Folk would kneel," Tormund said, "But very few would join you Crows. Your rules are strange to us."

"I hear you don't even take women," Six Skins added mockingly, "Do they cut your parts when you join?" Tormund let out a laugh himself at that.

Ser Rykker made some sort of remark about Six Skins being unable to take women without warging that Michael only half heard. The two chieftain's words had set off all the other Crows, save for the Maester and his assistant. They all gripped their weapons, though none had the impatience to draw and start swinging.

Frustration creeping in again, Michael leaned his head back, exhaling through his teeth. What he saw in the sky made him ignore the loud argument around him.

There was an eagle circling overhead.

Anywhere else, he would've regarded it as a curiosity. Not here. Not on Westeros. "Six Skins!" he shouted at the top of his voice. The argument stopped at once. "Is that one of yours?!" He pointed straight at the eagle.

The warg and everyone else looked up, squinting against the brightening daylight. A nasty grimace appeared on his face in a moment. "No, it's not mine!" Six Skins declared, "And another owns it."

From the top of the Wall, a horn droned out a call, and then another. Michael turned to the Crows. "What the hell is that?"

"Wildlings," Mormont said, "More wildlings are coming."

Jon Stark drew his blade and stepped in front of his Lord Commander. "Is this your plan? Draw us out and ambush us?!"

Not about to let himself get cut down in the confusion, Michael brought up his rifle, aiming it at the ground by the teenager's feet. Easy, kid, easy…

Mormont put his hand on Stark's shoulder. "Look at their faces," he said, "They don't know anything about this. We need to…"

The Lord Commander didn't finish his sentence. An arrow thrummed through the air and into his side. A warcry came from the west, figures moving out of the forest. Free Folk warriors, covered in torn off foliage held to their bodies with fishing nets. A thousand at least. The arrows began flying at the Crow's battle line, and a smaller force emerged into the clearing of the Nine Weirwoods.

Michael saw the man directing them for only a split second, and cursed his life choices. Rattleshirt.

Chapter Text

More archers appeared through the trees by the second, drawing their bows. Training kicking in, Michael threw himself to the ground, behind the pile of furs that were supposed to be his seat. The others followed his lead, just in time. Arrows whipped through the air. Too close.

Even as the projectiles were slamming into the snow around them, Ser Rykker and Jon Stark piled up more of the fur bundles to protect the maester, Tarly and the red-faced First Steward. Better cover for the old man in particular, while he examined the Lord Commander's wound gently with his hands and Tarly answered his questions.

"Private, give the maester some disinfectant!" Michael ordered. He was about to follow up with more instructions, until the horse and cart that had brought the maester bolted away. Using that distraction, Six Skins ran past as fast as his legs could carry him, due east. A few arrows flew at him, mostly landing short. A little too lucky, Michael's mind whispered, before putting away the thought.

"Craven!" Tormund shouted after him. If Six Skins heard the shout, he didn't care.

Rattleshirt's troops began slowly moving across the clearing at last, confident that they had at least injured some of their prey but knowing that a wounded animal is often the most dangerous. The group was equipped almost identically to the one that had attacked at the Laughing Tree; fur and leather, spears and axes. It was also far larger.

Michael grit his teeth, and ignored the cold shiver of fear down his spine that had nothing to do with the snow he was laying on as best he could. At least their eyes aren't glowing blue. "Sayer, with me." He began crawling through the middle of the circle of furs, flat on his stomach. The Private did the same. The Crows moved the other way, letting them pass.

The exceptions were Jon Stark and Ser Rykker. With their own people in the way, the Free Folk archers had stopped shooting, so the two Crows stood up and prepared to meet the charge. Michael couldn't help but admire their bravery, albeit the sort that was probably drilled into them since birth. Planning to make sure they wouldn't need to use their swords, he and Sayer both laid their rifles over the furs, using them as shooting rests.

Jon Stark glanced down with undeniable curiosity, the knight Rykker resisting the temptation far better than the teenager. Don't worry, you'll be seeing our weapons any second now, Michael thought. "Centre mass, one shot each, Private," he commanded in English, "We might have to shoot a whole lot more than just these ones."

"No warning shot?" Sayer asked, reluctant to shoot without it.

Morality and law both were on Michael's side, however, and he would brook no hesitation from the young Canadian Ranger.

"We've received accurate fire, Private. No warning shots."

Sayer's mouth turned into a thin line, but he gripped his weapon tighter and put his chin to the stock to aim it. Attaboy.

Michael looked through the optical sight on his weapon and selected the first of his targets, a large man with a stone warhammer. Okay big guy, that's far enough. "Open fire."

The rifles peeled, the muzzles flashed, and the Crows unfamiliar with the sound and sight half-jumped out of their skins.

Sayer got his opening shot off first, Michael firing a split second later. They moved from target to target, giving each a bullet a piece. Almost none of them were killed instantly, but almost all dropped or stopped dead, their injury too painful and novel to ignore. The tracer rounds made warriors flinch, which slowed and then halted the advance.

That's right, learn your lesson, Michael said to himself as he dared to hope it would be that easy, Go home to Mama.

But reinforcements came up from behind, ignoring or not noticing the carnage. Michael's insides wrenched. The calculations were clear as day to him, they would reach his position. And calculation turned to rage when he saw who was leading the renewed charge, a personal retinue of sorts all around him.

The Weeper. We've been betrayed.

"Private, see the guy with the scythe?" Michael asked during a lull for reloading.

"Yeah."

"Shoot him after I've cleared the way."

Michael didn't wait for Sayer to acknowledge the order, and zoned in on the Weeper himself. The chieftain was looking straight at him, and noticed the change. Michael squeezed the trigger, letting a three round burst fly. As expected, the Weeper grabbed a man beside him, just in time. The bullets tore through the human shield, and into their intended target.

The Weeper kept coming, but his warriors kept out of arm's reach. He dropped to a hunch, trying to make himself a smaller target. Michael recognised that for the desperation it was, and felt sorry for the guy. Every one of them saw his little sacrificial act. He's a dead man.

Sayer took his shot. The bullet erupted through the Weeper's neck. He dropped to his knees, clutching the injury as blood poured through it. Michael did not see him die. His warriors simply went around their mortally wounded leader, didn't bunch up, and began to sprint. They've seen gunfire before, Michael realised, When we fought off wights at the Fist.

"Ghost!" Jon Stark called at the top of his lungs, "Ghost!"

"Why is he calling 'ghost'?" Sayer asked loudly in English, as he reloaded, "There are ghosts too?!"

Michael didn't answer, the enemy force were barely twenty yards away now.

"Snow, protect the Lord-Commander!" Ser Rykker said, stepping forward towards the enemy.

"I'll not die laying on my arse," Tormund growled to no one in particular, "Not while Crows die standing!" He stood to join Rykker, spear in hand.

Michael waited a moment for them to die and open up his lanes of fire, but no arrows flew to strike them down and the enemy seemed genuinely afraid of them for a moment.

How the hell am I supposed to shoot if you idiots step in front of me? He complained to no one. Getting up himself, quickly followed by Sayer, Michael began moving to get a clear shot once again.

Ser Rykker met the first of the Weeper's men directly. He took a blow from a stone axe on the flat of his blade, shattering the axe, before following up with a wide sweep across the man's face. Tormund claimed the next dose of blood, shoving his iron-tipped spear through the throat of a man running at him with a bronze sword speckled with green rust.

A wave of warriors washing over the pair, Michael could hear his heartbeat in his ears as he concentrated on keeping the Crow and the Chief alive. His rifle moved this way and that, sweeping over anyone trying to get in behind the pair. Sayer copied him, and soon there were collections of dying men and spearwives on the ground to either side.

But not even a minute later, his rifle clicked empty.

"Reloading!" Sayer called, his voice breaking as warriors spotted that he had stopped shooting too. They rushed him, raising their axes to strike.

Panic rising like burning vomit in his throat, Michael took his pistol into his hand and emptied it at the group. The cluster of warriors dissolved, some dead, others fleeing at the sudden rapid fire. But the damage had been done. Their comrades moved to surround, coming in from all sides to attack. Fending them off, Tormund soon had a large cut across his cheek, and Ser Rykker a wound to his left arm, neither cooperating with the other to defend themselves.

Avoiding the same mistake, Michael and Sayer backed off, stepping behind the piled furs again and completing the reload of their weapons. Gunfire kept the blades and points at bay, but the warriors were so close now, Michael could smell their breath and sweat. As soon as rifle and pistol ran dry again, they'd be all over both groups resisting them.

Michael began shooting sparingly, looking to scare them off rather than kill all of them and keep the stalemate alive longer. Tormund's troops aren't just going to stand there and watch him die, his mind promised him, Just hold out a little longer.

A push by trios from two sides forced Michael and Sayer to open up with everything they had left. With no real distance to slow them down, the bullets passing through the men and injuring others behind. Michael let the empty magazine drop out of his rifle, frantically reaching for a spare, but he already knew it was too late. A spearwife with a spear ran forward with her weapon held like a rifle and bayonet. Sayer pulled out a small steel hatchet, as two others advanced on him with clubs.

KIA on another world. Damn. Refusing to die without a useful weapon in his hand, Michael reached for his knife, hoping his armour would protect him enough to use it.

A blizzard of bright white fur filled his vision, forcing him to blink. For a split second, Michael thought snow had been magically summoned, fear of the Others shooting through. Only when the smell of wet dog hit his nostrils and the blizzard pinned the spearwife with its jaws around her throat did he realise the truth.

A gigantic white wolf turned to find its next victim, revealing a bloody muzzle and eyes the same dark red as the sap of the Laughing Tree. Michael's eyes widened at the sight so much that they filled with tears due to the cold. His body refused to move. The animal's gaze looked to him and for a moment, nothing else in the world existed except him and the wolf.

Reality resumed as the wolf bounded away silently, towards the next victim, a thin man with a spear. It pulled him to the ground with a tug on the leg, and tore into the arm holding the weapon.

It's only attacking the enemy, Michael realised. Not stopping to consider why, he wasted no time in using the distraction to feed his weapon another magazine. By the time he was finished, Jon Stark and Halfhand ran past and joined the wolf in putting warriors down.

Whatever annoyance Michael felt at the Crow Ranger being cut free, Jon Stark made up for it. Stark killed three men in six seconds, pirouetting about in a semi circle. Blood soaked his longsword, flicking away as it moved. Whenever the teenager swung the blade, he killed or deflected a blow that would have killed him. Halfhand was just as good if not better, but he was slower and killed fewer.

They're dyed-in-the-wool killers, Michael thought, feeling strongly that he was on another world once again.

From the north, another warcry echoed, sending Sayer spinning on the spot. Michael stopped the Private from shooting out of sheer adrenaline, knowing there was only one force that could come from that direction.

Tormund's warbands attacked the Weeper's depleted force, rolling over it like a hedgehog of spears and men. The sheer weight of numbers told its tale.

Hunched over and panting hard, Michael watched with relief at the warriors scattering with comical haste, some even dropping their weapons. It was only then he noticed that most of them were just as young as Jon Stark, Sayer or Ygritte. Until then, they were just savages trying to kill him. The realisation bothered him a little. But only a little.

Checking to see if reinforcements weren't coming in to resume an attack, Michael glanced southwards to see how the battle elsewhere was going. He saw only corpses littering the ground beyond the weirwoods, no mass of Free Folk warriors clashing with Crows. Whatever had happened, the fight was over or had moved on.

The wolf just stood in the midst of the bodies, licking the blood from its cheeks, watching. What is it doing? Michael asked himself.

Soon, the movement of Tormund limping caught his notice. As did the dozen wounds from his face to his legs that he now possessed. A few seconds more and he'd have been caught out, Michael knew. With Halfhand and Ser Rykker ignoring the man's plight to instead rush back to his Lord Commander, Michael went and helped Tormund back to the campfire. He'd earned a little aid given his performance and the trust he had shown in the plan, acts that had undoubtedly helped to save all their lives.

The chieftain grunted his thanks and accepted the help, while Jon Stark hovered around, observing quietly. Like the wolf.

"Maester Aemon," Michael said as they got close, "Got another casualty for you."

Both the Crows and the Free Folk standing around took notice of that, except for the maester himself, who kept working. The arrow itself had been removed by now, and Mormont looked like anyone in pain; red faced, sweaty and cringing.

"The Lord Commander requires our full attention," Aemon said, referring to himself and an extremely pale Tarly, the latter passing his superior a makeshift poultice of some kind.

Giantsbane spat into the embers of the fire, raising a hiss from it. "Leave the old man to his work. I'll live, but our chances of making an agreement are as dead as that fucking wight now. We'll keep the Lord Commander and the rest of our Crows prisoner, alive. Mance will want to speak to them."

Mance will want information out of them, Michael thought, And the Lord Commander will not be forthcoming. "Rattleshirt doesn't represent Mance, and we killed the Weeper ourselves. We came here in good faith. We can still make an agreement."

Tormund scoffed. "Aye, I am sure the Crows will be delighted to make peace with the people who they think just tried to kill them."

"They'll follow their Lord Commander," Mormont rasped, summoning a surprising amount of authority despite his condition, "After what I have seen these past two days, I am obliged to continue speaking peace." The man glanced at Michael's rifle.

"You're a dead man anyway, Crow," Tormund replied, "Maybe not today, but soon."

Michael couldn't help but agree with that assessment. Infection alone was going to be a serious threat to the Lord Commander's life. "Man has a point," he said, looking to Mormont, "Might be best to keep talking here and now. Create a fait accompli, an agreement that the Watch can take or leave as your last act."

The maester merely gave a chuckle, as if to say 'shows what you know'.

"The Lord Commander can be saved, easily," he said, "But only if we return to Castle Black."

Giantsbane gestured to the old man, like he could see. "Do you think me fresh off my mother's teat?" Tormund asked, "Wound like that will fester, Lord Crow here will die of a fever."

"And at Castle Black, there are materials to prevent it," the red-faced steward stated matter-of-factly, "Our knowledge of healing is greater than yours." Michael had almost forgotten the man existed, and suddenly remembered his name; Marsh.

"And even if it isn't good enough, he's no use out here," Jon Stark added, "The Lord Commander can speak to the men, use his dying words to keep the negotiations alive."

Michael frowned, unable to tell if there really was a chance or if the Crows just wanted to get the hell out of there. He certainly would in their place. He spotted Tormund looking around for a moment, between Crows, his warriors and back south, before sighing mightily.

"I'm going to regret this," Tormund grumbled, "Since you're so insistent he can live, old man, we'll bugger Rattleshirt from behind and give you back to your men."

"And we'll keep Halfhand hostage, as before," Michael added quickly, pleasing Tormund. Keeping the intelligence the Ranger had gathered out of the hands of his brothers in black remained a concern. The man in question shrugged, though he didn't drop or hand off his newly-acquired sword.

"You cannot attack Rattleshirt so close to my men," the Lord Commander said, "With Ser Rykker, Marsh and I here, Ser Alliser is in command. He will see your force as just another warband coming to attack him."

"Or pretend to," Marsh added, "He would never believe you come to deliver us back to Castle Black. I would not have believed it before I saw you strange foreign men strike down the wildlings coming for us." The steward's new found appreciation for Canadians notwithstanding, Michael could not help but admit there was truth in what they were saying.

"Nor would Ser Alliser's honour allow him to believe we were not hostages," Mormont agreed, "Even if you placed us in front of your men, and told him what you planned, he might still attack out of hatred for you and a will to defend what he and every other southron in the Watch believes it stands for."

"Killing wildlings, I presume?" Michael guessed.

"Aye," Mormont replied.

Ser Rykker frowned at his leader, but said nothing. Michael had guessed he was exactly the sort of 'honourable' knight type from the South that Ser Alliser was, he was just more polite about it.

"Then we'll defeat your Crows," Tormund stated, "Even if it'll upset the Canadians here."

"Canadians?" Jon Stark asked.

Damn it. Michael could've floored the bearded idiot of a chieftain. "Tormund, order your tribe back to camp and to stay there," he commanded, pointedly ignoring Jon Stark's question, "Bring Halfhand back with you. Find Six Skins and find out if he betrayed us. We'll take the Lord Commander's party back to the Wall ourselves. Such a small party won't be mistaken for a Free Folk attack, even deliberately." Unless Ser Alliser wants Mormont's job and is willing to murder for it…

Tormund shot up from his seat, causing his wounds to ooze blood again. "Are you mad?" he roared, "You two against Rattleshirt's whole warband and his allies?"

Michael found himself unable to suppress a shit-eating grin."We've killed his whole warband before, Giantsbane."

Every Crow turned his head to look at that, including the blind maester.

Tormund merely shook his own. "Even if you do it again… There is another path we could walk here. If we defeat the Crows now, the Wall will be defenceless. Can you not see that those few hundred are all the warriors Head Crow could spare?"

I noticed, Michael thought, wanting to physically close the chieftain's mouth, I just didn't want the Crows to know that I knew.

"The warriors you saw are far from the only force I can bring to bear," Mormont retorted over his shoulder at the chieftain, "And the lords of Westeros will act if you attack us so brazenly."

Then why haven't they? Michael wondered, Is the land up here not worth taking? Are the raids not worth answering? His school history lessons had taught him the economic value of fur trading in North America. If he was a lord, there was real money to be made north of the Wall and there was every reason to retaliate against raiders.

"Tormund, you know why we came here, and slaughtering Crows isn't it. I'm not tempting fate by putting your warriors in close proximity to the main Crow force. Mance sent you with me for a reason. I'm guessing it's because you're one of the more cunning leaders among your people."

"Har!" Tormund interrupted, "I am that."

"Then trust me," Michael insisted, "What I promised your king still holds."

Tormund chewed on that for a moment, considering the matter. The promise to Mance to join the war against the Night's Watch if they became unreasonable was not lightly made. But anyone with a brain could understand that the opposite was true too. If Free Folk leaders betrayed the Canadians, Michael would not forgive it.

"Ah! I give up!" Tormund said, throwing up his hands and standing again, "I'll let Mance decide if you were wrong or right."

The Canadians slowly led the way to the gate of Castle Black.

The Crows pulled their Lord Commander on a stretcher-sled made of animal skins, loops of leather and long weirwood branches. The two juniors were assigned to the task. Jon Stark did the job without comment or complaint. Tarly on the other hand huffed and puffed to an embarrassing degree.

Without the horse and cart or more men to pull another sled, the 'maester' had to walk along with his cane. It was likely the longest walk the ancient man had taken in a very long time. Only Ser Rykker and Steward Marsh remained unencumbered, and both were on guard with their swords, the former more competently than the latter.

So, to say Michael was on edge about the speed of their pace was an understatement. They had to stop for a break every few minutes, either for Tarly's benefit or the maester's. Each time, he felt his skin crawl, the wind blowing the trees making him see movement everywhere in his peripheral vision. He almost wished he hadn't insisted Halfhand remain a prisoner, as the extra sword hand would've soothed his worries.

They weren't even clear of the battlefield's original area and he had already worked out it would take the rest of the daylight hours to make the distance. At least we brought night vision, he thought, not liking the idea of walking through the dark woods with just Sayer without the ability to see.

Michael had wanted to warn the Crows off from stopping in the middle of the large collection of fallen bodies, but Tarly was already as red as the weirwood leaves and there was no pushing him onwards. Annoyed, he let the heavy teenager be, knowing no good would come of chastising him for his unhealthy state and not wanting to be the bad guy about it either.

He began a rough count of the dead. "A hundred, mostly dead Free Folk," Michael noted aloud, "Very few Night's Watch." The proportion was something like twenty to one. The Free Folk's lack of iron and steel relative to their enemy was written all over the field.

"These will need to be burned, sir," Sayer remarked, kicking snow towards the nearest corpse, a raven-haired spearwife even younger than Ygritte, her mouth carved open by a sword-slash.

Feeling that Sayer's comment was badly timed, Michael grimaced. "Don't tempt fate, Private. I can see the damn things picking themselves up to kill us in my mind's eye already."

Sayer paled and nodded, paying the corpses far more attention at once. That made Michael feel a little guilty. If the White Walkers strayed this close to the Wall, they'd have been spotted long before by the Crows on the top of it. Yet the fear of that situation was very real even for him, rationality be damned.

"Sounds like you've seen something like that before," Jon Stark remarked from behind.

Michael frowned, not sure why the kid was talking to him unsupervised. "We have."

The teenager looked thoughtful, looking up at the Wall. "Can they climb?" They meaning the wights.

Michael didn't know the answer to that. "They can wield weapons, so I'd assume so. Not sure even they could climb that thing, if that's what you're worried about. The human ones, anyway."

"The human ones?"

"The Free Folk tell of White Walkers riding dead horses and other things. Anything that dies up here is a potential soldier for the Others, unfortunately. We've only ever seen human wights ourselves, but I believe those who say they've seen different kinds."

There's a conversation I never thought I'd have, Michael thought to himself, Unless it was about a TV show.

Stark gave a single nod, brooding in the way only a teenager could. Michael couldn't shake off the feeling that the kid wasn't supposed to speak to him. "Why are you asking me? Lord Commander tell you to get information out of me?"

Looking a little hurt by the notion that he'd willingly deceive anyone out of ill intention, Stark shook his head. "I'm my own man, Canadian," he said firmly, "I haven't said the vows yet."

So he's worked out that the 'Canadians' are us, Michael thought as he looked him up and down, Not that it was difficult, damn Tormund. The kid was wearing black from head to toe, just like any other Crow.

"Well, that explains why Ser Alliser was so rude to you. You're dressed like a member of the Night's Watch without being one. Even where I'm from, soldiers do not like people doing similar things. There's even a term for it, 'stolen valour'."

Jon Stark went red, though Michael couldn't tell out of what emotion. "I had no choice. The Lord Commander would not allow me or Sam to wear our own clothes north of the Wall. And I would take my vows today if I could."

"So Mormont wanted to present a united front, and Ser Alliser holds it against you anyway," Michael concluded, "I'd like to say such an idiot wouldn't be allowed near a military position back home, but that's not true. No shortage of arrogance in the Army." Maybe I'm guilty of it myself.

"Is that what Canadian means?" Stark asked, changing tack fast, "Like Crow is to the Night's Watch, Canadian is another name for a soldier in your army?"

Michael wasn't about to give that away. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Stark."

"Why are you so reluctant to talk about that? Or tell us your real name?"

"Don't know my name, can't associate it with 'wildling' activity among the lords in the South before I get to speak to them."

The kid opened his mouth to refute that, which Michael Michael had thought of arguments against lying about his name too, but Ser Rykker called the young man. Leaving the argument unfinished, Jon Stark returned to his place by Tarly without another word. The maester's assistant was looking better already.

The march towards Castle Black resumed quickly.

The corpses continued on the path, a string of bodies, telling a tale.

Sayer reported the story aloud to Michael at each break as they went.

"The Crows withdrew together. They have actual boots, you can see the hobnails impressions in the slush. Free Folk followed, shooting arrows."

Then…

"Free Folk hit them from one side as one group. See the dead all in a row? Hit that shieldwall and bounced off it, I think. Lots of broken arrows, a few pieces of wood and leather too. Crows held the line here."

Then…

"Crow cavalry swept through here. No Free Folk bodies though. Guys on horses trying to get around the back?"

And finally, in English…

"Lieutenant! Come see this!"

Michael, having been staring up at the Wall as it practically leaned over them. There was artillery at the top of it, he had noticed. Regardless, he tore his eyes away to find his subordinate once again. He strode past the sled, where Ser Rykker was giving Tarly and Mormont water from a skin, finding Sayer a good distance to the front. The Private was kneeling behind a tree. Michael joined him, and peered around the tree.

"Report."

"Clearing ahead. Gate is just beyond. Corpses on the ground. Rattleshirt's group fought to the end. By the look of the snow, the cavalry came up and rode them all down."

As interesting as that was, Michael didn't know why that required him to come over at once. "What's the problem? The cavalry still out there?"

"No. Look at the body over there." Sayer pointed to the one of the nearest corpses. Aside from the blood which had melted into a pool in the snow, whoever it had been wore bones strung from the furs, and a giant's skull on their head.

Rattleshirt.

"With me, Private," Michael ordered, "Keep alert. This might be a trick."

"Sir."

They advanced together, guns up. When they arrived at the body, Michael saw that it was no ruse. He could identify Rattleshirt from the yellow-toothed sneer still pasted to his face. The man hadn't seen his death coming and it came quickly. Just beyond, there was another scatter of corpses, almost as many as the group at the weirwoods.

"Took a sword to the back of the neck," Sayer said, "Cut clean through his spine?"

Man was turned into a reverse Pez dispenser.

"Cavalry charge. Must not have heard the horsemen coming over the sound of the fighting over there." Without thinking, his attention was drawn to the clearing and then the Wall itself, seeking out the gate. Its doors were made of a metal frame, thick wooden panels and more metal reinforcements nailed into it. Nothing to worry about, until he realised how large they were. When he looked through his sight to double check, his heart dropped.

"That gate is too small," Michael said, "We'll never get the BV through that." The crawler's width was larger than a mammoth, if not the height.

Sayer shrugged. "So we use a different gate. This can't be the only one."

"This is the gate to Castle Black. The Lord Commander's castle. I'd assume it has the largest tunnel through the ice."

"Maybe Mance will kno…"

A horn blast from the top of the Wall interrupted Sayer, forcing both of them to crane their necks to look at the peak of the structure. At the very top, a small black figure could be seen at the edge.

"One call?" Michael said, "What's that mean?"

"Rangers returning," said a familiar voice from behind.

Son of a bitch! Michael brought his rifle around and found its barrel planted against the chest of Halfhand. The Crow Ranger had his hands up, sword sheathed and as disarming a face as he could muster. Sayer jumped and then aimed at the man himself.

"How the hell did you get away from Tormund?" Michael demanded, "Start talking."

"Kill me now and my brothers will not be forgiving," Halfhand replied, like he was talking to a child, "Put the weapon down and we'll talk. Else the wolf might get the wrong idea." The Crow Ranger tilted his head to the left, towards the massive, silent white wolf. Sayer quickly shifted his aim to the animal, which merely padded sideways, as if trying to find a better angle to pounce.

Not in the slightest bit intimidated by the threat implied there, Michael wanted the answer more than the Ranger's death. He lowered his weapon, but gave a canine smile nonetheless. "Did you kill anyone on the way out?"

Halfhand smirked, then shook his head. "Just reasoned with Giantsbane," he said, "That my brothers were far more likely to support the Lord Commander's position if I am there to speak in its favour. Pledged that I'd return to Craster's afterwards, on one of the weirwoods. Giantsbane saw no harm in it, as you still have the rest of my ranging party."

"Wasn't his decision to make."

"He made it anyway."

Michael blew out a breath in frustration. He lacked the will and legal reason to shoot the man on the spot, and if the objective was still an agreement, it would've been stupid too. He had no conception that Tormund would be so rash. What were you thinking, you beardy prick…

"Qhorin!" came a call. The rest of the Crows were coming up.

"Ser Jaramy!" Halfhand greeted in return, "Got away from Giantsbane."

The knight seemed to find that dubious, but gave the man a small incline of the head regardless. The elder of the group had a far more amusing reaction.

"Excellent news, Qhorin," said Maester Aemon, "You can relieve Tarly on the sled."

Halfhand made a sound of disapproval as he went to do his duty, which brightened Michael's mood considerably. Consideration to taking Halfhand back with him did enter his mind… but this was quickly crushed when the wolf loped over to Jon Stark and grabbed his hand, pulling on it playfully. "Easy, Ghost!" the young man said to it. The wolf is the ghost, and Ghost is his, he realised, The kid must be a warg. Which meant the wolf was as much Stark's weapon as the sword at his hip.

Michael had no desire to tangle with the Crows after that information came to him. His ready ammunition was low, and the wolf was very close. With no Free Folk in sight, Rattleshirt and the Weeper dead, the danger seemed to have passed too. Time for a little peace. He tapped Sayer on the shoulder to follow and made his way to the sled gingerly avoiding the wolf at play.

"Lord Commander Mormont," he said, "I think you're safe from here. We'll wait a week for a reply on whether or not you want to continue negotiations, to let you get your ducks in a row."

Mormont's brow raised, not familiar with the phrase, but he got the general idea. He looked to the maester for confirmation. "That should be sufficient time for healing, if all goes well," the old man confirmed, "Though whether or not it is enough time to consider the matters you have already raised, I cannot say."

"Keep me alive and awake, Aemon," Mormont replied, "That will suffice."

Michael waved them along, following for a little bit while Halfhand and Jon Stark pulled the sled. The wolf had bolted into the trees. "Stark, one thing before you go," he said, "I owe you an apology. Being out here, with everything that has happened… Can make a man paranoid."

Jon Stark grunted with the effort of the first movement of the sled, glancing over his shoulder northwards before he answered. "That I can understand," he said.

Michael listened to Tormund complain for most of a week as he waited for the Night's Watch to return to the negotiation table.

It had turned out that Halfhand had not convinced the chieftain to let him go. The Crow had kicked him between the legs hard, dodged around the nearest weirwood and somehow evaded a good portion of the Ruddy Hall warband sent after him.

Tormund's displeasure that Michael hadn't dragged the man back was mercifully brief, as his amusement at the Ranger's 'sheer balls' increased as the ache in his own decreased. But he still ran at the mouth about it, and where Six Skins had disappeared to. All that could be done was to deflect into conversations about how to take the Wall, a subject about which Tormund liked speaking.

Aside from listening to that, there was little to do. Michael spent his time preventing Tormund's people from snooping around his things and preventing the Crows from escaping. They were so close to 'home' now that they would've made it even if they somehow lost their wool cloaks.

In the mean time, Sayer spent his time fending off horny spearwives who always seemed to find themselves in ready wife-stealing situations. Accidentally dropping their weapons around him, tripping up in front of him, hanging around the Canadian fire at night. Sayer was finding it hard to stop himself, being a healthy eighteen year old.

This would've been funny to Michael, except it was usually the same spearwives who tried to steal their equipment. Tormund's message on the matter hadn't gotten through their thick skulls, and they seemed to think it was the perfect way for Michael to steal them too. As none of them had been ravaged for their 'crimes', it had turned more into a game than a serious invitation to woo.

Michael was pulling one of the spearwives away from the horses on the sixth night, finding the task pretty easy as she made faces and onlookers laughed, when torch-bearing riders appeared at the southern end of the Nine Weirwoods. He quickly dropped his night vision goggles over his eyes, as the light of the flames in the distance was not enough to determine the nature of what was approaching.

Seven riders, he counted, as he released the spearwife, Not an attack. He quickly made his way back to Sayer, through the rushing about of Tormund's warriors, as they could not see anything. The Private was already tooling up, putting on the helmet that used to belong to Singh and grabbing up his scout rifle.

"It's a small group of riders," he said, "Not a threat."

Sayer paused, before cradling his weapon in his arms. "Why are they coming at night?"

"Good question."

Together, they made their way to the nearest weirwood, putting it at their back. The riders entered the clearing slowly, but came directly nonetheless.

A breathless Tormund made an appearance soon afterwards, spear in hand. The Crows were now close enough that their number was more obvious. "What do they want?" the chieftain asked, "It's the hour of the wolf! I was dreaming of my bear again…"

The mere mention of 'wolf' had Michael searching for Jon Stark's Ghost. No sign of the massive wolf could be seen, but he knew all the thing had to do was lay down in the snow and it'd be practically invisible, night vision or no night vision. Sayer's FLIR camera would've had better luck, but that had been left behind at Gilly's Hall to help with the defence.

"No idea," Sayer replied to Tormund, "But it's that asshole who's leading them."

And so it was; Ser Alliser was at the centre of the line of riders, flanked by Ser Rykker and a new man who hadn't been one to come see the wight. Of all the people the Crows could've sent, Michael wanted to see him the least.

Jon Stark was present too, but he was relegated to the edge of the group and didn't seem enthusiastic to be a part of it. Though Michael found it hard to tell, he wasn't close enough yet. Hopefully he's displeased with his would-be leaders and not me, he thought, remembering the swordsmanship the kid had shown.

No sign of Mormont, Halfhand or Marsh.

Uh oh. "Sayer, get your phone out and record this," Michael said, "Discreetly."

"Yes, sir."

That the group was led by the man who seemed to hate the whole idea of talking to 'wildlings' most was not a good sign. As much as Michael was determined not to believe all was lost just yet, measures for leadership back home to understand why things went up in flames might be needed too. The Private obliged, starting a video capture.

Michael waited until he was sure the recording had begun, before he addressed the party of Crows. "Ser Alliser Thorne!" he shouted out, remembering the man liked his full title, "Welcome back."

The 'knight' said nothing at first, simply dismounting. Ser Rykker and Jon Stark did the same, the teenager running to catch up. All of them were gripping their sword hilts, albeit in a reverse way. In response, Michael shifted his weapon into his hands. The Crows slowed.

"Har," Tormund grunted to himself, "They learnt fast."

"You can say that again," Michael grinned at the chieftain.

For a moment, there was nothing but the strangely pleasant sound of crunching snow underfoot as the Crows made their way across.

"Ulysses of Ithaca," Ser Alliser said, "Let's make this quick."

Michael frowned. He got the distinct impression that the 'knight' was trying to railroad something, all of a sudden. "There is no way we can make it quick," he said, "We still have a lot to discuss regarding an agreement…"

"No longer," Ser Alliser stated, "I am here to do clarify matters. First, to thank you for informing us of the threat of the wights and how to fight them. Second, to inform you that we will not be making an agreement with the traitor, Mance Rayder."

Michael couldn't believe his ears, and began to grow suspicious. "Where is Lord Commander Mormont?" he asked in interruption, "Qhorin Halfhand?"

"He fell ill with a fever from his wounds," Ser Alliser replied, "The maester is tending to him, but he sleeps. Even if he wakes, it may be months before he is capable of leading. Qhorin is still being questioned about everything he saw."

Not believing it was that simple, Michael looked to Jon Stark. The boy gave a sombre nod. It was true. Mormont was out for the count, at least for now. And Halfhand ostracised in some way, perhaps for not doing his duty and trying to kill Mance Rayder. To say nothing of the Canadian allies of the 'wildlings'.

"I thought you would not believe the truth from my own lips," Ser Alliser sneered, "So I brought the bastard."

"You thought correctly," Michael said, "I take it this means you won't be letting anyone through the Wall?"

Ser Rykker stepped forward, causing his fellow knight to scowl. "We have come to a compromise. Word has been sent to Winterfell, proposing that any man willing to disarm and pledge fealty to the realm shall be allowed through, as well as any woman and child. But none shall pass until they have Lord Stark's permission."

Michael knew that was a death sentence for many, and it must've showed on his face.

"Be glad we support that much," Ser Alliser added, "There are many among us who would rather we shut the gates. Or only take women."

"Men who can't count," Jon Stark commented from the side, "And rapers."

"True," Ser Alliser agreed, begrudgingly, "But brothers of the Night's Watch all the same."

"And those who will not kneel?" Tormund asked, "What will you do when the Others kill them and make them wights?"

"I'm sure Halfhand has told you how many he saw at the Fist," Michael agreed, "Are you so blinded by hatred that you can't see negotiation is the only way to save both your peoples?" And get me home without excess blood being shed.

"You are blinded by ignorance, you know nothing of what the realm has suffered at the hands of these savages," Ser Alliser said coolly, ignoring Tormund entirely, "That you would stand beside them forces our hand."

Michael narrowed his eyes. "What does that mean?"

"With the Lord Commander indisposed, the officers took a vote," Ser Rykker said, "Despite the objections of some, we offer terms. You may pass south of the Wall, fully armed even, but only if you pledge fealty. Those are better than what we offer the wildlings, you will be sure to note."

It was better, but Michael saw through it. They're trying to split us from the Free Folk. Should I care if we are?

"How generous of you," Sayer said flatly.

"We'll think about it," Michael stated politely, not wanting to reject it outright until he had discussed it with O'Neill, "And take your terms back to Mance."

"No," Ser Alliser said, "For you Canadians, we would know your willingness to accept now. You are too dangerous for us to be uncertain about."

"Not all my people are here," Michael said, "I must consult with them."

"You are their leader," Ser Rykker said, "They will follow your commands. Qhorin has made that clear to us. You are their lord."

Cursing inwardly, Michael gave Tormund a dark look. It appeared Jon Stark had explained the Canadian thing to his brothers-to-be, or they had already caught on from the chieftain's outburst a week before.

"You would not pledge fealty now," Ser Rykker said quickly, "Only indicate that you would be willing to, when Lord Stark arrives."

The better knight was trying to soften the blow, but Michael saw it for what it was. They wanted the Canadians to defect, help them keep the 'wildlings' at bay without any regard for their humanity. The temptation to accept simply to get south to the Isle of Faces was there… but merely thinking of it made him feel dirty. And besides that, it was impossible.

"I have already sworn an oath to a monarch. It isn't legal for me to change allegiance, it would make me a traitor. The same is true of all my people north of the Wall."

Ser Alliser grimaced, bereft of any amusement or warmth. "Then you will be considered an enemy of the Night's Watch until such a time that you come to your senses, hand over your weapons, and kneel. We offer a far better fate than months or years among wildlings and then death at the hands of the wights. You would be wise to accept."

The Crows were backing him into a corner. Michael could not accept that they were doing this. "Can we simply not come to an arrangement?" he asked, "We are reasonable men and women who have just seen a dire threat to all our lives. We can take some time to come to a better agreement than a demand at swordpoint."

"What we offer is already a compromise," Ser Rykker said, "To concede more would be to invite mutiny in our ranks and the wrath of the lords of Westeros. As far as they're both concerned, our duty is to keep people north of the Wall."

Michael shook his head. And you all hate the 'wildlings' regardless.

"It's the same proposal Mormont suggested and I rejected. And delivered in this manner, without any room for modification, it amounts to a declaration of war," he stated, "You are not acknowledging any of us as people. We need safe passage, we're willing to compromise to get it, but you demand everything. Property, dignity, freedom, their lives, it would all be at your mercy."

"We are at war with all who would threaten the realm," Ser Alliser said, "Refuse to kneel and you are a threat to the realm. You do not acknowledge our laws, you ambush our Rangers, you travel with those who think the very concept of law and fealty is absurd. You were correct. Either you say you will kneel, or we are at war."

Michael glanced at Sayer, his phone held upside down but with the camera outwards. I hope you all got that, Private, it might keep us all out of prison.

"You already know what we want of you," Tormund growled at him, "Make your choice." The Free Folk chieftain and the right hand of Mance Rayder, King Beyond the Wall, was waiting for the answer just as much as the Crows were.

There was only one path Michael could see.

Feeling robbed of options, by Rattleshirt and the Weeper, by Mance, by the Crows, he found himself unable to speak in a tone free of piss and vinegar, though he kept his choice of words polite.

"I refuse your offer. I acknowledge your declaration that a state of war now exists between my country and the Night's Watch. Rest assured, there will be immediate consequences."

Ser Alliser's face turned to stone, a glare chiselled on it. Ser Rykker took a step back. This seemed exaggerated, melodramatic to Michael, and he waited for them to say something. They didn't. They were frozen like deer in the headlights.

They're afraid I'll shoot them down now, Michael realised to his amusement. He hadn't thought his tone had been that harsh. Maybe it was the rifles. "You have safe passage back to your Wall," he said, "We don't kill people at parleys. Run along now." He shoo'ed them off with his hand.

The two knights turned on the spot and made off with impolite haste. The third member of the delegation hesitated for a moment, which gave Michael an idea.

"Jon Stark! Tell your brother in Winterfell I'm coming. Tell him these idiots destroyed a real chance for peace, but that it's not the only chance. I'll speak peace to any lord that'll hear me!"

Ser Alliser stopped in his tracks on hearing the declaration, and growled at Stark to get back on his horse. The teenager merely inclined his head at Michael, a nod so subtle that it would've been undetectable if the kid hadn't been looking right at him. A tiny sliver of hope in what had been a Charlie Foxtrot of a situation.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd around the fight grew louder. The fur-covered warrior's arm curled back, telegraphing the massive swing about to come flying forwards.

Waiting until the man was fully committed, Padraig side stepped and ducked slightly. The punch came flying wide, the force sending the warrior forward. Wide open.

Gotcha.

Padraig stood, swinging his left arm down and catching his opponent's one under his armpit, snaking his hand around the warrior's shoulder to hold him. The man shifted and turned, even tried punching the arm restraining him, but he was locked in place.

Padraig grinned at the trapped warrior, giving him pause. "Bet you're feeling real fuckin' scarlet right about now." Now enjoying himself, he drove his fist into the man's side just below the ribs.

Once, twice, three times the vicious blows connected, forcing breaths out of the target and then the contents of his stomach.

Padraig grimaced, wanting away from the man. One final blow to the head and the warrior fell, sprawled out onto the mud below. Still breathing, but defeated. The fight was over.

Elated with the victory, Padraig raised his eyes to the crowd and his arms to heaven. The Free Folk standing around in a semi-circle at the gate of the compound went wild.

"You'll never beat the Irish! No matter what yeh do!" he half-sang and half-laughed, shaking his fists. Cheers came in response, the tune taken well even if the words were foreign. The would-be bookies went to work exchanging the winnings at once, with all sorts of things handed over, from coins to farm animals.

As his opponent was dragged away by clan brothers, Padraig went back to the Gilly girl to retrieve his armour and weapons. As she handed them back, he glanced up at Zheng in the watch tower. The corporal looked on, her mouth a thin line of either disapproval or worry, cradling the GPMG in her arms now that the danger seemed to have passed by.

"It's a good thing the lieutenant isn't here, Sergeant," Zheng radioed down as soon as she saw the headset back on his head, "I don't think he would've approved of that response to someone trying to steal a girl."

Padraig's smile widened. "You've got to turn problems into opportunities," he replied, "And who says Duquesne has to know the nitty-gritty of it? He'll have enough on his plate with the political bollocks."

Zheng's right eyebrow raised itself. "What are you going to tell him?"

"That I de-escalated an attempt by an unarmed man to steal a girl without resorting to deadly force. He'll like that."

"Uh huh, and what about that?"

Zheng pointed behind, and Padraig turned to find the men and women he had bet with, all clad in fur and looking sour as a lemon's arse. The wager had been certain items against certain sweet food items they had in stock, all of them, and some flares.

The losers now handed over the items, glancing briefly at the rifle hanging off of his front, before buggering off. A pile of dead rabbits, two large bolts of red silk, and a live billy goat appeared, as promised.

The last man was reluctant in the extreme, after his bragging about his clan brother's prowess, but handed over what he had as promised; a small obsidian dagger. More of a knife really, but in a place where demons were killing people and the only weapons were fire and obsidian, it was an incredibly valuable thing to hand over.

After turning the capture of the first man to try stealing a woman under his watch into public spectacle, Padraig was finding that most of the Free Folk were remarkably honourable about their promises. Though he was sure they'd compete with the best ambulance chasing lawyer on the details, if it wasn't for the threat of firearms keeping everyone honest.

And there were exceptions to the rule where honour was concerned, he was sure of it.

"What about it?" Padraig finally answered Zheng, turning the dagger over in his hands.

"Gambling, sergeant?"

"These mission critical items have been tactically acquired, corporal."

"So the details about them are unimportant, I assume?"

"We needed food, both for now and for later, and according to the lieutenant, we could use red cloth for making a larger flag. He simply won't give a flying fuck how I got them as long as it hasn't created trouble. Now shut up and get off the tower."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't call me fucking sir."

After the corporal began descending the tower's ladder, Padraig turned to go back to the hall, and found Gilly had still been standing there, listening to him. Shit. "Sorry, you didn't have to hear that."

Gilly shook her head. "I don't know your language, but I can tell you're close."

Padraig paused, unsure if he had consciously stopped the magical translation at all. Guess it reads even subconscious intent. Or maybe it learned how to do that once we realised what it was doing? His head hurt at thinking about magic like that, not to mention the false perception of closeness between him and the Corporal. He stopped himself with a rapid shake of the head.

"Come on then, let's get inside and warm up."

They both collected the winnings, and joining up with Zheng, walked to the hall. The corporal banged on the new wooden door, one of the defensive upgrades they had made.

"It's us, Ygritte," Zheng said loudly, "Let us in."

The door slid away, and the Free Folk girl appeared from behind it.

"So you won," she said flatly to Padraig.

"Of course he did," Zheng replied with a sigh, pushing past her, "He's a hand-to-hand combat instructor. Big guy didn't know what the hell hit him."

Ygritte's little pug nose scrunched up, not having heard the term 'hand-to-hand instructor' before. Padraig snorted as he followed the corporal inside. "Pretty sure he knew it was my fist."

The smell of burning turf and the sight of thirty odd women and children warming themselves by it hit his nose and eyes. Familiar by now to an extent that made him uncomfortable. The more familiar it got, the more used to the people and smells he got, the more he wanted to go home. You have your own family, he'd remind himself, Even if they hate your guts.

Ygritte stepped aside fully, so Gilly could get in without thinking she'd be offended, before sliding the door closed again. "You should've killed him," she said, "Don't kill men who try to steal one of us, then the others will want to try."

"I saw an opportunity and I took it," Padraig replied, throwing the rabbits down, "D'you not see the baby goat Gilly has got over there?"

Ygritte rolled her eyes. "Aye, showing your clan to be soft is worth a goat and some dead rabbits."

It was Zheng's turn to snort. "No one out there is thinking he was weak, Ygritte. He beat that guy like it was a drum at a concert."

The Free Folk girl seemed unconvinced. Or confused about what a concert was. Either way, her attitude annoyed Padraig. Despite the oath, Ygritte rattled the chain of command regularly, asking why this or that command ought to be obeyed. If only she'd learn to do that privately, he thought, Then this could work.

Even then, it was startling to him how quickly she and Ryk had become part of 'the unit'. They bitched, but they followed orders. Only problem was they had to be given orders to do or not do things that would've been common sense to someone from Canada.

In order to shut her up, Padraig reached into his pocket and retrieved the obsidian dagger. "Pretty sure we can find a use for this," he said, holding it up.

Before he could react, Ygritte snatched it out of his grasp. "Dragonglass!" she cried, holding it against the firelight, "That's a prize!"

"Little small though," Zheng remarked coyly, before Padraig shot a glare that caused her to shut up and straighten up. He felt better immediately.

"Only need a small cut to kill a wight," Ygritte replied as if the comment had been serious, "They drop, like they're just a body again. That's what's told."

"Now we can test that theory," Padraig said, stretching a little. He was aching already from the moving around without stretching enough. I'm getting too old for this shite.

"I'll show Ryk," Ygritte declared, walking off to climb up to the loft area at the back, Craster's former sleeping quarters but now where the night shift slept during the day. Ryk was the night shift. Padraig watched her go, before turning to Gilly.

"Sorry you had to be out there while it happened," he said, "But you were the one he tried to steal, so…"

The large man had walked, unarmed if you please, over the palisade. Zheng warned him, but before she could shoot, he grabbed the new Lady of the Hall. Warning shots were fired, which stopped the kidnapping dead and drew the attention of the rest of camp.

By the time Padraig came out of the hall, God only knew how many warriors had heard and gathered. His first instinct told him to use more bullets to resolve the situation, but that would've screwed the pooch on the politics. The fistfight was the alternative, a bet that the Free Folk valued their 'strength and honour'.

Turned out they loved a good show too.

Gilly smiled, which warmed Padraig as much as the fire. "It's alright. You won. And Zheng would've shot them if you hadn't. They all saw. I just hope that has made us a little safer."

"Worse things out there than that gobshite. Maybe you're right, maybe not."

Gilly accepted that and left to bring the goat to the pen inside the hall for the baby animals, leaving Zheng and Padraig to wander up to the 'throne'.

Zheng took her place on it, by right of conquest as the person who brought Craster to justice. The locals bitching if anyone else sat there was funny until you were forced to sit on the benches, which was a literal pain in the arse. Padraig nonetheless sat on the end of the nearest one, set his rifle down beside himself, and warmed his hands. They sat in companionable silence for a long while, doing nothing.

The women and children of the hall, ordered to stay inside for the rest of the day for security reasons, continued their domestic chores and talk about nothing in particular, which Padraig found almost hypnotic.

He barely noticed Ygritte as she returned to her place on watch in the corner loft overlooking both the crawler and the gate.

Padraig's mind began to wander. He stared into the flames, as the turf buckled and burned, daydreaming. Vividly. He thought that strange, yet didn't move his eyes or think about something else.

He saw dark corridors made of red stone. The strobes of rifle fire, the tracers from the machinegun. Men in chainmail and steel helmets holding swords and shields falling to the bullets. A spiral staircase. A great hall. Lions and fire-breathing stags, fighting by a throne of made of swords, all wearing crowns.

Is this from a film? he thought idly to himself, Why am I thinking about it now?

At last, Padraig found the wherewithal to snap out of it. He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, regretting his lack of sleep and feeling more tired from the effort of boxin' the head off a guy than ever before. It's the shock of the situation, he told himself, It has never gone away. Just festered.

"Christ, I need some coffee," he said, before looking to Zheng, "Corporal, shift change is coming up soon. When it does, grab some instant and bring it in here. We'll have a cup each. Our secret."

Zheng perked right up. "Yes, Sergeant! Can I have sugar?"

Padraig knew he shouldn't allow it, because the sugar was very efficient calorie storage… but he felt like some himself. "Fine, fine. It's in a bag that's already open like one of the coffee tubes, LT won't miss a few spoonfuls." I hope.

"What's coffee?" came a voice from the side.

Padraig twisted on the spot to see the source. A scruffy boy was standing there, with black hair to his chin half over his eyes, dressed in skins and fur boots tied up with string, maybe six or seven years old, rocking back on forth on the ball of his feet. "Coffee is a hot drink…" he began to answer, before his mind finally clicked.

Wait a minute.

"You're a boy?" he asked, gesturing at the kid.

Zheng's eyes widened. She hadn't noticed immediately either.

The kid cocked his head, like it was a strange question. "'course I'm a boy," he said, "Can I have some coffee?"

No, you bleedin' can't, Padraig wanted to say.

"Craster didn't have any boys," Zheng stated, like saying it would make the fact reality again. The kid didn't answer that, just giving her a look like he was wondering why that was important.

Padraig took his rifle back into his hands. Suspicion was building. "How'd you get in here?" he asked gently, "Anyone else come with you?"

"Walked in," the kid answered, like that ought to be obvious, "With my ma, her sister, and my brother and sister, and my cousin."

That sounded strange. No one should've been able to do that, though Padraig knew he didn't pay enough attention inside the hall to have caught it. He looked to the corporal and made sure he was about to speak in English.

"Looks like we have guests," he said, in a tone that didn't suggest any threat of violence, "You take that side. I'll take this one."

Zheng nodded, taking her carbine in hand and standing up. Padraig looked to the kid again and switched back to translated speech. "Can you bring me to your mother? Maybe she wants coffee too?"

The kid agreed, not sensing any danger, and skipped off. Both Canadians followed, casually walking along both sides of the firepits. Zheng had to step through the animal pen briefly to keep up, but the kid got distracted by some of Craster's girls a few times, so it was easy going.

Two thirds of the way down the hall, he finally stopped by a woman. She was tall, looked like she was in her late thirties. Opposite, on Zheng's side, was another woman, smaller and younger, though still in her thirties. Both had jet black hair, though the elder woman had streaks of grey too, and both wore the same sort of animal skin clothing as the boy. They didn't seem related beyond the hair colour.

Padraig manoeuvred in behind, where he could grab the mother if she tried to do something ill-advisedly. Zheng did the same with the woman on the other side. The boy didn't draw his mother's attention, just standing behind and pointing at her, expecting an offer of coffee.

"Hello there," he said loudly, mustering a little menace in his tone to display his displeasure, "I don't believe we've met."

All of Craster's former wives and daughters stopped what they were doing to stare. The women in question flinched, the younger sister turned around to find escape, only finding Zheng standing there, weapon ready but not aimed just yet. The boy looked between them all, mouth agape as two little girls came running through to see what was going on. The sister and the cousin, Padraig presumed.

"I am Sergeant Padraig Jack O'Neill. This is Corporal Leanne Zheng. You are?"

They recovered quickly. "I'm Taryne," the older woman said calmly and clearly, while the younger settled back down, "This is Karla."

Real descriptive. Padraig scowled. "You're not Craster's lot, are you?"

"Spotted that, did you?" Taryne replied, without mirth, "We came over last night. Word got around what that one did to the old raper." She pointed at Zheng.

More fallout from that mess, Padraig thought, sending another glare at the corporal. This time, Zheng did not wilt under its power. She had absolutely no shame about killing the ugly fuck, and he couldn't blame her for it. "Ygritte was on watch last night," he said, fiddling with his radio for a second. He called for her to get down to the pit again, and got a positive reply.

"Why'd you come over?" Padraig asked, as Ygritte descended the ladder behind him.

Taryne made the same face her son had made when he thought something was obvious. The apple didn't fall far from the tree there. "You killed Craster," she replied, "There's only six of you, but every man out in that camp's afraid of you. You've a strong clan that can protect us."

Padraig sighed and sat down on the bench beside her. "Protect you from what? Your own people?"

Taryne leaned forwards and jabbed his chest with two fingers. "They are not my people."

Ygritte arrived, standing behind both Padraig and Taryne. "I let her in. She's a free woman, O'Neill. She wants to join a strong clan, one that'll get stronger, one that will get her south of the Wall. That's us."

Padraig felt anger rise up in him a little. I'm not getting home if I have to try and save every-fucking-one, he wanted to shout at her, but restrained himself. "I'm sorry, but I fail to see how that is my fucking problem?"

Ygritte's lip curled back, her own anger at her actions not being immediately accepted bubbling over. "It's not," she said, "She's with me and Ryk. Joining our clan."

Padraig blinked. "With you and Ryk?" he parroted back, "Are you plastered right now? Do you not remember swearing a sacred oath to obey my commands?"

Ygritte was having none of it. "Nothing in that oath said I have no clan," she said, "Or that no one else can join. I'm still a free woman, and so are they. They're free to follow us. And we're free to follow you."

Here we fuckin' go, Padraig thought with a groan, The libertarian bullshit has arrived. "Sure they're free, just like I'm free to tell them to take a hike," he said, "And I'm the guy with the gun, so I'm a whole lot more free than they are."

Ygritte scoffed. "You won't hurt 'em," she said, "You just refused to kill a man trying to steal Gilly."

There were grumbles of disapproval from the women around the firepits. No doubt they wanted a repeat performance of Craster's execution. Irritated at the interference, Padraig sent a glare around the room, trying to get them all to keep out of the matter, with variable results.

"We'll also swear oaths," said the younger Karla, "We'd even kneel, if it meant getting away from who we were with before."

Another grumble of disapproval, Ygritte joining in this time.

Seeing that he walked himself into both points, Padraig cursed under his breath, a long string of the foulest words he could think of. "If Lieutenant Duquesne fails with the talks, we'll be fighting again soon. We can't bring mothers and kids into battle. We can't bring them anywhere, six is the capacity of the front cab of the crawler."

Zheng cleared her throat to get his attention. "Sergeant, there may be a political argument for it," she said, in English, "You know, hearts and minds? We're very alone out here, building a strong auxiliary unit might work out to our benefit."

That sounded more reasonable. It forced Padraig to start to consider the idea. They'd already crossed the line in having Ryk and Ygritte on board, though it was a compromise. And he had to admit their food problems had been greatly helped by Gilly and her people.

But Ygritte wasn't done yet when he didn't respond at once. "Michael Duquesne'll agree with me," she said, "Especially when he hears who this one really is."

Taryne stood up rapidly, looming over the much smaller spearwife. "Not here."

To Padraig's shock, Ygritte actually shut up. His attention firmly grabbed, he had thought only God himself could've achieved that result. So there's something about this woman that's valuable enough to cause a miracle.

"Fine then, not here," he decided aloud, "Zheng, wake Ryk up and tell him he's on watch for a little while, then you join us in the crawler. We're going to have a little chat."

Taryne had refused to go outside without Karla, and fearing what would happen, none of Craster's former wives would mind the kids. So the brats played outside and on top of the crawler, despite being warned not to, pretending to drive or kill the thing. In the meantime, Padraig sat down with Zheng, Ygritte, Taryne and Karla inside.

"Now that we're somewhere else," he said to the latter two, "You mind telling me what is so secret that you couldn't say it in the hall?"

Taryne frowned, not sure she should say it at all.

Sensing he had gone too far with the pressure, Padraig held up his hands.

"Look, we're not going to tell anyone else. If you want to stay, what you say might be important."

"And if we don't speak?" Karla asked, "You'll throw us out?"

Considering that question, Padraig saw an obvious compromise that maintained their readiness to fight while giving shelter to the newcomers. "Not exactly. This place belongs to the women in that hall," he said, "You want to stay here after we leave, it's up to them. But if you insist on keeping schtum, I won't permit you to stay while we are here. And we certainly won't bring you with us."

Zheng glanced at him, a tell that she wanted to say something. Padraig denied her with a small gesture from the hand on his leg, he wanted to hear the response first.

Taryne leaned back in her seat, as much as the space would allow, before conceding. "We're from south of the Wall."

That was the truth. The way they spoke was different, like they had a little more learning than the Free Folk. He knew there was only one way they could've been there, and that it meant a horrific story was coming. didn't quite get the significance. "Why is that important? Do you have information we might find useful?"

"You'll see," Karla replied, "But you need to hear the whole story first."

"We were taken as children," Taryne continued, "Raiding party from up here took two dozen women and girls. We were the youngest two."

Without meaning to, Padraig's mind raced to a scenario where his own children had been taken like that. Knowing the story was coming hadn't helped. His mood instantly went from annoyance at the women to anger towards those that had 'stolen' them.

A change that must have shown on his face, because Taryne, Karla and even Ygritte all seemed to back off. He softened his expression before continuing.

"What age were you?" he asked.

"Nine," Taryne replied.

"Five," Karla added.

Rubbing his face, Padraig suppressed the horror of that. "Jesus Christ," he said, "What sort of man would…"

"We were taken by boys, not men," Taryne added, "The one that dragged me off couldn't have seen fourteen years yet."

Padraig could believe that. It was a familiar story; making people do horrendous things was easier if they were taught it early. "It's the done thing" is a hard argument to beat, that way. All the more so when it reinforces lads getting free access to women for sex and labour. I'm in fuckin' Afghanistan again, he thought to himself, That's where we are, and the Taliban are our fuckin' allies.

"Is that a common thing?" Zheng asked, taking advantage of Padraig's inability to say anything, "Are there many Free Folk women who are taken from the south?"

Taryne's brow arched up, like something about the question was wrong. "Enough have been taken every year that there may not be a single man or woman north of the Wall without blood from south of it. Except among the Thenns."

The picture was getting clearer, both on why this would be important for them sticking around and why the women would want to keep a conversation like this quiet. Didn't want to seem like they were bitching about being kidnapped among people who saw that as a signal of strength and virtue in their men. Though that still left Ygritte's supportive attitude as an unsolved mystery.

Padraig needed more details. "How many recently?" he asked.

"If you include the children of the taken? Hundreds," Karla answered, "And we're from the forest tribes of the west. There may be hundreds or thousands more in other places."

This was not good news. "So this is your offer?" Padraig asked, "Numbers to our cause?"

"It's not the only thing, but…" Taryne began.

"We are going to have to fight your countrymen," Padraig interrupted, "And you're telling me there are hundreds, possibly thousands of people in two minds about the whole thing?"

"The Others have returned," Taryne retorted, "And the Crows will not let most of us south just by asking, regardless of our shared blood."

"More likely tell us to fuck off, if they're feeling generous," Karla agreed, "If not, arrows and blades would be our answer if we showed up at Castle Black claiming we were women of Last Hearth, born south of the Wall."

"And they'd be right to be suspicious," Padraig countered, "You've lived most of your lives up here. They have no way of knowing you're telling the truth. Most of the Crows we captured look at all the Free folk like you're animals. I think I understand that better now that I've heard your story."

Taryne shifted her weight awkwardly. "So you understand. We have no true place. We are hated by those we were taken from, seen as the same as the trespassers. We were trapped… before you arrived."

"We're not saviours," Padraig replied, "We have limited resources and our objective is to get home. Getting south of the Wall or stopping the Others, they're just stops along the trail towards that goal."

"You are six… truly only four against the whole of Westeros," Karla said, "You are friendly with Mance now, aye, but you are not Free Folk. And the lords past the Wall will hate you for going south without their permission."

Padraig made a dismissive gesture. "That's what the wights are for, convincing them they have bigger fish to fry for now. Well, that and our absolutely murderous weaponry. The Crows found out. Those south of the Wall will too if they get in our way."

Ygritte gave a snorting giggle at that, clearly looking forward to the day she would see just such a scenario. Taryne and Karla didn't know how to respond to that, and their faces went crestfallen, like they knew they were losing the argument.

Padraig felt like the asshole now, even though all he was doing was securing the way home. "Look… what exactly do you want? Be straight."

Taryne looked up. "We want to join the clan of Ygritte and Ryk, to return south, to have your protection. From both Free Folk and kneeler."

Guess she has as much contempt for lords as the raiders, Padraig thought to himself.

"And you're alright with this, Ygritte?" he asked, "You don't think that's some sort of betrayal of Mance or anything?"

The spearwife smiled. "Free men and free women can follow who they choose. They don't want to follow men who stole them, that's their choice. They'll be useful against the kneelers too. They know something that'll stop some fighting, if we can get the lordy lords to talk."

Now we're getting to the juicy part. "What's that?"

"The daughter of Mors Umber was taken the same day I was, by the same raiding party," Taryne said, "I was one of her servants. Umber is Lord of Last Hearth. He rules the lands closest to the Wall."

At last, something tangible. "Is she still alive?" Padraig asked.

Taryne nodded. "Last I heard."

The Corporal cleared her throat pointedly. "Sergeant… she could be a vital bargaining chip," Zheng commented in English, "We need her."

"Would've been better to know before the LT bollocksed off to the Wall to talk to the Crows, but we'll make do," Padraig agreed, "Where is she?"

Taryne crossed her arms. "May we join the clan? May anyone?"

Padraig thought about it. It still didn't seem like his problem, even with the intel as a sweetener.

The pros and cons didn't help matters, they all seemed like gambles. The trouble it might bring from the Crows, from Mance and from the men who didn't want their taken-women and their children defecting to another clan. The benefit to logistics and security from having a force at their command, or the drag on food supplies and the threat of spies. The lord's daughter that might make the 'kneelers' stop to think for a moment. The problem of moving all the newcomers around without real transport.

In the end, it all felt above his paygrade to rule on alone.

"Not my decision to make," Padraig said, "Need to wait for Lieutenant Duquesne to return. And I'm not sure I'll be recommending he allow it either."

Ygritte scoffed angrily. "What else do you want? They've got a lordy-lord's daughter. Raiders say Umber's right angry about her being taken too. Put her in front of our army with knife to her throat, or trade her back for peace. Either way, the kneelers lose."

Not surprised the spearwife saw it as a transaction, Padraig sighed. "Yeah, and in return, I get hundreds of people I might not be able feed," he said, "And the responsibility of defending them from the Free Folk they left, Crows, kneelers, wights and the fuckin' ice demons wanderin' around. With only six people to do it."

The women took the bait, and offered up more details.

"We can feed and defend ourselves," Taryne insisted, "There are men of the Free Folk we trust and love, who aren't like the others. Our children have been brought up as warriors, hunters, herders…"

"Then why do you need us?" Padraig asked, "Form your own clan, leave us out of it."

"The men who stole us would fight against it," Karla replied, "But they respect or fear you. If we join the clan that's with you, most will do nothing. Joining the stronger clan is the way of the Free Folk."

"Plenty of warriors and spearwives want to join us already," Ygritte agreed, "Only reason I said no to 'em was I knew Michael Duquesne would say no. But these ones? Mothers and babes? He'll say yes."

Padraig frowned at her and how little she knew of the lieutenant. "Duquesne isn't as soft as you seem to think he is. He won't just accept this sob story and let any 'aul gombeen join the party."

"He'll try to respect our ways," Ygritte shrugged, "He took me under the stars. And Ryk is still here, he respects strength."

"Ryk is still here because we like Ryk," Zheng replied, "And the LT wants to fuck you, even if he won't admit it."

Ygritte raised her head with pride. She thinks that was a compliment.

"Duquesne doesn't respect your ways," Padraig added, "He's polite. He's 'old stock' Canadian, they value that pretence. But he has a breaking point and he's very close to it already. I wouldn't push it."

Ygritte couldn't counter that argument, but wasn't budging on the general point. She just looked back defiantly, her opinion set in stone. Time to take a pickaxe to it then.

"Something you should know," Padraig continued, "That battle with Rattleshirt's warband? One we captured you after? That was the first battle for all of us except myself. So, Duquesne's first battle."

"Why's that matter?" Ygritte asked.

"It affects people differently, but it's easy to see if you've seen it before. Sayer, he went quiet. Zheng here became an even bigger bitch than she was before."

"Fuck you very much, Sergeant," Zheng threw in under her breath.

"Insulting a superior? That's insubordination, corporal," Padraig shot back, before letting his tone indicate he was joking, "I'll let that slide on account of me starting it." Zheng bit her cheek, stopping a response.

Padraig turned back to Ygritte.

"Duquesne on the other hand… Fresh faced fuckin' liberal college type lieutenant. He should've been shitting himself, and should've obsessed over it afterwards. But he didn't. He calmly ordered and participated in the killing. Kept in control when dead people and shot down a demon when it showed up to kill him too. Yeah, they were all trying to kill him, but that doesn't matter. First time is always the hardest."

The spearwife was unimpressed. "So? You saying you would've cried like a babe, O'Neill?" Ygritte asked, "Maybe he's tougher than you."

Laughter bubbled out of Padraig at the weak emasculation attempt. Not a chance. "Maybe so, but I doubt it. Maybe he was as scared as anyone else, and just hid it very well. Or maybe he's touched in the head. Or that wasn't the first time he'd killed someone. And where we're from, people aren't usually killers."

Ygritte said nothing to that, eyes turning up in thought. Padraig wondered if she believed that killing was unusual back in Canada, given how neatly they had all cut down her former warband. While she figured it out, he looked to Taryne.

"Either way, Duquesne isn't going to measure your idea with emotion. He'll measure it against our values and the benefit to us. Values-wise, you have a good argument. He's not without compassion. Umber's daughter is a good person to know about too. But he's not just going to take your word that you have warriors and that you can feed yourselves. Even if you're right, he'll have to weigh that against political consequences."

"Then we'll prove it," Karla said, "We'll gather those who are like us and come here. Announce our intention to join your clan. The hall isn't yours, you can't stop us."

She's not giving up, Padraig saw, I should put this to bed before the LT gets back. "You'll do no such thing, because I can stop you. Gilly and Zheng have an agreement. As long as we're here, we say who comes in. Security, you see. You only got around it because Ygritte here went beyond her authority, which she and I will be talking about very soon."

Ygritte's reddened cheeks paled at that, which was a feat in itself. Yeah, you should be fuckin' worried about it, Padraig thought, Your ears will ring when I'm through, you wagon.

Karla and Taryne glanced at each other, before the latter responded.

"We won't give up. We'll gather those who would join you and stay by the stream. The whole camp will know what we're doing. Maybe then we get your protection without you needing to do anything. Maybe not."

Padraig's jaw set. They weren't planning to just bluff the camp that he had given his permission. They were betting he wouldn't stand by and watch them get attacked. He wasn't sure that was a bad bet either. Besides not being happy with watching people get hurt, the mere suggestion that he had signed off on defections would cause trouble with the clans the defectors had left.

"That's dangerous," Padraig warned, "You could start a war. Dragging us into it wouldn't guarantee none of you get hurt."

"I could," Taryne said, "But I think if the men outside think believe you're protecting us, they won't do anything."

"You'd be outside the walls. They won't believe it."

"I don't believe you'll let us be killed. It would make you look weak. And even if your lieutenant doesn't flinch at killings, I think you do. Else you would've killed the man earlier today."

Shit, she has you there, Padraig thought, cursing under his breath. "You're wrong."

Taryne sensed his hesitancy. "I don't think I am. We'll wait for your Duquesne. If you don't want a fight to the death, you better start acting like you do."

Chapter Text

The camp around Gilly's Hall had grown considerably since the last time Michael had laid eyes on it. Everywhere south of the stream that rounded the hill it stood on was a sea of tents, but it was not the same sight as could be seen at the Fist of the First Men. Once you got past the outer layer of the tents, their placement got more and more regular until there were actual blocks of them.

Mance's plan to bring the Free Folk that had acknowledged him as King to the place was proceeding well, but there was no sight or clue of the man himself. No royal tent crown with antlers, no Thenns, no sign of the lovely Queen and her even more lovely sister.

The only obvious sign of any sovereign entity visible was the Maple Leaf flag, flying straight to the West in the easterly wind. Which if the strict organisation of the camp was any indication, meant one thing; soldiers of the Canadian Armed Forces, all two of them, now controlled the area. They had a radio check a day before, but a lot could have happened in a day.

As much as it was a source of relief for Michael and Sayer to see their flag still flew and their fellow soldiers must therefore be alive, the Free Folk and remaining Crow prisoners were less impressed. The column halted by the outer firepits, watching and being watched by families coming out of their tents.

Tormund's eyes narrowed with suspicion as he rode alongside Michael, reins of both their horses in hand. "What's gone on here?" he wondered aloud.

"Peace, order and good government," Michael replied with amusement.

"Peace? Har!" Tormund erupted, "Only way this could've happened is with many an arse stinging from the toe of many a boot!"

"So you're familiar with the process," Michael noted aloud, "So much for Free Folk freedom."

"Even we have laws, Canadian," Tormund replied with a dismissive wave of a large hand and a pull of his long grey beard, "We just don't embarrass ourselves kneeling and scraping for lords that can take the food out of our mouths, the women from under our furs and tell us whether or not we can have a sword or axe."

Michael held up his hands. "If you insist."

Tormund grinned. "I do."

"Hey, is that Six Skins over there?" Sayer called from behind.

Michael turned in the saddle to find the Private pointing off to the woods nearby, where there was a cluster of tents that wasn't cohering to the general grid pattern, not even slightly. The Private was right in his assessment; Six Skins was there, dwarfed by his polar bear companion behind, approaching at a casual pace. His face was blank with surprise.

"You survived?" the warg chieftain asked.

"We did," Michael confirmed.

"Not with your help, Varamyr," Tormund growled, "You ran, like a kneeler pup to the woods."

The warg's blank expression darkened as his attention turned to his fellow Free Folk. "Rattleshirt and the Weeper brought their entire warbands," Six Skins intoned, "And their attack made being there no good. We had broken a truce under the gaze of the weirwoods. Or so it'd appear. The gods do not look favourably on such acts."

"The gods don't look favourably on cowards either," Tormund replied, "They'll find some way to…"

"Enough," Michael interrupted, seeing no good in the argument, "It doesn't matter. The Crows made their offer. I'll bring it to Mance."

"For what good it will do," Tormund complained.

"What offer?" Six Skins asked.

"You'd know if you hadn't pissed your skins and ran," Tormund replied quickly, looking forwards now to the trail rather than at the warg, "You'll hear it with the rest of the chiefs."

"Tell me now, Giantsbane. The camp should know."

"Fuck off."

"You'll regret this."

"Run to the gods, tell them I've been unkindly. Maybe they'll pop a tit out of a weirwood for you to suckle on."

With that, Six Skins sent a glare at the man, before glancing at Michael. There was a moment of calculation before he walked off. Wasn't sure attacking while we're here would win him Tormund's head on a plate, Michael realised, hoping this wasn't the beginning of a feud he would have to get involved in.

With that over with, they proceeded to ride slowly to the hall. The palisade around it had more of the character of a wall, and there was a second spiked fence that enclosed a certain portion of the camp too. That seemed strange even to Michael. O'Neill has been busy and he didn't tell me at the check-in, he thought, But why?

The man himself appeared at the gate to the original compound, Zheng and Ygritte in tow, all armed.

"Sergeant," Michael said in greeting.

"Lieutenant," O'Neill replied, with a surprising amount of reluctance.

Michael tilted his head in question, to which the Sergeant simply mouthed 'Later'.

Then his eyes met with Ygritte's, and he saw the relief and happiness in them. He didn't know whether or not to be warmed or scared by it. But he smiled down from his mount at her, deciding to take what positives he could. Tormund's cheeriness on the journey back had improved his mood, but the pall of the crappy offer the Crows had given hung over his days. As did the shadow of the war that was coming when the Free Folk rejected it.

The welcoming committee parted to let the horses pass by, and the whole column went to the stables to tie them up. After all were dismounted, Tormund and the others accepted pieces of carrot from a strangely friendly Gilly, who had been in the garden nearby, before the chieftain smacked his lips and approached.

"What do you want done with the Crows?" Tormund asked quietly, "Still don't understand why you brought them instead of hanging them from the trees."

Michael's mouth thinned, not sure he should try to explain the law that prevented him from doing that. "I have a plan for them," he replied, "Keep them prisoner for me, would you? Mance will like the idea, trust me."

Tormund nodded, scratching at his beard. "Be sure to tell me," he said, "I'm always fond of a bit of cunning."

"I promise," Michael said, holding up his hand. Tormund eyed the hand with confusion, before wandering off, barking orders at his men to get the Crows back to his tribe's section of the camp.

He got out of the way of more of Craster's ex-wives as they moved the horses into the stalls, dodging a black-and-white baby goat as it bounced around the whole commotion curiously.

Ygritte was the first to intercept him. She ran straight to him, past a slower moving O'Neill. Her punch to Michael's arm was enthusiastic and painful, causing him to rub it as while she started in on him.

"You were away longer than you said!"

"Yeah, Crows took their time answering us."

"Didn't even consider taking me?"

"Didn't want the Crows' ears to fall off when your insults hit them."

Ygritte made an amused noise from her throat. "So they agreed?"

Michael frowned and shook his head. "No, they made us and the Free Folk offers," he said, "And threatened us both with war if we did not agree."

Brows knitting together, Ygritte looked this way and that, to be sure no one else was listening."Did you take what they offered?" she asked, "Was it better than what they offered Mance? Should we get ready to run?"

Michael let out a breath, time away not stopping his continued exasperation that she thought of herself as his wife, or near-enough. "Actually, Mance's offer was better," he said, "I'll tell the whole story inside. Come on."

Ygritte's worried look disappeared, and she dug at his arm again with her fist, before moving out of the way to let a bemused O'Neill and Zheng have access to their commanding officer.

"Didn't think to interrupt her?" Michael asked in English.

"We don't interrupt officers," Zheng shrugged back.

Not sensing any disapproval with Ygritte, Michael found himself confused at the Corporal, but put it down to knowing the spearwife a little better in his absence and turned to the Sergeant. "No joy," he said simply, "But our hands have been freed."

O'Neill's gait straightened slightly. "In what respect, sir?"

"I'll tell you."

The Canadians gathered around the firepit to swap reports , away from Craster's ex-wives. Ryk was recalled from his patrol to join in, while two of the hall's inhabitants dressed in Ygritte's furs and carried her bow to give the impression that there was still a guard on the compound.

Michael made his report first, announcing off the top that the Crows had effectively offered the chance to submit or be considered an enemy. Which was no choice at all, with all of his subordinates and their new friends in total agreement about it. The Brotherhood of the Night's Watch had, for all intents and purposes, formally declared war on Canada via declaring war against its soldiers.

The details of how that scenario came to be were a little more tricky.

It took Michael and Sayer some time to fully explain the events in front of the Wall, the images and video helping with clarity but extending the time required. O'Neill and Zheng listened and watched carefully, not commenting, to both the story and the files.

Ygritte and Ryk were a little too caught up with wonder at the technology, but wisely decided against initiating a bombardment of questions about it. Their only outburst was on hearing of Rattleshirt and the Weeper's betrayal, swearing they'd hunt down any survivors and hang them from weirwoods.

Only the Corporal revealed any feelings about the actual matter at hand, her face decidedly etched in anger, muttering about how everyone was determined to get in the way.

The Sergeant was unreadable. Not because he wore no emotion openly, but because it was a complete jumbled mess as far as Michael could tell. Wavering between number of positions, as he thought over what had happened. What are you thinking?

Michael waited until after all events were related to ask. "O'Neill, what's your assessment?"

The man said nothing for a moment, staring into the flames and poking at them with a stick, as if the answers would be given over. Maybe they could be, Michael's mind proposed, Remember Singh and Arran's pyre? He crushed the notion as absurd, and waited.

"Permission to speak freely, sir," O'Neill said at last.

Despite himself, Michael didn't like that request. Or the tone it was delivered in. Not defiant, but disapproving. But there was no way out of it. He needed to know what the Sergeant was thinking. "Granted."

"You made a serious unforced error, sir," O'Neill continued, "When the Lord Commander introduced the Stark kid as a bastard, you should've shut up."

Not having expected that to be the main point of contention between them, Michael leaned back off his knees and straightened up. The report had only mentioned that incident in passing. "I'm not sure I understand, Sergeant."

O'Neill frowned, like Michael should have known better. "They come from a medieval society, sir. Which means they're big on land and inheritance, more likely than not. That's serious business, especially where I'm from, and Jesus do people fight over it. Acknowledging a bastard by his father's surname would be something like declaring you'd like to see him control his father's land, I'd say. Only difference is that here they'll use a sword to fight instead of a solicitor."

Michael bit his tongue. Admittedly, he did not know anything about how medieval societies or inheritance worked. His interest in history was purely military, and largely skipped over medieval stuff. Something to regret, he thought. "How could that happen? I'm a random foreigner to these people, my opinion on it is worthless. And his brother is already lord."

O'Neill sighed loudly. "Makes it worse, sir. You challenged their culture, sir, in a way that's probably not in keeping with the best practice of our own army. I'm sure they were surprised and insulted, all of them, even if only this Ser Alliser character was the only baluba big enough to mouth off about it."

Baluba? Michael wondered, What?

"Who cares what some prick of a lord or knight thinks of it," Ygritte intervened, shrugging. Noises of agreement sounded from Ryk, and they looked like jumping in with their own comments. Michael guessed exactly what was going to happen next.

"Shut your hole, Private," O'Neill said, addressing Ygritte, "I listened to you when you wanted me to, now it's your turn to listen. And the pair of you, keep your noses out of it. This is a conversation between myself and our commanding officer. Not an open forum for complaints about nobles we're at war with anyways."

Ygritte puffed up with anger, but glanced at Michael for confirmation that she should shut up. Wanting to get to the bottom of the Sergeant's argument, he gave a small nod. She deflated again but continued to fume, but neither she nor Ryk said nothing. How O'Neill had achieved that level of obedience from them, Michael didn't even want to know.

"I think I get your objection, Sergeant," Michael said, "You're saying that if I didn't say anything about it, we might have had a more favourable outcome."

O'Neill grimaced, then shook his head. "No, sir. I think the Crows were already going to say no, given what I've found out when you were away. It's the father and brother I'm worried about, the lords. Word gets back that you're running around calling the illegitimate child by the father's name, and we might be fucked where your plan of talking peace with the lords is concerned."

Michael nodded. Now he understood a little better. "And I thought I was getting on his good side. Jon Stark was the most important person at that meeting, as far as I could tell, and the Lord Commander brought up his parentage like it was relevant. The kid's face could be put in the dictionary under the word shame, Sergeant. So I told them it was irrelevant as far as I was concerned, nothing more."

The Sergeant rubbed his face. "Whether it's relevant or not is none of our business, sir," he said, "As soldiers, we're to respect the local customs, and you should've known better. Our priority is survival, not helping these people to a better place. Same way we didn't go around ripping the chadarees off women in Afghanistan, or stop the men buggering small boys."

Yikes.

Michael bristled. That comparison was not only wrong to his mind, but insulting. "Sergeant, that is not the same thing. I did not interfere or disrespect their customs. I made our customs clear to them. It is the equivalent of informing the Afghans that women in our country don't have to wear veils, not tearing them off. And we are not just here as soldiers. We have our own values."

The Sergeant was unphased. "Except you were wr… incorrect on both counts, sir," he said, "We don't give the father's name to every child, and for all we know, merely calling a lord's illegitimate child by his name is an indicator of political and military support. With respect, sir, bottom line is you should've been more careful."

You didn't see the kid's face, Michael wanted to say, but didn't. That was an inadequate answer.

The Sergeant continued. "I don't blame you, sir. You're a good man as far as I can tell, I'm sure it got to you. And we all found it hard to bite our tongues when we saw savage shit going down in Kandahar. Without higher command authority to restrain us, maybe we would've said or done something ourselves. Before your time, I know, but there would've been no excuse for it, because it was a threat to the mission."

Michael still disagreed.

"Number one. Every father in Canada has responsibilities towards his child, every child has certain inheritance rights they can apply in a court, and every child can change their name to their father's one without having to ask permission. I was incorrect with the exact details, maybe, but not in the spirit intended."

The Sergeant tilted his head, either conceding or not willing to argue the point. Probably the latter, Michael knew, but he pressed on.

"Number two, respecting a culture does not mean bending to that culture. In Afghanistan, we told regularly the Afghans that our way was better. Our government encouraged and funded getting women educated, and into jobs. We encouraged democracy over tribal leaders or clerics ruling by force. And used our military to defend those endeavours, to hunt those that opposed it. You didn't all grow beards and wear the local garb for deployment either."

"We absolutely should've grown beards and worn the local kit," O'Neill asserted, "Kept our ourselves to ourselves on the women thing too. It all would've increased our likelihood of success. Not by much, but still."

Michael winced, finding that a repulsive argument in itself… and knowing the man had just stepped on a landmine.

"Bullshit," Zheng responded coldly, "Only way you conquer Afghanistan is by killing all the men, marrying the women and becoming Afghani yourself. Or arming the women and let them kill the men, which never would've been allowed to happen. So, it was pointless."

Not impressed with the 'knowledge' of someone who hadn't been in that country, or with the pseudo-feminist rhetoric, the Sergeant opened his mouth to reprimand her, but Michael interrupted.

"I know she wasn't there and neither was I. We've gotten off point here. Number three, as to the threat to the mission, we will not be giving up our values simply to get home. As the officer here, I refuse to allow it."

Realising what defiance of that refusal would mean, O'Neill looked on grimly. There would be no happy ending following disobedience, even if they got home.

"That's not what I'm saying we do, sir," he said, just barely stopping himself doing so through his teeth, "We have to realise that we are massively outnumbered. Swaggering about like we've got the full might of NATO behind us didn't work even when that was true. Doing it here, that'll get us killed. We don't give up our values, grand. We don't go talking about them either, sir."

Zheng cleared her throat politely. "On this, I agree with the Sergeant, sir," she said, "I don't think there's a way back home. That means we'll need some strategy to deal with the locals.Rù xiāng suí sú. When in Rome, do as the Romans do."

Michael was surprised to hear that from the Corporal, if only because it seemed unusually ill-thought for her. "Looking to get the princess treatment, Corporal? Are you going to offer yourself in marriage to some noble for our benefit? Or let yourself be stolen to build ties with a Free Folk clan? Because those would appear to be the values the Sergeant is proposing we say and do nothing about."

Zheng's eyes and brow became positively thunderous, giving away that she hadn't thought of that. "Over my dead body. Sir."

Michael sighed. "That's what I thought," he said softly.

"Wasn't quite what I had in mind," O'Neill muttered loudly.

"So you agree, there's a line to be drawn," Michael countered, "Hiding our values will just make things difficult to refuse when there's an insistence that we do something. Though all of this is irrelevant to what happened at those negotiations. I said what I said because a kid was being shamed in front of me for no good reason. I concede, Sergeant, that I should've been more careful. But I do not concede that I broke regs or disrespected the locals by telling them bastards and other such things aren't anything we care about much."

The Sergeant frowned and returned to staring at the flames. He knew the final word when it came down from an officer, even if he disagreed with it. Michael felt sorry it had become an issue and regretted his statement to the kid for that reason alone, though he wasn't sure he would've acted differently with hindsight.

"Can I say something?" Sayer spoke out of the blue, not waiting for permission, "I think you're all right, a little bit. I think we can't give up who we are. We can't pretend we're home either. We can't allow ourselves to be pushed around. We don't have the capability to push what we believe, if we even believe the same things. We're stuck, because we don't have the strength."

The problem in a nutshell.

"And because we don't have the legitimacy," Michael added, "Four of us plus two helpers isn't exactly intimidating or an indicator that we're anyone worth talking to. Only thing we have are bullets, which will run out eventually." Hopefully not too soon. We have a ton and a half of them, after all.

"That's the easy thing to fix," Zheng said flatly, "There's an army outside waiting for us to command, if we want it. And if it's legitimacy we need, it shouldn't be too hard to pretend to be nobles. Considering we're better educated, healthier and deadlier."

Ryk let out a single laugh, and Zheng winked at him, patting the side of her carbine for illustration. Might have a problem there, Michael thought idly. The Sergeant's head tilted back, which Michael found strange, causing Ygritte to give a sort of sniffling chuckle.

"Didn't want the news to be delivered like that, did ya?" the spearwife said, "Now we'll see if I was right or you were, O'Neill." The Sergeant shifted his weight uncomfortably, but said nothing. Zheng raised her canteen flash to her mouth and kept it there, drinking very slowly.

Not liking where this was going, Michael narrowed his eyes. "Someone tell me what is going on. Now."

To his credit, O'Neill obeyed the order. But what he said was not what Michael wanted to hear.

The Free Folk milled about, as word spread that 'Duquesne had returned'. Their moment of truth had arrived, Michael could tell, and so had one of his.

In one respect, he couldn't help but feel that hundreds of Free Folk determining to join themselves to the Canadian cause was his fault. Ygritte and Ryk hadn't seemed like a precedent for such a gathering, but in retrospect he should've seen it coming. The Free Folk respected strength, and were drawn to it. That they were fighting for their very existence had amplified this.

O'Neill's description of the events that followed the original two women's defection from their clan was deliberately succinct.

The number of defectors had grown, led mostly by women in similar circumstances; those who had been kidnapped from south of the Wall. But also coming along were a large number of warriors from north of it. They had pitched their tents on the lee of the hill, putting the CFB between them and the rest of the Free Folk.

Men from the clans they had defected from soon gathered to take them back. O'Neill, seeing an imminent threat to civilian life, dispersed the hostile gathering with three warning bursts from the machine gun.

Seeing no other option to prevent continuing hostilities, O'Neill immediately imposed order upon the camp, using a mix of threats and diplomacy. With no strong chieftains present to oppose him at the time, the camp obeyed. The men who couldn't live with that kept their heads down, and joined Six Skins' tribe when he returned from Castle Black.

Only thirteen bullets had been expended in the whole incident, but Michael was sure more would be required, and soon. Despite the fact that defections to stronger clans and women leaving in favour of stronger men were entirely traditional acts in Free Folk culture, he knew there wasn't an armed man alive in the True North who would take those things laying down.

Then there was the damage to readiness and mobility.

Squeezing the bridge of his nose with increasing frustration, Michael looked on as whole families began turning out to meet him, kept at bay temporarily by Zheng, Ygritte, Ryk and Sayer.

Only O'Neill remained behind, his jaw set and chin up, awaiting the inevitable. The man didn't like being reprimanded by someone he regarded as a head-in-the-clouds college kid, Michael could tell, but he could and would take it.

Perhaps head-up-his-ass college kid is more accurate a description of me. "Sergeant," Michael began, "I think if this proves anything, it's that you and I have more in common than we thought."

"Sir?" O'Neill asked uncertainly.

"We both can't help ourselves where doing what we think is right is concerned."

The Sergeant recoiled at that. "Orders to interdict imminent threats to civilians still stand, sir. I wouldn't have done anything otherwise. My priority is getting home, being killed by a mob pissed off that their women left them would be a shit way to die. 'What's right' didn't enter into it."

Michael folded his arms. "I don't believe you, Sergeant. Because all this is a threat to the mission that makes my slip of the tongue look small, even if we assume your point about inheritance is correct."

O'Neill exhaled deeply, restraining a less generous response before giving a more measured one. "Not necessarily. We need food, local weapons and training to go with them, and public support so we look like people to talk to. Nobles or whatever else. We also need people watching our back up here. Six just isn't enough, given how valuable the things we have are."

"All reasonable points," Michael said, "Except my solution was to pack wights in iceboxes, tie them to the top of our crawler, blow through the Wall and drive to Winterfell to throw the walking dead in the faces of the lords down there. That would've provided all the legitimacy we needed to restart peace talks, or at least get permission to go south to the Isle of Faces."

Michael turned towards the Sergeant. "A plan now made impossible by the fact we now have orders of magnitude more people than we can transport quickly."

The Sergeant had the good grace to wince. "I do remember the conversation, sir," he said, "But events grew outside my control. I had to act to restore order, or this place would've gone straight to hell."

"I know," Michael sighed, "But you're not wrong that our orders made this more or less inevitable. And I could not talk about not abandoning our values, then turn around and do something different to what you have here."

The Sergeant gave a nod, relaxing at the admission. No doubt he thought I was a damn hypocrite, Michael thought to himself.

"What now, sir?" O'Neill said, "Your plan is shot. We need a new one."

"Not necessarily," Michael replied, "Those warriors want to be part of the deal we gave Ygritte and Ryk? Sure, no problem. But they'll follow our rules."

The Sergeant got the idea immediately, and lightened up. Just in time. "You're betting most of them will leave when they hear what those rules actually are."

Michael gave an exaggerated shrug. "Well, they're free to leave if they don't like it. They're Free Folk. Without the warriors' agreement to take the oath, we can't protect the non-combatants, so they'll stay with Gilly."

"Clever, sir."

"If only I was this clever all the time."

"Ygritte won't like it."

"Ygritte already knows our ways are different. She'll be more pissed off with the warriors for being thickheaded than she will with me for applying the same oath to them."

O'Neill's throat made a strangled noise. "We'll see, sir. Heads up, we've got company."

Two women were approaching, Ygritte and Ryk having let them through. Both were older than he was, and they were dressed in grey-white furs over brown animal skins sewed up. The clothes were made a little better than most Free Folk grab, or so Michael thought. Their hoods were up against a strong wind, but strands of black hair peeked out.

"Are you the Ell-Tee?" the elder of the two asked.

Her voice was slightly different somehow. Michael couldn't put his finger on why.

"Lieutenant Michael Duquesne. Third Battalion, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry."

The women came to a stop a few paces away, the one that had asked the question seeming to process the answer. Michael wondered if the name of regiment translated very well. The magic had limitations.

"I am Taryne. This is Karla," the elder woman said, "You lead Ygritte's tribe?"

"No, my people are allied to Ygritte's tribe," Michael replied, "As long as she and Ryk stick to their oath."

"So we can join them," Taryne said, as if Michael's answer had said exactly that.

Michael scratched his chin. "No skin off my back."

"Wha?" the one called Karla burst out.

That phrase doesn't exist here, in this context anyway. "Ah, just means I don't mind. Join Ygritte, don't. Not my business. But the second you people do steal, or rape, or kill, and the tribe does nothing about it? We're no longer friends."

Taryne's eyes flashed with anger. "You mistake us for our kidnappers. Like a Crow."

"Oh no, O'Neill informed me of your story. And I'm sorry for what happened to you. But it isn't just you and your children who want to join, is it?"

Michael saw he didn't need to clarify his words. Both Taryne and Karla understood the implication; Both the men you brought and your sons follow Free Folk ways, not southern ones.

"They will all swear the oath," Taryne said, "Those that will not have not come. The rest have already been helping your sergeant."

Michael turned to O'Neill for confirmation. An answer was immediately forthcoming.

"My suggestions have been acted upon by the men of this camp, sir. But I did not issue orders as such. In fact, the ladies here were the only ones present when I talked about things that needed doing. I did not ask or demand they pass anything along. If anyone is giving orders, it is them."

Michael almost laughed. The man had prepared for this problem coming back to him, like any good NCO should. "You thought through that answer beforehand, I see."

"Doesn't make it untrue, sir."

"I suppose it doesn't, Sergeant."

Micheal turned back to the not-Free-Folk women. "Ygritte told you what the oath is?"

"Yes," Taryne replied.

"What did tell you about the orders we've given her and Ryk?"

It was Karla who answered. "Follow your commands. No killing unless you say so or defending ourselves. No stealing. No taking women."

"No mouthing off either," O'Neill added.

Michael nodded. "And this group you've brought together. They know about these orders?"

"They know," Taryne said, "And they've followed them since gathering."

Michael again looked to the Sergeant.

"No idea, sir," O'Neill replied, "Haven't seen anything, no one has come to me about thefts or murders. But maybe they keep that sorta thing quiet, pretend to be all civilised?"

"Maybe they do," Michael agreed.

Taryne bristled. "There have been no murders within our camp. Thefts have been dealt with."

Michael wondered just exactly dealt with meant in that context. "And we have no way of knowing," he said, "You have to understand. One beautiful day, I'll go home. If I agree to this alliance, anything that you and your men do, I'll be held accountable for by my country and its laws. For every theft, rape and murder that was within my power to prevent."

He could already imagine the headlines. 'Misconduct in a New World'. 'CAF backs criminals, kidnaps women'. It wouldn't matter if it was true, the court of public opinion would force the hand of the top brass.

"I can't promise some of the men won't do as they please," Taryne said, "But the others will punish those that commit such crimes as oathbreakers."

Looking over at the gathered hundreds that waited whispering and pacing, Michael clicked his tongue. "I don't think they understand just how hard it is going to be. Time to tell them, I think."

Without waiting for a response, Michael left the two women behind and walked towards the crowd. O'Neill quickly fell in beside him, and together, they drew level with the others. For a moment, he examined the assembly of people. They looked like Free Folk, all in furs and skins. They smelled like Free Folk too; wood smoke, animal fat and pine.

Michael's confidence that his plan would work grew, though a voice in his head still reminded him not to judge a book by its cover. He went and stood by Ygritte, putting a hand on her shoulder as a signal that he was there as much on her behalf as his own. She put her own hand on top of his, which hadn't been his intention, but did nothing about it. It helped the signal, after all. A dispute over the regs in front of everyone wouldn't.

"I am Michael Duquesne," he declared, "I lead the mighty and powerful forces of Canada here in the True North."

Zheng guffawed, but the sarcasm was lost on the locals. Instead, all whispering and movement ceased, except for kids moving under legs and men standing on their toes to gawp and listen. Michael waited until he had everyone's ear before continuing.

"I've been informed that you want to join Ygritte and Ryk as our allies. And that you know what that means."

He cleared his throat, before quoting what 'Karla' had said were the terms Ygritte had described.

"Follow my advice. No killing unless I say so or you're defending yourselves. No stealing. No taking women, unless they want to be taken. And I will ask them if they did."

There was a general lack of surprise, and a few bobs of the head of acknowledgement. So the women weren't lying about that, at least, Michael thought, But let's see if they mean it.

"If you join Ygritte and Ryk, these laws will apply south of the Wall too," he continued, "Even if we're at war with the southern lords, I'll expect you to keep your oath to obey. Which means no looting, no raiding villages, no taking the kneelers' daughters!"

To Michael's surprise, very few seemed to grumble at this. And he noticed a pattern in those that did, however; young men, too young to have wives and children. Young as Sayer and Ygritte, or younger. No doubt, they dreamed of kidnapping a southern girl or two, looting a village, and starting their adult lives that way. It wasn't much towards sparking off objections to joining the Canadian cause, but it was a start.

"It is also my intention to try to speak to the lords of the south, to bring wights as proof the Others have returned and to get as many of you through the Wall as I can peacefully. Some of the clans and tribes might not like you doing that. Some might even compare me to a kneeler lord or say that you're kneeling simply for speaking peace. Which means you may have to fight Free Folk, and not just the ones you don't like."

There were more rumblings of discontent after that, as Michael knew there would be. There was no way that they all regarded every single individual north of the Wall with contempt, except for those women that had been taken more recently. And all could imagine there was a good chance they'd find some of those they knew as friendly or kind on the other side of the argument where restraint on thieving or murder was concerned.

"Life will not be easy either," he continued, "It will be hard work and hard fighting. Mance will undoubtedly expect us to be at the front of any attack on the Wall. And in order to fight the Crows and kneelers, you will need to do and learn things you never thought you'd need before. They might seem stupid or mad or too much like how the kneelers live and fight to you, but you will need to do them. You must obey."

Only silence met that statement. Worse, Michael didn't understand why. The faces in front of him were unreadable. Perhaps that's not a big deal considering the army of dead men causing all sorts of problems for them eating, sleeping and having families, he realised, Time to wash this up.

"That is why I will give you one chance," Michael shouted, "If you think, if you even suspect you won't be able to follow these laws, the commands given to you by those that will be your leaders, or the advice from myself or Sergeant O'Neill… I must insist you leave now. If you stay, if you join Ygritte and Ryk and then break the oath, you will be dealt with as… an enemy combatant."

'Enemy combatant', a nice, ambiguous statement from a Canadian point of view, Michael thought, pleased he had come up with it on the fly, But more likely to mean 'instant death' from the local point of view. All prisoners of war start off as enemy combatants, after all. Bonus was that all seemed to understand the concept.

"Choose now!" O'Neill pitched in, "Stay to take the oath, or fuck off and pack your things if you can't and won't!"

A great roar of mumbling and a flurry of movement started. People began to move off, back towards the tents. Mostly young men again, but some families too.

Michael had to suppress a grin, as the groundswell grew against the idea. Too much trouble, he heard from one quarter. Too much like kneeling, from another. It looked like the announcement had worked; those of fighting age and condition would leave, most of them men who wanted the spoils of war, and the remaining could be safely settled with Gilly.

Or so he thought until the noticed some of the women looking past him. As he looked to see who they were looking at, Taryne stepped ahead a pace. With a wave of her arm, things began to slow down.

Older women dragged the young men back, often by their ears. Their mothers Michael presumed. Younger women and girls delayed the families about to depart, talking rapidly with lots of gesticulation and putting themselves in the way. A coordinated action, if ever he saw one. But his heart nearly leaped out of his throat when Ygritte raised her voice.

"That's right! Run away! We don't need craven men! We don't need men who won't fight anyone who gets in the way!"

This wasn't just insults to people betraying the cause. It was shaming them. She's in on it, Michael understood, She planned this with Taryne.

"Aye, you'll have to do things you don't want to do," she continued, "But that's better than being a wight! Or starvin' to death because the ground froze and all the animals have swam 'round the Wall!" The exodus of people from the crowd back to the tents ground to a halt, as every person stopped to listen again.

"I've been with these Canadians for near-on two moons now. They know how to fight like nothin' else. They fight White Walkers and Crows and raiders who've climbed the Wall two dozen times. And they win."

Only because we've got guns, Michael thought darkly, Only for a little while.

"If you want to win, you join us," Ygritte concluded, "I'd put the Free Folk up against any southern army. They'll fall to us! But how many are left after'll depend on not being stupid as rocks. And that matters, because winter is coming. We've all seen it. Take the oath, join us, and we'll keep as many people breathin' as we can to fight the Others."

As pitches go, it was as good as it gets. Feeling like cold water had just been poured down his back, Michael watched as the crowd coalesced once more, only a handful withdrawing to camp in order to pack up. His little scheme was dead.

Ygritte turned on her heel and looked up at him, poking a finger against his chest armour. "There's your army, Michael Duquesne," she said, "Now you can say whatever you want to the kneelers and their lords. Bastards or no."

So that's why she did it. Michael hadn't really thought the cause of kidnapped southerners to be in line with Ygritte's ideas about the world, but strengthening her clan was as Free Folk a motivation as was possible to have. And lying about it was as Free Folk a tactic you could get too.

Might as well use it, now it's inevitable. "Doesn't really work that way," he sighed, "But it's a start, I guess."

Ygritte's expression softened, and she punched him in the arm again before looking at O'Neill. "Told you he'd listen to me."

The Sergeant was unamused. "It's more that they listened to you," he said, "And that's my fault for not telling you to zip it before."

Not caring a bit for that, Ygritte walked off towards the assembled crowd, to talk to some of the women that had organised the pushback. Clan mothers, Michael's mind said, They're organising things now. There was something familiar about that, but he couldn't place it.

Ryk gave a hearty chuckle from the side. "You should have known by now, Canadian. Ygritte chases everything she wants without rest, and says whatever she wants."

"Well, no one is top of their game at the moment," Zheng agreed, leaving unkind comments about the competence of her superiors out. She didn't need to speak them, her tone was enough. And she wasn't wrong anyway.

"You'd need a gag," Sayer remarked, "Should've used duct tape."

O'Neill wagged a pointing finger, indicating that he thought that was a good idea and would remember it in future. Don't tempt fate, Michael thought, Knowing my luck, Ygritte would be into getting tied up with duct tape and the gods have some sort of festival this week where tying a girl up is a declaration of intent to have a litter of kids.

"So you'll take us," Taryne asked, clutching Karla's hand to her side.

Michael nodded. "I'll require the information you said you had. About Lord Umber's daughter, though come to think of it, I'd like to know everything you know about the south."

"I was young, but I'll tell you what I remember," Taryne agreed, "What about my clan sisters and brothers?"

By way of reply, Michael turned to the Sergeant. "O'Neill, bring these people to the weirwood to take the oath. Hear them say it in batches, including the kids. Bring Sayer to record it all."

"Sir?" O'Neill asked, "Is this really a good idea?"

"It's a terrible idea," Michael replied, "It's just better than looking like we drove these people away. And I'm not talking about the optics of it back home. Or, not only that anyway."

"You're afraid what the other tribes and clans will think," Taryne guessed.

Smart woman. "Yeah, especially now that Tormund and Six Skins are back too," Michael agreed, "Tormund will expect us to respect the right of people wanting to join our clan and would think it strange if we didn't allow it. Six Skins seems the type to exploit the anger of the men that the women ran away from, he'd exploit the whole situation as a weakness."

"And Mance?" Sayer asked, "What's he going to think of this?"

A good question. "I don't know," Michael replied, "But I suspect he'll be happy regardless. He'll care more about the declaration of war than us gathering a clan."

Now that the decision had been taken and oaths would be administered, there was only one thing left to do; impose the promised discipline.

Hearing about it was one thing. Experiencing it was another. It would be weeks before Mance showed up, plenty of time to get the hurt of a true military life settling in and before the real benefits could be seen.

With luck, there would be plenty of 'warriors' leaving. And if they didn't, that meant they were committed, which wasn't bad thing either. Win-win.

"Sergeant, once the warriors and spearwives have signed up, break them in."

O'Neill's lips spread into a shit-eating grin that Michael himself would've struggled to match. He understands what I'm doing.

"Yes, sir!" came the enthusiastic reply.

Chapter Text

DALLA

The gathering of the Free Folk had grown even larger than it had been at the Fist of the First Men. Yet more were on the way from the Fist, the Thenns taking up the rearguard by right and Mance's command. If they ever make it.

Dalla watched over the camp from the hill. It was a task she had felt drawn to since first seeing it. She had left Val to command the pitching of the tents at the lee of hill's summit above her, rather than arranging the joined-tribes of she and Mance herself as she usually did. The camp below needed more attention and thought.

Her gaze scanned the other hills and the small valleys between them, the tribes of the Free Folk clearly identifiable.

The giants, always the first to grab anyone's attention with their height and their great mammoths, keeping to the place where the forest was thickest nearby. Dalla had never seen so many before Mance stole her.

The crowkillers of the lands to either side of the Gorge, familiar to her since her earliest days as the chief enemy of her own tribe.

The forest tribes with their large herds of aurochs and sheep, the wealthiest and most important tribe for keeping the Free Folk fed.

The Nightrunners and Hornfoots of the far north, the former in thick furs and the latter with bare, blackened feet; all that remained of tribes from that region save for the Thenns themselves.

The cave-dwellers, squinting in the light and ill-prepared for their exile, digging downwards into the half-frozen ground to get out of the wind.

The unicorn-riders from the central plateau, with their great hairy mounts corralled at a wide open place, ever watchful against the envious gazes sent their way by others, for their beasts were beautiful and coveted.

The western tribes; the clans of the Frozen Shore, their sleds doubling as tents and surrounded by huge shaggy dogs, and the Ice River clans, the most vicious of all the Free Folk and cannibalistic. Under any other circumstance, Dalla would have urged alliance with the Frozen Shore and death to the Ice River, but there was no time for such wars.

So many people, all potentially dangerous to the plan she and Mance had devised.

Yet Dalla found her eyes drifting constantly to the strangest and newest tribe of them all. A group that had set many hearts ablaze with either anger or hope. The tribe that was not truly Free Folk, even more than the Thenns were not. The only tribe with flags.

The Canadians' own banner, a weirwood leaf against a white square between two red bars, flew atop the hall that formerly belonged to Craster. Alongside it, at the other end of the roof, was the flag of the new tribe that now followed them; a white-and-red weirwood tree against a black background. Its leaves, eyes and mouth were blood red… and the face was one of laughter, not the sorrow or anger that was usual. Why they chose such a thing, Dalla could not tell, nor if it was a good or bad thing to use a holy symbol.

All around the hall, now called 'See-Eff-Bee Gilly's Hall', the camp was … unlike anything Dalla had ever seen. Tents and animal pens in perfect rows, new rough buildings sometimes joining them. The space between them was wide enough for a cart in three directions, and the outskirts of this ordered area were guarded by men and spearwives.

Watch platform had sprung up atop trees left uncut for that purpose, the tallest that had stood there before. In a clearing by the gate of the hall's own palisade, men and spearwives stood in neat lines and received some strange instruction from a man in clothes the same colour as the southern forest in highest summer.

It all made Dalla worry. She recognised what was going on; the tribe was being taught a new way of war, one closer to that of the kneelers. A way Mance said made one man count for many.

Combined with the weapons of the Canadians, they would become very difficult to fight if they became an enemy. Which was a problem; the new tribe had not sworn to Mance, even if the people who were now a part of it had come from others that had. They had sworn to Canada, wherever that was. Rumours of it had swirled through the camp. Soon, the entire army would know.

Dalla physically stopped herself staring, and turned quickly around, intending off at a quick pace back to Val and the tents. Instead, she almost ran into someone. Her vision filled with red for a moment, before the grey of the sky and the deep green of the forest reasserted itself. They backed off a step just before contact, flinching.

The person was wearing a coat of finely woven cloth in a bright red, a hood of the same colour over his head. Below the waist, the clothes turned various greens and ended in high black boots. His weapon hung in front of him from straps of an unknown black material; a strange tube sticking out of a grey-red wood, with a Myrish spyglass attached to its top.

His dark hair and look would've marked him as one of the far-western clansmen of the Frozen Shore, but Dalla knew better. A Canadian, she though, The young one.

The man smiled at her awkwardly, a hooded warrior and a spearwife kissed-by-fire joining him. "Sorry," he said, "Was just coming to ask you something."

Dalla looked him over, before giving a disarming smile to show she was not offended. She didn't know what the custom was among the Canadians where women were concerned, though Giantsbane insisted the woman among them was the wife of the one called O'Neill. "I was not watching where I was going," she said, "It is my fault."

The red-haired spearwife muttered something behind, before the warrior with her smacked her on the shoulder with the outside of his gloved hair. Did she insult me or point out who I was? Dalla thought. She hadn't heard what was said.

"Ah, yeah," the young Canadian said, rubbing the back of his neck under his hood, "I should introduce myself. Private Louis Sayer, Canadian Rangers."

His awkwardness seemed to be that of inexperienced youth. Which was strange. Giantsbane had said the youngest Canadian was just as deadly as the others, and had cut down dozens of the Weeper's clansmen in mere minutes.

He's a Ranger but not a Crow? Is he sincere or an excellent liar? "Dalla, of Snows End," she replied reluctantly, not sure if she should talk or make excuses to leave.

Louis' jaw dropped open. "You're the queen!" he said, "Should've guessed."

That man and his mouth! Dalla thought."Mance is my love. I sit on his council. He sometimes listen to me. It does not make me a queen, though he is fond of saying so. Flattery for his wife."

The Canadian made a sort of gesture with his hand towards the hall. "By our standards you'd be queen," he said, "I think... Canada's Queen had a husband who wasn't a King though? Anyway, the Ell-Tee… Duquesne I mean, sent me up here to see if the King is here yet. He saw the antlers." The young man pointed at the huge set atop the central pole of her own tent, as the furs were wrapped on the frame around it.

We need our own banner, Dalla noted to herself. "Mance will join us around sunset," she said, "If you have a message for him, you can give it to me. I'm like as not to see him before you do."

"It's not for you to hear," the spearwife growled.

"Ygritte," Louis complained, "You're being rude. To the Queen."

Wasn't that the name of the woman the Canadian leader stole? Dalla regarded the red-haired spearwife again as she crossed her arms, glancing between she and Louis, before a small suggestive smile broke out. "Aye, 'suppose I am being rude."

Louis shook his head. "You can tell Mance that the Crows declared war on us. Offered both us and the Free Folk the option to kneel. Except for us, they demanded we make the decision on the spot or it would be war. Canada already has a Queen, like I said… so Duquesne chose war."

Dalla's brow raised and her eyes widened. Mance didn't expect even an offer to kneel. He expected the Crows to refuse all. And the Canadians chose war? "I shall pass that along."

"One more thing," Louis added, a strange seriousness in his tone all of a sudden, "Lieutenant Duquesne requests a meeting with the King, as well as you and your sister Val. No other chieftains."

A strange bolt of fear went through Dalla, wondering what they could possibly want such a meeting for. What could they say that they don't want the tribes to hear? her mind whispered, Do they want Val in return for alliance, like kneelers? Over my dead body.

Louis smiled again, friendly once more. Before she could ask what the meeting was about, he spoke. "Thanks for speaking to me, we will see you later!" With that, he moved off a dozen paces and began talking to himself… an act so bizarre that Dalla was rendered speechless, until she remembered that these Canadians could apparently talk to each other over distances.

Once he was done, the one called Ygritte began teasing him over something, and the young man turned as red as his hood. "Of course I was," he said, just loud enough to be heard, "She's very pretty!"

So, not a good liar. Turning away to rejoin Val, Dalla felt laughter bubble out of her. That she had thought ill of his intentions now felt silly. She was still laughing when she reached her sister, who looked on as if she is mad.

"What's so amusing?" Val asked asked.

"Sincerity is the best flattery," Dalla smiled, not helping her sister's confusion one bit.

The tent warmed up quickly, the wood from the forest burned faster and more smoky than the peat of the Fist had. But burning pinewood had a nice smell, and Dalla preferred it. The space was empty except for Val and Mance, which was unusual for the evening. Dalla had insisted on that, so no guards or chiefs could cause trouble, but she was glad for another reason.

The three of them were almost never alone now. It was what Dalla did not like about being 'Queen'. The last time it had been just the three of them, it had been a few days after their first meeting Mance. He had just come back from Winterfell to see the southern king and sheltered in her home, half a year earlier. They had talked about all that needed to happen, around a fire burning pinewood.

Mance had come for a reason other than to steal her, but that happened nonetheless. He was surprisingly quick, though her tribe had not put up much of a fight either. They knew Mance and his cause. She fought him with an axe, despite liking him, but lost. He had wisely chosen a time Val was not present in the village. Smart and strong. A good king for a doomed people.

He had taken news of the Crows' declaration of war against the Canadians with no outward emotion, but Dalla saw through it. He moved more quickly for no reason, he drank more deeply, he spoke more often. Only more that those close would notice, but she had watched him closely since the first time they met. Our King is excited. Excited and nervous.

"What do these Canadians want to talk to us about?" Val complained, poking at one of the braziers with a stick, "Are they going to try and convince us to kneel as the Crows ask? Was it not enough that they cause every clan from near the kneelers' lands to lose their minds?"

Dalla winced. "That the women taken from the South may not like who steals them was something the clans should have considered. You and I know that better than anyone, sister, though we are not among them."

Val did not reply, except by throwing the bronze rod she had been using on the fire down. She did not like to be reminded of their origins. Dalla never ceased to do so.

"It may become a problem," Mance agreed, "Raiders don't like their prize-wives running away from them. Rarely like them being stolen either, though tradition protects that if they're young enough. They'll do nothing. The story about the Weeper and Rattleshirt has spread. They all know what happened to raiders who went up against those weapons."

Hundreds dead was what happened, if the Giantsbane's word was good, and it usually was despite his exaggerations. And it had only been two of the Canadians present at the battle he saw. Including the young man who thought I was pretty, Dalla noted, Honest, but a killer. She promised to never let herself forget that.

Mance had known the two chiefs would join up and attempt to attack the Canadians, eventually. The Weeper had been the one to pick Rattleshirt off the ground after the meeting on top of the Fist, where he had been dumped on a snowdrift. They had both left the Fist with their warbands, claiming to be hunting Crows when they were really abandoning the common effort.

But it had been a surprise when Tormund had sent word that the pair had gotten south to the gate at Castle Black with most of their warriors without word getting back, and so swiftly. A last feat for which they all died.

Dalla did not weep for either of them. Oathbreakers and fools. Only Mance had the influence to bring numbers enough to defeat the newcomers. And that should have been obvious after the Canadians had repelled the dead at the Fist. Wights and Walkers had not been seen again in real numbers since.

Are the Others afraid? she wondered, Or is it strategy? One thing at a time.

"We must stop it being a matter of blades," Dalla pronounced, "The Canadians aren't blind to the threat. They might decide that sitting meekly by is more costly than attacking those clans that threaten them. And that would cause every clan to consider what monsters or gods-men camp among us, Val."

"I have given some thought to the matter myself, my Queen," Mance smiled, "We shall not be able to get the Canadians to swear an oath to serve. But they have already provided the answer. An alliance of equals may be possible, if we can agree a strategy."

"Even that will not be liked among the chiefs," Val said, "The Thenns even less so. Or worse, it could invite questions about why they should follow you instead of the Duquesne."

Dalla folded her arms. "They would not follow a leader from anywhere but the True North," she said, "Not unless the Canadians do something far greater than even Kings among us have done."

Mance nodded. "Even then, Duquesne's people think badly of our ways, and it is easily noticed. The way they look at us… it is not the superiority of kneelers you see in their eyes, no, but it is pity. Like they want to help us but cannot, as we are too different."

"Or maybe we just think you wouldn't listen," sounded a voice.

Accompanied by a short creep of cold wind, Duquesne entered the tent through the half open flap. He was soon followed by the large one celebrated for his fists, the strange woman with black eyes and hair from Yi Ti, and the young man from before. They carried their firearms without menace, and wore white-and-grey coats and trousers over the same green ones that the youngest wore before. All faces were subdued, and eyes searching for any sign of trouble.

Concerned, Dalla summoned the names from her memory and smiled as best she could.

"Welcome, Duquesne, Zheng, O'Neill and Sayer."

"Your Majesty," the O'Neill replied, with good humour, "Good to be out of the cold."

"Especially as we have a lot to talk about," Duquesne agreed, moving to the middle of the space and sitting down opposite Mance. Some of the guests took off the top layers of their clothing down to the waist, revealing dull green shirts of a very fine cloth. Dalla shifted her position to one beside Mance, and nudged Val to do the same.

"So it seems," Mance said, as the rest of the Canadians sat down, "Tormund has told me of what happened. With your refusal to kneel to the southrons, I think it obvious that we are now allies."

Duquesne looked back blankly. "Not quite," he said, "We're at war with the Crows, as are you. But you were right about one thing before. We are very different people to the Free Folk. More than I thought at first."

Given who had joined the tribe now allied to his group, Dalla knew exactly what Duquesne meant. "You have spoken to your new clanswomen," she said, "They told you of the raids."

"They're not our clanswomen," O'Neill stated, "They're women of an allied azantyr."

Valyrian, Dalla thought, Why do they use Valyrian words sometimes? She had never heard the language before the Canadians arrived, but Mance knew a few words, even a song he had never sung until after their first meeting. Still more mysteries.

"They told me of the raids," Duquesne replied in confirmation, "It's one thing for your people to steal each other's women. That in itself is not good from our perspective, and we're not afraid to tell you so. But to go steal the women of another society and culture, that's just asking for trouble. It's a major obstacle to any move south of the Wall, because it leaves you with a reputation for savagery."

Sometimes they use their own language, Dalla noted. "A reputation not so big that we cannot talk about it," she stated with certainty, "Else you would not be sitting here."

Duquesne scratched his chin, before deciding something. "I'll be absolutely honest with you," he said, "If I had known about the scale of raiding before going to to talk to the Crows, I might have instead offered to ally to the Seven Kingdoms and abandon you. To us, it looks like slavery."

"It would be," Val agreed, "If women did not possess blades."

The Zheng's lips curled back in an approving, vicious smile, revealing unnaturally white teeth. Both the expression and the canines reminded Dalla of a picture of a dragon's head.

"It is worse south of the Wall," Mance said, "Here, the stronger man, the faster man, the more cunning man gets the woman. In the South, women are sold like livestock. Either by their fathers for land or just to rid themselves of a mouth to feed, or sold a night at a time by men of wealth. Women cannot kill the men they are taken by without being proclaimed murderesses. They are robbed of choice."

"We know," the Zheng replied coldly, "Though when killing or fleeing is the only way to express your choice when a man takes you, that is often no choice at all."

"Our women accept it," Mance countered, directing his speaking towards Duquesne, "And you know this. I'm sure Ygritte has spoken the reasons why she wants to stay with you. You have not rejected her either."

The Canadian leader was not impressed. "For reasons that are our own," Duquesne said, "And not all your women accept your way, or else the numbers joining the Laughing Tree wouldn't be so large. But it's irrelevant. The southerners think you're savages who steal their daughters and wives. They'll fight you to the death, without a plan to stop them."

We have a plan for the southrons, Dalla thought but did not say, It's the reason Mance came to Snows End, to my family, once he learned that war had begun between the kneelers.

"First thing is first, Duquesne," Mance said, "We need a way to get south of the Wall."

"I'm pretty sure you already have a plan," Duquesne replied, "Because if I was a Free Folk chieftain and you asked me to join your army, my first question would be 'how do you plan to get south of the Wall?' So you must have an answer, because I can't be the only one who thought of that one."

Dalla recalled the question had been asked, even since she had been stolen. Not many times. At least Giantsbane keeps asking.

"But I can imagine the plans already," Duquesne continued, "You'll put people over or around the Wall, like the raiders do. And then you'll attack the Night's Watch from the rear, where they have little or no serious defences. You'll do so in numbers, and with some of the best troops you have. Thenns, Giantsbane's troops…"

Dalla was impressed. The Canadians must have questioned their new allies closely, about the Wall, about the south lands and the Crows.

Mance leaned back onto his palms, and sighed. "As thinking men and women, it must appear obvious to you. Going under the Wall takes too long. Going over it with everything is impossible. Taking one of the castles of the Night's Watch is the only thing that will let us bring every man, woman and child, along with every giant, every mammoth and every useful animal."

Duquesne shook his head and held up a finger. "Correction, it was the only thing. You may have an alternative. We can provide it, depending on how well you know the Wall."

Dalla and Mance glanced at each other, amused. They had heard of every crazy method of raiders and Kings of the past who tried to get by the Wall. Some had even succeeded, only to be crushed south of the Wall.

"Tell him," Dalla said, wanting to know what the Canadians had thought of after only a few weeks after seeing the Wall.

Mance answered. "I froze my arse off at the top of it. Sweated into my clothes walking below it and shovelling rock or ice to rebuild it. Walked its entire length. I know all three of the castles still used and some that were abandoned years ago, and every gate. I know the Wall, Lord Duquesne."

The Canadians exchanged glances, like Mance calling Duquesne a lord confirmed something for them

"Call me what you like," Duquesne said, "I've heard the Night's Watch seal the gates of their abandoned castles by packing stones into the tunnels and pouring water over it. Our Crow prisoners brag that by the time we dig through that, their brothers would be on top of us… But we think that way of sealing the tunnels leaves them vulnerable to … tools we have. Especially if the tunnel has stone arches or goes through rock rather than solid ice. We can dig through that sort of thing very quickly."

Dalla could not believe her ears. The Canadians meant to exit the Wall at a sealed tunnel. Unblocking one had been tried before, but it was always too slow, the Crows always found out and stopped it. If anyone else had suggested it, they would have been laughed out of the tent. It was lucky the chieftains were not present, they would have done so out of hand.

But she believed Duquesne, they must have had something that could do what he said. She took Mance's nearest hand in hers. He knew what it meant.

"That… changes things, if true," Mance said, "I do have the knowledge you require. But you say you are not allies despite our common enemy. So why should I not take your tools for myself? Such things would be worth the cost in blood to take them."

"Because you'll never figure out how to use them," Zheng said, her tone as cold as the wind outside, "Because we're useful for a whole lot more than just getting through the Wall."

The woman leaned forward towards Mance, her dark eyes wide open with what appeared to be anger. "Because if try to steal from us, we'll do our very best to annihilate you."

The O'Neill quickly put his hand on the woman's shoulder, which caused her to straighten up again and look away. Wife obeys husband, Dalla thought, Or trusts his judgment, at least.

"You'll have to forgive her," Duquesne said quickly, "Since hearing more about your wedding… practices, Corporal Zheng's opinion of your people has dropped."

"To zero," Zheng agreed, "I will repeat myself. Anyone who tries to steal me, I'll kill their whole fucking clan." She held up her firearm and stood it on the ground from its end, showing how she would carry out her threat.

Zero? What is Zero? Dalla wondered. The woman's threats were blood-curdling enough without invocations to some dark god. It was only when Zheng's own people acted that she was able to relax again.

"Enough of that," the O'Neill growled, "Come on." He pulled on Zheng's sleeve gently, and she relented. They put on their coats again and left the tent, no one talking until they had done so. Dalla could tell Zheng was truly upset, and hoped comfort in her husband's arms would give her some peace… if only because being her enemy seemed strangely terrifying. The woman's look was too alien.

"She has a tongue as sharp as dragonglass," Mance said, "Though we are not unfond of that here."

This seemed to offend Duquesne. "Her outburst is not excusable, but it is understandable. She has been through a lot. She believes that there is no chance of getting home, that she'll never be safe to live how she wants again, and that you're lying about the Isle of Faces."

"We are not lying about the Isle," Dalla said, defensively, "It is well known among us, and we showed you the drawing in the book."

"A legend that none of you have seen," Duquesne said, "Normally, I wouldn't believe it either, but legends have a habit of walking around and killing people here. I have a duty to my country to report everything I had seen here. Not to mention I want to go home too. I have to ignore my doubts about the Isle."

"The only path to know the truth is the one that takes you south to the Isle," Mance said, "Let us speak of that. You claim to have a way through the Wall, but you need information from us. You cannot fight the Stark banners without us. We must be allies. You want to set terms, speak them and we will see if it is possible."

The Canadian pulled at his chin, hair growing up out of the skin that had been bald when last Dalla saw it. "My first request would be no stealing or killing, but to be honest, I don't think even you could convince your people to obey, or enforce it against those who wouldn't."

"Well, it is good to know you are not a fool," Mance began.

"I will impose it as a condition nonetheless," Duquesne said, "So it's known that those that disobey will face my warband. I'm sure it'll be ignored, but it gives me permission to chastise those who do."

"What else?" Dalla asked.

The Canadian paused, considering his words for a moment. "Until the people in the Gift hear that we're all coming south, we limit who gets through the Wall. I want to give the locals time to flee. So all able bodied men stay north of the Wall or on top of it, defending the crossing points from the wights. Women, children and livestock go south."

Dalla exhaled, not believing the Canadians could be so unwise. "Who shall defend them? The southrons, despite their words against us, are not above taking women or animals either. And who shall defend the ways through the Wall from the the lords of the south? This 'Laughing Tree' tribe?"

Duquesne reached for a bottle of metal from his side, drinking from it before answering. Delaying. "I don't think the southerners will harm women and children, except perhaps to make them kneel. Certainly, most will not be killed. So any of them we get south is a victory over the Others. As for who defends them, we can use the Thenns, Giantsbane, Dogshead and whoever else you trust. And spearwives. All of them, regardless of clan or tribe."

Dalla's eyes widened. There were many spearwives among the Free Folk.

"Another condition that will not be heeded," Mance said, "Once the Wall is seized, every clan will want to pass through it." From his tone, Dalla knew he didn't believe his words. He was testing the Canadian. Always testing. The price of the kingship, he told her, was checking every man or woman who came to him.

Duquesne clicked his tongue. "Oh, I think this will be quite enforceable. Anyone who disobeys would be a coward unwilling to protect their own women, and should be treated as such. There will be only four ways through the Wall and we'll fortify the gates on both sides, so we control access."

"The men will not be pleased," Val said.

The O'Neill shrugged. "I'm sure some will try and climb the damn thing, or take boats around it, but we have more people than the Crows do. We can patrol the Wall and the shoreline in greater numbers, from top and bottom. We'll need to do that to watch for wights and the Others anyway. Who's to say dead men can't climb or swim?"

"Aye, true enough," Mance said, "We must put the giants and their mammoths south as well, this I insist upon. The lords of Westeros do not fear women in battle, nor do we have the steel to teach them the folly of that. Stiffen the spearwives with giants, and neither Free Folk nor kneeler will think it a simple matter to sweep them aside."

Duquesne scratched his chin again. "Agreed," he said, "But we'll need more precautions than that. No Free Folk south of the Gift. Our war is with the Night's Watch, and the Gift doesn't belong to the lords south of it. I'm told it is largely empty anyway, and easily enough to support your numbers once you get your hunters and your herds into it."

"Agreed," Mance repeated, "We appear to have an accord."

The Canadian shook his head. "Not quite," he said, "One more thing must be done. We need to talk to the lords of the Seven Kingdoms. We can't defend the Wall without better weapons, supplies… We can use wights as proof of the true threat, but we need something to make them talk to us at all."

"Attacking the Wall is unlikely to put them in a talking mood, yes," Mance said, "I can tell you already have a notion of what to use. So full of ideas, you are."

Louis Sayer smirked. "We've got to be," the young man said, "We're in a fantasy tale."

Neither Dalla herself nor Mance nor Val fully understood what he meant by that, but Duquesne pressed on. "We've been informed that the daughter of a prominent Stark vassal was kidnapped some years ago and still lives."

Dalla's hand threw itself to her mouth before she could stop it. They know.

"I take it from that response, you know who we're talking about, your Majesty," Duquesne said to her, "Rowan Umber of Last Hearth. Your mother?"

Val sighed loudly. "You found Taryne," she said, "You must have."

Duquesne nodded. "She did say she knew you. A lady who gets her way often, I think. She's the leading clan mother among the Laughing Tree now, unless you want to count Zheng or Ygritte." Louis Sayer snorted his amusement at the last part, for reasons Dalla could well understand.

"She is no lady," Val replied, "She's a meddlesome witch, who sticks her nose where it does not belong."

"Every woman is a lady where I come from," Duquesne shrugged, exasperating Val into silence.

"Not every woman," Louis muttered loudly, before receiving a glare from his chief that made him chuckle nervously.

"It's still polite to call them ladies," Duquesne clarified, "Regardless, Rowan is our way in. The Umbers are the closest noble family to the Wall. If we hold a daughter of that family out in return for a parley, we've got a chance. We take the Wall, then we make an immediate move to negotiate with them. Maybe use those ravens the old maester is supposed to have to send messages, if we can take the man alive."

Dalla turned to Mance. Their agreement, the understanding they had come to when he had come to her village was about to be tested. She didn't doubt he would follow it… but she was not so stupid as to believe he could not lie either.

"Speak to my Queen and her sister," Mance said, following his word, "Where matters of Rowan Umber are concerned, I hold no sway. I made a promise I intend to keep." Both remaining Canadians seemed surprised at that, but it didn't matter.

Filled with the warmth that her trust in him was rewarded, Dalla kissed Mance on the cheek, getting a brush of the palm from his fingers in return. A warning to be careful. I'll reward him later, she promised herself, But Mother would not want him to hear this.

"Come, Val," she said, "Let us speak to our guests outside. I feel this is a conversation best had elsewhere."

The guardfires blazed in every direction, the fear of wights ever present in every part of the camp below. Darkness had not truly fallen, even though the sky was hidden behind clouds. Wind blew softly but constantly from the north, bringing cold but no snows… yet.

The Canadians had reunited outside, with Louis Sayer and Zheng returning to the See-Eff-Bee hall, leaving the O'Neill and Duquesne behind.

Dalla brought them back to the place she could see most of the camp, away from the tents of the chieftains allied most closely with Mance. Val joined them at a run just in time. "You want our mother," she said.

Duquesne's lips shifted for a moment, and the O'Neill's eyes laughed, the only part of his face visible under the strange hood that covered everything else.

"Not quite how I'd put it, but yes," Duquesne said.

"Then you need to know about her first," Dalla said, "And us."

Duquesne looked to the O'Neill, who shrugged. "We'll take your word on that."

He wants this over with. Good. "First, we are not nobles," Dalla said, "Our father was no kneeler and not of noble blood."

"Though he was a better man than any kneeler," Val asserted.

"The kneeler lords won't recognise us as nobles," Dalla continued, "We have no proof that our mother married our father, and nobility follows fathers not mothers. We're bastards, at best. What they call smallfolk at worst."

"I think 'wildling' is probably what they think of you at worst," the O'Neill replied, "But we get your point. If we show up with you two, the lords aren't going to care."

"We're … aware of the problem those in the south have with bastards," Duquesne added, "Taryne filled in a lot of the details."

Dalla nodded. At least that woman is good for something other than pestering us. "What you need to understand is our mother doesn't consider herself a noble either," she said, "Not any more."

Duquesne's brow rose in surprise. "May I ask why?"

"She was abandoned," Val said, poisonous as the wrong mushroom, "By our grandfather."

"Mors Umber is a powerful noble," Dalla said, "Castellan of Last Hearth, brother to the lord. He has men sworn to him, he knows how to move in winter for he lives close to the Wall, he knows the Free Folk way of war. Yet he did not force his brother to march to retrieve our mother."

"We asked Mance to find out if tried at all," Val added bitterly, "He did not go to the other lords for assistance. He did not go to the Starks to 'raise the banners'. He and his brother sent a message to the Night's Watch that they would be rewarded if she was found. They sent out rangers, but found nothing. They stopped searching after just one moon's turn."

"So she abandoned her heritage?" the O'Neill asked, "Seems a bit extreme? This is not an easy land to find anyone in, I'd bet. Hell, we lost the White Walkers in this forest."

"It did not happen immediately," Dalla replied, "She only truly renounced her old life when Val was born. She has told us both that it was a long path to embracing the Free Folk ways, but she is glad for it. Here, no clan or village is so weak as to be off their guard against men stealing daughters. No woman expected to meekly be stolen."

"It helps that our father was among the best of us," Val said, "He took our mother from the man who had taken her, from the village where she had been held captive. The raiders didn't stand a chance. Very few were ever stolen from our village while he lived, save those he approved of."

Duquesne frowned. "Stockholm Syndrome?" he asked the O'Neill in their own strange language.

The larger man gave a nod and a longer reply in the same language, before returning to the Common tongue. "Your mother stayed with your father? Wouldn't she want to go home?"

"By the time our father took her, our mother had been away almost two years," Dalla said, "Winter had come. Our father knew the clan that had taken her raided others nearby during winter to survive, leaving their victims to starve. So his and two others banded together to attack first. She stabbed two of the clansmen herself using the fight as a distraction… Even if she wished to go home, it would be impossible through the blizzards."

"She never talks about those two years," Val said, "Only that our father's clan were kind and welcomed her at once, and our father did not touch her until she had fully recovered."

A dark look flashed over Duquesne's eyes for the briefest second, sending a stomach-turning bolt of fear through Dalla, but the Canadian restrained it quickly. "So she became Free Folk…" he said, "I'm not sure how that's a problem for us. Your grandfather will still recognise her, right?"

Dalla smiled. She could imagine swords drawn and harsh words flying already. "Our mother is… difficult," she said, "Especially on the subject of the lords under the Starks. If our grandfather is present when you go to speak with the southerners, she will be useful. To any other lord, even younger Umbers, she will provide nothing but harsh words and hard questions."

"As will I," Val sniffed, gathering her furs closer to her. Dalla's heart twitched, knowing Val had taken more of what their mother had said to heart than she herself did… but she knew Val did not believe as their mother did either.

"Words that could destroy the chances of peace?" Duquesne asked.

"It could happen," Dalla conceded, "But you misunderstand me. You have gathered as many of the women taken in raids from the south and their children as you can…"

"Taryne did that," the O'Neill interrupted, "We merely provided assistance to civilians in need."

"It matters not," Dalla continued, "The kneeler lords care nothing for the 'smallfolk' you have assembled, according to my mother. They care little more for the return of a noblewoman now beyond their childbearing years. You must get my mother and her alone to her father, or a battle is inevitable. If you want to force a peace, you must find our grandfather. And you must do it quickly."

The O'Neill blew out a breath, smoke from under his mask blowing away in the breeze. "Jaysus Cry-sst," he said.

Another invocation to a god? Dalla wondered Do they have names for every god?

"Is that your condition?" Duquesne asked, "We go straight to Last Hearth?"

There is another path, Dalla's mind told her.

"Or Winterfell, once Castle Black has fallen," she replied, "My mother spoke well of them, on occasion. The Starks may give a care for the smallfolk, which would be to your advantage. But know this; there is trouble in the south. The Starks are assembling an army to march. Winterfell may be full of warriors, too many for you to handle."

Duquesne looked back at her tent, before levelling a stare at Dalla. "Was that Mance's plan?" he asked, "Get everyone south of the Wall, and then try to talk to the lord of Last Hearth? Or even the Starks?"

Dalla considered lying, as not even the other chieftains knew the answer, but saw no good in it. The Canadians trusting her, trusting Mance, would determine success or death.

"Aye, it was our plan," she said, "A great leap in the dark. Now, less of one, as you are not of the Free Folk, and so are more trustworthy to the southerners."

"And it is less an insult to the clan-chiefs," Val added, "Though not by much."

"I'm sure," Duquesne said flatly, "Two chieftains tried to kill me for talking to the Crows and another abandoned me at the first real opportunity. I can only imagine what they'd do to a King Beyond the Wall who negotiated."

"It was only one plan," Val objected, "We are not greenseers, able to see the past or future. We must be ready to take one of many possible paths."

"Why do I get the feeling some of the chiefs would not understand?" Duquesne replied.

"They wouldn't," Dalla said, "But fighting is where their minds go to first, the short road. 'Kill the kneeler and we'll be free to move south.' But sometimes the short road is not the safest."

"You can say that again," the O'Neill said, "If the lords of the Seven Kingdoms have weapons and armour like the Crows, fighting is going to be an absolute bitch with the ones you lot have. Not sure I like you using us as your pawns to get around that problem though."

"Pawns?" Dalla asked.

Duquesne gave a dismissive wave. "He means he doesn't like you using us to do your talking to the kneelers. Which I am inclined to agree with. We are not Free Folk, we cannot stand for you. But that's easily solved, you can send someone with us when we go."

He's right, Dalla thought, staring at the ground, It is easily solved. Mance can't go himself. I can't go either. We can't send a chieftain, but we need someone close. Someone who can control our mother, who will be firm and loyal to our way… She looked to Val.

"What?" her sister asked. Dalla tilted her head, as if to say 'you know what'.

The Canadians laughed. "I think you just got volunteered," Duquesne said to Val.

Sorry, sister.

Chapter Text

THE PRIVATE

"So you are one of the Canadians I have heard so much about? I am disappointed. You do not look particularly deadly. Though the red hood is sinister enough."

Louis regarded the woman with a frown he couldn't control. He was disappointed too. His expectations of what Rowan Umber would be like were shaped by her daughters; the commanding Dalla and the stunning Val. Their mother was tall, lean and had the same shape of the face and body build, and she had the same sort of red hair that Dalla did. But life north of the wall had not been kind otherwise. Her skin seemed hard, and wrinkles extended from the corners of her eyes but nowhere else.

Should've expected that, he thought to himself before responding, Anyone would age twice as fast in this place.

"I'm the deadliest and most sinister of us all," Louis joked back, "We've been ordered to escort you to the Canadian Forces Base at Gilly's Hall… You know it as Craster's but he's dead." He gestured to a number of Free Folk with him, young ones that would obey his orders without too much trouble. 'Being groomed for command' was how Sergeant O'Neill had put it, with a laugh and a slap on his back.

Lady Rowan gave a terse nod. "Aye, I had heard Craster was given what he deserved," she said, "Am I to meet the woman who did it? She at least should live up to her reputation."

Louis smiled. Zheng was going to enjoy this. "She'll be there," he assured his guest, "If you'll follow me please." The Free Folk fell in behind her, getting his hint.

"Don't have any choice," Lady Rowan replied, picking up her pack.

"The Queen commands, and we obey," Louis chanted, not sure if the lyrics translated properly, "Over the hills and far away."

His guest gave a roaring laugh at that, indicating her approval. "Aye, that's how it is, north or south of the Wall."

They moved towards the camp again, following the path Rowan and a small group of villagers had been walking before Louis and his squad had dropped out of cover. They soon ran into the first of the new inhabitants.

The giants strode out of the trees, giving friendly noises and gestures to Louis as they spotted him. He waved casually back to them and shouted hellos in their own tongue, before getting on with his task as they moved away to continue their own. Or he tried to. Lady Rowan had slowed down, as had some of his squad.

"Come on," Louis urged, "Don't have all day. It'll be dark soon." And everyone knows what comes out in the dark around here.

That snapped all of them out of their tardiness, but didn't stop their mouths running.

"You speak the Old Tongue?" Lady Rowan asked.

Louis could see that was a question the warriors following behind her also shared. "I can speak every language of Westeros," he replied, "Something I thank God for every day, or else we'd all be dead already."

"What god?"

"…That's a long story."

They continued on to the tent city that was the camp of the King Beyond the Wall, finding many of its tents being packed up and put onto sleds and carts. The plan was being put into action.

Louis knew the general details. Six Skins with the Ice River and cave dweller clans would go west to attack the Shadow Tower. The tribes gathered at Hardhome would round the wall at Eastwatch on boats. Mance would take almost everyone else to just north of Castle Black. The LT would lead the Thenns, Giantsbane's clans, the unicorn riders, the giants, some wargs and the Laughing Tree tribe to an abandoned castle of the Wall to breach it.

A plan involving people no one back home has never heard of before.

What Louis didn't understand was how all of this would be coordinated, and that bothered him. The LT hadn't told anyone and everyone knew better than to ask. His thoughts were occupied by this

"The plan shall not work," Lady Rowan said out of the blue.

It was Louis' turn to slow down. How did she know what I was thinking about? "What do you mean?"

"Your plan. Mance's plan. My father does not care for me. The northern lords will hate me for bearing the children of wildlings. I told King Mance this, I told my daughter this, they do not listen. Only my Val listens, but she loves her sister too much for sense."

Louis stopped entirely. "You don't know that you'll be rejected, maybe the lords will see sense, or your father will see himself in you. Your daughters are beautiful and wise too..." Feeling his cheeks burn red at that admission, he snapped his mouth shut, regretting it at once.

Lady Rowan barked a laugh. "An honest one, at least! But you're wrong boy. You'll see. The lords will regard me as a traitor for not trying to get home and for laying down with a wildling, no matter that he was a good man, a better man than all of them. Except perhaps the Starks, they have decent heads on their shoulders, though they were no aid to me either."

"But doesn't the Wall stop everyone getting home?" Louis asked. Including us.

"Aye, that it does. And it will matter not."

The hall was full of people when they arrived, but they all got out of the way when Louis told them to. Twenty or more chiefs sat shoulder to shoulder on the benches, their unique dresses more obvious with familiarity. The white wooden mask of the one called Morna, the walrus tusks of the Great Walrus who wasn't actually a walrus. Craster's former 'family' watched them all from the loft spaces, weapons near their hands.

At the end of the benches, Zheng was on her throne, dressed and armed for battle in every way except for her helmet and goggles. The others were too. The march was to begin after midday. Sitting opposite the LT and O'Neill, the King, Queen and Princess were smiling at something someone had said, as were the nearby chieftains.

They're in a good mood, Louis thought as he led Lady Rowan forward, They have hope. The negotiations on how things would play out had been heated, but now that a plan, any plan, to get past the Wall so quickly was in motion, the Free Folk saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

"We have more and more villages joining us every day…" the King grinned at the LT, "Word is spreading, and bringing us more animals, stores and seeds daily."

"Well, most important thing is we're denying the Walkers fresh bodies," the LT replied, before noticing Louis and his charge, "Ah, Sayer. You got here quickly."

Louis snapped off a salute to the officer before speaking. "Yessir. Lady Rowan walks fast."

A rumble of laughter went around the firepits. To them, Rowan was just some random village woman. It was amusing to them that she was some kind of noble to the 'kneelers', even if she was mother to women that were regarded almost as highly. Louis felt they were stupid in that, parents shape their children and deserve some dues when the children succeed. Maybe you just miss your own mother, he thought to himself, as Rowan stepped past him.

"Lady or not, here I am," she said, addressing the King, "As agreed. Though you said it would likely be next year you would need me."

"When I said that, we had not yet the strength to bypass the Wall with certainty," the King replied, "But now we do. I am not sorry I called you."

Lady Rowan shook her head. "Of course," she replied, "I doubt you have felt regret for anything in your life. Except spending so much time with the Crows, mayhaps."

The King did not react, though the Queen's face darkened with displeasure. Louis grimaced. Clearly there was some truth in what had been said, and Lady Dalla did not see it the same way as her mother. He inched away from Rowan. Too many eyes, too close.

The LT cleared his throat. "Argue about this another time. You know why you were called. You have agreed to it or you would not have come. Or did you hike it up here just to say no to our faces?"

"I'll do as I said I would," Lady Rowan stated, "I keep my promises." The words unlike some were left unspoken, but lingered in the air after the sentence regardless, so much so that Louis could practically read them in the air above her head.

The LT stared at her for a moment, considering a reprimand, before relenting and turning his attention back to the King. "We have everything we need to give this idea a chance. Now is our last opportunity to change our minds. Even if all your clans do not do what they say, my people and the tribes coming with me will be south of the Wall within days."

The Queen shook her head. "No, sooner is best," she said, "With all the villages near the Wall emptying, the Crows will know something is happening and we must move soon."

"All the game animals are swimming around the Wall," Val agreed, "The Others are chasing them out of the North. When the cold comes, we will have nothing to eat. We go now."

Mance leaned forward onto his knees, and warmed his hands against the fire. "My Queen and her sister speak true, Canadian. The chieftains and their clans, the giants and the gods all demand action. We go now."

The LT gave a loud sigh and stood to his feet. Sergeant O'Neill and Corporal Zheng followed him onto theirs, as he raised his voice. "Gilly! Could you join us here please?"

There was some commotion as the Free Folk girl clamoured down a ladder, the attention of every stare on her as she moved, all the way from the front of the hall to the back. She gave a small smile as she passed Louis, which he returned as she made it alongside Zheng.

"Gilly of the Hall," the LT said, "On behalf of her Majesty, Elizabeth the Second, Queen of Canada, I thank you for your hospitality and use of this place. I now return it to you and your family. We will always remember your friendship. Please accept this token of our thanks." He gestured to the Sergeant, who began rummaging under his armour.

Louis wondered why the LT had made such a grand declaration, until he saw the Free Folk glancing at each other with some trepidation. Gilly and her family are friends of Canada, so attacking them is attacking us.

The Sergeant finally produced a brick of Cadbury's chocolate, which Gilly received with wide eyes. She knew what it was and held it close.

"Don't eat that all at once," Louis advised with a wink, "We'll see you on the other side of the Wall."

"T-thank you," Gilly said, her voice wavering, "We'll go."

The LT gave an approving nod to Louis, before issuing the orders. "Sayer, climb to the roof and recover our colours," he said, "We're leaving."

"Yessir."

Day three of the march.

Louis found himself at the absolute rear with O'Neill and Ygritte once again. Their job was keeping the stragglers from falling behind, and drilling the new units of pikemen and pikewives, all of them young men and women of the Laughing Tree tribe. Their pikes were tipped with bone spikes and torches, not metal blades. The other unit was guarding the civilians.

The LT and Zheng were scouting ahead, hopping from hill to hill in the crawler with the unicorn riders, watching for Crows or wights and never going out sight of the column on foot.

Each of the tribes kept to their own, but followed the order of march that the LT had laid out; Giantsbane in front, then the giants themselves, the Thenns and lastly the Laughing Tree tribe.

It was like herding cats, Louis decided. Getting the Free Folk warriors to march continuously was easy, they were physically fit, all of them. But getting them to do it in a way that would make them difficult to attack was hard. At least according to O'Neill.

Add on the weight of the pikes and they were not happy marchers. Lots of huffing and puffing. Only the threat of Crow cavalry or an attack by wights in numbers prevented them from tossing the long spears down and shivving the Sergeant. Louis thought they already wished they hadn't left their parents, who were joining Mance's force instead.

"Ah shit!" O'Neill half-shouted, "Not again!"

Louis raised his rifle in the direction of O'Neill's sector, searching for a target, but found none. Instead, the Sergeant was wiping the bottom of his boot on a nearby log. "Ah, sorry Sayer," he said, "Fecking unicorn shit again."

"You shouldn't complain about unicorns," Ygritte intoned gravely, "They don't like it, more so that there aren't many of them left."

Louis smiled. "I think the Sergeant doesn't care what some horses think."

The spearwife cocked an eyebrow. "Unicorns aren't horses. They're cousins to aurochs, it's said. Their twisted horn is actually two horns weaved together, if you look close."

O'Neill grumbled and resumed the march at a faster pace to keep up with the column. "Ygritte, while that is very interesting information, I really don't want to smell unicorn shit ever again. Forgive me if I don't care if there aren't many left."

The spearwife scowled. "You know nothing. Those unicorns ahead of us? They're the last north of the Wall. I know not if there are more south of it, but raiders don't speak of them except on the isles of the Skagosi."

"Well, I'm a soldier not a fecking zoologist," O'Neill retorted, "Now shut yer gob."

Louis suppressed a snort. The Sergeant's Irish accent grew stronger as he got more annoyed.

"I'll shut mine when you shut yours, sir," Ygritte replied, "And what the bugger is a zu-ol-gist?"

The Sergeant rolled his eyes upwards to heaven, muttering to himself about not being an officer, insubordination and wondering what Duquesne saw in 'the eejit'. Ygritte heard him, but stayed quiet. A bad sign. Louis quickly joined her.

"Don't worry," he whispered, "He's not going to do anything to drive you away."

Her mouth untied, Ygritte smirked and punched Louis on the shoulder. "Aw, aren't you as sweet as summer honey. Trying to get under my furs, Louis Sayer?"

Embarrassed, Louis coughed and looked away, back towards the left of the ranger road where he was supposed to be keeping watch. "Just think you shouldn't worry about the LT is all."

She punched him again and began whistling a pretty tune. Some of the others ahead followed suit, the pace picking up as they marched along with it. By the time they stopped, even Louis had joined in.

"What was that?" O'Neill asked Ygritte when it was over with.

"Bold Bael," she replied, "About one of our kings, wandering the land. There's words to it, but everyone disagrees on what they are, but everyone knows the tune."

"Very nice," Louis said.

"Not very martial though," O'Neill said, "I've got a better song for this."

"Will the magic translate it?" Louis asked.

"We'll find out!" Ygritte said quickly, "Sing it, I want to hear a song from your land."

O'Neill let out a laugh. "This one is from where I was born, not Canada," he said, "But give this a try. It's called 'The Rising of the Moon'." He cleared his throat and began to sing in a thunderous tone and volume.

"And come tell me Sean O'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so
'Hush, mbuachaill, hush and listen,' and his cheeks were all aglow
'I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon!'"

"At the rising of the moon, at the rising of the moon
For the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon!"

The column slowed, heads turning to the rear to watch him.

"'And come tell me Sean O'Farrell, where the gathering is to be"
At the old spot by the river; quite well known to you and me'
'One more word for signal token; whistle out the marching tune'
With your pike upon your shoulder at the rising of the moon!"

"Out from many a mud wall cabin; eyes were watching through the night
Many a manly heart was beating for the blessed warning light
Murmurs rang along the valleys to the banshee's lonely croon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon!"

"All along that singing river that black mass of men was seen
High above their shining weapons flew their own beloved green
Death to every foe and traitor! Whistle out the marching tune
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom! 'tis the rising of the moon!"

By the time O'Neill finished, the Free Folk had stopped marching to listen, resting their pikes on the ground. From what Louis could hear, the lyrics were being discussed. "I guess that answers the question," he said, "The magic does translate songs."

The Sergeant frowned and turned to Ygritte for confirmation.

"Aye, I understood it," she said, "Some words were strangely used, but... It's a fine song. I like the last verse best."

The part about death to traitors and freedom, Louis thought to himself, Of course she likes that part.

"It shouldn't have worked," O'Neill stated with certainty, "Our languages should be too different. And why would you bother making a translation magic that does songs? Seems a bit much to me."

Louis gave a thumbs up. "At least we have alternative careers if the soldier thing doesn't work out. Wait until they hear It's a Long Way to Tipperary."

The Sergeant narrowed his eyes. "Don't think I'm going to be singing for my soup any time soon, Private," he replied, before he raised his voice once more, "Column, resume march!"

After the sun began to move towards the mountains in the west was the march interrupted again. Low, fluffy clouds gathered above, and snow dumped down.

"The wargs report enemies to the rear," the LT declared by radio, "Six hundred plus X-Rays. Could be wights. Sergeant, Giantsbane's forces are already at camp, and the Thenns are not far behind. You can't reach us before contact. Stand to and prepare to receive the enemy. I have sent a runner to turn the Thenns around."

Louis stopped and turned around in a snap, trying to see the enemy through the flurry of snow. He saw nothing.

The Sergeant roared at the column to halt before he replied to the LT. "Copy. When is the crawler's ETA?"

There was a pause.

"The fuel trailer fell sideways in a rut, it was hidden under the snow. We can't disconnect it at the angle it's sitting at, the connector pin is jammed. Your orders are to hold until the Thenns get there, and keep holding until we can make it out there on foot."

Louis saw the Sergeant clench his jaw ever so slightly at the news, and fear began creeping up his own back like a poison spider. O'Neill had come to a conclusion, and it was not a good one.

"Copy," O'Neill said, before turning to Ygritte, who was hovering nearby, "Wrap up for the cold; wights are coming. Form hedgehog and ignite weapons."

Ygritte, her eyes wide, immediately raised her voice and relayed the commands. Ryk, at the other end of the column, soon led the forward unit back to join them. Louis began putting on the layers of clothing again, just as the Sergeant had commanded, zipping up the camouflaged coat that had formerly belonged to Arran over the top of his red-grey Ranger one and dropping his snow-goggles over his eyes.

The Free Folk made a rough circle of warriors, around Louis, the Sergeant and the man holding their Laughing Tree banner, as they had been taught to do. The Sergeant grumbled at the speed and roughness of the formation coming together, but the warriors at least got the part about igniting their weapons right. The pikes came down, the torches attached to the ends were lit, and then they were raised again; ready to present a wall of fire and speartips to any wight that approached.

As they did, the snow cleared from the north, replaced by a cold wind. Wights walked the trail behind, hundreds of them a hundred metres away. "Just in time," Louis sighed, "We'll survive this."

"Don't think so, Private," O'Neill said quietly, "Look at the top of the hill behind. The one we walked around."

Louis looked. Four pairs of glowing blue eyes looked back at him, from atop white horses. Shit shit shit, he thought, White walkers, and four?!

"Yeah, I don't think six hundred was a good count," he said to O'Neill.

"No shit. Just our luck we put a warg on recon who can't count."

"What do we do?"

The Sergeant ignored Louis and reported the situation to the LT, but the answer was the same; hold out until reinforcements arrived. Running like hell to get a bigger group together was just too risky, according to the LT. Yet more wights appeared from around the hill; they were gathering now, not just running towards their prey. They have more control than I thought, Louis thought, stopping himself placing his finger on the trigger of his ranger-rifle.

O'Neill nudged him to get his attention. "Private, wake up. I asked you a question. Can you hit the White Walkers from here?"

Louis blinked, and looked back out towards the demons. He had to force himself to concentrate, like the things were trying to disrupt his thinking by some magic. You're just afraid, idiot. "Looks like 500 metres or so. I can hit one of them, no problem, but they'll just scatter and hide if they're smart."

O'Neill grit his teeth, something Louis could see only because the Sergeant's face was still uncovered so he could shout louder. The man's reply came in English next. "One isn't going to be good enough."

"No, it isn't," Louis agreed. The three remaining would easily command enough wights to kill the entire Laughing Tree tribe's fighting force.

"You'll need to get closer, Private. Much closer."

Louis felt the hair all over his body try to stand on end. "Sergeant?"

"You heard me, Private. If we don't disrupt their command and control of those dead men, we'll all be joining them. We will not hold out. The warriors here aren't soldiers yet, they'll crack. And if I leave, they'll crack even sooner. So it has to be you."

Frozen to the spot, Louis stared at the Sergeant. He knew what he was being ordered to do. The Sergeant sighed, and put his hand on his shoulder. "Leave by the back of the formation, get around them. Hit them hard." He produced the obsidian dagger from his pocket. "Take Ygritte, give her this, she'll watch your back."

The last part snapped Louis out of his statue moment. He took the dagger and glanced at it for a moment. "Ygritte? Why her?"

"Because she's the only person who's seen us stand up to a White Walker in person, so she'll not run at the sight of another one. You have your orders Private, move now!"

Unable to find an excuse to disagree or fault the O'Neill's logic, Louis gave his salute, his heart feeling like someone had clamped their fist around it. He turned and found Ygritte standing, barking orders at a group of warriors to stand closer together. He grabbed her and pulled her along.

"Let me go!" she shouted at him.

"We've got orders!" Louis shouted back.

"I don't understand what you're saying, you half-wit Canadian!"

Annoyed, Louis consciously turned on the magic translator again. "We're going to hunt the Walkers," he said, shoving the 'dragonglass' weapon into her hand, "Right now!"

Ygritte halted, not letting herself be pulled along any further. For a moment, Louis thought he would have to go alone, that she would refuse outright… but her eyes tracked towards his weapons, a second each on his ranger-rifle and the assault one that had belonged to Singh. That seemed to decide something for her, and she slapped his hand off her furs. "Aye," she said.

Whether it was the irrational annoyance at her refusal or her sudden confidence, Louis felt some of the burden release from his shoulders. Together, they shoved their way out of the circle. The warriors seemed confused, but the Sergeant's shouts and the threat of his weapon kept them in place. Ygritte seemed to know the area, and led the way up another hill to the side, which they could use to bypass the wights.

They were half way up the front slope, the snow making it difficult, when the wights charged, gargling and screeching. Whatever force had coordinated them to wait was released, and the attack came in blobs of running corpses.

Louis was suddenly glad he wasn't down with the others, as the things threw themselves on the pikes and turned themselves into un-living pyres on the torches. Tracers ripped through them here and there, burning a line through the massed bodies where they threatened to break the formation.

"…we are heavily engaged," O'Neill said over the comms, cracks from his rifle joining his voice on the line, "Where are the Thenns, sir?"

"En route," the LT replied, "The unicorn riders are mounting up to come to you. Stand to."

"Copy."

"Move, move!" Ygritte urged Louis, "If the Others notice us up here, they'll send wights!"

The trail led into the forest, Louis noticing Ygritte muttered to herself the whole way, her head moving side to side as she scanned every tree for the enemy. No wights popped out to ambush them, though it got darker with every passing minute.

Passing between the two hills was the most dangerous part, as stray wights still crawled or hobbled by towards the fight. Needing to distract himself from the danger just ahead, Louis decided to do something practical. He changed the magazines of his weapons as they waited for the way to clear; both rifles would now fire the tracer rounds that burned the undead and crippled White Walkers, exclusively.

"Ready?" he asked Ygritte.

"No," the spearwife admitted, "Wish Michael Duquesne and the others were here. Your crawler too."

"If only."

Every instinct telling him to run like hell away, Louis stepped out of the treeline and into the clearing between the two hills. The crunch of fur boots in the freshly frozen snow behind told him that Ygritte was following. They made it to cover on the other side, and began moving as quickly but quietly as possible towards their prey across the long rise.

The White Walkers came into view at about a hundred metres, their gazes still fixed on the fierce battle below, their ears still attuned to Sergeant O'Neill's shooting. The white horses they were sitting on were not actually white, but were dead and covered in frost, their own large eyes glowing the same blue as the human wights.

Cold sweat dampening the inner layer of his clothes, Louis' heart began pumping harder, so he felt it all over his body and loudly in his ears. Nausea swept over him, forcing him to bite it down as hard as he could. Not taking any chances, he selected his bolt action rifle for the job. They had only used the smaller calibre assault rifles against the demons before. Maybe the bigger bullets will do more damage, he hoped, Maybe the tracers will burn longer inside the things too.

"When I shoot, they're going to move back into the trees," he whispered to Ygritte, "We'll follow them, and hunt them down. We need to hit as many as we can, so their wights drop and stop killing our friends. If one gets close, you need to use the dagger. Got it?"

Ygritte raised the obsidian up to indicate agreement, but her hand shook as she did so. She'd do the job, but she wasn't happy about it.

With every second counting, Louis lay down and brought his bolt action ranger rifle to his cheek and aimed. His first target was the one that seemed to be the leader, the thing's position being a little further forward than the others, an ice-sword leaning against its shoulder where the rest had theirs sheathed.

The heartbeat in his ears got louder as he lay down and zeroed in on the target. His nausea threatened to rise up his throat. His mouth dried up. His legs threatened to shake. His bladder threatened to empty. It took everything he had to do his duty.

If I don't do this, I'm dead anyway, he kept repeating in his head, If I don't do this, I'm dead anyway.

"Sayer here," Louis reported by radio, not hearing his own words, "Commencing attack."

He squeezed the trigger, and his rifle thundered, recoiling back into his shoulder. The tracer bullet left the barrel and shot straight into the target, exactly where he wanted it. The back of the White Walker's neck shattered like glass, splinters flying off into the air. The weight of its head suddenly unsupported, it fell clean off the rest of the neck and down into the snow. The decapitated body fell the other way off the wighted horse, disintegrating as it did so.

Louis looked on in shock. The larger bullets hit them way harder, his mind told him, And taking their heads off kills them. The White Walkers were in shock too; their mouths had dropped open and they looked towards their leader's corpse as it shattered further into a pile of cracked ice. But it didn't take long for a guttural shout and a pointed finger to redirect their attention towards him.

The physical symptoms of fear edging towards overwhelming him, Louis worked the bolt of his rifle to chamber another bullet and took aim again. The Walkers kicked their horses into moving, into what he thought was a charge directly at him. Ygritte saying something in his ear, Louis shot again. This time the bullet went wide; his second target had veered off.

The other riders redirected their mounts in a sharp swing to the right too, into the trees. They know they can't win with a direct attack over open ground, Louis thought, But it's not over. A quick glance to the fight down the trail told all that needed to be; the wights were still fighting, their masters had not really run away. They had just changed tactics.

But it was also true that his ranger rifle was lethal to them, if Louis hit them in just the right spot; the neck, collar or lower jaw. And he knew he was good enough to make his mark. The heart beating in his ears was no longer a countdown to death, it was the beat of a war drum. The shaking of his limbs was replaced by a numb strength. The nausea left him. Without conscious thought, or so it seemed, Louis stood up again and ran into the trees to find the enemy.

It did not take long.

The Walkers came silently even at a gallop or a sprint, using the trees to cover their approach. Louis watched and waited. The battlefield could've been ripped from anywhere in Canada's northern forests, and that was where he was taught to shoot, move and fight.

The three demons had split up to split his fire.

The first tried to go wide, relying on the speed of its horse, a mount that did not need to breath and probably never tired. But the mount was also a big target and a wight at the same time. Louis aimed not at the rider but at the horse, sending a tracer buzzing through the air and into its frozen flesh at the neck.

Flame engulfed the dead animal's skin, burning and crackling as it released a foul smell and acrid smoke. The rider shook its shoulders wildly in pain, mouth pouring out a sound like an iceberg smashing into a rocky shore, steam pouring from every orifice and mixing with the smoke. The burning horse tumbled sideways and pinned its rider.

As the Walker attempted to pull its leg from under it, Louis sent the next bullet downrange at the stationary target, neatly decapitating it, its body melting rather than disintegrating.

Beginning to feel like he might survive, he cycled the weapon once more and sought the next demon to kill. His bravado was dampened when he began to feel the cold even through his coats. It's close. Fearing he might be ridden down, Louis pulled Ygritte quickly behind a log, his eyes moving everywhere to find the demon.

It soon revealed itself, its armour changing colour like a chameleon as it stepped around the nearest upright tree. The thing swung its icy sword at Ygritte, the nearest of them to it, but it had emerged too early. Rolling out of the way, she brandished her dagger and jumped out of reach. Louis watched in horror as the Walker moved towards her, always keeping her between it and him. She swiped left and right, causing it to flinch, while the sword made passes to catch her, unsuccessfully.

The dragonglass. It fears the obsidian more than my rifle. Knowing he could exploit this, Louis waited until Ygritte bounced out of his line of fire.

It wasn't easy, because Ygritte wanted the kill herself. As the Walker brought down his sword in a stroke that would've cut the spearwife in two, Louis finally banished the cold with a bullet that entered the creature's collar. The base of its neck shattered at once, causing neck and head both to snap clear off the body to the frost on the ground. Ygritte jumped on the thing as it fell to the ground, bringing the dragonglass into the dying demon again and again for good measure, her gloves covered in the frost of the last of its magic.

Another one bites the dust, Louis' mind laughed, stupidly. It didn't laugh when the tree trunk he was beside shuddered with an impact; a glowing arrow of magic ice sticking out of it. Ygritte and Louis dove to the snow, just in time to avoid another shaft that flew through where she had been perched on the chunks of ice that had previously been a demon.

Peeking around the wood, Louis could see that the last White Walker had a bow. It was made of white weirwood, bleeding red sap all over the creature's hands, like the touch of the demon hurt the living being it was made from. Instead of drawing arrows from a bag or quiver, the thing summoned them from the ice and snow around it in a flurry of could only be magic.

A fever committing him to the fight against all rationality, Louis was not impressed with the magical display. He crawled around the tree trunk, presenting the smallest possible target profile as he had been trained to do. He lay his rifle's sights over the target once again. He knew if he did not hurry, it would be too late. Not looking impressed either, the demon drew back the bowstring to loose.

They shot at one another simultaneously.

The rifle struck faster than the bow did, the velocity of its projectile far greater. Whether the zero of the rifle's scope had been affected by the fall to the ground or if the rush to get a shot off resulted in a poor aim, it didn't matter. The bullet went low, shattering the demon's arm at the elbow, steam bursting from the cracks in its ice-skin at the entry wound.

The arrow's reply arrived late but still struck hard. Louis could do nothing but watch the last half-second of its flight as it came closer and closer. It struck him in the face. His vision in his left eye went red for a tiny moment and then black, as pain screamed along the side of his cheek and around his eye socket.

Words flooding into his ear over the comms meant nothing to him. Terror crushed every scrap of will Louis had left to fight, he curled up in pain and reached for the wound, while Ygritte grabbed him, shouting and trying to see for herself. Their gloved hands interfered with one another for what seemed like an age to Louis.

Eventually, he found no arrow-shaft sticking out of his head. The pain throbbed on, but subsided a little at his touch. He discovered his eye still intact, but had to blink away the blood, though his vision remained red with it. Thank you, God, he prayed, Thank you. His panic stopped abruptly, and he felt foolish for having fallen to it so far. The arrow had glanced off his cheekbone, the blades of its head cutting his skin deeply before it passed by him. The Walker shot before he could be sure of the kill too, he realised.

Louis' hearing returned too, and Ygritte's shouts were intelligible to him once more. "Wights! Wights are coming!"

The logical part of his brain clicked on again, and informed him that his own attack had been far from lethal. The creature was still commanding its wights, so the tracer had passed through the Walker's body entirely. That needed seeing to.

The will to seek the enemy flared up again and burned hotter than before, forcing Louis' jaw closed so tight it hurt as he recovered his weapon and stood up. "Follow me," he growled through his teeth at an astonished Ygritte, stepping on the tree and hopping forward towards the demon. He did not even look for the coming wights, though he could hear their movement like a wind over grass.

By the time Louis could see the Walker again, it had picked up its shattered arm and looked like it was attempting to re-attach it. Not about to let that happen, he cycled the bolt of his weapon once more and shot the thing's leg off, sending a shower of flying ice scattering all around. The demon sprawled on the ground, still clutching its detached arm. Steam poured from its lower wound, its glowing eyes rolling up into its head in pain. From behind, a loud and brief rumbling told that the wights under its command felt the pain too.

Triumphant, Louis approached at a run, sliding to a halt on the snow beside it and lowering the barrel of its weapon at its head. Light glowed and water bubbled off the thing's leg wound, where the tracer round had deposited its magnesium. Its glowing blue irises returned and looked up at him, defiant. Louis' teeth almost chattered from the anger rising from his throat. You don't even acknowledge you're beaten, do you? Do you?!

"I don't know if you can understand me, but listen up. I'm Louis Sayer, a Métis of Yellowknife, a Canadian Ranger. That's who killed you, you icy fuck. Tell your friends when you get back to Hell."

The demon spoke in reply, pushing itself up to a sitting position and giving off sounds like someone crushing ice cubes. Louis delivered his retort from the muzzle of his rifle. In a flash, the bullet cored out the middle of the thing's head. Whatever magic held it together was dispelled. Its body, remaining limbs, its strange armour and its weapon broke in a spider's web of cracks.

It grew quiet. Very quiet. With only his heartbeat and breathing audible, Louis looked this way and that, searching for wights or a White Walker coming to seek revenge. Taking his lead, Ygritte did the same. They saw nothing. The piles of long dead men, women and children about fifty yards away remained still, the wights no longer under the spell of the demon.

That hit Louis like a kick to the chest. All of his energy drained from him, his rifle feeling twice as heavy as it did before. Slowly, he slumped first to his ass and then onto his back, staring up at the darkening clouds above and breathing deeply. It's over, it's finally over. I won. How did I win?

"What's wrong?" Ygritte said, kneeling down beside him, "Did it hit you somewhere? Is your head swimming about like a fish?" She peered into his eyes and patted down his body, looking for another wound until he brushed her hands away.

"I'm okay. Fear really is the mind killer, is all."

"Wha-?"

"The little death that brings total obliteration."

"Oh gods, you've lost your mind."

Louis laughed and then coughed, forcing him to pull his canteen flask from under his coats to his mouth. The drink of water tasted like the best thing that had ever passed his lips in his short life. He poured some more over his wound and the eye nearby to wash it. "Of course I've lost my mind, I've been kidnapped from my home by magic and forced to fight demons. It's the end of the world, baby."

Ygritte pulled down her face covering, revealing a frown. Louis laughed again, and waved it off. "Never mind. Help me up." He offered his arm to her, and she pulled, eventually getting him upright again. He wobbled for a moment, but stayed on his feet. His fingers went to his radio.

"Sergeant, this is Sayer," he said, "Enemy eliminated, returning to your position."

Chapter Text

THE NIGHTFORT

While the sun was up, the Wall almost completely consumed attention when viewed from close by, reaching up to the sky to the point that it hurt to look higher. It crept into peripheral vision when looking in most other directions. Even when looking the opposite direction, it gave the feeling like something was looming just behind the viewer. The tall trees seemed to lean away from it.

Impenetrable, Michael decided was the one word to describe it, Something so large it can't be gotten through by force. A description he would test soon.

The column of warriors under Michael's command had recovered from the attack for a day, tending to the wounded as best as could be done, burning their dead and decapitating the wights' bodies. Such a delay was accounted for in his plan with Mance, though the people he had been expecting to fight were other Free Folk, or even the Thenns, not the Others.

They finally arrived at the 'safe distance' position from the gate of the Wall they intended to assault, the one leading to the former headquarters of the Crows; the Nightfort. It was the only uninhabited castle along the Wall that Mance knew had a tunnel entrance that led through stone rather than ice, and it was also the largest castle. Exactly what Michael needed, both for getting through and establishing some sort of defence afterwards. All that was required now was the signal that the diversionary attacks elsewhere had begun.

Off in the distance, the portculis gate was just barely recognisable under the encrusted ice around it, the metal frozen deeply up against the Wall, the mechanisms to raise it long gone. Michael raised his binoculars to examine the tunnel entrance more closely, and not for the first time. It seemed large enough for the crawler easily, to say nothing of giants and mammoths. That was the good news. The bad news was that the outer layer was not made of stones frozen together, but of solid ice. If it wasn't for the frozen portcullis, you'd never know there was a tunnel there at all.

A deep thudding announced the arrival of a particular chief; Mag the Mighty, chief of the Giants.

Despite his name, he was shorter than the one called Wun Wun that had been in charge of the group of giants at the Fist of the First Men. He was also clearly older, his fur grey and white. Michael shifted his weight, leaning away from the sasquatch. He still wasn't used to them, not like O'Neill and Sayer were. To him, they all looked like Bigfoot, and that fact made him uncomfortable about what he thought he knew about reality on Earth.

"Good morning," Michael said to him, the words changing to the Old Tongue.

Mag gave a single belching laugh. "Not sure if good yet. Only good if we go through today, Canuck."

Michael grinned back. "For your information, the Calgary Flames are my team," he said to the giant, "But don't tell Zheng. She's from Vancouver." At least there aren't any Oilers fans here, he thought cheerfully.

Mag the Mighty gave a mighty glare, the translation magic not allowing for a proper explanation of North America's ice hockey's teams. Yet it translates songs properly, Michael thought, Whoever made the rules of this magic needs to re-prioritise.

"What do you mean, 'Flames are my team'?" said another voice, "Is that how you will break into the tunnel? Flames?"

Resisting the urge to flinch, Michael found the Magnar of the Thenns had also arrived with the giant. The man stood, looking up at the Wall, it only having been a few days since he first laid eyes on it himself. Magnar Styr was pretty hard to miss, being tall, lean, bald and earless. Yet somehow, Michael hadn't noticed the man's presence at all, not with the sasquatch as a greater distraction.

Styr's arrival with Mag was not surprising as a matter of principle though. The Thenns were the only major tribe other than the Giants for whom the Old Tongue was the language of their birth. Common was the the most spoken language in the lands beyond the Wall, though there were others.

Which tells you how many women they took from the South, Michael thought darkly, Children learn language from their mothers as well as their fathers. He had discovered that most Free Folk spoke the Old Tongue to some degree, but the Thenns held most of them in disdain regardless, not unlike the lords of the Seven Kingdoms did.

Which might have been a problem on this march, but they respected Tormund Giantsbane, the man having commanded one of the wings of the army that had smashed the Thenns three times and into compliance with the King Beyond the Wall. They were also curious enough about unicorns to play nice with the tribe that rode them. Nor were they stupid enough to challenge the Laughing Tree tribe with any Canadian around to see it. So inter-tribal relations within Michael's assault force were pretty good. For the moment.

"We'll be using something with a little more strength than flame," Michael replied to Styr's questions, "The Calgary Flames… I was referring to was a sports team. Ice hockey. Competition between tribes… I'll explain some other time."

The Magnar's mouth thinned to a line and he nodded, taking that as a rock-solid promise. The Thenns were funny about promises. On the march, O'Neill had promised one Thenn to let the man try coffee sometime. Said Thenn reported to the Sergeant daily to ask if it was coffee day.

Recalling O'Neill's annoyance, Michael exhaled an amused breath out his nose, before pointing at the tunnel entrance. "That should be big enough for all of us," he said to the two chieftains, "We're keeping a watch for Crow patrols, and we're ready to move the second Mance sends the signal."

"Good," Styr said, "I like not that we have to stay here with such a small number of warriors. The Others may return."

Seeing Sayer approach with Zheng, Michael turned to the Magnar. "I don't think the White Walkers will bother us again," he said, "Not until they gather a much larger force against us."

"Every dead man is theirs, Canadian," Styr stated, "You would do well to restrain your confidence."

"Soon we'll have that wall between us and the dead," Zheng chipped in as she and Sayer arrived, "I'd say our confidence levels are correct."

The Magnar couldn't deny that, and his mouth curled to show he didn't like it. The Free Folk and Thenns alike had been utterly buoyant after the attack of the dead was repulsed, despite their casualties. The Magnar was just thinking longer term.

Need to do something with the Thenns after we've won this, Michael noted, the tribe's aggression a possible problem for the peace he wanted to craft.

With no solution immediately coming to mind, he looked to Sayer. The Private's face had been sliced badly, a line of black stitches running in a crescent from just below his eye to his ear. Seeing that, Styr made a gesture of greeting to his chest, almost bowing to the Private. "Otherbane," he said, "Well met. I hope to destroy our enemies alongside you soon."

Sayer blinked, bewildered for a moment. "Sounds like we're going to get the opportunity," he grinned, "Try to keep up, when the time comes." Recovered well there, Michael thought with amusement.

The Magnar grinned back, and Mag the Mighty laughed mightily, sounding like he was burping the alphabet. Zheng rolled her eyes, muttering about Sayer's mouth writing cheques his ass won't be able to cash.

Michael was glad that the young man was getting credit from all quarters. O'Neill had sent Sayer on what probably seemed like a suicide mission, and Ygritte along with him. When they had come back, the spearwife had been the one to spread the word of the engagement, making them both sound like heroes of legend. Sayer's own report was far more honest, and contained more useful military information.

Michael's favourite part was hearing that the bullets of the bolt action rifle were at least somewhat lethal to the White Walkers, particularly as the machinegun used the same bullets. O'Neill asserted that he'd be shocked if the Others ever let them get close enough for accurate fire like that again, and Michael was inclined to agree. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

"How's the wound, Private?" he asked, pointing at his cheek.

"Itches, sir," Sayer replied, scratching at his own.

"Here to report a Crow sighting? Or some problem with the crawler?"

"…No, sir."

"Then what?"

"About the spearwives, sir…" The Private scratched the back of his neck and blushed deeply.

Zheng snorted, giving away the game. It was about how the women trying to steal him. Sayer's defeat of the White Walkers had made him the most attractive man alive to the entire female section of the Free Folk contingent. It was the one downside to being credited with multiple Walkers KIA. Once the Wall was breached, Michael thought it might take actual gunfire to stop the romantic and sexual advances.

Hasn't turned Ygritte's head though.

A sinking feeling coming over him, Michael suddenly wished O'Neill was there. Lecturing the Private on fraternisation wasn't something he was prepared to do given what the Sergeant repeatedly called 'The Ygritte Situation'.

The Situation herself saved his bacon. Ygritte ran from the camp behind, shouting and running at a sprint over the light dusting of snow, weaving through trees. Her arm was raised up as a perch for the large white owl clutching to it, clearly a warged creature. In her free hand was a piece of paper; word from Mance.

Messages by owl. What next, a wizard school? Michael banished that thought before it became reality. Things were weird enough.

"It's time!" Ygritte shouted as she approached, "Look!" She half threw the message at Michael. He caught it with a swipe and opened it between his fingers. The writing was in a script that was similar in look to Nordic or Celtic runes. Michael gave the spearwife a blank look. He couldn't read it.

Ygritte understood at once, rolled her eyes and took the message back to read aloud. "It's Old Tongue. Ice River clans attacking Shadow Tower tomorrow, Dogshead climbing Wall east of Castle Black, Antler river clans will attack Eastwatch by the Sea in three days, bonfires set at Nine Weirwoods. We're ready. Do what you will. All those living beyond the Wall depend on it."

Michael paused, considering the words. The delay to the attack on Eastwatch wasn't good news. It meant the clans along the Antler River had not mustered quickly enough, which likely meant the forces from that castle would have been free to reinforce Castle Black before the threat to Eastwatch itself became apparent. It wasn't a problem for Plan A, but it would make Plans B and C far more bloody.

"Are you just going to stand there?" Styr growled, "You read Mance's words. Breach the Wall. You said you were prepared."

Michael ignored him and turned to the owl. "Tell Mance we started at once."

The owl hooted, its eyes losing focus for a moment before the bird flew off, released from its warging. Only after watching the now-free animal flap onto a branch of a nearby tree did Michael return his attention to the chiefs.

"Tell Giantsbane and Ryk to prepare the work crews. Until we give the signal, you must keep everyone at camp from getting closer than this position. Mag, that means you as well. Any that get any closer may be killed by our tools. What we are doing is extremely dangerous. And we will have to do it many times before we are through."

Styr and Mag glanced at each other in a strangely human motion for a sasquatch and a supposed god-among-men, but accepted the duty without dispute. And a good thing too. Michael could already see the camp stirring. Everyone knew what was about to happen.

"O'Neill, we've gotten word. Break out the first charge and meet us at the gate."

"Copy," the radio chirped back.

The process of cracking the Wall's defences began with the gas torch usually used to warm up the engine of the crawler. It was not unlike a blowtorch, just not as powerful, and it didn't need to be. All that was required of it was to melt the ice around some sections of the frozen portcullis gate.

Michael let Ygritte use the tool, as she had tagged along without a word and her inquiries about how the tunnel was going to be opened were distracting. She guessed the obvious quickly; namely that the torch was not the way he planned to break the stone and ice.

But she also understood the activity was related, and sung to herself as she melted a large hole between the metal bars. Michael pretended not to listen. Her singing voice is lovely.

"How many charges will we need?" Sayer asked out of the blue.

"We won't know for sure," Michael replied, "The first is going to be the largest, because the rest should have the ice and stone of the Wall itself to funnel the force in the directions we want. But even if we don't have enough, we'll be able to clear the remainder with tools quickly."

"Are you going to explain what a 'charge' is, Michael Duquesne?" Ygritte remarked.

"The description wouldn't do it justice," O'Neill replied, "Keep melting. You'll see what we mean with your own eyes."

Zheng spat to the side, ejecting something from her mouth. "Gah! All the meat here is half bone!," she proclaimed, before she returned to the topic at hand, "I still say it's a waste of our C4. We should've just swam the crawler around the Wall at Eastwatch on a calm day."

The Sergeant clicked his tongue. "It's a big snowmobile, Corporal," he retorted, "Not a fucking boat."

The Corporal levelled her near-black eyes at the Sergeant, sending the message Of course I know it isn't a fucking boat. The Sergeant glared back, and won the contest when she looked away, watching what Ygritte was doing as she was supposed to.

Michael had taken the decision himself, but hadn't explained the reasons. Feeling the need to now, he spoke into the awkward silence that began to brew. "Going via Eastwatch would mean contesting an entire castle openly, a castle that's much further away than this one. Sure, we'd save the C4, but we'd waste far more bullets and fuel. I don't want to walk to Winterfell. I don't want to be caught later with no bullets."

"There are castles south of the Wall," Zheng said, "Halfhand said so. Might be useful to have C4 to crack them open. Sir."

"Why would we want to crack open a castle?" O'Neill asked, "We're going to an island, Corporal, not a castle."

"An island where some book says there's magic leprechaun people," Zheng grumbled, "With respect, we have all lost our minds if we think the answer is really there."

Then I've lost my mind, Michael's mind urged him to say, but he stopped himself. Let's not undermine the chain of command by admitting it's that big of a long shot. Canada and the world, their world, needed to know about everything he had seen. And he had people he wanted to see again in his lifetime. So, he remained quiet.

"The Isle of Faces is real," Ygritte insisted, "It's known as a place of power and hidden knowledge. Tales of it have been passed down."

"Have you visited it yourself?" Zheng countered, "Do you know anyone who has? Or even anyone whose grandfather dropped by it?"

Ygritte stopped melting the ice and puffed up, ready to explode at the Corporal. Zheng was equally pissed, her hands tightening around her carbine as her eyes glanced at the torch.

With the mood was moving in an insubordinate and violent direction, Michael stepped between them. He needed all concerned to be focused on the tasks at hand; take the Wall, get to Winterfell, get the Starks to help with the Others, get to the Isle to figure out how to go home. "That's enough. See to the business in front of us. Worry about everything else later, when we're not about to breach an enemy fortress. Is that clear?"

"As crystal, sir," Zheng replied blankly. Though still wanting to say something, Ygritte returned to her work, to Michael's relief. There is a God, he decided. "Good, now shut up. That's an order."

"We're almost ready here, sir," O'Neill reported as he glanced over Ygritte's shoulder, "I'd say we're good to go, actually."

Michael looked at the cavity in the ice. It was behind the two thickest metal bars on the portcullis. This will reflect the explosive force back towards the tunnel and tear off the rest of the gate. I hope. He nodded and held his hand out for O'Neill to give him the required items.

First he tucked the bricks of explosive putty itself in behind the metal and arranged it in a rough cone in the hole. Second, the remote detonator was placed in the putty after some fiddling with the caps and his multi-tool. Finally, he armed the remote receiver.

There was now enough explosives ready to go that they could've atomised him if they had blown at that moment. Satisfied it would at least make a dent, he backed off a step and looked to the others. "Let's move out," he declared, "Not sure what the cold will do to the batteries, or if the meltwater from above will come in and screw up the whole thing."

Every Canadian present knew what he meant, and knew what sort of power they were dealing with, and moved off immediately. Michael was about to join them, but Ygritte fiddled with her weirwood longbow for a moment, the newly liberated one from the broken hands of a White Walker. "Is that it?" she asked, "Are those box things going to melt the ice?"

Michael smiled, and pulled her sleeve to get her moving quicker. "Something like that."

It took some time to get back to what O'Neill and Michael both agreed was a safe distance. The camp was deliberately placed in a drop in the ground, and wasn't directly opposite the tunnel either. Not that it matters, Michael thought to himself as he saw the crowds, Every single person is at the ridge-line to watch the fireworks. And they don't even know what fireworks are. There wasn't a soul left in the camp, where it was truly safe.

Michael knew he could do nothing about it despite the danger. The Wall was a thing of hatred for all Free Folk who lived near it, and the Thenns had heard of it at the very least. He had declared he'd break through it. The how was a matter of great curiosity. Strangely looking forward to indulging the curiosity, he joined the others in greeting Tormund, Styr, Mag, Ryk and the chief of the unicorn riders, a small man called Fallon.

"Welcome back, Lord Duquesne," Tormund thundered in greeting. He wore a large, toothy and genuine smile over his beard, but his clenched fists told that he was also impatient.

Michael deliberately slowed his steps, not about to be rushed. "Actually, I'd prefer if you referred to me as Prince from now on."

Ygritte snickered, punching him on the arm gently. She knew what he was talking about. All part of the plan.

Tormund did not understand. "What?" the chief of Ruddy Hall grumbled.

"I did say I wasn't a lord, remember?"

"But that doesn't mean yer…"

"Fire in the hole!" Michael held up the radio trigger for the explosives, and squeezed it.

In a flash of light and a bubble of super-heated steam, the ice and metal portcullis of the Nightfort screamed to flying pieces. The debris cut through the air in a wide semicircle, shards of iron stabbing into the snow, dirt and trees at every angle. Michael brought up his binoculars to observe the tunnel entrance, and as the steam cleared quickly in the cold air, saw that the first detonation had cut through to the packed stones inside it. Gotcha, he thought in triumph, as an eerie quiet descended around him.

He looked to see what everyone else was doing, and found them looking up near the top of the Wall. Quickly, Michael tracked where they were looking with his binos and found the reason. Deep cracks ran up the face of the structure, and ice was beginning to shift. Downwards.

"Oops," Zheng remarked out of the blue.

Michael watched with unease as gouges two metres deep from the tunnel entrance upwards carved away and fell. Each long chunk took a long time to fall, all seeming to originate from holes in the top of the Wall. His eyes tracked each of them, and other things falling too. He would've been relieved as he saw the ice did not fall in front of the tunnel itself directly, but rather to the sides… but the other things he saw falling were bodies. Bodies dressed in black cloaks.

No, no, no! He thought, There weren't supposed to be any Crows up there! Dead Crows meant there were probably living Crows somewhere nearby. And the Crows had ravens. The Nightfort was not so far from Castle Black that it couldn't be reinforced, and it would be a hell of a thing to get through the tunnel only to find its mouth heavily defended.

Michael opened his mouth to ask what the hell the pickets were smoking when they said there were no Night's Watchmen on the Wall.

But his words could not be heard over the sound of the mighty cheer that erupted the same moment they were spoken. The Free Folk shouted and roared, shook their fists in the air, hugged one another… some even began to cry. The great barrier between them and everything they ever wanted had been struck a blow unlike anything they had ever seen. The Giants and their mammoths stomped, hissed and growled, not liking the explosion at all. Even the Thenns were affected, struck dumb and still as statues, only their eyes moving, scanning every piece of damage and debris.

Michael tried to move and shout to get them to quiet down, but found himself entangled with Ygritte at once. She jumped and coiled her arms around his neck, covering his mouth with little kisses, her eyes wide with joy. He was tempted to give in to her at that moment, his worries melting away. "Gods…" she whispered in between the kisses.

Not liking the sound of that at all, he gingerly removed her from his face. "The gods have nothing to do with it," Michael said, trying to stop her, "And we're not through the Wall yet." She gave a single laugh, like it was a sure thing anyway, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Giving in, he let her do it for a moment. A long moment. Best get it out of her system. Or our system. Could be dead in a few days. She tasted like mint, somehow.

Thankfully, O'Neill and Tormund of all people began shouting at the top of their powerful voices, restoring order among the Free Folk. And reminding Michael where he was and what he was doing.

"Youse gobshites shut your holes! That's an order!"

"I don't think the Starks in Winterfell heard you! Quiet before I slap the jaws off your faces!"

Michael fully extracted himself from Ygritte's arms, though she grabbed his sleeve to slow him and followed as he made for Tormund. The chief was slapping some young members of his tribe upside their heads for being the last to be quiet, but noticed his arrival.

"Well, Canadian, you proved your word!" he declared, before raising his voice to the crowd, "Now it's our turn, go clear the ice from the tunnel entrance so we can see such a sight again!"

The Free Folk gave another cheer, more muted this time, before a great rush towards the Wall began. Men, women and children pretending to be one or the other made for the fallen debris to clear a path and pull as much stone from the entrance as they could. Satisfied with his handiwork, Tormund barked his har har har laugh for almost a full minute. "Well now, it is a thing of great luck that we did not face you in battle! I doubt I would have liked to be sent to the Moon in pieces."

"There were Crows falling from the Wall, Tormund," Michael said sternly, "We're screwed if any survived up there. And that's two mistakes the wargs have made now."

"Har! You didn't look closely enough then. And you do not know the tale of the Seventy-Nine Sentinels. A good story, and a true one it seems. Shows the Crows for the shits they really are. Though I was surprised to see them myself…"

Michael looked to Ygritte for an explanation, but she just shrugged.

"Tormund, what the actual hell are you talking about?"

"Follow me and find out." With that, the chief of Ruddy Hall wandered off in the direction of the Wall.

Michael instructed O'Neill to grab the next set of explosives, and walked after Tormund. Sayer, Ryk and Ygritte came with, and together they made their way into the debris field.

It wasn't long before the chief of Ruddy Hall found one of the dead Crows. Even as he approached, Michael could tell something was wrong. What parts of the skin he could see were yellowed, and it seemed to sag in defiance of gravity. Its pose was twisted. The clothes the body wore seemed tattered and more grey than black, and were also defying what gravity said they should be clinging to.

He's been frozen solid, Michael realised, And not recently.

Tormund kicked the body over, revealing the head under a black woollen scarf. The yellow and brown skin had stretched back and split, the skeletal face moulded into an eternal scream under a mop of rust-brown hair. What happened?!

"By the gods," Ryk complained, lip curling in disgust, "What is that, a mangled Crow?"

"Meet one of the sentinels," Tormund smirked, "Never thought to meet one myself… but it is proof of the power of your tools as much as anything else."

"Where did he come from?" Michael asked in disgust, trying to figure it out himself, "Do they put their most honoured dead in the Wall or something?"

Tormund grunted. "More like their most dishonoured dead. Mance told the story better than I will… but long ago, some Crows deserted south, led by some lordling who didn't want to be a Crow."

"Who would want that?" Ygritte smirked.

Tormund grunted agreement and continued. "The deserters flew down to the keep of the lordling's father to hide, but the father gave them up to their Lord Commander. As punishment, the Crows made holes in the Wall and buried them alive inside the ice, forcing them to stand guard forever."

And every Crow who ever served at the Nightfort would know, Michael thought, Know that they were stepping on the graves of the deserters. A very effective way to keep men in line. Barbaric, but effective.

"Kneelers," Ygritte muttered, hatred in her voice.

"Aye, they find interesting ways to punish every man who wants to be free," Tormund said, "It's said the lordling's father joined the Night's Watch in his later years to be with his son. I know not if it was an act of regret, but the story makes my blood burn."

Michael frowned. "Think if you gave up your son for Mance and you'll figure it out."

There was quiet and stillness from all for some time after that. Michael couldn't help but wonder what the deserters' last moments would've been like. It was only when Sayer raised his rifle towards the Wall, examining it through his scope, that broke that particular horror for him.

"The holes must've been weak points that the force of the C4 broke," the Private surmised, "The ice did peel off from the top, sir."

"It has been a long summer," Tormund added, "And there are not enough Crows to add ice where it has melted."

Michael shifted his weight, seeing an immediate problem. "We'll have to burn the bodies. We can't wait until they thaw to decapitate them, and I'd rather not have people hacking away at frozen corpses. We can't have dead men laying about on the ground for some White Walker to raise and attack us with. I doubt they need to wait for the bodies to thaw." Not when they're made of ice themselves.

"Aye," Ryk agreed, "I'll find some folks to see to it. I hope to never see a wight again in my life."

"You will see them, boy," Tormund growled, "And many of them. Thanks to these Canadians, you'll have the Wall between them and you for some time yet, at least. But do not doubt you will face them in battle again."

Ryk scowled, not liking the picture Tormund painted or being called a boy. For all intents and purposes, he was a chief now, after all. He left, moving towards some stragglers who had stayed back, to get a pyre detail together.

"I need to go set the next charge," Michael said, "With so many hands at work, clearing the rubble isn't going to be any problem."

"I'm coming too!" Ygritte declared cheerily, the spell of anger at the kneelers shattered, "Next time, I'll be the one to strike a blow to the Wall. Using that thing!" She pointed at Michael's waist.

"The trigger?"

"Aye."

"If you don't kiss me after. You're lucky the Sergeant didn't see you."

"No promises, Michael Duquesne. Watching that Wall fall made my heart race. And I like your fuzz." She quickly gave the side of his face a stroke, brushing her fingers across the short beard developing there. He hadn't shaved since the start of the march.

Of course she likes the beard, he thought wearily.

Explosion after explosion had boomed from the tunnel for hours, each one clearing away more and more iced rubble than the last. It also stripped the inside of the arches supposedly built to hold up the roof, revealing seamless black stone underneath. The tunnel utterly dark, the glittering ice nowhere to be seen within. And only the light provided by electric torches seemed sufficient for the work of clearing the rubble out of the way.

No wonder it is called the Nightfort, Michael thought the second time he entered the tunnel proper, Its foundations are made from a stone that sucks the light away. He guessed that later Crows had covered up the stuff due to their finding it just as disconcerting as he did. It seemed greasy or like glass, like 'dragonglass' even, but it was rough like rock to the touch.

The seventh detonation was the last, and Michael knew it beforehand.

Mance had provided a general idea of how thick the Wall was at both the base and the top, and Sayer had a laser rangefinder. The rest was simple mathematics. Lucky too. We only have enough C4 for one more try after this.

Michael. made preparations accordingly. The crawler gained a crude wooden moose bumper/bulldozer blade. The Thenns and his auxiliaries were made ready for battle and placed at either side of the mouth of the tunnel. But it would be Canadians going in first, just as night fell.

The last explosion's sound was different, more muted; its power finally released out of the other side of the tunnel. There was no time for relief or elation this time, for Thenn, Free Folk or Canuck.

"We're through," Michael stated to Zheng, as he climbed into the crawler, "Drive."

"Yes, sir," came the enthusiastic reply.

The engine roared as the Corporal swung the machine forward and into the gaping maw of the tunnel.

The world went entirely black for a few seconds, before the headlights lit up, illuminating the still icy ground and causing the black stone around them to glisten. The dying embers of the day's sun peeked out ahead and grew larger. The vehicle lurched as Zheng eased up on the pedal, just in time to lessen the impact of the rubble on the bumper, keeping the tracks of the crawler from climbing over it.

Michael stood up through the roof of the crawler to the machine gun, as planned. Yet no force of Stark men or Crows came jumping out to attack or fling arrows at him.

Just like that, he thought, We're through the Wall. The obstacle to all progress had fallen to their efforts in just a day. His throat tightened. From one perspective, it was anticlimactic. From another, it was just the start of a lot of hard work, hard fighting and no respite. All to get home.

Feelings that were not helped by what was actually there to greet them on the other end of the tunnel; a forested ruin.

The lights of the crawler shone across the buildings and towers of the Nightfort as Zheng pulled it around a Crazy Ivan. The structures were more or less heaps of stone, most having at least one wall down or no roof. Some looked damaged recently. The explosions. Probably the last one.

A stairway to the top of the Wall was cut directly into the ice, to Michael's surprise, a zig zag just barely visible in the last red light bouncing off the clouds above. It made him wonder how anyone could try to climb up it without slipping and sliding the whole way down.

In between the buildings and sometimes growing up out of them were trees, full grown and full of leaves. A massive weirwood dominated the space, sprung up from right in the middle of one of structures from an underground space.

Zheng brought the crawler to a halt beside the tunnel mouth. As soon as that had Michael led the way in dismounting again, establishing a post at the mouth of the tunnel. They doused the headlights and flipped down their goggles, the world turning a sickly green again. Seeing in the dark was one advantage he planned to exploit to the hilt.

The four of them began their watch on the ruins and the trees, waiting for the Free Folk to catch up through the tunnel. For a little while, it was just the locale and the wind, no matter which way Michael looked or pointed his rifle. If there's someone out there, they're being smart.

"Creepy," Sayer remarked over the radio, "Like we're being watched."

Zheng looked over at the Private. "Sayer, you killed four demons on your own," she replied flatly, "Anything watching should be afraid of you."

Laughter burst out of Michael, with O'Neill joining him. It was a true thing well said.

"Sayer the Slayer," O'Neill chuckled, "That's what they're calling him now." That set Zheng off, asking 'if he does vampires too'.

The Private seemed unamused, which made Michael feel a little guilty. After all, the fight against the Walkers was likely the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to the kid. Or to any soldier of Canada, given the metaphysical implications.

"Alright, ease off," he said after a while, "Sayer, it is creepy, I think so too."

"It's that fucking dark stone, sir," O'Neill said with a dismissive wave, "I'd bet a month's salary on it."

And I wouldn't take that bet, Michael thought, quietly.

"Or it's a ruined castle at night," Zheng added, loosening her outer coat with one hand while keeping her weapon up with the other, "It's warmer here too. Must be five degrees higher at least."

"The Wall's stopping some of the hot air coming up from the south I think," Michael guessed, "One more way it's screwing everyone who lives north of it, I suppose."

"Here they come," Sayer mumbled, looking back at the tunnel.

They meaning a full mass of Free Folk warriors, led by Ryk and Ygritte, fiery torches in one hand, weapons in the other. They were hurrying a little too much. It was hard to tell at first if it was fear of the black stone the explosions had revealed or eagerness to get through in the first place. But then Michael saw the greedy grins on all their faces. Good lord, it's going to be work keeping them from stealing anything that's not nailed down. Not that there's anything worth taking here.

The mass spread out in a crude line of battle once out of the tunnel, expecting some sort of attack. When none was apparent, Styr, his son Sigorn, Ryk and Ygritte broke out of the formation and wandered over.

"What now?" Ryk asked in Common, "Are there Crows up on top do you think?" The language gap was filled by Sigorn's muttered running translation for his father.

"That's what we'll find out," Michael said, "Ryk, you lead some people up those steps. Preferably with ice climbing shoes, the antler ones you showed me before. Go see what you can see, report back. See an enemy, light up the flare I gave you and wave it."

Ryk executed a salute, to Michael's amusement, before running off to grab some people to do as he was commanded. No doubt he'll have plenty of volunteers, Michael thought, Most of the Laughing Tree tribe have never been to the top of the Wall before.

Styr pointed at the larger ruined buildings with a bronze tipped spear. "The Thenns will search the hold. If there are Crows here, they are hiding. Mance said there are many tunnels. The power of your magicks has scared them beneath the ground." The man had said it as if he was the one giving the orders.

"As has our numbers," Sigorn added, his father approving the statement, "There can be no army of Andals here."

Andals? Michael had no idea what the man was talking about. "I want the Crows alive, Magnar. I want to know what they know. We still don't know how many Crows there really are."

"That isn't a request," O'Neill chimed in.

Jaw clenched, Styr inclined his head to acquiesce, before leaving with Sigorn. Reluctantly. Michael got the feeling that if anyone else had given the Magnar an order like that, he would've buried his spear in their gut. Including Mance, who would've got his way by persuasion, if he asked nicely. It's amazing what a little plastique can do to a guy's disposition, Michael thought darkly.

"He doesn't like you," Ygritte said, getting too close.

"Doesn't need to," Michael replied, taking a step away, "He respects me. Or my gun, at least."

"Fuck his opinion," O'Neill declared, "The baldy prick thinks entirely too much of himself, sir. The Earless God himself."

Ygritte snorted and waved the rest of the Laughing Tree tribe to join the Thenns in the search. Both were soon dividing up their force to search all the buildings, the traffic out of the tunnel cleared for everyone else still north of the Wall.

With the giants and unicorn riders coming next, some management would be required. Michael dispatched O'Neill and Sayer to aid with the securing of the place, while Zheng and Ygritte helped him with the other tribes. Soon the compound of the Nightfort was filled to the brim with giants and their mammoths, as well as foul-smelling unicorns and their riders.

Tormund and his Ruddy Hall tribe came last. His command of the rearguard had been the result of a lost bet on how many detonations it would take to get through the Wall. Somehow one of the unicorn rider chiefs got it absolutely correct after only the second detonation.

"Wallbreaker! At last!" Tormund bellowed as he exited, his torch guttering as he waved it, "Thought the shadows in there would never let me go."

Never getting rid of that nickname… "Well, that was the easy part," Michael said, "We've still got to storm Castle Black." He immediately regretted mentioning it.

"Aye, and it'd be a lot easier if you didn't insist on trying to save Crow lives," Tormund bitched, "Their kneeler ways won't let them accept us, why bother."

Beating a dead horse. "Some won't, the knights from way south," Michael agreed, "But they also happen to be the men who declared war on both of us after we showed them the wights. While their Lord Commander was injured. Which makes them traitors to all humanity, and even their own order maybe."

Tormund scratched his beard. "And we do know how to deal with traitors, north or south of the Wall. But let's not tread on that path again. It is tiresome."

Follow your own advice, Michael thought, more annoyed than he wanted to be. He was fatigued enough already.

"Aye, let's not," Ygritte agreed, "Crows don't deserve our mercy, but we'll follow where you lead, Michael Duquesne." She stepped closer again. Michael sighed. Shouldn't have let her kiss me. Shouldn't have enjoyed it.

"Many a Crow wants to fly free," Zheng remarked idly, "They're not all at the Wall out of choice. Hell, even the Stark kid was there because their society said he couldn't have a real future." Isn't that the damn truth.

The radio crackled, with Sayer's voice coming out, trying to report something. Michael strained to hear it. "One thing at a time," he said to the others nearby, before using the comms, "Sayer, repeat your last?"

"Something you have to see, LT," the Private stated, his signal much clearer all of a sudden, "In the kitchen, the one with the weirwood."

"Copy," Michael said, turning to the others, "Tormund, would you mind setting a guard on the tunnel? Zheng will stay at this end."

"Don't want anything else following us through," the Giantsbane said quietly, "It'll be done."

"Good. Ygritte, with me." No need to have her stir the pot with Tormund.

The spearwife double-taked but followed, and together, she and Michael went into the octagonal building that had blood red leaves blowing out of it. The inside was gutted, though you could tell it was a kitchen from its layout. However, in the middle was a large well, the type with steps you could use to get to the water.

Sayer climbed out of it, with some difficulty, and waved to them. "LT, you won't believe what we found," he said, "This way."

"You found something in a well?" Ygritte asked, while moving to it, "In the middle of this pile of stones?" Her impression of what a castle was supposed to be was greatly damaged, it seemed.

"Just follow," Sayer said to her.

Grumbling, Ygritte did just that. Michael pat her on the shoulder as consolation, and climbed down into the well himself. The way down wasn't long, and O'Neill stood there, looking at another passage leading off from the lowest step. Staring at what appeared to be nothing.

Disturbed, Michael took his weapon in hand.

The motion caught the Sergeant's attention at last. "No need for that, sir," he said, "I don't think it's a threat." He pointed.

At the end of a small but tall corridor, there was a face. A glowing, eight foot high face carved out of white weirwood; a face of an old man, wrinkles and all. It wasn't exactly terrifying, but Michael didn't take his hands off his weapon. "What the hell…"

"It gets worse, sir," O'Neill replied, "Go a little closer."

Michael eyed the Sergeant warily, but figured it wouldn't be lethal if O'Neill was the one suggesting it. He took a few steps forward. The face opened its eyes and its mouth.

"Who are you?" spoke a deep voice, which seemed to come not just from the face but from the walls around the corridor too.

More magic. Michael stopped, not wanting to get any closer. But he answered, almost automatically. "Michael Duquesne."

The face did not reply. It closed its eyes again.

"Did the same thing for us," O'Neill called.

Ygritte stepped forward, joining Michael. The face opened its eyes again, and repeated its question.

"Who are you?"

"Ygritte!" the spearwife declared.

Again, the eyes drooped closed. Michael got the picture.

"It's a door," he said, "Or a safe. It's looking for a password."

"Which we don't have," Sayer said.

"Exactly," Michael said, "Which makes it nothing we need to worry about right now. This place has been abandoned for a long time, and I doubt even the Crows know what the password is now. Let's get out of here."

"But…" Ygritte started.

"We've got a long march ahead," Michael said, walking away, "I have no intention of solving every magical mystery in Westeros."

Chapter Text

THE CROWNLESS

Roars of disagreement filled the common hall of Castle Black to the rafters, as worry about the wildling army exploded out of many a black brother as anger. For days, reports came in of the massive legion of the savages moving from Craster's Keep. This was accompanied soon after by sight of the marching columns and the growing camp starting at the nine weirwoods.

At night, a man atop the Wall could see how large the wildling population had grown by the size of the area lit by their camp and watch fires. And every man in Castle Black had found their way to the top of the Wall at night to look for themselves. The wildlings played every drum they had throughout the day, congregating just north west of the gate, their beats so loud it sometimes felt like the sky and the Wall itself shook.

Out of nowhere, not one but two real threats had emerged and even seven hundred feet of ice did not seem sufficient a defence.

The unforgettable sight and smell of the dead woman's body possessed by magic on his mind, Jon had barely enough time to say his vows at the weirwoods before the wildlings arrived. The opportunity had come abruptly. One day, the training and misery imposed by Ser Alliser had disappeared, and all under his tutelage were informed they were to be brothers of the Night's Watch. Jon was assigned to the Rangers and placed directly under the command of Qhorin Halfhand.

Ser Alliser was too busy to torment anyone now, but he had made sure to place Jon in the most dangerous place he could. He had been hailed as Mormont's saviour alongside Ser Rykker, but the knight got the credit for driving off Rattleshirt's band in a bold cavalry charge. The Old Bear remained barely conscious due to fevers from the arrow wound he had received, so it was Ser Alliser who many of the men looked to.

Despite him knowing the reason for his placement with the Rangers, Jon had been happy.

Aside from having wanted to be a Ranger all along, the reign of Acting Lord Commander Alliser Thorne, knight of the realm, was not proceeding well.

Ravens had been sent to Winterfell and King's Landing. With them went warnings about the wildlings, the wights, the wight walkers and their strange visitor-enemies from 'Ithaca', as well as a call for men and supplies. Jon had been allowed to send word to Robb too, but he was not free to relay the offer of Ulysses to speak peace. Ser Alliser saw to that.

The Iron Throne did not reply. Court was absorbed by whatever had caused Father to order Robb to call the banners in the first place. Trouble in the Riverlands, it was said, caused by none other than Catelyn Stark. Jon did not know what to make of that, the full details were only known to the officers of the Watch. But somehow he believed it.

But it was the Stark in Winterfell who was responsible for the noise now filling the hall. Robb, despite the order to prepare for war in the south, did send a raven back north. Sam Tarly had read it aloud for Maester Aemon as the man delivering wood for the fire was at the door.

News of what message the raven had brought spread like wildfire through the castle. Robb could not march his main force north to stop the wildlings. Lannister riders were burning and reaving the Riverlands like ironborn, the riverlords scattered in their wake. The Starks, allied by marriage to the Tullys, were preparing to move against the Lannisters.

Jon barely paid attention to the ruckus around him, still numb from the rumours. Any joy at his joining the Ranger was forgotten. His father was surrounded by enemies, his brother was marching to war… and he was stuck at the Wall, defending the realm from a threat that not even his family seemed to believe was real. How can I choose between helping family and fighting the evil stirring beyond the Wall? A Ranger cannot desert, but a Stark cannot abandon another. And Ulysses was right, I am my father's son, a Stark by blood if not by name… It was a question he had no answer to.

Only when Ser Alliser and the other officers walked in and took their place at the high table, followed by Donal Noye banging a hammer on its surface, was order restored. The brothers sat down, and waited for Maester Aemon to be seated too, assisted by Sam.

Ser Alliser rose from his seat again to address the men. Jon spared him only a glance, before leaning back on the table in front of him and looking up at the ceiling, thinking of his own problem and barely listening.

"There has been a lot of ignorant talk of ravens and messages in the castle of late. It has disturbed discipline, and those spreading it have done damage to the cause. But the Watch is no stranger to harsh truths, so I will tell the reality of the matter at hand."

Jon lurched away from the table and turned towards the officers. He hadn't expected Ser Alliser to say such a thing. Either it will really be the truth or it will be a colossal lie.

"Much of what is being said about events in King's Landing and the Riverlands seems to be true," Ser Alliser continued, "War is coming. It would not be a concern, we take no part, except that it comes at the worst possible time. Ravens to the capital have gone unanswered. It appears we will not receive help from there."

Murmurs echoed around the hall. Ignoring them, Ser Alliser pulled out a small scroll from under his cloak and held it above his head.

"However, we are not to be left to defend the Wall alone. Lord Robb Stark, despite preparing to march south, pledges ten thousand foot under Mors Umber and what supplies can be made available."

A cheer went up from the benches, loud enough to hurt the ears. Jon just frowned. Mors Umber, why is that familiar? Then he remembered. Brother of the Greatjon. The man's daughter had been kidnapped by the raiders from beyond the Wall. His stomach dropped. Robb sends a man who hates the wildlings with all his heart. He means to fight the wildlings, not agree to a peace for the sake of fighting the Others. The wight snarling in his memory, Jon cursed Ser Alliser to an ugly death. For his insults, arrogance and for refusing to allow the offer of peace from Ulysses of Ithaca to go into his message to Robb.

The knight continued his speech. "Unfortunately, it will take some time for the Stark men to arrive. We still face a dire menace. The King Beyond the Wall commands many savages, enough that our defences may be overwhelmed. We must buy time. We must discourage an attack on the Wall or the gate. To this end, I plan to ride out and raid their camp, leading every man who can ride a horse and swing a sword!"

A larger eruption of cheers answered that declaration. Jon looked around him, at the benches of men, thinking them mad. Even if the numbers of the wildlings did not tell its tale, even if surprise held and favoured the Watch… He had seen the weapons of the men of Ithaca tear what seemed like hundreds of men down. The mounted column would be torn to pieces.

This had been considered, it turned out. "We require more than valour," Ser Alliser growled, his, "Though the savages know not of steelmaking or a true cavalry, they have strange and powerful allies. However, Qhorin of the Shadow Tower has spent time among these 'men of Ithaca' as prisoner. The truth is they number only four. One is a woman!"

The hall was dead quiet now. Many had seen the wildlings cut down from a distance during the battle at the weirwoods, and heard the strange sound of the weapons of the Ithacans. Many had asked Jon about it, and he had told the tale, until the word came down from the Lord Commander's tower to say nothing more about it. Too late.

Ser Alliser's gaze swept the room, until it met Jon's own. The knight stared, as he explained the plan. "Tomorrow, we shall send out a ranging party, led by the Halfhand. They shall determine the whereabouts of these strangers within the wildling ca..."

A great roar of objection went up, half the Rangers present getting to their feet, waving their fists and shouting.

Jon's jaw set, pitying the men that would be sent. Even a child can see that going north of the Wall now in small numbers is a death sentence. Ser Alliser's glare soon moved elsewhere, relieving him of any need to hide his feelings on the matter for fear of being accused of some petty treason. "We must determine the location of the strangers, so we may avoid battle against the unknown magic until the Stark men arrive. The Rangers to carry out this task have already been selected, based on their own abilities."

As Ser Rykker began to read out names, Jon wondered if they'd begin to practice on horseback for the big raid. The scouting mission wasn't something he was experienced enough to be a part of, he was sure, but numbers would count when the riders went out to attack. He didn't know most of the other rangers well enough to care much either, save for Qhorin and Ser Rykker himself.

It was only when Grenn, Matthar and Pyp's names were called that he turned his head to watch the high table again. Just in time for Ser Rykker to call the last name.

"Jon Snow!"

Jon his stomach twist, which only got worse when Ser Alliser turned a gleeful, canine filled grin at him. "Aye, you too Lord Snow," the knight said, "You think you're better than most. You instructed your fellow recruits. Now you can prove yourself and your teachings against the wildlings, and without Ithacan magicks to help you."

The hall quieted, the black brothers looking between the knight and Jon, expecting a response. He's daring me to say something, Jon's mind raced as his mouth dried, He's daring me to do something that he can hang me for. And if I don't, he hopes the wildlings will kill me.

Maester Aemon cleared his throat loudly, breaking the attention of the hall. "I will give my report on the Lord Commander's health now," the maester said, "If you do not mind, First Ranger?"

Being passed over for Ser Rykker, Ser Alliser scowled at the blind maester, his taking-offence something that would have normally cheered Jon up. But the fog of dread about the ranging would not go away.

"Aye," Ser Rykker allowed, "Give your report."

The maester inclined his head once in acknowledgement, and spoke as loudly as he could. "Lord-Commander Mormont has begun to wake, eat at his own accord, and his fevers are on the wane. Though he will not be well enough for battle for moons yet, it seems we shall not require an election for a new commander any time soon."

The high table rattled as the officers slammed their fists and palms on its surface, a celebration that the rest of the hall took up. "No wildling arrow could fell the Old Bear!" came a shout from the back, followed by an "Aye!" from the entire hall.

Jon didn't stay to hear the rest. Before he could think, his body forced itself to its feet and moved him through the benches out of the hall, into the frozen snow drifts outside.

It was only when the cold hit his face and hands hard that he realised why he had to leave; the planned ranging was suicidal for new recruits that had just barely went beyond the Wall. If Jon knew scouting the wildling camp was suicide, Ser Alliser had to know it. It had to be stopped. He began to trudge towards the Lord Commander's tower. Mormont is awake, he can stop this madness.

Jon ignored the crunch of boots behind him, assuming it was Grenn or Pyp, trying to stop him from doing something stupid. A rough grab told that it wasn't one of his friends, and he turned about quickly, expecting Ser Alliser or one of his cronies.

Instead, Qhorin Halfhand stood with his fingers around Jon's forearm, his eyes giving a cool look. "Where do you think you're going, Snow?" the ranger said.

Jon shook his arm free, and found it released without trouble. "To see the Lord Commander," he said honestly, knowing he could not pass a lie, "To see this madness stopped."

The big ranger shook with laughter, to Jon's confusion. "What madness?" the Halfhand asked, "Ser Alliser's command of the Watch? Worry not about that. His rule will be short. Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower have no love for him. And Mance Rayder is no fool, and used to be a ranger himself, he knows the danger of caval..."

"It's not that," Jon interrupted, his throat feeling like it was burning with anger, "The ranging to find the Ithaca men. It's certain death with men so inexperienced. Ser Alliser put all the new ranger recruits under your command for it, and you allowed it?"

The Halfhand's eyes widened. He hadn't expected this. "Aye, I did. Ser Alliser insisted. For the moment, there's no saying no to the man."

"He's trying to get us killed," Jon continued, "I'm sure of it. He knows new recruits will not move quickly or quietly enough to escape notice by the wildings."

"I chose you for the ranging, Snow," the Halfhand replied, "Not Ser Alliser bloody Thorne."

Jon blinked. "What?"

"You're ready. I saw you move and fight when Rattleshirt's men were all around. No hesitation, but you didn't revel in it either. Exactly the sort of man you want north of the Wall. Plenty left to learn still. But you won't learn sitting on your arse here."

"But what about the others? Grenn, Pyp, Matthar?"

"Ser Alliser's price for taking you. The man thinks he's being clever. If our ranging fails, he can claim that he cannot lead a sally against the camp. For lack of knowledge of the ground, you see. If he admits an attack is too dangerous before proving it, he offends the honour of many men in that hall. Makes himself look craven. Hurts morale. So he's sending us to fail, deliberately."

"So I'm right. He is sending us to die."

"No, he's sending us to come running back with our tails between our legs. But he's given me everything I need to succeed. That is what I mean to do. Are you the man to help me do it? Or are you a boy afraid to do his duty?"

Jon looked away, unsure of himself. The idea of turning Ser Alliser's scheme appealed to him, but putting his friends in danger to do it seemed cruel and petty.

"If you need convincing, there is one more thing," the Halfhand said, "I did tell the Lord Commander of my plan. He approved and has set aside some things for you. It seems he ordered preparations be made before the fever took him."

The ranger walked towards the Lord Commander's tower himself. Unable to help himself, Jon followed. I spoke the oath.

The dark metal of the sword had silver ripples down its length, crossing seamlessly over the three fullers running down the flat of blade. Turned this way and that, the ripples shone bright or the metal drank the light away. It was beautiful and deadly, one of the most lethal things devised by men. The entire ranging party watched its every movement as it was inspected.

Jon could still not believe it. Valyrian steel. I have a Valyrian steel sword. Longclaw.

The Mormont family blade had handed to him by Qhorin Halfhand with a note.

The Lord Commander had been asleep when they had come to his tower, but it was waiting for him nonetheless. Mormont had ordered its preparation for Jon, before he fell deeply into his fevers. The silver bear pommel was replaced with a pale stone wolf's head, tiny garnets in its eyes gleaming. It was half again as long as the longsword he had been given by his Father, but it was lighter and sharper. Its balance was perfect, its grip soft but firm, and would never lose its edge.

Longclaw was Mormont's thanks for the part Jon played in saving his life at the weirwoods. By taking it, the Lord Commander expected in return that he remain steadfast, to do his duty.

The note hadn't said what Mormont meant by that, but Jon could guess. News from the south was darker with every raven and rider. The Lord Commander wouldn't have needed to see him to know duty to the Watch and duty to his family would be at conflict within him.

Jon turned the blade and swung it, listening to the air whirl as it too was cut. Ghost padded up from his position beside Grenn and sniffed at the pommel carved in his honour, before nipping at Jon's hand. The direwolf was getting big, bigger than any wolf Jon had seen except for Ghost's mother. I wonder how big the others are?

Halfhand strode into the broken circle of evergreen shrubs the party was hiding in. "Put the sword away, Snow. You'll have it out again soon enough. It's time."

Jon did as he was told, as the other rangers stood up and crowded around. They were twenty one in all, two thirds of whom had been on at least one ranging far beyond the Wall. The last third were ranger recruits like Jon. The fodder for wildling axes, his mind whispered darkly.

Halfhand examined the group for a moment, before speaking. "We're changing the plan. Bedwyck, Kedge, you'll lead half the group on the old game trail. Take the recruits and a few others."

Jon could hardly believe his ears. "We're splitting up?"

"Silence," Halfhand commanded, directing the order to the entire group of recruits.

Chastened, Jon looked to the rangers named, hoping to the gods old and new they'd talk the Halfhand out of it. Kedge, the elder and larger of the two, glared with his one good eye. "Qhorin, we'll be seen if we go that way. Especially with the recruits."

"You'll be seen, aye." Halfhand confirmed, " Like as not as you pass the lee of Round Hill at the clearing. You don't have numbers to cause any hesitation from Mance's men. So, what will happen next?"

"We'll be attacked," said Bedwyck, the man's voice booming to compensate for the fact he stood barely five feet tall, "Overwhelmed."

"Attacked, aye, but not overwhelmed. You've all got good steel in your hands, and mail on your bodies. Useful things if a man was going to attack the Wall. The wildlings on guard will attack you themselves, not looking to share the loot with reinforcements."

Jon understood at once, which made him feel better about the whole ranging. "They attack us, and you lead the rest of the rangers to attack them when they least expect."

Halfhand gave a single nod. "Snow has it right. We take them all, the wildling camp will be blind to our movements, we can get a good look at it from Beacon Hill to the north."

"A fair plan," Berwck conceded, "But if you're late by even a moment…"

"I won't be," Halfhand stated, "Take the recruits and pick your men. We march as soon as you have."

The march behind the two ranger scouts took Jon and the others through the most dense part of the forest near the gates of Castle Black. The environment felt oppressive, somehow, and time seemed endless.

The trail was just wide enough for the party to pass single file, branches of trees, shrubs and bushes regularly sticking out to scratch and poke if you weren't paying attention. The trail itself was cut into the side of the hill's slope, simply through years of animals and men walking it.

The old signs of Rattleshirt and the Weeper's men were everywhere Jon looked. Small clearings in the foliage made by axes. Abandoned sleds and fur-wrapped packs belonging to dead men under trees, waiting forever more. Here and there, the dead themselves, frozen into the snow and their heads removed.

No wonder the watchers didn't see the wildings, Jon thought as he glanced upwards, I can barely see the sky through the leaves and needles. He still remembered the moment the arrows started flying from among the weirwoods, the shock of it. Now it was the turn of the Night's Watch to inflict the same.

Just ahead of him, Ghost walked, his great white head turning side to side as he stuck his nose up in the air, sniffing at the cold air. The direwolf suddenly stopped, and looked uphill through the brush. Grenn grunted as he bumped into Jon from behind, and the man behind him did so in turn.

"What is it, boy?" Jon asked Ghost. The wolf glanced at him, not turning his head away from where it was pointed, before breathing out heavily once as if sighing and continuing on the trail. Unable to see or hear anything himself except the brush of the wind across the many leaves, Jon continued on.

Grenn chuckled under his breath. "Your wolf is more nervous than we are."

Jon adjusted his helmet and shot a look over his shoulder. "He hears or smells something you can't," he said. "Pay attention, look through the trees where you can. Maybe we should all be as nervous as he is."

Apparently not willing to discuss that possibility, Grenn did not reply. But he held his shield a little higher before Jon turned back to watch where they were going.

It was not long before flatter and more open ground appeared. The sky was finally visible again, the grey-white of the clouds stained with the black and darker tones of smoke pouring up into it. The camp was close. As Ghost entered the clearing, he gave a silent snarl, his canines fully exposed. Jon did not wait to see what it was the wolf was snarling at. He drew his sword first, causing everyone behind to do the same one after the other.

Berwyck, leading the way, held up his hand for the party to stop, as if it wasn't already doing that. In response, Kedge pushed men to the sides, forming a crude battle line in a crescent shape. Jon, Ghost and Grenn took their places in it. Pyp and Matthar had been in front and were right in the middle of it.

"You there!" Berwyck said, "Come out!"

Jon watched where the trail began again on the other side of the clearing, the way Ghost was looking. Soon, a single man stepped out from behind the large trunk of a soldier pine.

He wore a full helm of iron and bronze, raven feathers like wings at its side, long grey and brown hair leaking out of it. A black wool cloak hung over his shoulders, his movement revealing that it had been slashed at some point and red silk now held it together. Once he stopped, the cloak parted, revealing black ringmail, shaggy fur breaches and boots. A steel longsword and a bronze axe hung from a belt at his waist.

"Good day, Kedge," the man said, "It's been years, hasn't it?"

There was utter silence. Kedge refused to reply. Nor did Berwyck move. The recruits waited for their lead, but nothing came. Jon looked at Kedge, and saw his eyes wide and bulging, slowly watering from the cold. What is going on?

"Last time we met must've been the expedition up the Milkwater as far as the Valley of the Thenns," the man continued, placing both of his hands on the pommel of his longsword to rest them, "282, was it? A fateful year for many."

The man's gaze moved and came to rest on Jon. Every hair on his body stood on end.

"You must be Jon Stark. Your wolf is unmistakable," he said, "And is that Valyrian steel I see?"

This is a wildling? Jon opened his mouth to respond, but found nothing to say at first. He tried again, succeeding the second time. "You know my name, and the name of my family… but what is yours?"

"It's Mance Rayder, you fool!" Berwyck snapped back.

Jon did not know why, but he didn't doubt it. He gripped his sword tight, and scanned the trees for more foes. He saw nothing, though the tops of trees beyond swayed.

"It can't be," Grenn commented, "Why would Mance Rayder be alone in the woods?"

"Why indeed?" said the King Beyond the Wall, giving a menacing grin.

He's here for us, Jon realised, Which means… "He's not alone!"

"No, I am not." Mance Rayder brought his hand to his mouth, and whistled loudly using his fingers, before drawing his sword. As he flourished it, the bushes all around him shook with movement. Men and spearwives burst out into view, at least twice as many as the ranging party and armed with bronze.

With them strode three huge bears, two of them brown-furred and the largest as white as Ghost. The beasts were under control, as much at the service of Rayder as Jon's direwolf was at his.

"We have you outmatched, Kedge," Mance Rayder stated, "And I know all about Halfhand and his group."

"How?" Jon asked, "How could you possibly know?"

"I'll be happy to show you, Jon Stark," Mance replied, "As a prisoner of the Free Folk."

Kedge pointed his own sword at the King. "We'll not be your playthings, wildling. We prefer to fight." Berwyck made his feelings known by nocking an arrow to his shortbow, though he kept it pointed downwards and did not pull back the string, for fear of the wildling archers opposite.

I was right, Jon thought as he levelled his own sword to charge, We were always going to die out here.

The King Beyond the Wall frowned and looked to the east, up the hill for a moment. When nothing seemed to happen, and Rayder shrugged a hide-covered shield off his back, taking it in hand. "Since you insist…" he began.

More rustling interrupted him, from the place he had been looking among the bushes on the upward slope.

First, wolves, boars and a shadowcat padded into the clearing, facing off against the battle line just in front of Rayder. Jon More beasts at his beck and call?

Next, Halfhand and two of the veteran rangers stumbled through, their hands bound. They were quickly followed by another group of warriors and spearwives. Both groups were blood-splattered and panting, their breaths creating clouds of mist in front of them. Lastly, a large wildling in a wooden mask of white weirwood, stained with blood, shoved her way to the front of her warband. Jon flinched, the warrior's look the most menacing he had seen.

"Morna, you have gods-sent timing," Mance said with good cheer, "And is that Qhorin I spy? Not so gods-sent, are you?"

"Aye, it's me," Halfhand sighed, glowering at the King Beyond the Wall.

"You promised to return to Craster's. Swore an oath on the weirwoods, Tormund said. You broke that oath."

"My brothers in the Watch said leaving would make me an oathbreaker too. Knew that you would hear of Ser Alliser's declaration. I made my choice. Competing oaths are tricky things."

"That they are," the king agreed, "You're back now, though."

Without warning, the wildling Morna smacked Halfhand on the back of the head hard, forcing him down into the snow. "They resisted," the masked wildling leader said to her king, her voice revealing she was a woman, "Their steel is sharp. They killed forty two, Mance. Forty two. Give them to me. All of them. I will show their fellow Crows what awaits them."

Mance Rayder ignored her. He sheathed his sword and walked over to where Halfhand lay, and pulled him up to his knees by the cloak. The ranger's eyes swam for a moment, before he blinked it away. Only when the king was sure Halfhand was okay did he address the chief's request.

Finally, the King laid a hand on the spearwife's shoulder. "The Canadians would kill far more of yours than forty-two, Morna. We agreed with them, prisoners would not be killed or tortured. Are you willing to risk that they would not believe whatever excuses you can dream up?"

The masked Morna turned her head away sharply in anger, but said nothing. Her warriors looked at each other, and lowered their weapons.

Even in absence, the Canadians loom large, Jon thought, remembering his ears ringing at the sound of their fiery weapons.

With a deep breath, the King Beyond the Wall grabbed the still kneeling Halfhand by the hair and pulled out his axe in a smooth motion, holding it up to strike. "Brothers of the Night's Watch, I will give you the offer again. Yield and you will be kept in the same condition as Qhorin here was when he was with us last time. The rest of his ranging party are still safe."

He twisted the axe this way and that in the air. "The alternative is that I bury this axe in poor Qhorin's skull and we kill you all."

Kedge and Berwyck looked at each other. They were considering it.

"Accept the offer," Qhorin rasped loudly, "Your deaths will not grant the Watch any advantage. You won't get to Mance. As captives we force them to guard us. Men they cannot use against the Wall."

Jon watched Halfhand carefully as the ranger looked to every individual in the party. There was something in his tone and his gaze that told he had other plans. Some way to win if they yielded. What is your plan?

The wildlings began to edge around the sides of the clearing, preparing to attack from both sides through the trees. The wolves revealed their teeth. The shadowcat crept forward a few steps towards Ghost, causing the direwolf to raise himself to his full height, his fur standing on end. The bears groaned and stood on their hind legs.

Still the lead rangers said and did nothing. They stood, licking their lips, eyes shifting to every potential enemy. They'll get us killed while they're deciding, Jon thought, The wildlings will attack without warning. Even if we decide that trying to kill their king is worth the cost, those bears and wolves and boars will stop us. Unable to see a way out or a useful way to die, he decided to trust Halfhand.

Jon stepped out of the battle line, holding his sword with one hand and raising his free palm. A few archers shifted their aim towards him, but he walked forward regardless, until he was at the middle of the clearing. The King Beyond the Wall lowered his axe again, watching carefully.

With a sigh, Jon planted the tip of his Valyrian steel sword in the snow, standing it up. It rang slightly with the impact. It was a nice thing to have, if only for a day, he thought gloomily.

"We yield."

The whole captured party was thrown in with the survivors from Halfhand's previous one, deep inside the wildling camp. A tiny fenced enclave of black canvas in a sea of hide tents. The brothers there welcomed the newer captives with thin chicken and mushroom soup, commiserating as best they could in the circumstances.

Jon barely paid attention to the exchanges or the bowl pressed into his hand. He had heard there were tens of thousands of the wildlings and he had seen their camp from the top of the Wall. But there was nothing quite like being among them.

He had never seen so many people in one place before, not even during a stay in White Harbour on market day. The air was filled with the sounds of people talking, animals fighting or toiling, food and furs being prepared, and the smells associated with all of that activity; sweat, smoke, meat sizzling, pine, shit and piss.

This isn't an army, Jon decided, It's a city.

The realisation confused him. Cities had well managed lands around them to provide food and everything else they needed. The wildlings had a wild forest. Aye, one thick with game, fruit, mushrooms and wood, but it wasn't the same. And gathering all of those things would be disrupted by the wights wherever the Others could press the advantage.

The wildlings cannot stay here for long, Jon concluded, So why are they simply camping here? Where are their preparations for an attack on the Wall? He assumed that finding out the answers to these questions was one of the unspoken reasons why Halfhand had decided to proceed with the ranging. But the one declared by the officers of the Watch also remained unanswered.

"Where are Ulysses and the other strangers?" Halfhand asked his original ranging party, giving voice to Jon's own thought, "We have not seen any sign of them from atop the Wall."

A short, wiry ranger of about fifty years answered. "They aren't here. Wildlings say they're still up near Craster's, preventing the White Walkers from attacking. Not all the wildings have arrived yet."

The bald man beside the wiry one scoffed at this. "They're lying, Qhorin."

"How do you know?" Jon asked. The bald man's brow raised. He was a Shadow Tower man, and so didn't know who Jon was.

"This is Jon Snow," Halfhand offered, "Ned Stark's son. It's a good question, Ebben. Answer it." Jon's jaw clenched. The senior ranger hadn't called him a bastard… but it was somehow jarring to the ear to hear 'Snow' from him. It was Ser Alliser and his ilk who used the name like the insult it was supposed to be. The King Beyond the Wall and Ulysses both called him Stark. I like it too much, he thought warily.

"The wildlings tell the same tale about guarding the rear," said bald Ebben, gathering his cloak around him, "The same words in the same way. No talk 'f how things go, nor talk 'f the feats 'f the foreigners."

"And they aren't smart enough to make it sound true," Qhorin mused, "What are they up to?"

The sound of a throat being cleared caused Jon and every other black brother to turn towards it, back the way they had come. Its source was none other than Mance Rayder, now without his ravenwing helm but carrying Longclaw in its scabbard like a banner on his shoulder, wolf-pommel up. With him were a dozen warriors and spearwives, armed with bared steel. Ghost put himself between Jon and the King, but didn't bare his teeth in reply.

"We've tried to be bloody clever and failed, I see," the king said, "Ah well. It's time for truth-telling, now that we have you."

He looked to Jon. "The young Stark here asked how I knew about your plan. I'd tell you now, if it please you."

Halfhand made a low noise with his throat. "Spit it out, Mance. I'm not going to stand here in a state of wild suspense."

The King guffawed and moved closer. To Jon's surprise, he went to Ghost first, holding out a hand for inspection. Jon watched carefully. Ghost would know the man's intentions. The direwolf sniffed the offered limb, but nothing more.

Mance smiled at Jon. "I mean you no harm."

"But why?" Jon asked.

The king held up his free hand. "We'll speak of that too. But to explain that and how I was able to find you all so quickly, I first need to speak of our allies."

"The Canadians?" Halfhand said, "Or Ithacans, as they tried to claim to be. It was they who told you where we were?"

Mance's smile widened considerably, his eyes laughing at them. Jon simmered, misliking his attitude. "The Canadians are not here," the king stated, side stepping the wolf to stand opposite the Halfhand, "But they are the reason why we were able to find you. After you Crows declared war, their prince came to me. He said I can't arm you with our weapons, but I can arm you with ideas."

Prince? What prince? Jon thought. "Arm you with ideas?"

"I thought it fanciful myself, but he was not lying. The man you know as Ulysses has more ideas than time to speak them, it seems. Ways of doing things, and ways of thinking. He offered them freely, for me and mine to consider. Some, I liked right away."

"And that helped you catch us how?" Halfhand asked, impatient.

"Wargs," Mance replied, "Those of us who can wear the skin of animals at great distances are very useful. But they were scattered throughout the tribes, using their talents randomly. It was the Canadians' idea to bring them together and make better use of them."

"I knew there were those that could warg among you," Halfhand confirmed, "But not enough to make a difference."

"The blood of the First Men is thick north of the Wall, there are hundreds of wargs," Mance stated proudly, "Our camp is ringed with warged animals as sentries. Warged birds watch for the Others from the sky and bring messages like ravens. All tellings of goings-on and commands come and go from a single place; my tent."

The Halfhand grimaced. "So wolves, bears and shadowcats as much a part of this army as men and spearwives? No one south of the Wall will believe it."

"Until they see it," Mance agreed.

The animals… they weren't just tame, there were men riding in their minds. Jon couldn't believe his ears. "So you were able to know we were out there. You were able to inform the nearest tribe about our position, and dispatch the other wargs to surround us?"

The King wandered back towards his guards. "Aye."

He eyed Jon over his shoulder. "I promised to answer why we don't wish to harm you. The answer is that we'll soon be treating with your brother for terms of peace and settlement. It wouldn't do to have harmed you, or your direwolf. It was lucky for us that you were sent out, and that the wolf isn't at Castle Black. And even more luck that we had the means to take you, courtesy of our allies' ideas.."

Halfhand's face was stoney. "You're not planning to try the gate. I saw no preparations for battle… Where are the Canadians, Mance? Where is the tribe of the Laughing Tree?"

The King became equally grim, but resolute.

"They breached the Wall two days ago at the Nightfort, with Thenns, Ruddy Hall men and unicorn riders alongside. By now, they are readying themselves to attack Castle Black from the south."

Imagining the sound of the Canadians' weapons once more, Jon's blood turned to icewater in his veins. The Watch doesn't stand a chance.

Chapter Text

The ground near to the Wall was frozen hard, the light dusting of snow over it crunching underfoot, indicating that there had been melting before the cold refroze it. The air was still warmer than it was north of the great structure, but the cold seemed to come and go at random, not obeying the day-night cycle that would have been the logical decider of such things.

As Michael looked up from his prone position under a thorny bush at the structure, he wondered if magic was what was responsible. Only a few clicks down the road towards the settlement called 'Mole's Town', it got warm enough that the ground was soft with leaves from deciduous trees and clear of snow. Does the Wall regulate its own temperature? he thought, Is that why it doesn't melt?

Three days the attack force had rode south then east, by crawler, horse and unicorn. The warriors had doubled up on the mounts, and some hung off the sides of the crawler's rear unit on loops of rope. The riders followed the tracks of the machine as it sped ahead to find the next night's camp.

At Queenscrown, terrified villagers hadn't even have the chance to flee before Zheng swung the machine around between them and the direction of Castle Black. What few horses the village had were claimed that evening by Ygritte and Ryk, though nothing and no one else was stolen by any tribe. Fear of Canadian weapons seemed almost supernatural among Free Folk and Thenn alike, something that made Michael feel strangely uncomfortable and powerful at the same time.

At a nameless place with only large jutting limestone as shelter, Michael explained the three possible situations at Castle Black to the chieftains and the plans for dealing with them. The leaders listened, not objecting even when Michael explained the means by which he intended to take the least number of Crow lives.

Away from the Kingsroad between Molestown and Castle Black, the war camp was set up under the cover of thick oaks, their leaves only beginning to turn brown at the edges. No fires were set, out of fear of sentries from atop the Wall seeing the light. The whole force sat in the cold through the night and into the day, as wargs and the Canadians set out to see what was at Castle Black.

And that's how Michael found himself in the bush, wondering about the Wall, about 600 yards from the headquarters of the Night's Watch.

"The castle's layout is the same as Mance said, sir," Zheng commented from beside him, peering through binoculars, "Same as the wargs said. A few new outbuildings, a sort of gatehouse with two sentries, but no walls or fences."

Michael glanced down at the map Mance had drawn on his notepad in pencil, then put his own binos to his eyes again. The multiple round-towers, the squat but stout wooden buildings, the stables, the animal pens and the graveyard and tombs; they were all more or less where the Crow-turned-King said they would be.

"No tents outside, no flags on the gatehouse," he noted aloud, "If the kingdoms are sending troops, they haven't arrived yet."

"Those Eastwatch guys could be in there though," Zheng replied, "We can't see into their barracks or armouries."

Michael frowned. "Maybe we can get the wargs to look closer, but we'll have to tell them to be discreet. The Crows' leadership know about warging. Might be a bit fishy if random birds start checking out every building, especially now we've shown all the doubters that magic is real." I still can hardly believe it myself, but that's good enough to be wary.

Zheng lowered her binos and moved her comms' mouthpiece closer. "Sayer, anyone up top?"

"Just saw some in the elevator," the Private replied over the radio, "They were looking this way when it was going up, but no eyes on top otherwise."

Easy enough to time it so we aren't seen by people going up, Michael thought, This might work. "What about the catapults up there? Can they be turned around to hit us?"

Sayer said nothing for a minute. "No idea, sir. Can't see the bottom of them from down here."

"Another question for the wargs then," Zheng stated.

Michael looked at the castle again. "One more thing. Seen any sign of the big white wolf? That Ornvir guy checked the kennels with his snow-pigeon and sent the Crows' dogs barking like crazy, but he didn't see the wolf there or anywhere else."

Zheng snorted. "The Ghost, you mean?"

"It's real, Corporal. "

"Right, a very big wolf that follows commands. I'll believe it when I see it, lieutenant."

"We've seen dead people rise to their feet and attack us, and you don't believe this?"

"I believe you saw a wolf. Or a wolf-dog, if it was following orders. Things look bigger when they're killing people. You've seen the way the locals are acting around us now, the rule applies even to us."

Michael had no counterargument to that, regardless of how certain he was that the wolf was bigger than normal. Either way, the last thing they needed was coming across that beast mid-infil. Fangs are a bad way to go.

A shuffling from behind was soon followed by someone crawling her way through in between Zheng and Michael. On arriving alongside the two of them, Ygritte blew her tangle of red hair out of her face with a sharp breath and looked out at the castle. "At least this one isn't a pile of rocks," she remarked, "Must've taken giants to make stone stand that high."

Michael glanced at her, ignoring the glare of the Corporal from the other side. Ygritte flashed a smile back, edging slightly closer. "Why are you here?" he asked.

"Can't visit my man when he's stuck in the cold watching the Crows go by?"

"Ygritte…"

The spearwife gave a snuffling sort of laugh. "You are easy, Michael Duquesne."

"Better than being called hard. Busy at the moment."

The laugh started again at that, while Zheng groaned loudly with exasperation.

"Mance sent another message," Ygritte said when she was done enjoying the joke, "They captured Halfhand and the Stark boy in a ranging party, tryin' to find out where you Canadians were."

Good news if there ever was any, to Michael's ear. "They get the wolf too?"

"Yeah," Ygritte replied, in English. The word was so strange coming out of her mouth, both he and Zheng had to take a small moment to appreciate it. But the realisation of what the news from north of the Wall meant quickly overtook it.

A predatory grin settled over Zheng's face first."Plan A, sir?"

"Plan A."

The graveyard was a mix of headstones and mound tombs painted a sickly green through night vision. Michael was not afraid of graves or dead bodies or the dark before, but there was something about walking through the final resting place of so many that seemed very unwise to him.

As the team advanced in the cold and faint smell of ashes, he found his rifle drifting to aim towards the closed portal of every tomb. When he finally caught himself doing it, he felt his face burn with embarrassment.

The bodies are ancient, they're not going to burst out eyes-glowing, you idiot, he thought to himself, You may be tired, but stay on mission. By comparison to wights, the Crows were an almost laughable threat in his eyes. He had killed living men on two worlds already.

Turning his attention to Castle Black itself as it got closer and closer, the towers stuck up over the low wooden structures, the occupied ones candle or lantern light flickering from cracks in shutters. They did not quite loom as the Wall did to the immediate right, but Michael was drawn to look regardless.

The team began to move around another mound tomb, the biggest so far, a long shadow indicating a large fire was somewhere on the other side. Getting the first look, Zheng held up a closed fist from her position on-point. The team stopped, and dropped to their knees.

"Report Corporal," Michael said, just barely over a whisper.

"Contact," Zheng replied, "Three men. Crows. Appear to be making something. I think we're where we need to be, sir."

Michael crouch-walked over to her and settled beside, peering around the curve of the mound. Under stone-arched roof that was open to the elements, the three Crows crowded in front of a furnace, one of many that seemed to be both inside and outside the building.

An unfamiliar man in the middle pulled out red hot metal out with tongs and held it over an anvil, glowing brightly white-green in infrared. Another man brought down the hammer to shape it. They were creating a spearhead. The hammerer was immediately recognisable; he had a belly, most of a black beard and was missing an arm.

The armourer, what was his name… Michael thought, Ah, Noye. Donal Noye. He scanned the rest of the building, its T shape and all-stone construction. All as expected.

Michael retreated behind the lee of the mound again before speaking. "It's the armoury, as promised. The armourer himself is out there at the forge, Noye."

"One of the VIPs," O'Neill grunted, "Makes it easier to take him alive… but him being the first to see us may get him killed while trying to do something stupid."

"No choice," Michael replied, "We hit them quickly and quietly. Remember the ROE. Let's go."

The team followed the order without comment. They followed Michael out from behind the mound and fanned out to advance in a wide line. The blacksmiths did not notice as IR aiming lasers lanced from the attachments on the rifles and carbine aimed at them, unable to see the thin beams of light with just their Mark One eyeballs.

With every step closer, Michael watched every movement with more and more care, attention that was rewarded. Casually, as if they were just reaching for a cup of coffee rather than anything deadly, the smiths began to take axes and swords off nearby tables. Too late. We've got you by the balls.

"Evening lads!" O'Neill called, all swagger, "Hands in the air."

"Drop your weapons!" Zheng added with authority, "Now!"

The smiths glanced at each other, deciding what to do. One raised an axe and jumped forward a step, as if to throw the weapon. But Noye caught the attacker with his one arm and shook his head gravely, saving the man's life. Smart man, Michael thought, as he let his rifle hang in front of him and drew his pistol. Let's hope you're smart enough to know the pistol is just as deadly.

"Gentlemen, we'll be relieving you of your responsibilities." O'Neill commented in the most mocking Irish accent he could muster, as he was marching past into the armoury with Zheng.

"You'll not get away with this," the youngest blacksmith stated angrily.

Feeling like a cartoon villain just for having heard such a remark directed at him, Michael smirked and took out a roll of duct tape. "As much as I'd like to go twelve rounds on that particular cliché… Sayer, search and tape 'em up."

"Yessir," the Private replied, catching the thrown tape. The Crows stood still as Sayer pat them down, grabbed their arms and taped them together.

"Inside," Michael commanded next, pushing the men to encourage movement. The armourer ordered his subordinates to comply, his single arm mummified around his neck instead of behind his back. Michael blew out a breath. Ouch, that's gonna hurt when it gets taken off. Assuming he isn't dead by dawn.

"We're clear," Zheng reported as they all entered the armoury, "Inside and out, it seems."

The protruding part of the building that led to the smithy was full of charcoal and wood, but they soon passed into the longer and wider section beyond.

To either side of the inner doorway, rows and rows of racks stood illuminated by candlelight, filled with weapons, chainmail vests, helmets, cloth-covered wooden shields and chests. There were two doors at the opposite ends of the building, both facing west into the courtyard. Opposite one of these stood a desk with another candle atop it, a large book open on its surface and a feather pen in a pot of ink. Along the length of the western wall was a series of double shutter windows, widely spaced.

"It's Christmas, sir," O'Neill remarked with cheer, "Santy brought presents for all the good girls and boys. Mance was right, these Crows don't go around the castle armed, most of them anyway."

The Corporal was less enthusiastic, eyeing the armoury's contents warily. "Can't find the entrance to the tunnels that Mance talked about," she remarked, "And why the candles? Why are all these weapons uncovered? There's no one else in here." She kicked a large canvas out from behind the nearest rack, clearly left there to be thrown over the weapons on it to protect them from the elements.

"Doing inventory?" Sayer suggested, "That red guy, looks like a tomato? Isn't he the guy in charge of keeping lists of everything? Maybe he's looking over what they have and putting it in that book." He gestured to the desk beyond.

That sounded familiar. "Yeah, that's how Mormont described him. Must have just stepped out," Michael said. Zheng was right, there was something suspect about it, but nothing worth scrubbing the mission over. Not yet. "We continue as planned. I'll grab him if he shows. Break out the GPMG."

O'Neill saluted, and began unslinging the machine gun. Zheng secured the rear door by simply turning the large key still in its lock, then giving the door a shake to make sure it would hold under pressure. To Michael's relief, it did, but better to be safe than sorry, he shoved one of the racks just far enough to overlap with the swing of the door if anyone forced it.

Easy exit, no quiet entry. Rack-of-Swords Alarm Systems, 11th century technology at its finest.

Seeing that was complete, Sayer poked Armourer Noye with the barrel of his gun to get the man moving again, but he resisted, looking directly at Michael as he did so. "Taking hostages won't grant you any leverage. The Watch doesn't negotiate for exchanges with the wildlings, and won't with your ilk either."

"My ilk don't take hostages," Michael replied, "You're prisoners of war."

"And you're a guarantee against your friends burning down the building with us inside," Zheng added, "But that's just because we can't move you anywhere else."

True enough, Michael decided. "You won't be harmed, not by us anyway. I'm sure Qhorin Halfhand told you as much. Sayer, seal their mouths too."

The ripping sound of the Private pulling out a length of duct tape filled the room three times as he shut the Crows up. With that, they allowed themselves to be moved again. That was too easy.

Michael ordered the team to split up. Sayer would follow him to the corner at one end, Zheng and O'Neill would go to the other end with the GPMG. The prisoners came with Michael too, where they couldn't interfere with the most deadly weapon at the disposal of the team. They promptly were put on their asses and had their legs taped together in a corner by Sayer, the weapons in nearby racks tossed out of reach.

Michael opened the door to the yard and saw exactly what he expected to see; an open courtyard providing no cover at all to whoever could've wanted to cross it, stretching out between the armoury and the central buildings; the 'shield hall', the barracks buildings and the common hall.

There was only thing that felt off; very few signs of light or life could be seen across the way. Mance had said there were eight hundred fighting men at Castle Black at the time he had deserted the Night's Watch, but that had been a long time ago. If there are that many tonight, they're being very quiet, Michael thought, It isn't even that late. But in for a penny…

"We're good to go over here, sir," O'Neill reported.

Michael glanced down the hall. Zheng had the GPMG loaded and set up on top of the desk, over a pile of spare furniture and right in front of the open doorway. The candle, book and inkwell previously occupying it had all been shoved onto the floor. The Corporal was sat in what appeared to be a very comfortable padded leather chair, though she was leaning forward on the table to aim rather than leaning back to relax. At least she's comfy.

"I'll announce us. Stand to, ladies and gentlemen."

Holstering his pistol again and taking up the rifle in hand, Michael moved outside a single step. It seemed colder than it had been on the march. The wind seemed to swirl in no direction at all, only there to rob anyone of whatever heat they had. The Wall's magic? he wondered.

He found no one waiting in ambush for him around the corner of the armoury, or even on top of the arch of the gatehouse which rounded off the buildings enclosing the yard. He had been half-expecting to see Jon Stark's wolf standing there, waiting to tear his throat out. Where is the damn thing?

Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Michael quickly took out the flare gun he had for the occasion, and pointed it directly into the sky. As he squeezed the trigger just as he heard the sound of wood slamming on stone.

The flare shot up into the sky, bathing every surface with brilliant red light. And a half dozen crossbowmen moving to aim at Michael from the previously shuttered windows of the central buildings.

Without thinking, he bolted backwards inside the armoury again, tripping over the threshold. Bolts thrummed around him, burying themselves in the wood of the door frame and floor, skittering off the armoury's stone walls. His head thumping, Michael rolled sideways out of sight, as his subordinates returned fire.

Tracers from the machine gun raked the buildings opposite, downing the next handful of crossbowmen appearing at the windows. Michael sat breathing hard, mind still registering what had just happened. They saw us coming. But they didn't get their weapons and armour? And they had their crossbows? Why? Did they see us too late and had to grab anything they could?

"Cease fire," he ordered, "Cease fire now!"

Sayer and O'Neill obeyed immediately. Zheng let one last burst go from the machine gun, earning her a smack on the top of her helmet from the Sergeant standing beside her. The shooting over with, muffled shouts of pain and groaning replaced it. More than expected.

Michael stood up again, half-climbing up the wall he had been sitting against, and peeked out into the courtyard again. He saw Crows beginning to do the same thing, though they could likely not see anything now that the flare had dropped out of sight. Brave, Michael thought, After seeing what firepower we've got.

"Mr. Noye, did you get any warning of our arrival?" Michael asked the armourer, still tied up in the opposite corner, "Were you bait?" The man looked back blankly. His mouth was still taped shut.

Doesn't mean you can't reply. "Nod or shake your head," Michael commanded, "Did you know we were coming?" After a few seconds, Noye reluctantly shook his head.

Good. They've got nothing to resist with other than what they grabbed last-minute. Michael leaned out of the doorway again. "Ser Alliser Thorne! This is Ulysses! We have captured your armoury, along with your armourer and most of your weapons!"

No reply came.

"You have two choices," Michael continued, "Surrender the castle to me, and none of you will be harmed! Or attempt to retake the armoury and I will stack your men like firewood in this god damn courtyard!"

"We don't negotiate with wildlings!" came the grim answer, "Or wildling lovers!"

Well, if you want to play it like that. Michael looked to Sayer. "Do you know where he's shouting from?"

Sayer's lips thinned, his NV goggles sweeping from side to side as the younger man considered the options. "Might be top right window of the middle building," he said, "Get him talking again." He shifted his radio headset under his helmet to hear better.

Michael nodded. "Thorne, you've seen the power of our weapons yourself! Even if you retake this building, we'll kill so many that Mance will be able to take the Wall anyway! Do the honourable thing, surrender the castle and the deal I spoke of before is still on the table!"

"Mance won't like that," Zheng commented over the comms.

"Mance can ask me bollocks," O'Neill replied, the exact meaning of his words not entirely clear to anyone else but the sentiment crystal clear.

A crossbow bolt zipped through the doorway between Sayer and Michael, ricocheting off the floor and skidding to a halt against the wall beside Noye and the other Crows.

"There's your answer, you foreign bastard!" Ser Alliser declared, "Get a good look, they'll be the last thing you see."

"Top right, middle building, left side of the window," Sayer confirmed.

Michael brought his rifle into grip again. "Zheng. Supply him with lead."

The Corporal fired the machine gun once again. The bullets tore into the place Sayer had identified as the position of Alliser Thorne, the wood splintering and shattering. The snow on the roof and its own weight soon caused it to sag as Zheng destroyed the supporting wood beams. There was movement in all the other windows, men rushing about.

That's right, run. "Cease fire," Michael commanded, figuring that anything more was a waste of bullets.

Shouts could be heard again now that the machine gun wasn't speaking. "Fetch the maester! Fetch the maester!" "Gods, what is that thing!" "Stay away from the windows!" Or so Michael's mind pieced together. It was hard to hear exactly from distance, behind wood and stone, over the sounds of men rushing and incoherently screaming.

Leaning around the door frame again, Michael took aim through the window beyond with the most movement he could see, and let off a burst. A scream of pain was the result, followed by yet more shouting and movement.

Chaos, just as planned. With a great deal of satisfaction, Michael switched channels on his radio.

"Weirwood, this is Maple. Point Alpha seized. You're up."

The callsigns and jargon felt a little frivolous in a world where only Canadians or their allies possessed radios, but it was the little things that held together the idea that they were all still a Canadian military unit. Long may it last, Michael thought, as the sound of rustling came back over the comms.

"Copy," Ygritte replied, her pronunciation of the word in English slightly off before she got all sly and sultry, "Be seeing you soon, Mi… Maple."

She's impossible, Michael thought, switching d his radio back to the team channel. So the wait begins.

"What now?" Sayer asked.

Michael sighed. "Now we see how long it takes for them to try and kill us all."

"Oh."

A half hour of concentration watching the green-and-black enhanced world outside for any sign of attack was broken in an instant. A dull crack from an unexpected direction.

Michael might not have noticed it at all, but Sayer twisted to look where the noise was coming from. "What is it?" he asked the Private.

"Over there," Sayer said, pointing to the wall surface beside where the prisoners were sitting. Another crack, duller but louder this time, announced the slight shifting of the wall and a little waterfall of dust as the mortar holding the stone together was crushed by an impact.

The hair on Michael's neck stood on end, as recognition of what was happening dawned on him. The building had many blind spots, and the Crows had exploited that in an unexpected way. "They're battering down the wall over here," Michael reported in English to his subordinates, as the third impact hit and the stone at its centre began poking out slightly.

"I think I've found the tunnel entrance too," O'Neill said, "I hear someone fucking around with keys somewhere under the corner and muttering. The floorboards look like they can pop up and out."

The Night's Watch plan of attack revealed itself to Michael; hit the armoury from multiple directions simultaneously. The battering down of the armoury wall at the south side would be the signal for all the others to attack. The tunnels and the hallway to the forge area were likely already full of men ready to charge in. A quick glance outside confirmed many eyes looking out from edges of shutter-windows and buildings, so maybe even a mass attack across the courtyard would follow soon afterwards.

Very well thought out, but who is doing the thinking? Michael wondered, Did Thorne survive? Has Ser Rykker taken command? Or has the old man regained his senses?

Regardless, he was not about to let their plan proceed. "O'Neill watch the tunnel and the back door as best you can. Sayer, with me, we're going outside to stop them knocking down the building. Zheng, give us suppressive fire on the buildings on my word."

Acknowledgements rang out over the comms, and Sayer stood up from his kneeling position. Exhaling a long breath, Michael reactivated his IR laser, adjusted his night-vision goggles and ran his fingers over the seven grenades hanging on various locations of his body. Go time.

"Sayer, I want lots of violence on top of the gatehouse when we get out there. Zheng, now."

"Copy."

The machine gun ripped another line of tracers through the barracks once again, bursts flying out in succession as the Corporal made sure each likely location of a shooter was given attention.

After three, Michael adjusted the focus of his NV goggles and stepped out into the courtyard again. Immediately, he saw three crossbowmen up on the gatehouse, aiming this way and that in confusion. He ignored them. Worrying about them was Sayer's job, and the Private saw to it at once. The IR laser from his weapon swung upwards at the targets, quickly followed by bullets.

Four steps to the left of the door and Michael aimed around the side of the armoury the Crows were attempting to knock down. The sight of a hundred armed men greeted him, armed with seemingly anything they could get their hands on; wood axes, iron fire pokers, sharpened sticks, rough-fashioned wooden clubs. The group was guarding another twenty holding a massive wooden beam with leather straps tied around it; the battering ram.

Michael slid around the corner again, out of sight except for his head, and reached for a grenade.

"They're there!" shouted one man, dropping the ram and backing off. The others lurched to compensate in the change of weight,

"Where?" asked another, older voice. Chatter started up, the men turning this way and that, or trying to spark-ignite unlit torches with flints to provide light to see.

I must seem like a phantom, Michael thought. Aiming for a spot between the breach team and the assault force, he threw the grenade and ducked back around the corner again. There were shouts, as one or two Crows noticed the round object sail by, but this only increased the confusion.

The explosion a few seconds later was followed closely by incoherent screaming and shouting.

Tempo. Michael shouldered his weapon. "Sayer, with me." Moving back into sight of the Crows, he found a confused tangle of men seeking a target, running or crying desperately for their mothers. A few managed to get their torches, just in time to see.

Knowing that the mob could overrun him if they got momentum going, Michael didn't wait. He sighted the first of them still standing and armed, and shot him, dead on, centre mass. Thinking no more of that man, he moved on to the next, as Sayer joined in. Rinse and repeat.

The rest broke and ran, those that could. They bolted for the shelter of the nearest buildings, most bringing their makeshift weapons with them. Michael stopped firing to preserve ammunition, almost feeling sorry for them. Must be like Martians or something would be to us.

Sayer sent a few more rounds chasing after them, until there were no more targets. A few seconds later, and only discarded torches and bodies remained scattered in the snow. It wasn't hard to tell which bodies were dead and which were alive for the moment. Even in the cold, the ferrous smell of blood leeched into the air.

The Private halted suddenly, looking at something. "That's the maester's helper from the sit-down," Sayer said, pointing with the muzzle of his assault rifle at a particularly large lump under a black woollen cloak on the ground.

So it is, Michael thought, Must've been conscripted to work the battering ram. "Tarly."

The cloaked lump shook for a moment, before the person hiding beneath it poked his head out. The teenager had a long, thin cut across his cheek where something had scratched him, but the thick wood of the ram had shielded from the grenade besides that. "Yes?" Tarly asked, like he had been asked a question at dinner and hadn't quite heard it.

"Ser Alliser still in command?"

"No, it's Ser Rykker now. You killed Ser Alliser."

"Good." He's more likely to lay down arms… I think.

Michael considered what to do. Tarly was not wounded and could be taken prisoner easily, but he wasn't enough of a threat to be considered a true combatant anyway. But he did have certain rudimentary skills, if memory served. "Help the wounded. I'd prefer if they didn't all die."

The kid rose to his feet, tears flooding his eyes. "Yes, my lord."

I'm not your lord or the Lord, Michael thought, opening his mouth to respond.

Gunfire from inside the armoury stopped him. A glance behind showed no attack from across the courtyard.

"We need you back in here sir!" O'Neill shouted over the radio, "They're getting in!" More gunfire followed.

The tunnel and the back door… "Roger. On our way." Not wasting another second, Michael left Tarly behind and strode back around and through the doorway, Sayer close at hand.

Crows with torches seemed to be all over the armoury now, grabbing swords or failing to dodge the bullets flying at them from the other end of the building. O'Neill and Zheng could only be seen intermittently through the crowd of them.

The nearest was hunched over the three taped-up blacksmiths, attempting to cut them free with a dinner knife in one hand, while holding a reclaimed battle axe in the other. The sound of Michael's boots hitting the wooden floor alerted the man, who immediately lunged forwards.

Too close. Michael let loose the remaining bullets in his rifle's magazine, six or seven shots riddling the man from belly to sternum. The attacker lost the strength to use or hold his knife or axe in the space of half a second, but his body still impacted with full force. Pushed back into Sayer, Michael attempted to untangle himself. The man clawed at them both to stay standing, as if managing that feat would keep him alive.

Shoving didn't seem to work, but Sayer soon connected with a vicious punch to the head over Michael's shoulder, sending the dying Crow sprawling to the floor and leaking blood everywhere. At last.

Moving to let Sayer in, Michael pushed his goggles out of his eyes, and reloaded. Once that was done, he moved along the edge of the wall opposite the inner door, keeping out of the firing lines of Zheng and O'Neill's weapons. The Crows's faces turned about, noticing the new threat. But no charge followed, for fear of being shot in the back.

The next few minutes were a blur for Michael. The pistol did its job, and Private used Arran's rifle to the same effect. Rack-by-rack, Michael and Sayer cleared the armoury. Men in black cloaks cowered, pounced, ducked or swung swords to try and prevent it, but all of them ended up dead.

The only interruption to the blur was the memory of him throwing a grenade into the adjoining corridor to the forge area then kicking the door closed. The last he saw, the next group of Crows were running straight into the kill zone.

Its explosion signalled the end of the assault too. The Crows still inside the building ran for their lives, for any doorway they could think of. They failed, save for one man who crawled out almost unnoticed, having pretended to be dead before. Sayer had missed the shot as the man opened the inner door, ran through it and closed it behind him.

Full sensation returned to Michael as he found himself standing in front of O'Neill and Zheng. Both were breathing hard, the floor around them a sea of spent brass and bodies. A crossbow bolt was lodged in the desk's leg, inches from the Corporal's gut. Sayer was coughing, hunched over a small pool of vomit nearby.

Yet all eyes seemed to be on him. What's the problem? "Report," Michael said to the Sergeant.

O'Neill gathered himself, standing straighter. "They came through the roof too, sir. The tunnel was a diversion. They saw we were shooting from both doors at the ends and all reasonable paths." He pointed to a spot on the ceiling, maybe ten feet away from the machine gun nest, where the roof slates had been removed.

Michael looked up at the hole, then down at the floor, finding nothing. Removed the roof quietly, didn't just smash it in. Didn't make the mistake of removing the entire roof, which would've forced us to leave before we could be trapped with in an enclosed space. Rykker is smart.

"We're lucky. If they had attacked in force from across the courtyard at the same time, they would've overrun us. Guess the suppressive fire when we stepped out to deal with the battering ram convinced them that was a bad idea."

"Are you okay, sir?" Zheng asked, looking up from the desk at him, her NV goggles flipped up to reveal an aghast face.

Michael cocked an eyebrow at her. "Yes, Corporal. Why?"

"You're covered in blood, sir," O'Neill said, "Then there's that fuckin' abattoir behind you to consider." Michael glanced back at the bloody floor covered with dead, at least thirty of them. The prisoners still taped up at the other end of the armoury averted their eyes, fearful. Even Noye, a guy not likely to be fearful a whole lot.

It was me or them. Michael thought with annoyance. "It's not my blood."

The Sergeant stared and frowned. "I can see that, sir."

There it is, the strange look after a fight. "Not my first rodeo. I'll tell you all about it some time. The assault force can't be far now."

"They're coming!" Zheng grumbled, her NV goggles back over her eyes and aimed out the door again. She began shooting again, adjusting the machine gun this way and that.

Fearing the Crows would get in through the other doors, Michael grabbed Sayer and navigated through the corpses back to the other end of the building. Zheng's curses came over the radio as they arrived. The machine gun had run dry, needing another belt of bullets. And the enemy were coming in strength.

The moon had come out from behind the clouds, but the courtyard was dark in a different way; a sea of black cloaks. Men and boys of all ages poured from the doors of and gaps between the buildings, holding everything and anything that could be used to brain a human being to death. Leading them were the knights, easily identified by the fact they actually had swords and armour.

Too many, Michael's mind whispered. Zheng opened up with the machine gun again. Sayer and O'Neill joined in with rifle fire. It was too late. The bodies of those directly in the firing line of the machine gun would provide just enough cover, and the rifles would need to be reloaded far quicker. It was a matter of seconds before the enemy were inside. "Back off from the doors, bottleneck th…" He stopped.

An arrow had come from above, out of nowhere. In seconds, more arrows peppered the mass of men, enough to get their attention. The charge stopped, as did the shooting, without any order being given by anyone. A great roar went up, accompanied by the screeching of metal on metal.

They're here! Michael thought in triumph. He stepped out of the doorway, unnoticed by the Crows. Their attention was too focused on the arrival of the Thenns, advancing in a shieldwall through the gate. A forest of bronze-tipped spears levelled against the Crows, who began backing off away from it.

From the sides, both behind the armoury and through the other buildings, the men of Ruddy Hall were appearing too, cutting off all avenues of escape, one by one.

And atop the gatehouse and keep roofs, a bright red road flare suddenly ignited, revealing Ygritte and her weirwood longbow, along with the Laughing Tree tribes's archers on every raised walkway and peak. The Crows began balling up as a clump, the realisation that they were surrounded moving each man by instinct to face the nearest enemy.

Almost entirely according to plan, Michael thought with satisfaction, Good thing Zheng stopped shooting, or they would've fought to the death. There was only one thing left to do.

"Ygritte, hold fire," he said over the comms, knowing she would've switched channels on arriving at the castle. His eyes scanned the Crow force for Ser Rykker, and found the knight less than twenty paces away, backing off. He opened his mouth to speak, but had to steady himself first. Fatigue was setting in, the fatigue of killing too many up close.

"Ser Jaramy Rykker," Michael stated, raising his rifle at the man.

The knight shifted his gaze from the gatehouse to Michael, his face a picture of indecision, his sword and shield still in hand. Many of the Crows to his sides did the same. "How?" Ser Rykker asked, "This many could not have climbed."

"We used our weapons to breach the Wall at the Nightfort. Or should I say the Giantsfort, it's theirs now."

A mocking smile flashed briefly over Ser Rykker's features. "I would call such a thing impossible, if you were not all standing in front of me."

Michael lowered his weapon a little, to show his face. "You fought well. You didn't give up even after we seized your weapons. You tried very hard to take the weapons back, forcing us to kill far more of your people than I was hoping for. But my country has never lost a war. Surrender the castle to me, no more of you will be harmed without cause. Or you can look to the wildlings for what answer they'll give you instead."

Ser Rykker shook his head. "I cannot yield. Your wildling friends would cause havoc in the Seven Kingdoms, to noble and smallfolk alike. Chivalry demands I resist them. For every one of them I kill, I save the lives of men and the virtues of maidens they would take later."

Probably true. "You won't kill any. My subordinates will shoot you all down, now that you've kindly gathered in one place."

Rykker scoffed, or feigned it. Don't try and break into Hollywood, good ser knight.

"As for the Seven Kingdoms, Mance and I made an agreement. There will be no repeat of previous invasions by the Free Folk, they will settle the Gift. I'm sure some warriors will disobey their King, but better a few hundred raiders than a hundred thousand dead men marching to the Others' tune."

Michael raised his weapon to his shoulder one last time. "Live to help us keep an orderly peace, or die here with your entire brotherhood. Your choice."

The knight did not reply for what seemed like an hour, and when he did, he had no words to give. He sheathed his sword, unbuckled it from the belt it was attached to, and placed it on the ground gently.

The Crows followed suit, though none of the knights or men were gentle with their weapons, throwing them down hard or far to land at the feet of the Thenns. Michael knew the hatred there would not disappear, but knew that the era of the Night's Watch being able to act on that hate was just about over. All that was left was the formality.

"On behalf of Her Majesty's Canadian Forces, I accept your surrender."

Chapter Text

Despair and fatigue threatening to overwhelm him, Jeor looked on from his chair as the wildlings entered the mustering square. The sky was clear and the sun shone strongly, the Wall weeping in the heat.

Why do the gods bless us with such a day, when we have had to burn so many fallen brothers? he wondered, the smell of burnt pine and ashes hanging in the air, Do they approve of what has happened? Or do they seek to console us?

First of the tribes to come was the disorganised, smiling throng of Ruddy Hall. Fur-clad warriors and spearwives led by the stout figure of Tormund Giantsbane himself, laughing at some jape and pulling his beard. His group came alongside Jeor's own small escort, and the chieftain gave a mocking wave with a stolen longsword. His closest friends swung their own purloined weapons experimentally, thinking they were being menacing.

Jeor's sadness and tiredness were momentarily replaced, as annoyance shot through him like a strong drink. It was not your effort that beat us, it was that of your allies! he wanted to shout at Giantsbane… But it was not the occasion for such remarks.

Next came a dozen unicorns and their lance-bearing keepers, the creatures so large that it made the riders look like children to those more used to horses. It had been decades since Jeor had seen a unicorn, or smelled one, and he wished it had been a decade more. They were even less pleasant south of the Wall, the heat doing no favours for their scent. The horses in the stables misliked it too, neighing in annoyance as the group passed.

The Thenns marched in next, a smaller group as some of their warriors were guarding the halls where Jeor's own men were imprisoned. He had never seen them in person himself before that very moment, but the reports of his rangers over the years took new life in front of him.

They were not boisterous like the Ruddy Hallers, and remained so quiet that Jeor wondered if their tongues had been cut out. Their fur clothes were draped in bronze discs and scales, and their spearheads were also bronze. They too had steel longswords from the armoury of the Watch, but they carried them sheathed on belts and had fewer of them.

The leaders of the Thenns were father and son; a tall man lacking hair or ears, with a slightly shorter and considerably younger man with receding black hair. Both had the same sharp face. Both stared as they moved past to take their place in the yard. There was no hate in their gaze. Jeor could tell when a man had that in him. They were simply as curious about him as he was about them, he decided.

Another group came, rhythmic drumming announcing their arrival. Led by a banner of a weirwood with a bloody red smile on black, a near-perfect column appeared marching up the last few yards of the Kingsroad. They held long pikes, longbows and crossbows against their left shoulders as they marched in unison. Maces and axes hung from their belts, black chainmail covered their furs, all raided from the armoury of Castle Black itself.

And every single one of them could not have seen more than five-and-twenty years.

Jeor's heart rose into his throat. Gods preserve us, he thought, They're marching shoulder-to-shoulder and in step with the drum. The newcomers were clearly wildlings, the furs made that apparent. But their display of discipline was almost unreal for their kind. Neither the foot of the West nor that of the Reach march with such coordination. Who are they?

The answer to his question moved into view.

Walking alongside the column was a man Jeor had never met before, but was without a doubt one of the Canadians.

The warrior was tall, broad, and carried his sorcerous ranged weapon in large hands. He did not wear the grey-and-white that his fellows had worn north of the Wall. His clothes, round helmet and many-pocketed armour were instead a strange mix of greens, black and brown that weaved together. His eyes watched the wildlings, his feet following the cadence of the drum more closely.

Jeor, and everyone else in the mustering yard, watched the column as it came on. Every wildling marching in it kept their heads pointed forwards, as if no one else existed.

At the shout of a command in a language Jeor had never heard of, the drumming ceased and the standard-bearer stopped dead, halting the column directly opposite the entrance to the tunnel through the Wall. At another word of command, every warrior turned on the spot, presenting a line to the yard and letting the butts of their pikes rest on the ground.

"That was better," the Canadian leading them intoned gravely in the Common tongue, "But nowhere near good enough. Do not think just because we have taken the castle that the fun is over. We're going to drill on this every night, ladies and gents, until you get this right!"

Groans came up from the men and women, and enough muttered complaints to echo across the yard. The lump in Jeor's throat subsided. Not so disciplined after all. Not yet, anyway.

The hubbub was interrupted by a throaty roar unlike anything Jeor had ever heard before, like a dog growling continuously without end. The sound got louder, and the thing making it rolled into view: A carriage moving without a horse, atop small wheels that seemed to roll out its own road then gather it up again. It was pulling a second carriage of the same construction.

Jeor's mouth dried up watching it move around the buildings on the last stretch of the Kingsroad. He had been warned about the strange 'magicks' of the Canadians. He knew this was called a crawler or bee-vee, but seeing it was entirely something else.

Both the carriages were dark green. The front one had metal cages over what Jeor assumed were its eyes, and a strange white plate attached to the front with writing in an unknown script. Glass windows of stunning clarity were fitted at the front and sides to allow people inside to look out. They're not only strange and mighty, Jeor thought, They must be wealthy beyond reason. Glass windows on a war machine?

Two of the occupants were familiar. The one calling himself Ulysses was sat inside. His assistant in the red hood stood in a position out of the roof of the front carriage, behind yet another sorcerous weapon.

The one driving the metal beast was not familiar. They peered out from a seat beside Ulysses, holding a wheel that could only be for directing the whole machine. They were dressed in the same manner as the man who had led the column of warriors.

A woman, Jeor realised, Qhorin was not mistaken. He could not credit her place among these warriors.

If these Canadians or Ithacans were so powerful and wealthy, as their machine and weapons would indicate, why did they need to send women to war? Bear Island's women lived under constant danger of raids from wildlings, and thus it was natural for them to train and fight. Do these strangers hail from a homeland under similar danger?

The horseless carriages turned into the corner of the yard and out again, moving almost like a snake in its curved movement, before presenting its side. Ready to leave as easily and quickly as it had arrived.

The red-hooded man… a boy, really, turned his large weapon on a swivel towards the tunnel through the Wall at the other end of the yard. Jeor restrained a flinch as its aim moved over where he was sat with his escorts. Memories of the power of such weapons were at the forefront of his mind, and this one looked even larger than the ones Ulysses had brought to the parley at the Nine Weirwoods.

Once the weapon was in place, Ulysses himself opened the hatch-door of the front carriage and disembarked, pulling at his doublet to straighten them. His dress was entirely different to that he had worn to the parley.

On his head was a soft green hat with a gold brooch pinned to its front.

His upper body was covered by a dark green doublet of some kind. Strange pins and symbols were sewn onto its front and shoulders, including coloured ribbons in a row on his left breast and a short script in white-on-black on his right. This was worn over grey-green shirt with a thin dark green cloth tied around the neck and tucked inside the doublet.

His pants were the same dark green, and came down to polished black leather shoes so shiny that the light reflected off them. The shoes were not entirely suitable, just barely keeping out the slosh of the snow covering the flagstones.

He bore only a small weapon, the same smaller one that he had used towards the end of the fighting at the weirwoods, carried in its own sheath and strapped to his leg.

He has not come for battle, Jeor knew, He is showing that he has already won.

Ulysses walked straight towards Jeor and his party, as if hearing the thought, and waved for his officer to come. The large man in command of the wildlings broke into a sharp pace to join him. As did two of the wildlings themselves; a redheaded girl of eighteen or nineteen carrying a weirwood longbow that was a foot taller than she was, and a boy of the same age with a spear and mace.

The strange leader greeted the other wildling chieftains as he passed, giving firm nods to the unicorn riders, Ruddy Hallers and finally the Thenns beyond as he reached a place just in front. Only then did Ulysses turn his dark blue eyes onto Jeor, looking down at him in the chair, covered in furs. This time, there was no strange hand gesture or salute.

Damn Rattleshirt for putting me here, Jeor thought, his heart heavy, If I could only stand and see this man eye-to-eye. He was too weak for it, and had to be carried out of his tower to see to his duty that day.

"Lord Commander Mormont," Ulysses said, "I'm glad to see you're still breathing."

Just about. "So am I," Jeor replied dryly, "My fevers broke only days ago. I've spent far too much time bed-ridden."

Ulysses' mouth tightened at that. "I have wondered what would have happened without that arrow."

"Wonder no more, sir," said his larger subordinate gruffly, "Many men would still be alive. That's what would've happened." The young woman with the red hair snorted, shaking her head.

Ulysses spared his subordinates a glance, and then stared at Jeor for a moment. "Maybe," he said, expressing his doubt, "I'll do proper introductions later, when we sit down and explain what the future will hold for you and your men. For now, have you been informed what happened last night? Aside from the obvious."

Jeor's jaw clenched. I curse the day that Alliser Thorne was born, the southron King of Fools. "I was told."

"Well, I'll tell you again: Unconditional surrender," Ulysses said, "It means I will determine your fate. But I can't really do that without Mance's agreement. I'm planning to take me and mine back to my country, whatever decision I come to is one he will have to live with. I do not expect this to be pleasant for you, but I will protect your lives and dignity to the best of my ability."

Jeor felt the weight on his heart release ever so slightly. "I will rely on your word for that. Though I do not know how far I can."

Ulysses leaned forward, bringing his eyes to the same level as Jeor's own. "Ask Ser Alliser's ashes if we keep our word," he stated calmly, "I promised him that war with my country would have consequences. He got what I promised and hundreds have paid with their lives for his stupidity. I promise you life and dignity. You will have that, if at all possible."

He straightened up again. "Let's get on with this." He turned to the two young wildlings and nodded. Grinning like children, the two broke off in a run, shouting for others to join them. A section of the marching column handed their pikes off to their fellows and sprinted to join the two, slipping and sliding in the mush of the snow.

Jeor knew where they were going; the upper tunnel, where the gates to the main tunnel could be raised and lowered. The true humiliation begins now, he thought, expecting a torrent of warriors to flow through the tunnels.

Yet when Mance Rayder did appear, it was with only a small group.

The 'King' himself stepped out of the tunnel and into the light first, wearing a helm with raven's wings on its side. His shoulders covered in his black wool and red silk cloak, the very object that caused his desertion from the Watch according to Qhorin.

Two beautiful women with fair hair in braids came next, one in grey furs and another in white. They squinted for a moment, their eyes adjusting to the brightness, before looking at each other with smiles and linking their arms. The Queen, Jeor knew, And the Princess. Qhorin had not exaggerated about them either. They were some of the loveliest creatures that Jeor had ever laid his eyes on.

A small number of warriors followed after, then a young boy carrying a banner on a spear appeared next, raising it as high as it could go. The banner was white silk with a sky-blue stripe across it, a warhorn stitched in the centre in spun gold.

The wildling chieftains and a few others immediately broke from their own warbands and wandered over to their king and queen. Giantsbane laughed and slapped Mance's shoulders, the Thenn leaders greeted the newcomers more formally, the unicorn riders shook their hands. Yet Ulysses and his subordinate remained next to Jeor, watching.

'King' Mance noticed this, bid his entourage to stay, and walked over alone. Ulysses and his subordinate saluted as he approached.

"Your Majesty," Ulysses said solemnly in greeting.

"Wallbreaker," Mance replied cheerily, taking off his helm to reveal long brown hair streaked with grey, "I believe that's what they're calling you now."

Jeor scowled. He still did not know how the men of Ithaca had breached the Wall, or even where. Those details seemed to be omitted. How can we defend against the dead if the Wall has been broken? he worried.

Mance gestured to Ulysses' clothes. "What in the name of the gods are you wearing?"

The Canadian gave a blank look, like he hadn't expected such a question. "My combat uniforms are dirty, and my civilian clothes aren't suitable for what we're about to do. This is." Mance's brow raised, but he accepted the explanation.

"Can we move onto practical matters?" Jeor stated with annoyance, "I did not come down here to hear an exchange of pleasantries."

"Indeed not," Mance replied, his eyes flashing with anger, "It's been a very long time since we have spoken, Lord Commander. And I was not anyone worthy of a lengthy conversation then, not with the great Lord Jeor Mormont. How far you have fallen."

He could not enjoy this less if he was threatened with a beating. "This is the Watch," Jeor replied, "Any man can come and accomplish great things. You had not distinguished yourself any more than Qhorin had, or others of the Shadow Tower."

"Yet now here I stand, a King," Mance laughed, "And there you sit, at my mercy."

Jeor had no answer to that.

"Mormont's right about one thing," Ulysses interrupted, "We need to get formal re-introductions out of the way and talk about practical issues going forward. We matters settled here and every minute counts. And we still do not know the strength of force that Stark will send against us."

Stark… Jeor thought, Whether it's Eddard or Robb, they will be wroth if Jon has died.

"I have some idea," Mance replied, "Which is why I agree with you. We can talk practically, once I know the gates to Castle Black will open to my people. Until then, this is nothing but a pleasant visit."

"That isn't the plan," Ulysses stated.

"I am doing nothing that we have not agreed before," Mance smiled, "We have already selected those who will go first. But nothing in our accord said you would play the role of gatekeeper. As if you could do so with only four warriors to begin with. Even you have to sleep eventually."

Jeor eyed the horseless carriage, its weapon still aimed at the tunnel and the young man in the red hood looking bored. Mance speaks rightly, he thought, He has the advantage.

Ulysses looked down at Jeor for a moment, and sighed. "You're not wrong. We didn't say we would settle the matter of the Crows first before allowing your people to pass. Though they are my prisoners and Castle Black is mine, not yours. Remember that."

Mance inclined his head to acquiesce. Satisfied with that, Ulysses of Ithaca turned to his subordinate. "Issue orders to guard the stores and buildings. The refugees are to be moved on from the castle. Get our unicorn riding friends to defend Mole's Town too. Then have Ryk open the gates." His subordinate replied by way of their strange hand salute, and marched directly off towards the column of troops.

Mance smiled brightly, and reached out of his cloak to grasp Ulysses' arm in friendship. "You are a man of your word."

Jeor did not hear the Canadian's reply. Mance's cloak had parted in a different way, revealing a sword. One with a white wolf's head pommel, red garnet fragments on the creature's eyes.

Longclaw. "Does Jon Snow yet live?"

Mance cocked an eyebrow. "Aye, the boy lives. As does Halfhand and most of those you sent north scouting for my friends here." He gestured to Ulysses.

"Why do you have his blade?" Jeor said, "That is the ancestral sword of my house at your hip. It is not for you."

"Taking your enemy's weapon as your own is not unknown north or south of the Wall."

"Jon Snow is not any enemy. He is Eddard Stark's son, Robb Stark's half brother. If you wish to impress upon either the need for peace, you would do well not to rob their family of their rightful property."

Mance and Ulysses looked at each other, before the latter spoke again. "How do you know we care about what the Starks think?"

It was Jeor's turn to smile. "I am no fool, and I have spoken across a parley fire with you before, Lord Ulysses. You were capable of breaching the Wall all along, or so your warriors claim, yet you still attempted negotiation. It is not stretch of thinking to say you would do so again."

Jeor pointed at Mance. "As for you, I have no doubt you are aware of the forces that the Starks can bring to bear, and of the fate of the previous men calling themselves King Beyond the Wall."

Amusement twinkled in Mance's eyes. "I see no reason why that means I should give up a trophy well-won. The sword did not belong to them originally, and they will be happy simply to know their kinsman lives and is not mistreated."

Jeor leaned back in his chair. "I am Lord Commander. What my 'Crows' will do depends on my word."

"I could simply have you killed," Mance said, "End the Night's Watch forever. We have more men to guard the Wall than the Watch has had in centuries."

"I think you know that your men will like not such a duty."

"Enough'll prefer guarding the Wall to death by the White Walkers, I expect."

Ulysses cleared his throat. "Give the sword back to Stark. We might have the soldiers to guard the Wall, but we don't have the builders to keep it standing or the support personnel to keep the warriors fed, clothed and armed. Mormont does. One sword is a small price to pay."

Mance half-snorted at that. "It's Valyrian steel. A weapon that can kill the Others, or so it is said. Not a small price to pay."

Jeor saw his chance. A path for his men out of being thrown in the ice cells or unceremoniously executed.

"Very well. Give that blade back to Jon, guarantee we will be allowed to continue our duty as before. If your men take oaths to the Old Gods that they shall not betray us, all those that guard the Wall alongside the Watch will be armed and armoured in our manner."

Mance stared, considering the idea. Jeor knew he didn't have to point out the advantage to his offer. If the Wall is held by the Watch, fewer men need to stay here and more can go south to deal with the Starks. Not that it will help. The banners are already called. The Starks and their vassals could crush the wildlings in an afternoon. And when they are, we can reclaim the Wall, if need be.

"Not armed in your manner, entirely," Mance replied at last, "Chainmail and helms we can use, but steel swords and spears mean little to a wight and even less to a White Walker. We need dragonglass too, Mormont. I believe your own maester said it can be bought cheaply. I'll have a dragonglass blade for every warrior and spearwife."

Jeor nodded slowly. "I had a raven sent to Dragonstone immediately after Lord Ulysses and I spoke last, asking for the material. It will not be enough for all of you, but we can ask for more. Lord Stannis would be glad of our gold. War is brewing in the south, which works to our advantage; he will be less curious about why we need the stuff. I can only hope that we get it before the piracy starts up."

Mance looked like the cat who caught the mouse, sensing he truly had the advantage. "One more thing. I would have young Jon Snow swear an oath to defend us. If he is going to carry the sword, he will use it for our benefit."

Resisting an explosive outburst of objection with all his might, Jeor saw right through what Mance was attempting to do. The man means to drive a wedge between the Starks. Carefully controlling his voice, he gave the best response he could think of. "I do not think Eddard Stark's son would have any objection to swearing an oath to defend you against the Others. He has already sworn a similar oath to the Seven Kingdoms."

"The oath shall be to defend us against all threats," Mance countered, "After all, the ironborn and Essosi slavers are no friends of ours. And we do not have the Iron Throne's protection."

It isn't the slavers you would have him fight, Jeor thought. "I will let the boy decide if that is an oath he wishes to take. He'll not fight his kin."

"I don't recall saying that he should," Mance said slyly, "We shall work out the details later. I'll take my leave for the moment, I can see the gates opening."

The metal was indeed rising again, more slowly than usual. Jeor assumed the wildlings operating the cranks were unused to the particular way they had to be turned. Old machinery, Jeor thought as the 'King' left, It'll never be replaced now.

"There's something I'd like to discuss, Mormont," Ulysses said, "The state of politics in these Seven Kingdoms. We require all your correspondence with the Starks for a start, as well as all books and maps relating to the country."

Jeor bristled, not having expected such a command and cursing his incapacity of the previous night. I need to delay him. "Books and maps I have, but I had my stewards burn all messages when I was told we were under attack. I was loathe to have them fall into the hands of a man who will not give me his true name, even in victory."

Ulysses smirked. "You're a surprisingly bad liar, Lord Commander." He gave a wave to the horseless carriage, causing the driver to leave her seat and begin to walk over. Next, the weapon strapped to his leg was relieved from its sheath.

The driver turned out to be YiTish of all things. She was dressed in the same clothes and armour as the large man from before, though she was far shorter. Her face was lovely, but her eyes were so dark as to be menacing, even at rest. The weapon cradled in her arms like it was her child only heightened her dread. A mother to Death itself, Jeor thought, before bringing himself back to reason, Or she likes to think herself so, mayhaps. Disarmed, she would not be so formidable.

Ulysses turned to newcomer. "We're searching the Lord Commander's tower, Corporal."

"Yes, sir." The pair walked around Jeor and his escort as if they weren't there. Seconds later, the stream of Free Folk from the tunnel through the Wall flowed into the sunlight. Women and children carrying weapons and packs, pulling sleds and carts, with animals being led on ropes.

Jeor said and did nothing. His ruse had been seen through, Mance and Ulysses would soon know a force was coming to stop them. There was nothing he could do now but preserve the Watch and its cause. May the Gods be with the Starks.

Chapter Text

The 'wormway' vaults of Castle Black were winding, connecting to others at random intervals in a way clearly designed to prevent intruders from finding where they wanted to go. A passage to the barracks here, others to the various towers there, even the one to the armoury which Ser Rykker had used as a feint. Others were storerooms, mostly for vast amounts of grain and other foodstuffs, judging by the stacks of barrels and bags. The air was dry and cool, as the tunnels were carved into the rock, not just the soil.

The meat is probably in the Wall somewhere, Michael thought, his stomach complaining for food. Tarly and Stark were ahead, wary enough of the pistol in his hand to keep looking back at him.

"What do you want with us?" Jon Stark asked for the second time. Evidently, 'you will find out' hadn't been a sufficient answer.

Exhaling a breath through his teeth, Michael realised he may be scaring the crap out of them. Good thing the wolf is locked up.

"Since you can't make up your mind about the damn sword," he began, "You're going to assist your maester with certain tasks for us in the library. Ones that require the ability to read and write in your languages. A skill that very few people here seem to have. I figure you can handle it." And young enough not to be impossible to convince to help.

Stark seemed to accept that, his eyes shifting in thought.

On the other hand, Tarly's face returned to a healthy colour, rather than a walking dead man. Bad joke, Michael. The boy had been in the building designated as a hospital, the 'Shield Hall', still following the order he had given two days earlier to help the wounded.

By now, those that could be saved and those that were doomed were known. Their fellow Crows couldn't do much more, nor the 'woods witches' that did the healing work of the Free Folk.

"You never did say," Tarly said, thinking aloud.

"Say what?" Michael asked. The boy half-jumped out of his skin, realising he had gave voice to his wondering.

"J-just how you speak our language without being able to read it at all. Did you have someone from Westeros to teach you, but they couldn't read? A sailor, perhaps? Or a slave?"

"Don't strain yourself. You'll find out how we speak your language down here too."

The library itself was in perhaps the largest single vault, a long tunnel running a considerable distance, with a higher roof than others. Stacks, boxes and shelves of books and scrolls were packed into every place they could be. It smelled odd, not like the milled paper and glue Michael expected of a library. There were more natural scents in the air. Well, they do use animal skins, he thought to himself, trying to ignore it.

Sat around a long table with two camp lights on it, the Sergeant, Corporal and Private appeared relaxed, if not busy. A metal brazier on a tripod provided heat and more illumination, a small pile of wood nearby to feed it. The musty scent of the books gave way to a pleasant smoky pine one.

The group was joined by the ancient Maester Targaryen, ancient, grey-robed, multi-metal chain around his neck, as well as Taryne of the Laughing Tree, still dressed in the deerskins and furs she had worn at Gilly's Hall.

The latter was the only trusted 'Free Folk' person who could read the script of Common Tongue as opposed to the runes of the Old Tongue. Unfortunately, her grasp of the written language turned out to have limitations on account of her isolation north of the Wall, and O'Neill had radioed up a request for help. Tarly was the first person to come to Michael's mind. Jon Stark had been hanging around with him and was just the bonus.

In between the group on the table was a small pile of paper notes, all curled as they had been rolled up; all the raven messages that could be found in the Lord Commander's 'solar', his quarters and those of Ser Alliser Thorne. For a place that was allegedly so isolated, the Wall got a lot of mail.

"What are those lanterns?" Tarly asked quickly, advancing towards the camp lights. His question alerted the others, and all three of Michael's fellow Canadians stood up and saluted. Michael saluted back and gestured for them to sit again. Keeping up appearances for the Crows, he mused.

Tarly went over and picked up the first camp light, turning it around in his hands. "No flame? How?" he asked, incredulous.

Michael detected a quid-pro-quo to be had. "Electrical lights. Same thing as lightning, just not as powerful or dangerous. I'd be happy to explain the principles after we're done." Not that I'm an expert.

Tarly nodded, which made his face jiggle in an unflattering way, and placed the camp light down again like it was made of fine china. Michael gestured for him to sit.

"Is this what we'll be reading for you?" Jon Stark asked warily, picking up a random message from the piles, "Raven scrolls?"

"That's your job, assisting Taryne," Michael confirmed, gesturing towards the rather busy woman, "Tarly will be doing a little research for us instead."

The Maester gave a wheezing laugh. "A harder task, if truth be told."

"It doesn't matter, I like reading," Tarly chirped, leaning forward onto the table and brimming with optimism out of nowhere, "What do you want me to look into, my lord?"

"Politics, history, geography," Zheng listed off flatly from her seat, before her voice took on a much darker tone, "Magic."

Tarly's brow knitted deeply. Jon Stark's idle browsing of the messages ceased abruptly. Yeah, that's the reaction I'd expect of rational people, Michael thought, We're in the right place.

The Sergeant cleared his throat to clear the air. "To be a bit more precise on that last point: Everything you have on the Isle of Faces, magic of the Old Gods, the nature of the Others… and anything you might be able to find about people travelling to other worlds. Myths, legends, historical accounts, anything."

The implication was obvious, but unavoidable. All necessary to make sure Mance wasn't a liar or simply culturally inclined to accept such stories. The Free Folk accepted the existence of magic as a matter of course.

Tarly's knitted brow was joined by a gaping mouth. "Uhhh?"

Stark threw down the message he had been holding. "Other worlds?" he asked, "Who are you?"

"Who us?" O'Neill replied with false indignity, hand to his chest, "We're the Mickey Mouse Brigade. We kill you with a wink and a smile." He proceeded to give Taryne a wicked wink and smile, which sent her shaking with quiet laughter.

Michael looked at O'Neill with disapproval. As if things weren't complicated enough without references no one would possibly get.

"No need to confuse things, Sergeant."

"Ah sure, he's going to be confused either way."

Jon Stark shook his head. "Are you incapable of being honest?"

O'Neill shrugged. "It's more that you are extremely unlikely to believe us. I'm sure you can guess why."

Jon looked between the Maester and Tarly, as if checking to see if he wasn't the only one hearing it. "Are you seriously suggesting that you are from another world?"

"Pretty much," Sayer replied with a shrug, "And we're trying to get home. But even though we use magic all the time, we don't understand it or how to use it."

"What magic do you use?" Stark asked, "You appear as men to me, not sorcerous beings."

"Men eh?," Zheng replied, her eyes watching the kid over the top of a random tome, "You may need your eyes checked, little boy." Jon Stark bristled, but also blushed furiously. Michael and all the others grinned widely. Well, now we all know Jon Stark's type: Short and feisty.

"Language, Jon Snow," Maester Aemon stated as a matter-of-fact, "Whether or not they are from a land very far away or from another world, do you not think it queer they speak the Common Tongue so properly? Yet we have never heard of their people?"

Jon recovered from his furious blush. "Which people would that be?" he asked in reply, "Ithacans? Canadians? Perhaps they are neither. They won't even tell us their real names."

Michael sighed and sat down. The time was always going to come, he thought, I suppose we have been impolite for long enough.

"I am Michael. The big guy is JP or Padraig. The guy wearing the red hood is Louis. And the not-man with the book is Leanne. We're from Canada. The Free Folk lady reading the messages is Taryne. She's from Last Hearth. Nice to meet you."

Michael offered his hand. The young Stark scanned the room and then looked at the hand with an unidentifiable emotion, but took it regardless.

A firm shake later, and Jon sat down himself. "Last Hearth?" he asked Taryne.

"I was taken young," she replied, to the horror of Stark.

"Have you not other names, Michael?" the Maester asked out of the blue, "Names of your houses or families?"

Michael glanced at Taryne in thanks. She had warned a question like this would come. To be common is to be nothing, she said. They will try to see if you are nobles. "Our other names and titles can wait," he said, "Given that I'm the one that won a total victory and not the Night's Watch, we'll be entertaining my wishes tonight."

He looked at Stark. "Your brother or father is sending an army up here, for sure. Every time a King Beyond the Wall has gotten south of it, the Starks send an army."

"Every time," Taryne agreed, "And the only time they seem to care overmuch. People being taken from their homes by raiders doesn't even warrant a raven."

Though he felt such criticism of the Starks was valid, Michael waved that off. It was a distraction. "Now, we need to know when that army is coming north, what way they'll come and how many are coming to play. And you need to tell us. Because we both know what is coming south. Nothing, I repeat, nothing can be allowed to get in the way of moving the Free Folk out of danger."

Jon Stark looked away, his face a picture of turmoil.

"Mance is gathering more wights," Michael continued, "We will have the evidence we need to change minds about fighting a war with the Free Folk. We hope so, anyway. But any deal we might make with your father and brother will depend on the strength of our forces."

Michael leaned back onto the table. "Your choice, Jon Stark. The fate of hundreds of thousands of people is in your hands." Nothing like a guilt trip.

Not waiting for Stark to make an immediate reply, he turned around to the table and asked Zheng for her report. Her task had been to find maps of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms, and it appeared she had been successful. She began lifting several leather cylinders onto the table and uncorking them to access the contents. O'Neill pulled Tarly out of his seat to go gather the books needed.

As a large map of the Seven Kingdoms was unfurled on the table, Michael noted with no small degree of satisfaction that Jon Stark had resumed his browsing of the raven messages. Either he is thinking about helping or he wants intel, but in both scenarios, he'll provide us with what we need provide.

"Sayer, watch the guy," Michael commanded in English, "Keep it low-key. He's reading those messages, watch his face and alert me if he pay attention to a scroll."

"Yessir," the Private replied with a smile, picking up another one of the map scrolls to pretend to look over.

"Is that your true language?" Maester Aemon asked, "It has a strange cadence, as if more than one tongue were mixed together. Though that is not unlike how you mix the Common and High Valyrian tongues when speaking with us."

"It's one of two official languages," Michael replied, "One of the tongues we speak in the Army, among government and for trade. But our people speak more than two hundred languages, as their ancestors are from every corner of our world."

The Maester smiled widely, revealing strangely healthy teeth. "How wonderful!" he said, "I should have liked to visit such a place."

"I'm sure we can accommodate you," Michael said back honestly, before turning to the table. He paid close attention to the large map for the first time.

Westeros was a long continent sprawling out north to south, with nine administrative divisions, each clearly marked with a coat of arms. The large parchment was oriented the wrong way, showing the continent south to north from his perspective. Strange, he thought, If you squint, the continent looks like Britain below with an upside down Ireland on top.

"Where would the Isle of Faces be?" he asked, "In a lake somewhere, right?"

"In the 'God's Eye' lake, yes sir," Zheng replied, pointing with one of her little fingers, "The one here which looks like a space rock hit. It's the only one that matches the description the Free Folk have given us." She indicated a place in the south-central region, inside the zone marked with a fish of some kind but near one marked with some sort of three headed dragon.

"Not great," Michael decided aloud, tracing the potential route, "We pass by what is probably Winterfell given the wolf symbol here. Then through a bottleneck on this isthmus here that's protected by a castle and a swamp. There's a large river in the way, and the lake itself has this even bigger castle on its north."

"Not a short distance to drive," Zheng noted, "And doubt the road is Highway 1 either."

"Yeah. Your job will be to work out how far we can get on our fuel, Corporal. Roughly. At the very least, I'd like to get to our destination and be north of that isthmus again before we have to hump it or ride horses the rest of the way." Or damned unicorns.

"I'll see it, sir." Zheng took out a clear plastic ruler from a pocket to begin measuring distances. Or guesstimating them at least.

"Sir," Sayer warned, "Look at Stark."

Michael turned his chair around, and found the young man shaking slightly in his own, eyes wide open. A message scroll was in Stark's hand, the paper unrolled. Hanging from a string attached to the rough paper was chunk of red wax with a stag stamped into it. What's going on?

"When did this message from King's Landing arrive?" Jon Stark asked the Maester.

"Eighth day of the eleventh moon," Aemon replied, "Two days ago, on a large raven direct from the capital. A rare thing. Even more unusual that the wax was red and not black-and-yellow, though the Baratheon stag was upon it."

"Did you know what it said?" the young man said getting out of his seat, his voice rising in volume, "Did you know and say nothing?!"

Aemon Targaryen licked his lips, unperturbed by the outburst. "No. Royal messages to the Lord Commander are to be delivered directly into his hands. Ser Alliser read it as Acting Lord Commander, and seemed greatly pleased by it. But he did not tell of its import."

"That's where I found it," Zheng chipped in, "In a chest of his belongings, on its own. It's the only message with that stag on the wax."

Royal messages, Michael thought with irritation, Don't tell me they're mobilising the whole state in response to our incursion?

Jon made to leave, but Michael grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled him back. "What does the message say, Jon?"

The young man grimaced, bitterness making him unable to meet Michael's eyes.

"The King is dead," he said, "My father has been arrested for treason, for trying to overthrow the rightful heir. A lie. The new king demands all lords proclaim their allegiance. But I know my brother. He will never do it. It's war."

Michael felt like lightning had gone through him, feeling the opportunity for peace slipping away. The brother will mobilise his armies. If he's going to war in the south, he won't tolerate a threat in his rear to the north. Time is running out.

But there was also opportunity, Michael knew. Dealing with the Watch cleanly, for one. He pulled Jon back into his chair for a chat. "And what were you going to do? Run to the stables, take a horse south and break your dear old dad out of prison? Aren't you a man of the Night's Watch? Mance did tell us what that means. But he also said something along the lines of 'There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath.'"

"Old words," the maester said, lost in memory.

Jon turned his head, tears coming. "I do not know what I was going to do. Robb will be marching, I should be with him… but the dead are coming."

"And your watch is not yet over," Maester Aemon said, "Though only you can decide your fate. You may love your family, Jon Snow, but love is the bane of honour, the death of duty."

The young man slumped, supporting himself on the table.

This is a bit too much for a teenager. Seeing there would be no more fleeing, Michael released his grip on the guy and sat down on the table. "I don't see any reason why your duty should clash with the love of your family in this case," he said, "We still need to reach agreement with Mormont. He won't agree to do anything unless you get that damn sword."

"I'm not sure he should," Jon interrupted, "Mance and his people are wildlings. The stories told about them can't all be lies. And you…"

"We're alien and deadly, I know," Michael finished for him, "But we're also strangers in this place. We'll need a credible witness to what has happened, a guide to the customs, and someone that local leaders can recognise to speak on our behalf. This someone would have to come south with us."

Those words seem to lift weight off the young man's back. "Me?"

"Who better than the brother of the lord to convince him we're not all a bunch of bloodthirsty maniacs. And that the 'army' the King Beyond the Wall has is mostly non-combatants, women and children."

The young man wavered. "I won't be your hostage."

"Your safety would be absolutely guaranteed, even if you are still a prisoner of war. When and if you go free is my decision."

"You want me to take Longclaw back and swear an oath of my own to defend the wildlings. Like Mance does."

"And tell us how many troops your brother has already dispatched to deal with us. We can't really talk peace if he's attacking the Free Folk's women and children, can we? We haven't moved more troops south yet." Unless you count spearwives and the rest of the Laughing Tree tribe, but I doubt the lords of Westeros do.

"We're looking to stop a massacre," Zheng said, "Mance has already agreed to keep everyone in the Gift. All your brother has to do to keep the peace is patrol the border."

Jon Stark said nothing for some time, enough that O'Neill returned with Tarly carrying a stack of tomes each. The Sergeant gave a thumbs up, to indicate that they had found the books. A questioning look around the table followed. Michael held up a hand to forestall any intervention.

"I cannot betray my family or the Watch," he said, "I cannot aid you."

Michael could see the terms set out by Mance weren't going to swing it. Even though the threat to drag Jon Stark in front of his brother trussed up was a possibility, that would be fundamentally unwise diplomacy. Time to change the deal. Better to ask forgiveness than permission. And if Mance doesn't like it, well, that's what rifles are for.

Throwing up his hands in defeat theatrically, Michael slid down from the table into his chair again. "Okay, clearly you're a hard sell," he said, "You don't want to betray your brothers, real or adopted. You know what? I get that. It's a reasonable and honourable position."

Jon Stark looked relieved, thinking the badgering was over. Think again.

"So here's what I'm going to do," Michael continued, "The Night's Watch don't interfere with politics, I know. But I feel there's a loophole there. If you come with us as a liaison officer, you may be put in danger. It's only right you be able to defend yourself in those situations, right?"

The young man cocked an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I understand liaison officer fully," Jon said, "But if you mean I come with you to speak for the Watch, I agree. I would be allowed to defend myself."

Michael smiled. Gotcha. He leaned on his elbow over and traced a finger down the Kingsroad once more, to the God's Eye. "Our destination is the Isle of Faces," he said, "Would I be right in saying that going there means wandering into the area of war operations? Against these what? Baratheons was it?"

"And Lannisters," Jon corrected, holding up the raven scroll, "The message says the Queen-Regent rules in King's Landing. She is a Lannister by birth."

Michael waved his hand. "Whatever, whoever. You come with us, I think it's inevitable we'll end up fighting them. Armies don't let unknown armed parties wander across the A.O. unmolested. They'll try and stop us."

"I don't think they'll negotiate either," Zheng agreed, "Simply asking them for passage isn't going to work And if I know politicians, I doubt even showing them wights will make much difference. The threat is too distant for the moment."

"Even if they do believe us or care, it'll take time we don't have," Michael nodded, "Point is; what you want is to fight for your brother's cause without breaking your oath. This is a way you can do that."

"That is not in the spirit of the oath," Maester Aemon said, "We defend the realms of men. We do not fight their wars."

"One man cannot fight a war," O'Neill scoffed, "And everyone has the right to reasonable self defence. If his position in our ranks is that of a diplomat and it's part of a treaty obligation, then it's all above board."

"Mayhaps," Aemon said inconclusively, "Who can say? There is no authority which governs these things, other than the Lord Commander. Though it may be the opinion of his brothers of the Watch which matters most."

"What do you think, Jon?" Sayer asked, "Is that something you could live with?"

"I could," Jon said easily, "But you are not only asking that of me, are you?"

Progress. Michael clapped his hands once in celebration. "You're speaking about your family. You don't want to fight them or betray them in any way. Forget the oath that Mance wants you to say. I'll convince him to give up the sword. Valyrian steel or not, a peace agreement with your brother is worth far more."

"I won't be held for ransom to that end," Jon said, "As much as I wish to fight for my brother and defend my father's right."

"And you won't be," Michael said, "I'll swear an oath to that effect. You'll swear not to fight us or the wildlings. That's how we'll do it."

A ghost of a smile passed over the Stark's face for a moment, before dying.

"I won't tell you what size a force my brother is sending. I won't betray my family like that either."

Michael clenched his jaw. So close. "As an officer, I have to balance my own military objectives with a long list of standing orders and laws. Many of which weren't written for this situation. I'm not permitted to stand by while thousands are murdered for the 'crime' of wanting to stay alive. Those that cause such situations deserve what they get."

Jon Stark flushed with anger, though kept his face impassive in an impressive feat of self-control. Protective of his family and honour, like Mance said he would be.

Michael could see he had went a little bit too far. "But I am not allowed to wage a war of aggression either," he said, "So I won't just go slaughter your brother's soldiers. The line between peace and war is needle thin here. Knowing how many people are committed to attacking us will help us prepare a defence that doesn't require bloodshed. And I'd prefer to use my weapons on the dead men and ice demons. They make for more fun targets."

"I won't tell you," Jon insisted defiantly, "It won't help peace, it won't help the Watch. You can find out from these scrolls anyway. It would not only be betrayal for me to tell you, it would be stupid."

Realising he was simply antagonising the young man by asking, Michael gave up. Stark wasn't going to crack. If anything, it looked the whole affair was going to stop him going south at all.

And if Jon wouldn't give up the intel, other measures were needed. "Maester, do you have writing materials for a raven message?" Michael asked.

The maester did not baulk at the request. He answered by way of rummaging in his robes, producing a roll of paper the same size as the others. An inkwell and a pen made out of a feather came out next.

"Grab those please?" Michael commanded Tarly. He was obeyed.

"You want to send word to my brother?" Jon Stark asked.

"I do. We're pretty sure you didn't get any message off to him before we took the castle. We had your rookery watched for birds. None flew out before we took it, and we've permitted no one to send one since."

A sour look on Jon Stark's face and the maester's quiet confirmed the assumption that no birds had flown as correct. That doesn't mean Eastwatch didn't get a raven off, Michael reminded himself.

"Tarly, I'll speak, you write," he said. The boy began to put aside his books and loaded the pen up with ink.

"Taryne, watch what he writes," O'Neill added, "Let's not play any games with this."

Tarly glanced at the Sergeant's rifle and gulped, to the latter's amusement. O'Neill wouldn't hurt him, of course, but he would lie about that until 'the cows came home'.

Michael started his dictation.

"To Lord Robb Stark, on behalf of the Canadian Forces in Westeros." He paused to think where exactly to take things, as Tarly began scratching the words onto the paper in tiny lettering. Tell the truth on intent, Michael concluded, Bluff on our available intel and military strength.

"By now, you are aware of our existence, along with the army of the King-Beyond-the-Wall before the gates of Castle Black, and the war initiated by Ser Alliser Thorne on behalf of the Night's Watch against us."

Tarly continued writing. Taryne continued reading. Michael looked to her for confirmation. She gave the nod. The boy wasn't making anything up. Soon, Zheng scooted her seat over to read too. Or watch. Michael doubted she could understand.

"I write to inform you that the war is over. Canada and her allies stand victorious. This past week, we breached the Wall at the Nightfort, and have seized all remaining Watch castles."

"B-but you haven't done that," Tarly asserted bravely, "We know you've taken Eastwatch and, well, here. But we've had no word from the Shadow To…"

"I asked you to write what I said, not evaluate it," Michael interrupted, "And by the time this message reaches Winterfell, we'll have the Shadow Tower. We know that castle has the most experienced rangers. Which is why Mance sent the ice river clans, the cave dwellers and Six Skins' tribe to take it."

And to thin out the numbers of those cannibals, making Six Skins look bad as a bonus, Michael's mind reminded him, There's no guarantee at all they'll be enough to get the job done.

Tarly got the hint to leave it be and asked for the last section to be repeated, which Michael obliged him on. For a moment, only the crackle of wood in the brazier and scratching of feather on paper could be heard. It was strangely soothing. It was almost regretful when the sound stopped and Michael had to continue dictation.

What questions might be asked, he wondered, other than if Jon was still alive and well. I need to inform them of developments to an extent to cause them to want to negotiate.

"All surviving Night's Watch personnel are prisoners of war. They are being treated with dignity, by my order, and remain under their own command. Your brother Jon lives and is healthy. Lord Commander Mormont will send his own message in due course."

Heavily censored of course, Michael thought, But at least they'll know the Crows are not all dead.

"As of the ninth day of the eleventh moon, the Free Folk have been permitted to move south of the Wall. They are under orders of their King and agreement with Canada to go no further than the Gift."

Might as well confirm the scale of the threat…

"Our war was with the Night's Watch, as they stood between us and safety from the most deadly threat imaginable: the Others. No doubt reports of them and the dead men marching under their command have also reached you. Continued conflict between us could mean death for all concerned."

Need some information, Michael thought. "Where's the nearest Stark castle to here?" he asked, not directing the question to the table rather than to anyone in particular.

"Last Hearth," the maester answered, "Seat of the Umbers."

Taryne raised her head from the messages in front of her at once, and Zheng accidentally dropped the leather cylinder she was holding. Umber, Michael thought, That's a familiar name. A family famous for their hatred of wildlings… Now if I was Robb Stark, who would I send to fight them?

It was time for the bluff.

"We are aware that you have begun to raise a force at Last Hearth to defend or retake the Wall numbering in the tens of thousands."

Jon Stark shot to his feet. "That's a lie," he declared, "You have no notion how many men-at-arms are being sent."

He didn't deny it was coming from Last Hearth, Michael noted with bemusement. "That may be. But it's logical. Mance has tens of thousands of warriors. Your brother would be foolish to send only a small force to face them."

"He will not think you made an assumption, he will think you knew."

"Good, it means he'll think we found the message. Or someone told us."

Jon blinked, then narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Michael pointed at him. "So you are relieved of any obligation to tell me. And so in the event of a peace agreement, you can fight alongside us against your brother's enemies. Valyrian sword in hand, doing your duty to both family and the oath of the Crows."

"Fighting the Lannisters is not defending the realms of men," Maester Aemon said with annoyance.

Political stupidity of this sort ought to be a crime, Michael thought darkly, Or is it simply ideology? Aemon Targaryen is too old to be this naive and the Crows are no pacifists.

"Do you believe that leaving a civil war to boil over is wise right now? As dead men marching around under the command of ice demons? There is no guarantee the sight of a wight will stop the fighting, which means it might have to be ended the old-fashioned way."

"I think one man cannot fight a war," the maester replied, throwing O'Neill's words back in Michael's face, "You can do what you need to without any man of the Night's Watch. Or this particular man."

Jon clenched his fist by his side. He was swaying fully toward "If I agree to go with them, maybe Robb will make peace with the wildlings. That can only be good for the defence of the Wall."

The Maester smiled. "Now you begin to understand how you should think about your duty. The Long Night approaches, and the realm will need to be united. Be careful you do not prolong the war among the living, when bending the knee might save both your father and the realm. Remember your ancestor, Torrhen Stark, who swore to the Targaryens and their dragons, saving the North and thus the Watch."

I thought the royals were Baratheons, Michael pondered, Is the Maester a royal? And dragons? Please God, no. No damn dragons. Ice demons are enough.

"The Lannisters are not the Targaryens," Jon asserted, "The dragons are gone."

Thank you, god of infanteers everywhere, Michael prayed.

"Robb will never bend the knee," Jon continued, "And the northern lords would never allow it. No army has ever marched from the south to conquer the North and succeeded. But if we have to fight in the south and north at the same time, our strength will be wasted. Winter is coming."

Aemon inclined his head with a heavy breath. "Then make your choice."

Jon looked to Michael. "I will come with you, if the Lord Commander allows."

"Thank Christ," O'Neill proclaimed, "About time."

A sentiment Michael could get behind fully. "Tarly," he started, "We'll continue."

"Our purpose in writing this message to you is to avoid war by a negotiated settlement. We shall depart Castle Black at the earliest opportunity and make directly for Winterfell under a banner of parley. Free Folk representatives will accompany us. Your own brother to represent the Night's Watch."

Michael frowned, not sure how he should sign the letter off. "Put whatever is the norm for ending such a message, Tarly. I'm not sure what the etiquette is."

"Your name and titles," Maester Aemon replied.

Back to this again, Michael thought.

"Time for the big lie," Zheng said in English, smirking.

"Strictly speaking, we're not going to lie," Michael replied, again in English, "We're just going to be strategic with the truth."

Zheng laughed heartily at that. She had always liked the idea of pulling the wool over the eyes of the Westerosi. The discussion about how to appear noble to the Westerosi had been a fun one for her. She had even chosen a 'sigil' and sketched it, a Chinese dragon holding the maple leaf.

Michael wasn't finding the coming execution of the plan fun at all. Pretending to be noble was probably a death penalty offence, he figured. He couldn't see them escaping reprimand when they got back to Canada either. But it wasn't something they'd be thrown in prison for or a matter that would see them raked over the coals by journalists. Even O'Neill agreed to the plan.

Ah well, it's not like they can call up Ottawa and ask someone. He cleared his throat and willed the translation magic back on. "Very well. We'll give my name and titles."

"And those are?" the maester asked, craning his neck as if to hear better.

"Michael Duquesne. Elector of Calgary. Lieutenant, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry."

Chapter Text

Mole's Town was well named, Michael decided.

For starters, it was worthy of the title of 'town', by medieval standards at least. Despite being the size of a village in terms of population, it was surrounded by farms for miles. Craftspeople and specialist industry was everywhere. There was a tailor, two carpenter shops, a smithy, a brewer… and a brothel.

It was also very much a 'mole's town'. Most of the village was in fact underground, and like the wormways of Castle Black, expanded beyond the limits of the town's above ground structures. The entrance to the brothel was the size of a shack, but it was a three floor affair when you got underground.

Around the town was a palisade made of stout oak logs from the nearby forest. Its construction had always been part of Michael's plan, commencing the very morning after the place was taken by the unicorn riders. He thought it would take far longer to complete than it did.

The population were told that the Free Folk would soon be passing through the Wall and every single soul pitched in to help. Between their manpower and the strength of unicorns to pull logs, the work was quickly but roughly completed with almost indecent haste. There was even enclosed spaces set aside for the Laughing Tree tribe, the horses and the unicorns.

It was this half-underground village-turned-fort that was to be the place for another great meeting of leaders: Free Folk, Crow and Canadian.

On the morning of the thirteenth day of the eleventh month, Michael walked through the hard mud and sprinkling of snow to the entrance of the palisade that led to the Kingsroad to wait for the Free Folk chieftains to arrive.

He went alone. The others were still asleep and wouldn't be needed for some time, so he decided to let them have the extra hour or so of shut-eye. The town's few streets seemed deserted, until he made his way around the smithy building and into view of the entrance.

There seemed to be an entire impromptu market there, tucked inside the walls of the entranceway that had been designed to trap people storming it. Along one side was a series of tables and carts with goods for sale. Everything from sacks of foodstuffs to tools to sex. On the other side were lots of Free Folk milling about, bidding on things like it was an auction. Between all this and the village was a thin line of armed and armoured Laughing Tree warriors, seemingly under command of Ryk.

What in the name of Trudeau's wig is going on here? Michael thought, marching over.

"Ryk!" he said, in Officer Voice No.1.

The man flinched slightly, before his thin head turned to the source of the noise. He looked considerably less like a fish than usual, as his eyes were half-closed with early morning sleepiness. "Gods! Must y' be so loud," he slurred.

"What the hell is all this?"

"Tradin', what's it look like?"

"Who said anyone could do that here?"

"No one. The women over there set up a fuck-tent to take silver from the folks passing south on the road. It worked, then everyone in town brought their own trade."

"And there's no one stealing?"

"The villagers are armed and there's nowhere to run. Even the women have crossbows."

Fuming, Michael bit his tongue, lips drawn back in anger. "Ryk, are you telling me the Free Folk women coming down from Castle Black are buying sex from the locals?"

The man looked confused for a moment. "No? Well, aye. A few."

"So there are men buying sex here."

"Aye. Boys more than men, most of them."

"I seem to recall agreeing with Mance that there'd be no men south of the Wall. If these guys are old enough to fuck, they're old enough to fight."

Ryk snorted. "Aye, that they are. Though a boy is far more able to fuck when young than he is able to fight men grown. I know, I started early on both!" He chuckled to himself, and opened his mouth to explain further.

Tales of the man's early sexual career were the last thing Michael wanted to hear. The man was barely an adult himself. "Stop right there. I don't care. They went ahead and did this without asking, now I've got a nightmare on my hands."

"How can you have a nightmare on your hands? Dreams aren't pork fat, Michael Duquesne."

Michael felt a deep urge to slap his own face. "The Free Folk outside now know there's food and other valuable things in here. So we'll need to set extra guards. When Taryne finds out, she's going to be pissed."

The woman was to be administrator of the base after Michael and the others went south, and having been kidnapped herself, she wasn't likely to appreciate the situation like a stoic.

At last, Ryk looked genuinely sorrowful for his inaction. "If I'd known it was such a problem…"

Michael sighed. There was no point reprimanding the guy. I need to remember they don't think like I do, he thought, They're not in the Army, not really. He decided to use the problem as an opportunity.

"Whatever. Here's what you're going to do. None of the locals leave this area without being searched. They're going to pay a fifth of whatever gold, silver and copper of what they're carrying when they're done trading, from now on. No thieving from whatever they don't sell though. I'll explain why later. I'm going to wait outside for Mance."

Ryk grunted with displeasure, but agreed to do as he had been ordered, muttering about kneelers and their ways.

Reservations about taxes being too much like kneeling, no doubt, Michael thought to himself, cheered by the thought, Or wondering what the difference between taxes and stealing are. He'd fit in well in Alberta.

With the situation seen to, he walked into the crowd. Or rather, through it. Wearing his CADPAT and armour once again, cleaned of the blood of the Crows, he was instantly recognisable to every Free Folk person present. They parted for him like the Red Sea, saying their greetings. He nodded back.

The so-called 'wildlings' were doing strong trade with the locals. So the raiders aren't hugely representative of the total Free Folk population, Michael pondered, Or at least raiding isn't the only way they acquire things they don't have. What was more surprising was the amount of gold and silver changing hands. The Free Folk didn't have coins, but they did have jewellery of every sort that reminded Michael of old Celtic and Viking works that he had seen in history books.

Near the 'fuck-tent', there was a cacophony of shouts. A small young man of sixteen or so exited, wearing nothing but a patchwork fur coat around his shoulders and a crossbow bolt in his bare arse. He staggered, until some friends about the same age and size came out and carried him, followed by a pair of armed prostitutes that were barely more dressed.

The whole collection seemed to pause on noticing Michael, as he did on noting them. Great, that's the last thing I need. I really should've specified what 'children' meant when I said they could come south.

He pointedly took the rifle hanging off his front in hand, causing the audience's eyes to widen sharply. "Get out and go back to your mothers," he told the young men, "Get that wound looked at."

The boys sent dirty glances back at the women at the tent entrance, but complied. Michael knew what those looks meant. This wasn't over. He turned to the prostitutes.

"Your business today is concluded. Get back to the brothel. The leader of the warriors back there is called Ryk. He'll want a cut of your earnings today. Tell him I said to double the guard."

"By what right do you take what is ours?" one of the prostitutes demanded, "What we have earned with our bodies?" The other shook her head and pulled the first inside the tent again.

"Fair question," Michael muttered, wondering how he'd actually answer for a moment, "It's not like I'm the CRA."

He quickly moved on, finally making it out of the palisade perimeter. The Kingsroad ran directly outside, and it was easy to see how the Molestowners had been able to attract people inside; the little market was directly visible from the highway. If you could call it that. It was little more than a wide dirt path on raised earth about two feet higher than the farmland and woods around it.

The whole road and a great part of the field beyond was packed with people, animals, carts and sleds on the move, all moving south. Every woman appeared to be a spearwife, carrying a variety of weapons of bronze, stone or antler-bone. No shortage of children walked along either, though these were usually on the older side and there seemed to be very few infants. No mystery why that is, Michael thought sadly.

Every person had a spring in their step though. Many raised their hand in greeting to Michael, as if he was an old friend. The Wall being between them and the Others had raised their spirits, he knew, but it was still very strange to have people credit him with their salvation. Though he was not alone in that credit.

A few minutes after he had stopped to wait, Michael heard a great cheer erupt from the north, and following it, a cavalcade of shaggy horses and ponies led by Mance. The King rode quickly, his black-and-red cloak flapping in the wind. Mormont was with him, looking considerably more healthy than before, though his face was grim as ever. The chieftains, the witches from the Fist and some Crows followed behind, Tormund Giantsbane and Jon Stark being the first visible. The Free Folk got off the road to let the riders pass.

"Lord Duquesne," Mance greeted as he arrived, "You weren't waiting too long I hope?"

"Not long, your Majesty," Michael replied, his words polite but his tone dry, "Welcome to Her Majesty's Canadian Forces Base at Molestown."

The King's eyes swept over the palisade wall. "The place is unrecognisable," Mance declared, "You work swiftly."

"Well, we make do with what we have. You wanted us gone from Castle Black, as did Mormont. The Laughing Tree still needs a place to call its own."

The Lord Commander said nothing.

Mance was equally bemused. "You're not sour about my demand still, are you? You got what you wanted. Jon Snow here, Longclaw, the message to Robb Stark seeking peace…"

Michael resisted a scowl. The price of Mance going along with his plan had been steep. He did not want to give up the Valyrian steel sword. He hadn't wanted to give up Jon Stark either. He had even stopped the sending of the message to Jon's brother on the basis that it was a warning that the Wall had fallen.

It was only when Michael pointed out that Eastwatch likely had the time to send a raven that the King relented. Even so, Mance wanted Castle Black put under his direct control, so that if the Others attacked, he could open the gates to everyone who needed to escape. Without the need to wait for Canadian verification of said attack.

On this, Mormont agreed with him; the presence of Michael and the other Canadians was something he wanted rid of. Mormont also extracted a concession to send out riders to warn the villages of the Free Folk presence, which wasn't something Michael really objected to in the first place.

"I'll get over it," Michael replied at last, "For now, you can all dismount and come with me."

The largest underground space in the village was chosen for the war council. It was a winter storm shelter of sorts for those that normally lived in the ramshackle houses above, and contained plenty of furniture for the job. It smelled slightly of mold but it was otherwise clean. There were three fireplaces too, with chimneys cut directly out of the rock.

By the time Michael re-entered it with Sergeant O'Neill, the space was full of Free Folk, a gathering not unlike what he had seen at the Fist of the First Men. The fires were blazing, the air more humid, and the whole space echoed with conversations. There was barely enough space to get into the room from the tunnel. Didn't think there were this many.

"Can't wait to get back to a world with deodorant, sir," O'Neill muttered, "And showers."

Michael smiled. "Right, because we gravel technicians are the dictionary definition of hygiene right now. Or ever. Only people in the Army who keep that fresh are the circus performers at Disneyland on the Rideau."

"I don't think the staff at Defence Headquarters would like you calling them circus performers, sir."

"It's the best description for people who send a light infantry battalion to the NWT for the sake of publicity. Our own world was going to hell already, plenty of guys in need of lead poisoning. It's only pure chance we landed in a place we can make a difference, if only because we need to get home. But if you're so concerned, put it in your report when we get home, and we'll see."

O'Neill gave a single, loud laugh. "Don't tempt me, sir."

Much of the nearby conversation died, the Sergeant's volume having drawn attention. The room got quieter and quieter as Michael navigated through the standing crowd to the circle of tables and chairs at the centre of the space. Soon, it was silent, all eyes watching the latecomers. What, did I insult them by coming last? "Apologies for being late," Michael declared politely as he could, "Don't worry about us. Keep talking."

This did not restart the chatter, and was instead met with general confusion. With the exception of Queen Dalla, who broke out in a smile, and her sister Val, who had a strange contempt in her look. Mance is a lucky man, Michael joked to himself as he finally reached the tables directly opposite the royal party.

All the surviving chiefs from the meeting at the Fist were around the circle, save for Six Skins. Lord Commander Mormont, Jon Stark and a steward of some kind were also given a place, though they were guarded. In front of each chieftain was a weapon, laid flat on the surface of the tables. Michael could see Longclaw in front of Stark.

The witches stood inside the circle of tables, blessing the place with burning wreathes of a pleasant smelling wood, chanting quietly as they moved.

There was no shortage of new faces; pledges from latecomer tribes to the cause of King Mance. Michael had little doubt that all scepticism about his leadership had evaporated, for the moment.

Ygritte was present too, looking as imperious as possible for someone standing barely more than five feet tall. Flanked by Taryne and Ryk, she was sitting as representative of the Laughing Tree tribe. Michael's throat tightened a little at the sight of her. What am I going to do…

According to Ryk, she had been chosen because she was the person among all the Westerosi closest to the Canadians. Closest to Michael specifically. He didn't know if that was a good basis for choosing leaders, but she was at least cooperative and was learning fast. At last, the Free Folk resumed their conversations and Michael began to sit down in the empty seat beside Ygritte, giving her a cheerful nudge that she returned with a grin.

Mance rose to his feet and began to speak.

"Here we are."

He raised both hands to either side of him.

"South of the Wall!"

A cheer went up, followed by the chieftains slamming their hands on the table.

"What feels like a century ago, the threat of the Others became so great that I and others set out to unite our peoples to defeat the Crows and reach this land. Our land!"

Another shout of approval.

"And the gods sent us powerful friends to help us. I have no doubt that we would have conquered the Wall on our own. But the Canadians gave us a better way. We have spent far fewer lives to take it, and have done it sooner than any of us had dared hope. Our ways of hospitality brought us a great boon, and we have much to be thankful for to Michael Duquesne and his fellows."

Tormund jumped up from his seat, half onto the table in front of him, drinking horn in hand. "Hail the Wallbreakers!" he roared at the top of his voice.

"HAIL THE WALLBREAKERS!" the room replied, so loudly that it seemed like the world shook. Michael glanced at O'Neill, not entirely sure if he should respond or how he could.

"Hail Mance, King of Wall and Gift!" Tormund added.

"HAIL MANCE, KING OF WALL AND GIFT!"

Mance smiled at his friend and waved for him to sit down. "Thank you, Tormund," he said, "I can see you've embarrassed our Canadian friends a little."

A round of laughter followed.

"Perhaps they are not used to such praise," Tormund said, pulling his long beard as he resumed his place, "But we Free Folk do not let great deeds go unremarked."

"And I have no intention of stopping you," Michael replied.

"As if you could, har!"

Isn't that the truth. You'd need a straitjacket and ball-gag to stop this guy drinking and shouting.

"We've done something that the Free Folk have never done before," Mance continued, "We have defeated the Night's Watch and made peace with them."

There was loud grumbles of complaint about that.

"No, friends, we can be proud of that. We have made peace on our terms. But now I face the familiar problem of all our kings… Joramun. Gendel and Gorne. The Horned King. Bael the Bard. Raymun Redbeard. They all came south. They were all broken by the armies of the Starks. And those armies are already gathering."

Harma Dogshead stood and pointed directly at Jon. "There's a Stark sitting right there, Mance," she said, "What need do we have of worry over Stark armies when we hold a son? We should trade him for the Gift and have our peace."

Shouts of agreement and disagreement boomed over that. Michael listened. It was as expected. Realists, idealists and sadists, all competing to have their way.

Mance eventually cut through the noise. "The lords will not allow that," he said, "Jon is a bastard and a man of the Night's Watch. Aye, he is a good man and wise beyond his years, his yielding to us showed that."

Jon shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the attention. Is it the bastard part or the compliment he doesn't like? Michael pondered.

"But the lords of the Starklands care not. A Crow bastard's life will not prevent raiding, or soothe the long hatreds we share. The lords will raise their own host if the Starks do not. And I have pledged to our Canadian friends not to use the boy as a hostage."

Harma glanced Michael's way, and he met her gaze, bracing for an argument. But instead of saying anything against freeing Jon, she inclined her head and sat down. Interesting, Michael thought, She doesn't want to speak out against us. We have some real clout here. It was the only reason he could think of that would shut up a chieftain.

"I have gathered you to consider our path," Mance said, "As I have often done. The first thing we must consider is whether or not it is wise to continue sending only women and children south of the Wall."

So that's his game. He wants to change the deal. Michael straightened up in his seat. But why?

"As I said when we agreed on that," he started, "Everyone we get south of the Wall alive is a victory against the Others. Everything I've heard about the Seven Kingdoms tells me that fully grown, armed men of the Free Folk are everything they fear and hate, exceptions though there may be."

Michael paused to let that sink in, but feared he wasn't convincing anyone.

"So we rely on the warriors to keep the dead at bay. We rely on spearwives and a select few tribes to secure the Gift. When all the women, children and herds are through the Wall, the men will come through and defend it. That is the way to keep the most number of people alive."

There was quiet as the chiefs considered this.

"As for what the Starks will do, I can promise you they'll be dealt with. One way or another. And Harma was right about one thing, there is a Stark here."

Michael looked to the young man in question. "Jon, would your brother hunt down 'wildling' women and children who are no threat to him or his war?"

All eyes turned to Jon Stark for the answer. It came at once. "Never. But I cannot speak for his lords. Some have less than honourable reputations."

"His lords do not obey him?" O'Neill asked.

"They might act before he knew," Jon replied, looking to the rest of the circle, "Soon he will go south to the Riverlands. That's a long way from the Gift. He would punish those that mistreat your women, but that would be afterwards. His justice cannot bring back the dead or undo rapes."

"There you have it," Mance declared, "From Eddard Stark's own son. We need to bring a bigger host south of the Wall to defend ourselves. Not from the Starks themselves, but their bannermen."

Michael stood up. "You said the Starks' armies have beaten yours whenever they've met. If you bring your warriors through the Wall and the Starks refuse to talk peace as a result, how do you plan to defeat them while also defending the Wall from the Others? To say nothing of these ironborn and slavers you have mentioned before."

Mance stared, his tongue working in his mouth. He didn't want to be challenged on that. "The host assembled beyond the gates of Castle Black is the largest the Free Folk have ever assembled. But we do not yet possess the arms and armour for a great battle to decide the matter."

The King's gaze broke away from Michael and scanned across the room. "I would use our strengths and what the Canadians have taught us about reconnaissance to confound the Starks and their lords. I would break up our host into many smaller ones but acting as one, and turn the Wolfswood into our fortress and our Kingsroad."

"Our wargs would find the enemy before they could find us. We would lay ambushes, attack with better numbers, and take weapons from the dead. With each victory, we would gain more. Small settlements we would seize, not loot and burn. I'd make the countryside north of Winterfell into such a place that no kneeler could step outside their castles without sprouting an arrow or spear in their bellies."

A cheer went up, from every Free Folk and Thenn throat.

"And then I would gather a true host once more, march to Winterfell, and make peace on our terms, as we have with the Crows."

Processing the King's speech, Michael clutched his chin idly, scratching the beard that had begun to grow there, before catching himself.

Mance's plan was a good one. It played to the advantages the Free Folk had, and took into account the structure of their army and strategy. It was a coin toss if it would work, though maybe fifty-fifty was the best odds the Free Folk had ever had. The odds improved when Canadian arms and expertise were included. But it all felt unnecessary.

Everything fell into place. The plan sounds too good to be true, Michael realised, The chieftains don't want peace or don't believe it can be achieved.

"I will admit, your Majesty, that it is a good plan if things go badly. But in preparing for war with the Starks too early, you might make peace impossible."

"Peace is already impossible," Tormund boomed, his arms crossed, "What of the Umbers? They will march on us whether we bring our men south or not. We have maybe six thousand warriors past the Wall, two at Castle Black and four at Eastwatch. How many will old Crowfood bring? Ten thousand? Fifteen?"

"We have Mors' daughter," Michael replied, "She has seen everything that you have. She will talk to him. And we will bring wights too. Proof of the Others' return. At the very least we can delay his attack until negotiations are concluded."

Tormund's face relaxed, the man seemingly mollified, to Michael's surprise.

Lord Commander stood now, struggling the last few inches but finishing as straight as a bolt. "May I speak?"

Mance flexed his fingers, wondering if he should allow it.

"The Crow caws," Morna said darkly, her white weirwood mask changing the pitch of her voice in a strange way, "He should keep his beak closed."

Darth Vader has spoken, Michael's mind joked.

"A Crow can have a pleasant sound," Mance commented, "But is most often an irritation. We'll find out which sort this Crow is." He gestured to Mormont to speak.

The Lord-Commander inclined his head slightly in thanks. "Lord Duquesne, you speak of peace but have brought about the circumstances for a greater war. I would know your plan to reverse this."

"So you can pass it along to your friends in Winterfell?" Ygritte asked, "You love us no more than Mors Umber, Lord Crow."

"A question rightly asked," Mormont admitted, "And while I love you not, none in Winterfell has ever met a wight. Lord Duquesne sent a message to Robb Stark, informing him that the Wall was taken. That may have already ended your chances of peace. If I know the lords of the North, many will demand your destruction out of fear and pride alone."

Mormont looked to Michael. "Tarly told me what you had him write. Your declaration of peaceful intentions will buy you time. The lords will argue over it. They will argue over the wights and the Others too. But in the end, they will not believe you or not care. The host of the North will march against you and deal with the wights afterwards. So I ask again, what is your plan?"

"To show them a different way," Michael replied, "By bringing conclusive proof of both our peaceful intentions and the existence of the Others. Something they can't argue with."

"Not all of us are so peaceful," Styr interrupted in the Old Tongue.

Michael did not even look at the bald, earless Magnar. "You will be." He left the or else unsaid, but the message was received before he continued answering Mormont. There was no angry rebuke or promise of violence from Styr in reply. Michael had suspected that the Thenns were afraid of him and his team. They had avoided him ever since the battle at Castle Black. Now he knew for sure.

"Mance has been gathering more wights using the wargs. I'll bring them south on our crawler, with Umber's daughter. My thought was to gather all the cavalry we have and move south in a show of force, so the Starks know that they can't just sweep the Free Folk aside… but you say we don't have a lot of time, Mormont?"

The Lord Commander shook his head slowly. "The raven you sent to Winterfell will arrive later today or in the morn tomorrow. My own will arrive soon after. Stark may hide the message they bear for some time, deciding what to do about what has happened. But not for long. The lords will find out."

"How long do we have?" Mance asked.

"Two weeks at the least, if Robb Stark goes straight to his lords with the news," Mormont answered, "Perhaps a moon or two at most. He called the Stark banners some time ago, and if the speed of their gathering is as fast as it was during Robert's rebellion, a force capable of crushing you will be ready in four to six more weeks."

Dalla tilted her head. "Why are you telling us this?"

The Lord Commander sat again slowly, and folded his hands on the table in front of him. "I want you to accept whatever terms that Robb Stark offers. I know you will not like those terms. So you need to know just how close you are to destruction. Mayhaps it will make you more wise in your choices. Though I doubt it."

The chieftains glared, the Queen glared, Val glared… but Mance sat down, contemplative.

The King is too smart to miss a fair warning when he hears it. Michael thought, before he decided to ignore the Lord Commander's comment in favour of a practical approach.

"So we don't have time to gather cavalry and move it through the Wall. And even if we decided today, an army moves slower. Okay then. I will lead a small force to Winterfell. One or two hundred riders on horseback, and the unicorn riders. Not enough to be a serious threat at first sight, that should even help convince Robb Stark that we're not invading."

"What will you do if you run into Umber's host on the way?" Tormund asked, "Or the army of some other lordling kneeler?"

Michael frowned. "Go around it."

"And if you can't?"

"Fight our way through."

Tormund gave a vicious, toothy grimace. "Can I come along?"

"I'll need you here, Giantsbane," Mance stated, "As for Winterfell… What will you say when you get there, Duquesne? We tried talk before with the Crows and they rejected us. We showed every officer of the Watch a wight. It did not matter. Without the threat of war, any negotiation looks doomed to my eye."

Michael thought to answer, but was beaten to the punch.

"My brother is not Ser Alliser," Jon Stark interrupted loudly, "And the North remembers the tales of the Others."

"The Night's Watch was founded to fight them, else why would they build the Wall?" Dalla said, "It did not remember."

"The Watch is as much southern as northern," Jon Stark answered, "Men from all Seven Kingdoms are sent to the Wall to serve in it, often against their will. That they didn't believe wild northern tales or trust you is not proof that my brother will think a wight is mummery."

"Enough," Michael said, "Let me worry about wights and wild northern tales. I'll give Robb Stark the same offer I proposed before. All will take sacred oaths to not fight or raid. The Gift will be yours, Mance. All those that will not kneel can stay there. Anyone who would kneel can go to Stark territory. No one who refuses to do so will be bound by the oath after all this is over and can go north of the Wall again." If there's anything left there to sustain life…

A rumbling chuckle bubbled out of Mance. "Oh Lord Duquesne, you lack imagination. Even if Stark agrees, what price do you imagine his banners will demand for such an agreement? He will almost certainly demand hostages and our weapons, so we may not rise against him for a generation. You do not have the right to decide for all of us if we wish to put the children and kin of every chieftain present here in the hands of those who hate us."

Ah ha, so that's the problem, Michael thought as he examined the King, The chieftains not only don't believe in peace, they are afraid he is turning tyrant or is too deferential to me, and now he's pressuring me to soothe them. The man did not look all that regal, though his queen did. It did not matter, how he rose to become leader of his nation was obvious; he was smarter than almost all of them.

It did put Michael in a bad position though. If I insist on telling them what to do, I'll lose this argument. He sat down with a theatrical sigh, and pulled his pistol from its holster on his leg. Gasps of shock and outrage erupted, the room watching the weapon as it was placed on the table in front of him like all the swords in front of the chiefs.

And now that you have been reminded… "You're correct, I do not have the right to bargain your children across the negotiating table. But luckily, I don't need the right and I don't need to be the one negotiating."

Mance's head turned slightly, his eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure I take your meaning."

Time to play to the crowd like he is. "You've already chosen Val to speak for you with the Starks. I will take her south to negotiate on your behalf. But she doesn't have the right to bargain hostages either. Not even you do, Mance."

"Aye," said the ancient Ygon Oldfather, before a half dozen others joined him with no small amount of enthusiasm.

"Well lucky us, we've gathered almost everyone that Stark would want a hostage from," Michael said, stabbing the table with his forefinger, "Right here, now, this council can decide what terms can be proposed and what won't be. Talk through and take a vote on each item. Whether that's swearing allegiance, hostages, gold and silver, help for Stark's war... Anything a majority of chieftains approve of, Val can make a part of your offer."

The chiefs looked at each other, and consulted their direct neighbours , Mance leaned back in his chair, sending the wood creaking as he did so.

Three cheers for parliamentary democracy. "I don't need to tell you all the stakes here," Michael continued, gesturing around the circle of tables, "Don't worry about looking strong. I will make sure it looks like you have the advantage without you bringing the whole army any further than the Wall. We need every man on top of the damn thing, not south of it."

"And if Robb Stark or his bannermen refuse good terms?" Val asked, "If they think nothing of a 'wildling' girl sent to speak peace with them?"

Michael already knew what was expected of him in that scenario. He really did not want to do it, but he knew the entire plan would collapse if he didn't at least promise to. "We will do what we did when the Crows refused the same, stand and fight with you. Mance's strategy to fight the Starks is a good one, we can use it."

"So this is your plan," Mance said, "Go south with no real host, taking along Umber's daughter, Jon Snow, my goodsister and a collection of wights... Putting yourself in the gravest danger for the hope that some agreement might be reached?"

He gestured to the chiefs. "All while I would be unable to retaliate with my own army should Stark or his lords break the parley truce and take you as hostages. I cannot allow you to do this. Your presence may be the thing that allows our victory. If you want to negotiate with the Starks, let us do it, together, standing at the head of a great host at the gates of Winterfell."

That's not your plan, Michael thought, That's the chieftains' plan. Mance was skating on thin ice, somehow. The 'what have you done for me lately' effect was in full swing. Or perhaps they just didn't like keeping their men north of the Wall.

"You do not control what we are and are not allowed to do," O'Neill growled from behind Michael, "We swore oaths to Canada and Elizabeth the Second, not the Free Folk and Mance Rayder."

"That sort of thing won't get us anywhere," Michael added quickly, "Especially if whatever political conflict is happening in the south gets resolved. The reality is for either of our plans to succeed, we need to cooperate."

He stood up, picking up his pistol again. Ygritte and Taryne attempted to follow him to their feet, but with a wave he asked them to sit down again. Need someone in the room after I've left it, he thought, Who better than those two?

"I have set the terms for the commitment of Canadian forces to your cause, Mance," he continued, "You should propose terms to offer to Stark. This council should vote on them both. It should happen today, I'll be making preparations to ride south the morning after next. I'm going to leave now to allow you all to talk through this. It's a decision for the Free Folk alone."

Michael took a single step away, but Mance had one last thing to say. "What will you do if we reject your terms? Or this council does not approve ones that you think Stark will accept?"

Ah, he wants to know if we'll fight against him. "For the moment, we would remain at Molestown to figure out a route south for ourselves," Michael replied, "If this council wants a war with the Starks without trying honestly for peace, I can't stop you. It won't be Canada's war."

Chapter Text

The guard-fires roared in a great arc around the camp, whole trunks of soldier pine and bushels of spikeleaf fed to the flames in the night. Atop the hills nearby were yet more, protecting the lookouts. All to stop the cold and worse.

From the top of the Wall, the camp looked more empty than it ever had before. A line of torchlights showed that the animals and families kept moving through the Wall, as they had day and night since the Canadians opened the way. Still more had been dispatched to the Nightfort to use the gate there. Soon, perhaps the next day, there would be only menfolk in camp.

In the lands beyond, there was nothing but darkness. The clouds hung low, almost as low as the Wall itself, cloaking moon and stars from what meagre light they could provide but reflecting the fires' orange glow.

Rain, Val thought idly, her mind finally doing something other than processing what was to come. She had taken herself to the top of the Wall to see the lands beyond one last time. There would not be time later. In the morning, she would depart for Winterfell. It would be a long time before she saw the land of her birth again. It seemed a bone-deep certainty to her.

As she predicted, rain began falling, the droplets splashing on the gravel and ice around her and freezing. The water pattered to either side loudly. Val sighed and pulled her fur hood up over her head, tucking her long braid in for good measure. I wonder how warm the South really is.

There was a clank from behind, telling that the winch cage had made it to the top of the Wall carrying its passengers.

Unable to see who it was past one of the giant catapults, Val waited, preferring to be alone and not wanting to be interrupted by Crows. Many black cloaks had already been released from their imprisonment to continue their work keeping the Wall up. Three had already been gelded by spearwives. Whittling down the rapers will take some more time, Mance had said, when Val had made an issue of it, But Lord Crow knows none will escape and has no objections.

To Val's surprise, Dalla and Jon Snow appeared from behind the wooden frame of the catapult, giving each other their farewells with more warmth than Val thought appropriate. The wolf followed behind, the rain bouncing off its fur. Val could tell it was going to be an enormous thing when fully grown, yet it seemed as biddable as any dog. Warg, she concluded of its master.

The beast followed Snow as he went and took the place of the Crow on watch further down the Wall. Dalla came over, her walk careful as the gravel shifted and crackled underfoot. She had a smile on her face, the source of which Val couldn't place.

"The wolf?"

Dalla gave half a roll of a shoulder. "He warmed up to me."

Val glanced at the wolf again, causing the animal to return the gaze. Easy, pup.

"What did you want with Jon Snow?"

"To know more about his brother," Dalla replied, "Someone you should have asked about yourself."

"I know enough. He's a kneeler. He will treat only with other kneelers."

"That is not enough."

Val looked away from her sister, and back north. "Does it matter when I have no chance of convincing them? And my escape from Winterfell will depend on the Canadians believing I am not false in talking peace?" Merely pretending to make a generous offer would not work out well, for Val or the people depending on her.

She took hold of the end of her braid, fiddling with it. This was not a conversation she wished to have. "And all the worse that we have to wear that ridiculous name, the name of a family that would have happily flayed or impaled our father. 'Umber'. The kneelers themselves will not recognise it."

Dalla sighed. "It is our heritage, sister. We are who we are. Because of that, the kneelers will doubt. Enough to listen. And Mother will be with you to back your words."

"Mother is no more convinced on this than anyone else. She just defers to Mance, like he is a kneeler king."

"She defers to Mance because he protects us both, and our tribe. Because he has made me a queen, contrary to the traditions of our people, and made them accept it. And because I am carrying his child."

Val half-lurched, barely keeping her footing. "How long?"

"Not long," Dalla replied, "Two days since I have known for sure."

Her heart swelling with joy and fear, Val drew her sister into a fierce embrace. "I knew this would happen some day. And I am glad we made it south before it did, though life must not end for fear of death."

Dalla returned the embrace, before pushing away gently, smiling the way their mother used to. "Thank you. The babe will need your protection. We have the Wall to stop the Others. That leaves only the kneelers, including our own mother's family. The duty falls to you, to do what is necessary."

Val's throat and chest tightened. "Then I am doomed."

Glancing back at Jon Snow, Dalla swallowed air and steeled herself. Val felt her stomach drop. Oh Gods, what does she intend?

"There is something we can offer the Starks," her sister said, switching to the Old Tongue, "Something the Canadians cannot know of."

Val narrowed her eyes. "The chieftains heard nothing of that sort at Mole's Town. They have not voted."

"The chieftains of the Laughing Tree were there," Dalla replied, "We could not tell their chieftains. Nor can we tell others, those who hate the Starks so much that war is the only path they will ever take."

Val just barely kept a scowl off her face. That the Free Folk had come together to decide on their fate had been a great achievement, she had thought. "So you are undermining the chieftains," she said, "You will offer something that was not agreed. It will divide our people and we will end up fighting each other, while the Starks laugh."

"What do you think I have been doing all day?" Dalla asked, "Every chieftain who is not mad or desires to die a bloody death, I have talked to on Mance's behalf. All have agreed to the new offer, with their own terms."

"What terms?"

"Rights to use land in the Gift, mostly. Some are more … difficult."

Val realised the significance at once. "What have you bought with such terms? It must be a mighty demand. Surely, the chiefs have not agreed to kneel?"

Dalla shook her head. "No, they have chosen the only route that prevents us needing to kneel, save for war. Fighting the kneelers would cost too many lives and too much time. The chieftains have accepted the idea of an alliance with the Starks, to offer our military strength in addition to theirs."

Val's eyes widened to the point that the cold stung them, forcing them to tear up and shut again. "What?!" she hissed, wiping the tears away.

"Mance has talked much of the wealth of the far South in the past," Dalla replied, "They haven't forgotten. Many wish to go south to raid."

"And Mance thinks this is a good idea?"

"As do I. The men are not like to stand upon the Wall, awaiting the Others' blow. Any peace would be under constant threat from the raiding clans. What better way to relieve it than to let them do as they wish against the Starks' enemies?"

Val couldn't believe her ears. "The chieftains have not considered that them going south would make them hostages as much as any child held in a castle?"

Dalla exhaled an amused breath and shook her head. "Mance has done his work well. They are already dreaming of all they can steal."

"Fever dreams," Val said in disgust, "And why must the Canadians not find out about this? Surely they would be greatly pleased if they knew most of the council favoured an alliance?"

"They are a strange people," Dalla sighed, "A people born for war, yet they ferociously mislike it while making its practice a prayer. Even now their new followers practice marching."

She gestured to the camp. "The clans most enthusiastic about alliance are those that would never agree to peace, but see this as a chance to despoil as much of the kneelerlands as possible. The warriors of Canada would not stand by as Free Folk warriors raid villages that have nothing to do with the survival of our people. Yet allowing the clans the chance to do just that may be the very key to that survival."

"The Canadians would be right," Val stated, "The Starks' enemies have done us no harm. And what if we lose?"

Dalla looked off north to the camp, troubled. "Mayhaps they are in the right. But the alternative is to kneel to Stark. Whether that is openly or by so many oaths and hostages held against us... Is that a price you are willing to pay?"

All true, Val thought. The only ways to stand with the Lord of Winterfell as an equal were to defeat him or to prove their worth in battle some other way. And the southrons beyond the Neck were no friends. Their victory would be the death of the Free Folk. They knew nothing of the Wall or the Others. They did not wish to know.

"So you wish me to offer alliance to Stark?" Val asked, "How do I do that without the Canadians finding out?"

"Our agreements with the Starks are not the business of this Canada of theirs," Dalla said, "But that is not the biggest obstacle. The kneelers do not do alliances as we do between clans and tribes. They prefer permanent arrangements. The lords are held together by other ties…"

Val looked up at the sky, wondering what Dalla meant. And it hit her, like a falling star. "You can't mean…"

"Would you have me say it out?" her sister half mumbled, at least having the dignity to be embarrassed.

"I cannot marry the Stark boy for an alliance," Val stated firmly, "That is not our way. And I am not some bauble you can trade like an Essosi merchant at the mouth of the Antler."

"Your sacrifice of our ways will protect them for the future," Dalla replied, "I do not take this lightly. Neither does Mance. We are not ordering you to do this. We ask that you consider it. Get the measure of the young Stark in Winterfell, and make the decision yourself. As I said, the fate of our people is in your hands."

"The lords will not accept it."

"If you present yourself as Val of the House of Umber, if you come offering to solve their problem, and if you offer the concessions our council has already approved… they may have no choice."

Val was suddenly glad that Dalla was with child, for she would have throttled dear sister otherwise. "Does Mother know you are doing this?"

"She does. She accepts it."

"What did she say?"

Dalla hesitated. "Nothing."

Val was not convinced. "What did she say, sister?" she repeated.

"She said nothing before agreeing, but she seemed lost somewhere else for a moment," Dalla said, before joking, "Mayhaps she dreamed of being a kneeler lady again, of seeing us honoured as nobles. Now we both will have that."

Or we will die. "Honours... And Mother is of the Free Folk now. She cares not for such honours."

"She cares that her family would recognise us," Dalla said, "We are now south of the Wall. The land of her birth. That we can live here and bring her grandchildren into life here is what she wants."

"You are guessing."

"Not without knowledge. Do you think me mistaken?"

Val had no answer. Her sister was not mistaken at all. It would be just like Rowan Umber to think such a way. Above being Free Folk or kneeler, her mother was a survivor. But Val did not want to believe that her mother had become that person again. She had spent her childhood listening about the strange ways of her grandfather's people. And their hatred for the Free Folk.

Dalla was waiting for an answer when Val next returned her attention that way.

I need some cause to reject the idea. "Robb Stark is young. Too young."

"He is like his father. Honourable. Strong. Good with a sword. Better with a lance on horseback. A warg like his brother as well. You would have no reason to complain, in time. And I would think you would enjoy a younger man, though you are not so much older."

Val grumbled incoherently, struggling to form a response that wasn't at volumes the nearby Crows could hear. Not least Jon Snow.

Dalla laughed. "But if you feel elsewise, simply offer what we said before and rely on the Canadians to get you out if that fails. The terms are to be made in good faith, and the so-called northmen are the blood of the First Men, mostly. An oath before a weirwood binds them as much as it does us."

"So not at all," Val shot back with a false smile, "The ones among the Free Folk most like to break an accord are the ones least likely to care for oaths."

"Aye, and the southron lordlings are no doubt the same. But not the Starks. We swear oaths with them, and the lords that fight us will find their own liege on our side."

Val eyed her sister. "You speak like Taryne."

"Mayhaps. But Taryne would betray us to the Canadians in a breath's moment. So don't share notions of alliance with her."

Why would I? Val thought idly, Taryne is no friend of mine. "I have not said I will do as you ask."

Dalla waved her off. "I know you will. You have not threatened to slit Robb Stark's throat yet. So you know the weight of the task I have put on your back."

"Aye, I'll be on my back. And we know what the lords will want done while I'm there. I have little desire for children, sister, not yet. I will not be able to keep a straight face when I make the offer, sister. Or a calm tongue."

Dalla's lips thinned. "You would not need to give him the offer. Mance is going with you."

Val looked at her blankly. "Mance is coming south?"

"Yes. Disguised as one of the unicorn riders. They haven't forgotten their oath to him."

They aren't born of stolen women, Val thought, Not like the Laughing Tree's other clans. "It is unwise to test their loyalties. And won't the army fall apart without Mance?"

"Not if he's gone for a certain time only," Dalla replied, "The chieftains will be told he's going on a tour of the Gift, to see what points may be defended easily. Only one who knows the truth is Giantsbane, because he's going to command while Mance is gone."

Val rubbed her face. Any more surprises? "Do the Canadians know?"

"They'll find out," Dalla stated, "They just do not need to know yet. A King Beyond the Wall must not appear to grovel, after all."

Then why was I chosen at all? Val's mind asked, hurt, Was I not to be trusted with this negotiation in the first place? "I care not, sister," she said, "If Mance is going to talk to the Starks, then I will stay here. It was our King who 'volunteered' me, yet he would come along? Clearly he has no more need of my being at Winterfell."

Having no more to say about the matter, Val made to leave. Dalla gently grabbed her arm, holding her in place. The wolf took notice, ears up.

"Val… The lords need to see us as more than savages. They think they know us, but they know only the raider in the night. If Mance goes alone, they will see only him. And what is he? Aye, handsome to my eye and a great man. But also a Crow that flew away, his black cloak sewn with red silk, his winged helm on his head. An armed traitor."

Dalla touched the side of Val's cheek. "If you are the one they see instead, what is it they will glimpse? A proud woman of the Free Folk, speaking good sense, beautiful and the very image of what they think nobility is. All their expectations will be shattered."

Val's jaw set with annoyance. "So I am to lead in talking to Stark because the lords shall think me pretty?" she said, "Somehow, that feels more an insult than them rejecting me for my wildling blood."

"They're men," Dalla smirked, "Their fantasies can confound their good sense. Something we must use to our advantage. Despite the bluster, Mance would avoid war with the lords. He is of a mind with the Canadians in this more than with the chieftains. Our people need this, sister. Tell me you will do what we ask."

Val scowled, and pulled her arm out of Dalla's grasp. But the words she wanted to speak rejecting her sister's request could not come. Instead, her eyes were drawn north again, searching for the Others in the gloom beyond the guardfires. "I will do what is required," she said instead, "No further, unless it pleases me. And I think it shall not please me."

Dalla breathed a sigh of relief. "Then it is all in the hands of the gods now," she said, "All preparations made."

Val shook her head. What manner of woman have you become? "You have changed, sister," she said, "A year ago you wouldn't have bargained my life for anything."

"I am a queen," Dalla replied, "While that does not mean much to our people, it is not without meaning entirely. I feel… burdened by it, sister. As if the bards will sing of my failure if after having escaped the Others, the Starks ride us down, shaming me for all eternity."

Val looked at her sister like she had just asked for a dragon. What a foolish notion. "You won't be around to experience eternity," she said, finally leaving, "Better to think of the here and now."

"Where are you going?" Dalla asked.

"Taking your advice," Val replied over her shoulder.

Seeing that Jon Snow hadn't moved from his post, she walked carefully across the icy gravel, moving further down the Wall. Her progress was tracked every step of the way by the white direwolf. The creature eventually broke away from its master's side, padding over to inspect her.

As it reached her, Val stood absolutely still, allowing it to sniff her. Not here to hurt anyone, wolf, she thought, I would know your master, is all.

To her surprise, the wolf acted as if it heard her mind, and it threw its long nose under her gloved fingers. She found herself scratching the beast on its large head by force of habit, to its delight. It panted silently, an eye the colour of weirwood sap peering up at her as she found a spot behind the ears that was particularly favoured.

"That's unusual," Jon Snow remarked, "Ghost doesn't usually take to people like this."

"Mayhaps I am not just anyone," Val commented. She stopped scratching the wolf, and got her hand pulled on for her trouble. Despite the size of the teeth clamped around her glove, she could tell it was just asking for more.

Jon Snow laughed loudly. "Mayhaps Ghost just knows the people who scratch the best," he said, "Even those who are brave enough to approach are not always brave enough to touch him for long."

Val retrieved her hand from the wolf's mouth, getting a silent huff of breath in response, and joined the Crow at his post. "Tomorrow we leave for Winterfell."

The young man inclined his head. "We do. What brings you to me, my lady?"

Val hesitated. It didn't seem proper to simply ask about his brother, though she was sure that was what Dalla had done. But she did feel there was something to speak with him about, now that she knew what she had to do.

"I would talk with you. We're alike, Jon Snow."

The young Crow raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

Val eyed him, not sure she should even hint at what she had been asked to do. He is easy to look at. A pity he wears black. "We're both trapped by duty."

Apologies for the lateness of this chapter, I have been ill for a number of weeks now.

Also a shout-out to LadyAstraan on the PureASOIAF Discord for recommending this story. Thanks!

Chapter Text

The wights snarled and rasped breathlessly as they were tied up and rolled into large fur blankets, tucked in with ice slabs from deep inside the Wall. Their luminescent blue eyes rolled and searched as they were packed atop the crawler's rear unit, secured with strong polymer rope from another world. Stacked like carpets, a tarp was laid over them and still more ice from the Wall shovelled on top, finally covered with a second large canvas to protect the cargo from the sun.

The last piece of cargo. Everything else had been readied to go the evening before, allowing those that would be going south to catch a long sleep.

Zheng flashed a thumbs up from on top of the crawler, indicating that everything was secure for travel. Michael flashed it back out of habit and waved for her to get down, feeling strangely sluggish for reasons he couldn't explain.

"So that's it," O'Neill said from behind.

"That's it," Michael confirmed, "We're ready to go."

"Are we?" the Sergeant asked, "I know logically, we are. Doesn't feel like it, sir."

"There's a good reason for that," Michael replied, "All we have to do is engage in diplomacy with a foreign power, on another world, in the technological and cultural context of a medieval society. If we succeed, we get to drive or fight our way to a magic island that might not be magic at all, then maybe retrace our journey. If we fail, we're in the middle of another idiotic war."

"What could possibly go wrong?" O'Neill commented flatly, "You forgot about the ice demons, sir."

Michael grimaced. "If a Wall a few hundred feet high can't stop them, we're up the creek anyway. Hopefully we can leave that problem behind us."

"And now that you've said that, we're fucked, sir," Zheng declared cheerily, "Best not tell them that though." She gestured to the open space around the gate area of Molestown, where the Laughing Tree tribe was fully assembled.

To one side, those that would remain behind until some sort of resolution to the Stark-Free Folk conflict was made. Mostly settled folks, Michael noted, Married with kids. They were clumped together in knots, not having been subject to the constant drilling of O'Neill. The Sergeant's opinion was you couldn't teach old dogs new tricks, though they weren't all that old.

To the other side, a disciplined line of almost-soldiers, dressed in black steel mail over their furs, with helms and shields. They were almost exclusively young men and women. Each had a maple-leaf made of red cloth pinned to their chests, seemingly cut from a single template. Even the unicorn riders, dismounted for inspection and in far less orderly a line, had the patch.

I wonder whose idea that was? Michael thought with annoyance, pondering on whether or not he should order the 'sigils' removed. They're not Canadians. Not yet, anyway.

"They look more ready than we are," O'Neill commented.

"Of course they are," Michael responded, "They've been waiting for this longer than we have."

There was a commotion as a group of riders came through the deliberately emptied 'market' section of the village.

To Michael's surprise, it was Queen Dalla leading the way, not Mance. She looked more regal than ever before, wearing a crown of small antlers and what looked like Mance's black and red cloak. Beside her was Val, looking far more modest in what were quite obviously travelling furs. Behind the royal pair was a collection of Crows that included Jon Stark and the Lord Commander himself.

The riders passed between the two groups of the Laughing Tree, coming to a halt in front of the crawler. Keeping up diplomacy, Michael stood to attention and saluted Dalla. The Queen dismounted and returned the salute in decent fashion, drawing an amused snort from Zheng.

"Your Majesty," Michael greeted, ignoring the Corporal.

The Queen did not comment on the use of the title. "Lord Duquesne," Dalla replied, "Or is it Elector Duquesne?"

Michael saw Mormont frown ever so slightly behind, apparently not happy or not a believer that the whole party of Canadians were nobles. Perceptive grouch. "Lieutenant Duquesne, I'm under arms," he replied with a smile, "Is the King joining us?"

Dalla shook her head. "He's resolving a dispute between tribes," she said, "It seems the warriors of the Ice River and Mountain Caves were unable to take the Shadow Tower. Their families are unhappy that their men were sent at all."

That meant the Night's Watch still survived in some independent fashion, Michael knew. He looked to Mormont again, finding the man carefully guarding his face from showing feelings on the matter. But the Lord Commander was too smart to think questions about it could be avoided.

"Ser Denys Mallister has commanded the Shadow Tower for three-and-thirty years," Mormont declared, "If you expect me to order him to stand down, you'll find yourself disappointed by the result."

Dalla glared at the man over her shoulder for a moment. "Another matter Mance will need to deal with. Worry not. The Halfhand has offered to mediate. And if that fails, the Frozen Shore tribe and their cousins of the forest will happily make the journey to take the Tower from the south."

"And Ser Denys will happily meet them in battle," Mormont smiled, "I suppose it is all in the hands of the gods."

"You may suppose," Val commented, her tone venomous, "But the gods will not save Denys Mallister."

"Nor the warriors he cuts down before his fate reaches him," Mormont replied coolly.

For reasons he couldn't explain, Michael found the whole exchange increasingly hilarious with each word. Thanks to the underground library, he knew of the complexity of politics in the South. The familiarity of the argument between Crow and Free Folk seemed almost quaint by comparison.

Yet the back and forth was a long way from murder, which would've been the default between a Crow and Free Folk person south of the Wall not so long ago. At last, a loud chuckle escaped him, ending the back-and-forth.

Michael held up his hands in apology. "Sorry," he said, "It's just… I think I'll actually miss this when we're gone. Night's Watch and Free Folk… Crow and wildling… You stupidly kill each other, sure, but now you're just jousting with words. Doing what we've done here? Bringing the Free Folk south and keeping some sort of peace, I think it might be the most important thing I've ever done in my life. Let's not screw it up. There's an army of dead men after us all."

Eyes wide, Val and Mormont exchanged looks, while the rest of the delegation simply stared. Jon Stark's left eyebrow threatened to disappear up into his generous hairline, which actually made things even more amusing.

Michael glanced between Dalla and Mormont for a moment. A strange melancholy rose up his throat that he couldn't suppress. The next time I see them, they could be wights…

"We might find a way home and never meet you again," he said, "So keep each other alive when we're gone. Try to remember you're all human beings, and your real enemies are not. Not just talking about the Others either. Hunger, disease… stupidity. Do your best against those, and remember us, for what that's worth."

The Lord Commander looked away, north towards the Wall. Dalla gazed at Michael, her eyes warm with surprised approval. Val sighed, and glanced at an equally confused Jon Stark. I've stunned them all. Great.

"Where did that come from?" Zheng asked in English, "Motivational speaking a side-gig of yours, sir? I wouldn't quit the day job."

Michael shrugged. He didn't know why he needed to say what he had. "Are you ready to march?" he asked the two who would be joining him, "You have your sword, Jon Stark?"

"I am ready." "Yes, it was returned to me."

The responses from Val and Jon came one on top of the other, solemn as a funeral prayer. Both were resigned to whatever awaited them on the journey, a death sentence hung over them. Without anything that could soothe them, and not sure he should even try to begin with, Michael just nodded. "Then let's begin."

He side-stepped away, back into view of the parade lines of the Laughing Tree. Taryne, Ryk and Ygritte immediately saw him, and braced themselves for the order they knew was coming. "Mount up!"

The order was repeated as the formation of three hundred men and women broke and ran towards the corrals of horses and unicorns, every one of them eager to get going. Their mounts and spares had already been loaded up with their weapons, supplies and equipment. It was just a matter of getting in the saddle and going for most of them, following Ygritte down the King's Road.

Speaking of getting in the saddle… "Where is Lady Rowan?" Michael asked Dalla, "She is supposed to be riding with us."

The Queen smiled and pointed to the crawler. Indeed, the older woman was already waiting by the forward cabin, leaning against the vehicle with a large bag made of what looked like an entire deer. When did she get there? Michael wondered.

"Our mother has always been able to move unnoticed," Dalla explained, sensing his question. Makes sense, Michael thought, Useful skill where getting kidnapped is a first date.

"She is ready to speak to our grandfather and grand-uncle," Val added.

"She better be or we'll all be neck deep in your grandfather's blood," Zheng snarked, before marching back towards Rowan with the intent of getting into the crawler. She still had little faith in the plan or that anyone was getting to Canada from this world. Michael frowned, and glanced at O'Neill to join her. The Sergeant understood at once and trod in Zheng's steps.

Michael made to go and do one last errand. "Lady Val, Jon Stark… say your goodbyes. When I get back, we'll be moving out."

Dalla stopped him gently. "Lieutenant, please understand our fate is partially in your hands. We are taking a great risk in trusting you. If things do not go well, recover my sister and mother from Winterfell, whatever else happens."

"I promise," Michael said, "I already promised."

"I needed to hear it again." Dalla said, moving out of the way.

Michael could understand that. Shooting their way out of Winterfell was a last resort that some might be tempted to avoid entirely. The library's information on the castle was not encouraging. Still, he went on his way, passing by Jon Stark and Tarly in conference. The latter's eyes were watering with grief. Not just heartfelt goodbyes for the Free Folk, then.

Taryne was waiting for him in the empty space left behind when Ygritte had led the troops away to their mounts. She looked considerably better dressed than before, having acquired clothing not made from animal skins in the twenty four hours since Michael had last seen her. "Lieutenant," she greeted.

Michael gave her a nod. "It's time. You already have the gold and silver we taxed from the trade. Is there anything else you need?"

"Just our return to our homeland," Taryne replied, putting her hands on her hips, "Convince the lords of that."

"I'm going to attempt to," Michael answered, "Hopefully that will be the easy part. You're willing to 'bend the knee'. I'm sure they'll like that."

Taryne bit her lip in thought. "I'm not so sure. I feel more nervous than I was after I was taken by the raiders, though that was because I was ignorant. I keep asking myself the same questions… Have I led these families to doom? Will the lords let me go home with my children? Or will they reject everything I am?"

Michael felt a pang of sympathy for her. She had taken a risk coming to him for help, and brought many families along with her. "They'll not like what happens if they do reject you."

Taryne's face lit up with amusement, her eyes laughing though her mouth was not. "Ah, they'll meet the wrath of the mighty Wallbreakers!"

"God damn right."

Taryne swept him into an embrace, just for a moment. "Thank you. I may have to name my next child after you, Lieutenant."

"Please don't. That's far too embarrassing."

"All the more reason to do it, then."

Michael couldn't formulate a response to that, and stood staring at the good-humoured woman for a minute, until the patter of boots on damp ground summoned his attention elsewhere.

From the corrals, Sayer walked quickly over, on his way to do his duty. He shot a salute up as soon as he saw Michael turn. "Unicorn riders report ready to march, sir!"

The unicorn clans hadn't earned the trust to be given radios yet, having only joined the Laughing Tree after the Wall fell. Michael would've preferred to keep Sayer on assignment with them permanently, but had thought better of it. No need to make hostage taking easy.

He nodded, and changed the channel on his radio. "Weirwood, this is Maple. Report."

"We're on the horses," Ygritte replied, any semblance of military professionalism missing from her response, "Can we go now?"

Michael looked around, seeing no reason to wait. "Get on the road in column, but wait for us and the unicorn riders. We'll pass you, that'll be the go signal. Got it?"

"Yeah, I understand," Ygritte grumbled, her English pronunciation somehow better than before. She had mastered the art of complying while being a shit about it.

Sayer shot Michael a look, like he wanted to say something. Michael raised his brow at the Private, inviting him to speak his mind.

"Ygritte seems annoyed at you, sir," he said.

"She is," Michael confirmed, "She wanted to ride in the BV. Can't say I blame her, even the seats in the crawler are softer than a saddle."

Taryne gave a guffaw. "If you believe that is the reason she is displeased, you are beyond hope."

Michael glared briefly at Sayer, transmitting the simple thought; Look what you've done. The Private straightened up to attention. Michael stopped himself, a little guilty. It wasn't really Sayer's fault. He turned back to Taryne. "I'm aware of her feelings."

"But you do not know how to respond."

"I do. But the mission comes first. We have laws. It's been explained to her."

"And maybe she even accepted your explanation. But that doesn't mean she's happy about it."

"I'll figure something out."

Further discussion of the matter was interrupted, as the column of mostly-shaggy horses and large ponies began moving out from their corral. Each rider had a spare mount tied on the end of a rope following beside, to facilitate the quick march south. Winterfell in ten days, Michael thought, It's going to be tough. Good thing the Watch had plenty of horses.

After the vanguard unit of warriors who actually knew how to fight from horseback rode by, which was not a large group among the Laughing Tribe or the Free Folk more generally, the forward command unit appeared.

Ygritte and her elected NCOs rode on ex-Watch horses in full regalia. She wore a Canadian helmet and radio headset, her blazing-red hair flowing and bursting over her shoulders from beneath them. She also wore Singh's body armour over her furs, and over that, a necklace made of brass bullet casings arranged in three lines with a small circle of them just below the collar. The necklace had not been on her before. Her weapons hung from her belt or her saddle, including her old short-bow and the longbow taken from the Other she had helped to slay.

Very Mad Max, Michael thought with amusement, Clear the way for the Bullet Farmer!

Ygritte gave a salute as she approached, two riders behind holding spears with the Laughing Tree sigil and the Maple Leaf flag waving from them. Michael got the message loud and clear. 'I can follow your rules. Join your clan. Now give me what is mine.'

He couldn't, of course. But for some reason, south of the Wall, the rules seemed to matter a little less. Or maybe the time away from the rest of the Army was getting to him. Ygritte was a large part of the reason the remains of his platoon were alive and had allies. Without her, they would've been wandering the wastes beyond the Wall aimlessly, or very much dead.

An idea quickly popped into his head. A quick check to see that O'Neill wasn't in visual range allowed its execution. To hell with it. Michael did not return Ygritte's salute. Instead, he winked at her, wearing a smile that would brook no misinterpretation.

Not much in the grand scale of things, but a promise.

A mischievous grin spreading across her face, Ygritte dropped her hand back to the reins and winked back. The conspiracy is born.

Michael saluted the flag bearers instead as they all passed by, putting himself back into the appropriate mindset. He turned to Taryne once again, as if nothing had happened. "Commandant," he addressed her by her new made-up rank, ignoring her exasperated look, "The base is yours." He saluted her again.

"My gratitude," Taryne replied with false politeness, before cheering up, "See you again soon." She gave him another embrace, which he returned, and a very startled Sayer was dragged into one to match, which he did not return out of surprise.

"Let's go, Private."

Michael and Sayer made their way back to the crawler, avoiding Jon Stark and Val 'Umber' as they rode to join the horse column with Ryk behind them as escort. Dalla and Mormont both looked on with concern, while Tarly openly wept behind them.

"This better work, Duquesne," Mormont intoned without breaking his gaze at Jon's back.

"I don't need you to remind me of that," Michael replied, before looking to Dalla, "Your Majesty, we'll be leaving now. Tell Mance I'd like this place to remain intact while I'm gone. However long I'm gone."

"I shall," Dalla said, "We'll have a horn of ale when we meet next."

"Sounds like a good idea. Goodbye."

Michael gave Tarly a pat on the shoulder as he went by, and finally, Sayer and he reached the doors to the front unit of the crawler. Zheng was already in the driving seat, O'Neill in the front to supervise, and 'Lady' Rowan Umber was in the far rear corner watching the unicorn riders join the column out of the window. Much of the space was filled with everyone's packs, removed from the rear unit of the vehicle so more supplies could be carried.

Climbing inside, Sayer took a seat next to Rowan and Michael crouched on top of the engine deck, prepared to stand up and take the machinegun position in the roof.

"Any last words?" Michael joked to the crew, "Objections?"

Zheng twisted in her seat, arm over the back of it. "It's five hundred clicks to Winterfell, a place we don't need to go and we've got a fullish tank of fuel. It's a warzone between there and here probably, and we're moving with a group of warriors that'll attract a fight. And the people there are literally fucking medieval. Do I have objections, sir?"

"Nothing I haven't already said to him, Corporal," O'Neill said, "Let's go."

Zheng shrugged and returned her attention forward.

"Attagirl," O'Neill smirked, before giving Michael a thumbs up. Shaking his head, the latter stood up into the machinegun position. The crawler's engine roared to life beneath him, and the Corporal turned the vehicle around in a slow arc, drawing the eyes of every villager, Free Folker and Crow present. The last of the unicorn riders was moving through the gate area.

"Follow them out," Michael commanded over the comms, nice and easy.

"Copy."

The crawler moved at a leisurely pace past all spectators, royal, Crow or otherwise, and out of CFB Molestown entirely. The turn onto the Kingsroad was awkward on account of the fuel trailer, but Zheng managed it without incident. The flow of refugees had been stopped by decree of King Mance, those coming through the Wall instead camping at Castle Black for the moment to allow the march a traffic free start.

Zheng pushed the vehicle down the road alongside the waiting column, passing the unicorn and horse riders. Michael gave a wave as they passed, though most were watching the weapon he was holding the grip of with the other hand. Peace through superior firepower, his mind joked badly.

The vehicle passed by the command unit, Ygritte shooting him another wink. Michael smiled warmly at her as they passed, and adjusted his radio mouthpiece. "Weirwood, this is Maple. Catch us if you can, see you this evening. Godspeed."

"Copy, Maple," Ygritte replied with as much professionalism as she could muster, "Don't get into any fights with the kneelers without us. We've got warg birds up, we'll know all about it."

Michael turned his attention and the weapon forwards, as they cleared the column and nothing but open road appeared before the crawler. "No promises, Weirwood."

He grabbed the hand hold. "Corporal, hit it. Let's close the range."

"Yes, sir," came the enthusiastic reply.

The crawler accelerated to three times the speed it had been travelling at, the vehicle taking the people it had transported to another world further and further than they had ever been before.

Chapter Text

The campfires guttered as the wind blew in among the tall trees, smoky and smelling of the freshly cut branches of soldier pine that had to be burned to get the flames burning hot enough to be worth the effort. Men coughed and argued around each one, eating their day's lot of food knowing it wasn't enough.

Even the chieftains sharing Varamyr's fire bitched and moan like old hags, not leaders of warriors, arguing over what was responsible for their defeat. The Shadow Tower was home to a flock of Crows still.

Maybe you'd all be in a better mood if you had a spearwife or two to fuck. Varamyr thought with annoyance. Their kind didn't allow the women to have weapons. Ignoring them as best he could, he focused his mind on betrayal. Mance's betrayal.

He had been given the honour of leading the third warband of the Free Folk by the king. While others would try to climb the Wall and storm the keeps in the east, he was to take the Bridge of Skulls and seize the Shadow Tower. To kill every Crow in the west, he had been given the Ice River Tribe and the mountain cave clans. Savages that made the Thenns look like the Antler River folk, cannibals and slavers, but well suited to the job. Especially as all eyes would be on Castle Black and Eastwatch and the great hosts that would appear before them.

But no other tribes had joined when the call came. Varamyr cursed himself, knowing he should've realised something was wrong then. At the time, he had thought it was merely the chieftains' personal hatred for him. Now he could see the scheme behind it.

Mance's scheme.

The King had gathered all the tribes and chiefs that would rebel against his authority once they were south of the Wall, and given sent them against the keep most likely to hold out against any attack. He had sent them there to die, Varamyr was now sure of it.

After running through the events of the past days again and again, his mind always went to what he would do on reaching the Nightfort. Schemes of his own, madness most of them. That night was no different.

I'll go through and take Castle Black from the south myself. I'll kill the Canadians one-by-one in their sleep. I'll kill Mance and call myself the King of Wargs…

Something in his mind told him that wouldn't work as a plan. That the Free Folk would not brook cowardly ways… if they knew about them. That wasn't what they looked for in a chief or king. The memory of his failure, or how no chieftains had deigned to join him to attack the Shadow Tower when he had asked, would sour any open attack in the eyes of the other chiefs. They had all shunned his leadership.

No… I'll take Mance's skin in the night. A new body with a crown on its head. I'll tell the chieftains to kill the Canadians. I'll take Dalla as my own. I'll take the sister too, as my right. I'll make the wargs the heart of the host. I'll take more skins and when the Starks come, I'll confound and kill them in their camp just before we attack…

As satisfaction at the dreams of such revenge and glory rose up, Varamyr grinned widely, poking at the fire to make the flames lick beyond the smoke. The noise of the chieftains disappeared, replaced in his ear only by the crackling of the wood, his sight flooded with a vision of him having the 'queen' and 'princess' in the ruins of Winterfell. His blood warmed at the dream, banishing the unnatural cold all around him that furs were a poor shield against.

"You speak o' whos to blame like you were chief o' this band o' warriors!" boomed a voice out of nowhere, cutting through the swirling arguments and the fire's spitting.

Varamyr's gleeful grin soured in his mouth, the spell of his new plan broken. He knew who the voice belonged to, and raised his gaze.

Narkar, an old chief of the Ice River tribe, sat opposite Varamyr across the fire, his scarred face and grey beard the only parts of him visible among the thick furs and leather armour. The man met Varamyr's gaze with no fear. "Wasn't to the Ice River or the Cave that Mance gave the bronze rod. Was you, Six Skins. He told you to bring him the Tower of Shadow and the bridge o' the Gorge, and told us to follow what you said. Here we sit, beaten like stray dogs."

Varamyr coughed and hocked into the fire. There was no point talking with the man. The chieftains murmured, displeased with the lack of answer. Hands moved to weapons. Varamyr paid it no heed, his mind moved elsewhere for a moment.

Snow crunched underfoot and Orell stepped in front of him as he returned his attention to the circle. "Wisdom, friends," the young warg said mockingly, "If you could not kill the Crows, you've not a kneeler's chance against us."

"Fuck you, Orell," said a chief of the cave clans of a similar age, his sire dead by the Crows' hands, "You're Rattleshirt's leavings, pissed your skins twice before a Canadian rifle."

"Aye, 'cause you've faced such sorcery and stood tall like a giant," Orell laughed back, "I did not see you try and take the Canadian camp at Craster's, though I heard much talk of how you'd like to enjoy the woman." A clamour of objections and assertions followed, as more of Orell's fellows stepped forward to join him in shouting back.

Varamyr sighed to himself. As tedious as taking a shit. He stood, which quieted the lot of them, though he was no taller than Orell's shoulder. They wanted their answer. He looked at the young mountain-clan chief first, the boy so new to his place that he didn't know enough to be afraid.

"I was told your tribes are the best climbers among the Free Folk."

The young man raised his chin with pride. "Aye."

Fucking lackwit. "You lot couldn't climb the Gorge. We all saw your men slip and fall, cracked open like eggs against the rocks or washed away by the Milkwater to sea. And when some of you did reach the top on the Crows' side, the black ones threw you down one by one to the same fate. Fucking boys and old men too, not the Rangers. You were as useful as teats on an aurochs bull."

The young man bristled, as did his friends-now-fellow chiefs. But he did not have the confidence to attack. The cave dwellers' menfolk had been gutted by the attempt to take the Gorge.

The Ice River chieftains took the opportunity to laugh. Though their true rivalry was with the Frozen Shore clans, they had warred with the cave tribes in the past too.

Varamyr could see they were enjoying the hesitation of the other chiefs to defend themselves with their axes. Too much. "I don't know why you find it such a great lark," he said to them, "I was told you were great warriors, tribes that forever warred with the Thenns and the Frozen Shore, men who fought in the shieldwall. And that you knew the lands near the Gorge well as your own."

The Ice River men were not stupid enough to be outwardly proud. They knew what else was coming. Not such lackwits then.

Varamyr gestured to the trail they had been retreating down. "We were ambushed twice by the Rangers. It seems they knew the trails better. And when the time came to take the bridge, you could not move the Crows from it. Even with my wargs and archers to aid you."

He sat down again. "Mance lied to me about you."

Narkar gave a rasping chuckle. "If Mance lied, he lied 'bout you, not us! You were some great man of cunnin' by his word. The Crows weren't as weak as you were thinkin', and they all had black steel on their bodies and in their hands."

"You were given steel of your own," Varamyr countered, stalling for time.

"A handful o' blades," Narkar sniffed with a dismissive wave, "Prizes to be sure, but not 'nough to break the Crow shieldwall. Tell me, Varamyr, how is it you still've all your skins yet I've lost many fine warriors?"

Fine warriors? Varamyr's mind laughed, Cannibals and men unworthy of seeding a woman. I'll see yours get better stock when I get south. "A bear or a wolf cannot break a shieldwall, Narkar. Mance lied to us all."

"How do I know tha' without you tryin' it?" the old man replied, leaning forward on his knees, "Bears have thick hides, and wolves can grab the ankles o' men."

"And Crow spears are sharp steel. If you don't know that by now, you are unworthy of leading warriors."

"No, Six Skins, 'tis you who's unworthy. You can go back to lurkin' in a cabin, forcin' women into it with your shadowcat, hated by all. Once we make the happenins o' this raid known, no man will ever follow you again."

Varamyr saw the movement behind in the trees, the slow lumbering and rapid shifting. The time had come. "I know," he said.

Narkar blinked and stared, to Varamyr's great amusement. "Wha?"

"I know that if you make it back to Mance with your lies, no man will ever follow me again."

Now.

The snow bear reared up behind Narkar and roared, as she brought her full weight down on the old chieftain at Varamyr's command. The other chiefs stood and flinched away from the creature in their midst, weapons pulled from belts and loops. As the bear brought her jaws around Narkar's shoulder with a wet crunch, ignoring a bone-axe thrown at her, the wolves and shadowcat struck from every other direction.

Ankles, Varamyr thought. His skins obeyed. The wolves grabbed another three chieftains by their lower legs and pulled them to the ground, the shadowcat swiping with his claws. The remaining chiefs scattered as the beasts began tearing at throats and arms, the screams and roars of pain and exertion overwhelming all other sound.

Varamyr watched the gore with satisfaction, not moving from his sitting position. They had not thought much of him. They always thought little of him. He was small, thin, not any man's imagining of a great warrior, nor any woman's. But he was the greatest living warg, and that's all that mattered.

"Should we kill the rest?" Orell asked, pointing with a spear at the fleeing chieftains.

Varamyr grinned again.

The snow whirled in rivers through the air, streaming side-on, the northerly wind carrying it battering all every man and woman it hit regardless of how much fur they had wrapped around them. Even the animals seemed to suffer, their heads turned away from the surge as they pulled the sleds of what remained of the Ice River and mountain cave warriors.

Frost stinging his eyes, Varamyr squinted back from the front of the straggling warband atop his snow bear, seeing that even his own skins were not likely to live to see the night. The survivors of the other tribes had not taken the death of their leaders well, but they wanted to get south. And as if to add misery upon discontent, the food was running out. Only the death of stragglers was keeping each warrior's share above a mouthful's worth each night.

Varamyr dared not ask how things could get worse. He knew exactly how they might. But his thoughts soon quietened as he noticed the wind doing the same, a strange silence settling over everything.

Hoping the worst of the weather was over, Varamyr looked this way and that, finding that the snow was falling directly downwards and letting up. The cold bit less deeply. The world covered in the powdered ice emerged from the flurries. More of the warband emerged with it, the flakes sticking to their furs, the dogs shaking to clear their own. All his skins joined him from the sides.

"The gods are with us…" Orell commented from the sled behind, his eagle flapping its wings on the handle beside his hands. His sled-dogs pulled away as the bears turned to see what had approached from behind.

"We'll see," Varamyr grunted back. He misliked the other warg, no matter how useful the man and his bird was. Orell had come to Varamyr only because none others would take him. None would defy the Canadians. His true loyalty was to a dead man, an unpopular man even when he was alive, mocked for his haughty nonsense and rotted teeth.

But Orell knew the ground they were supposed to be in by now. Seeing it was time for the younger warg to show his worth, Varamyr drank deep from a skin he had kept inside his clothes, the warm water fortifying him. "How near to the Nightfort are we?"

Orell glanced around for a while, his eyes lingering in the direction of the Wall newly visible to the south for longer. "Can't tell. Everything's covered in snow-dust. Leagues, I'd guess."

"Find out," Varamyr stated, "I didn't bring you so you could give me half-arsed guesses." He nudged his skins' minds, making them to open and close their mouths together at the same time. An old favourite of his.

Orell's mouth twisted with disgust for a moment. He knew what those jaws could do. The younger warg sat down on his sled, his eyes rolling and then turning white. His eagle twitched, before taking off, Orell's mind inside it.

Satisfied the man would do his job, Varamyr straightened up atop his snow bear, raising himself as high as possible. He saw nothing that he recognised either, though he had not been by this way in many years. His mind briefly suggested the Crows might be around, but it was a fleeting fear. The Rangers wouldn't be showing up. By now they'd know their black brothers elsewhere on the Wall were under attack or fallen.

It was time for the warband to rest, Varamyr decided, and see how many of them yet lived while Orell flew to the Wall to see which keep they were closest to.

A scream echoed from the very back of the line of sleds. Varamyr's head shot up, seeking a foe in the distance. He saw only panic as the sled drivers and warriors abandoned their sleds and ran in his direction, the dogs pulling the sledges off the trail. Along with the food, Varamyr's inner voice reminded him, The fucking idiots.

"Get those things in hand!" he shouted at the nearest lurking warriors, looking confused about what they were seeing, "Then find out what happened." Some idiot pulled under a sled, he thought, Mayhaps.

The men wasted no time in departing to follow the command. Varamyr watched as they shuffled over the snow towards the disturbance, as more and more warriors and sleds began to flee. He saw other figures too, harder to spot, like the light bent around them. At first, he wasn't sure if they were people or random snow flurries, but his wolves' noses did not lie, their fear wafting to him. His own throat closed on recognition of just what they were, his skin burning as if he had just fallen through the ice over a lake.

The White Walkers had come.

One on either side of the trail stalking through the trees, herding the warband forwards. Bone-tipped arrows flew from bows of those further away, missing or bouncing harmlessly off trees. Their aims thrown off by the weakness cut into them by the cold, the trail and the hunger.

Varamyr's mind snapped out of its torpor, as it understood the tactic. Force the lot of us to run, pick off those too weak to keep up. He himself had used it when intimidating villages for their women, and clans attempting to take other clans alive did the same. And all the better; the Walkers seemed to have no wights under their rule. An expedition to get more then. I won't be taken, he told himself, I am prepared.

He reached behind his cloak for the weapon he had prepared; a wooden club with shards of obsidian lodged down its length in lines. It had taken him two years and a dozen lives bloodily taken to build it. Now it was time to test it.

Varamyr nudged the mind of his warged beasts to advance, swinging to the left of the trail.

The mass of warriors retreating seemed to pause as they saw him and his skins run by, but he paid them no mind. They had no dragonglass, he knew. Better that they distract the Walker on the other side.

The thing directly ahead soon paid heed to the collection of animals advancing on it. The way the light bent around the thing seemed to melt, its edges and shapes not flowing with the trees behind any more. Its glowing blue eyes like starlight peered straight at Varamyr.

You want me to see you… Had the Walkers' approach not been picked out before, such a sight would have set Varamyr to running away. But he had been granted enough time to think. I slay you and your brother, and no man can call me a defeated craven, his mind whispered to him, So your lives are mine.

The White Walker produced a longsword of crystal-like ice from behind its back, and aimed its point at the charging snow-bear and its rider. Varamyr did not stop his white-furred mount. If the Other was surprised at this, it did not show on the thing's face. I'll see those eyes widen with fear yet!

His eagle swooped down from the side just before sword could meet bear-hide, causing a flinch at the critical moment. His snowbear swiped and the wolves circled as he jumped off, distracting the White Walker further. As the crystal sword was swung to create space away from the bear, and then plunged into one of the wolves, Varamyr stepped into range from behind.

They always underestimate me.

Varamyr aimed for where the backbone would be on a man, and brought his obsidian-studded club into a vicious swing, connecting with the Other's hip. Whatever curses he might've wanted to spout at missing his mark disappeared as his enemy let out a crunching, guttural roar of pain. Dropping to its knees, the strike had caused part of the Other's body to shatter, blood like water tinged deep blue draining and steam pouring out the cracks.

The talk of dragonglass was not just talk. Triumphant, Varamyr Six Skins raised his club over his head and sent it flying directly into the back of the White Walker's head. The skull exploded, a gust of steam spewing into Varamyr's face. The rest of the body decided it was nothing more than a pile of ice chunks, collapsing in a pile.

Though his blood sung with the victory, he knew he had no time to enjoy it, nor any to see if his wolf Sly was dead yet. The slain enemy had a brother nearby. Sweat running cold into his furs, Varamyr quickly remounted his snowbear and turned towards the direction of the second White Walker, marshalling the surviving skins to follow.

To his surprise, he found the warband had rallied nearby, blocking the way of the Other. They were forming a shieldwall, archers to the rear shooting. Orell and Varamyr's own war party were at the centre, shouting to the rest to hold. Not so fucking useless after all. Together, they could beat one White Walker, even without the advantage of surprise.

Varamyr rode down to join the warriors, but forced the snowbear to stop halfway. His eyes soon picked out more shapes as they began moving between the trees and across the snow, the light of day going through parts of them but shining on others.

The single White Walker became two, then three, then five, and finally, seven. Armed with swords, axes and bows, the former of crystal, the latter of weeping weirwood.

All staring at Varamyr. Complete silence fell. All words stuck in his throat. The wind halted completely and the final figure appeared between the Others.

A woman.

Her face and body was glowing-white, but unlike the Others escorting her, they were made of skin and not ice. But with them she shared the glowing blue eyes that announced they were not anything human. Her hair was like white gold, and fell to her shoulder. She was cloaked and clothed in a white fabric that seemed to cling to her, revealing every curve.

She was the most beautiful thing Varamyr had ever seen. But he was too afraid to appreciate the sight. He knew who she was. What she was. And so did every other warrior in the warband. This was the Lady of the Nightfort, the consort of the Night King, the High Priestess of the Others, enslaver of Crow and Free Folk alike, the Witch that had sacrificed thousands on weirwood altars atop the Wall, long thought dead at the hands of Joramun and one of the Stark kings.

The Corpse Queen. She's come for me.

"FLEE!" Varamyr roared, abandoning all fear of calls of cowardice and dreams of kingship. He turned his snowbear southwards. The warband did not hesitate to follow this command, nor did the Others wait to commence their own attack. Ice arrows began flying, screams of pain echoing, and strange noises chittered in the distance.

The blizzard returned with a vengeance, closing around the world once more.

Chapter Text

OTTAWA

National Defence Headquarters (AKA Disneyland on the Rideau)

Clutching her heavy sample case, Anne Cloutier thought the soldiers assigned to escort her to the conference room were quite rude. They had roughly searched and herded her fellow scientists like they were children going through somewhere they shouldn't see, except the concern wasn't for those being herded. That she or any of the others had been let into this part of the building was not usual procedure.

But there was no choice. What we know could change everything... but what use is there in treating us like we don't know already? It was making her hands itch. She scratched idly before catching herself.

The group was eventually corralled into a particular corridor, guarded by two armed soldiers with rifles, and into a room. Inside was a large conference table, projector and screen. High ranking officers of the Army sat along one side of the former, leaving the seats on the other for the scientists to fill.

Anne did not pay attention to the introductions. She was too nervous, though she nodded to the commanders of the Princess Patricia's Third Battalion and the Canadian Ranger group that the missing soldiers belonged to. She had seen them before, at the site. They at least looked curious at what she and the other scientists had to say. They haven't been told yet either.

CSIS Director Vigneault walked in as the introductions ended. CSIS had been told first, as they had been the ones to investigate. Ann was still amazed at how calmly Canada's top security agent had taken news of the result of her part of said investigation. The itching on Anne's palms eased. Surely he is on our side? He took his seat with the general wearing the most gold and medals.

Another officer nodded to Anne as she went to sit at her left in the middle of the table, pulling out a laptop and plugging it into the projector system. Anne recognised her as Colonel Harris. She had been in the CSIS briefing as the Army liaison. So we begin.

"Sign these," Harris said, shoving a stack of folders with papers in them to each participant.

"What are they?" Anne asked.

"Non-disclosure agreements," Harris replied, "Stronger ones."

A murmur went up from the scientists. Dr Shih went further.

"Colonel, what we know is of great significance to the public interest," she said, "You can't just cover up…"

"You do not determine what is in the public interest," Harris interrupted, "Especially not when there are defence implications. Personnel of the Canadian Army are missing, we do not know if it was by hostile action or not, and what you have found is relevant. Sign."

Anne sighed, hoping it was quiet enough to escape notice. She knew there was no dropping this requirement. The Director and the generals weren't even speaking to assist Harris in shutting Shih up.

Reluctantly, Anne pulled the nearest folder towards her to sign. That seemed to provoke Shih further.

"And if I don't sign?"

"All evidence will be destroyed and the military will issue a total denial. We will counter your story with the original hypothesis of a deep sinkhole, bury six empty coffins and ignore any further interaction on the matter."

Anne had known that was coming. In other words, the more we speak about it without military confirmation, the lower our credibility. It was a bluff of course, the soldiers would want to know what happened to their comrades, but it was the sort of play governments always seemed to make. She completed her signings, and saw that the others had started on theirs. Except for Shih. "Sign. This is too big for them to hide forever."

Shih grimaced with frustration, but grabbed her own NDA roughly to comply. Harris waited until the task was completed, before turning to the generals.

"What is this about Harris?" one said before she could speak, "You seem to have scared these poor civvies stiff. The agenda says they're what? Archaeologists? Geneticists? I thought we were here to discuss the missing troops."

"I hope that doesn't mean we'll find our people as dead as those you usually deal with," frowned the leader of the Third Battalion with a glance at Anne. Clearly he had remembered her from the site too. "Though it's been almost three months."

"That remains to be seen," said Harris, "But I can assure you, this is relevant to the question of where the six soldiers have gone."

Anne gulped. I hope so too, she thought to herself, But maybe being alive is worse for them.

"Let's start," the Director said.

Harris put her computer screen up on the projector and began a slideshow. A map of the area appeared, with track lines of the route of the vehicle that had gone missing. "General, Director, as we briefed you on previously, we were easily able to identify the exact site of the disappearance of Lieutenant Duquesne, Sergeant O'Neill, Corporals Zheng, and Privates Arran, Sayer and Singh."

"You found some rocks there, thought it might be sinkhole territory," the General recalled impatiently, "Which is unusual itself. Then CSIS swooped in and continued the investigation."

"It's a good thing we did," the Director said, "You'll understand."

The General did not appear convinced. You will be, Anne thought to herself.

"We did not find sinkholes, sir," Harris continued, "We found one of the most important and largest archaeological sites ever discovered in the north."

The picture that the projector was showing changed to an early picture of the site, one of the drone images from above.

It was Anne's turn to start. "As you can see General, the large stones were under the snow and arranged in a massive spiral pattern almost fifty metres wide. Carved into them were runes of unknown origin, and it appears as if the stone at the very centre recently moved or subsided in the ground somewhat…"

"Colonel…" the General began, addressing Harris instead of Anne, "Can you please tell me what this has to do with anything? Your new friends might be archaeologists but I'm not. I'm not seeing the connection between an interesting set of stones and where our missing soldiers are."

Harris smiled. "Certainly sir," she said, changing the slide, "According to every available measure and witness testimony, the lead BV of the platoon disappeared exactly in the centre of the spiral."

The General frowned, finally turning his eye back to Anne. "An entrance to something underground?"

That's right, I'm the woman to ask, not your lackey, Anne's mind snarked. "That's what your soldiers thought," she answered, "So they drove spikes into the centre stone and pulled it up with winches. They found no sinkhole, no underground cave. But they did find this."

Harris dutifully changed the slide being projected. The stone in question, a megalith fifteen feet long, was now standing end to end. In the hole it had been sitting in were two dozen skeletons. Small skeletons.

"Good God," the General exclaimed, the other officers grimacing and shifting in their seats, "Are those children?"

Anne exchanged a look with Shih. The geneticist wanted to spring the truth right then. Not just yet.

"Your soldiers didn't know for sure, but there were lots of First Nations artefacts with them. Lots of things of possible religious significance and many pieces of weapons, particularly where they would've been inside the bodies originally."

"Naturally we thought it was a First Nations site and put the stone back," Harris cut in, "We assumed it had nothing to do with our own search. To be sure, we called the medical examiner to make sure it wasn't murdered folks. There was no exhumation, but he found the bodies strange and discovered the first artefacts. So he called Professor Cloutier and her team to investigate. We kept searching the area on our own."

"What it sounded like to me was a sacrifice site or plague pit. They are absolutely unheard of in that region," Anne continued, "The ME thought it might be a mass grave, settlers using a First Nation site as a place to hide the bodies or something along those lines. Very important historically if that was the case. So I took a flight to Yellowknife with two of my team immediately, met Roger and Lewis here from the local First Nations patrimony group, and got a buggy out to the site ourselves..."

"You are beginning to test my patience," the General said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Mine too," said the leader of the Canadian Rangers.

The Director made a noise that could only be described as 'polite'. "We can speed things along," he agreed, with a look to the scientists.

Annoyed, Anne opened her mouth, but closed it again quickly. She wasn't sure how to hurry the explanation. Key details would be missed, details that the credibility of the discovery depended on. Not to mention the record. It wasn't easy to legally exhume grave sites usually, but it had potentially been very important for First Nations history, and she felt that needed to be stressed.

Dr. Shih cleared her throat, either to prepare herself or get the attention of the room. Anne's heart clutched. Oh Jesus, she's just going to say it.

"The bodies aren't human, and they're probably not from Earth."

Suffocating silence filled the room, as the eyes of every Army officer narrowed and mouths dropped open. Anne could've killed Dr. Shih. She's just sunk us.

"Excuse me?" the General asked.

"The bodies are not anatomically or genetically human. Or ape. Or terrestrial. Colonel Harris has a slide to show. Or two."

To her credit, Harris did move to the first slide in question, skipping the story of these facts to display a skeleton sketch against that of a young human child's, noting differences. None of the other officers looked up at it.

"Did you say the bodies aren't terrestrial?" another officer asked, "Like they're aliens?"

"I'm glad you asked," Dr. Shih smiled, "If you'll look at the slide, you'll see they all have only three fingers instead of four, and have small claws instead of nails."

The whole table looked up. Not all the scientists had seen the full skeletons before. But Anne could see every face was itched in stone. Just like her team's faces had been when they had seen the first body.

Anne quickly indicated to Harris to change to a different slide. The projector soon had a set of DNA test results up, one column marked human, another marked 'NWT find Ref 003'.

Dr. Shih was happy to continue, the shellshock in the audience encouraging her. "We managed to get a viable DNA sample from one of the bodies. That was far from certain given the bodies appear to have been placed there around eight thousand years ago, but we got lucky with local conditions. What we found was unlike anything seen in Earth's animal kingdom. Or anywhere else we know of."

"How was it different?" the General asked, suddenly entertaining the notion.

"Unless you're a geneticist, it would be hard to explain," Anne said, before Shih launched into an explanation regardless.

"To put it a simple way, DNA is a code that describes how to build a living creature. On Earth most things have a code with certain kinds of structure, using certain kinds of molecules. The DNA of this creature is unlike anything on Earth, from what we can tell this early on."

"So you're saying it is an alien?" the General asked flatly.

Anne swallowed her pride and admitted the truth aloud. "An alien… or an artificial creation, but given no one has had the ability to create a being like this from scratch on Earth that we know of, artificial likely means alien too."

The General looked to the Director, who was happy to weigh in. "We had our own people replicate the result. The bodies are real. We got the same DNA data too, though there is still a slim possibility the creatures are from Earth. It's 90% certain Dr. Shih is right about the genetics, but that isn't the only evidence."

He pointed at the others at the table. "These other scientists have preliminary data which confirmed it in other ways. Geology of the stones, linguistics on the runes, chemistry of other parts of the bodies, even the dental examination… All unique and unrelated to anything on Earth, certainly unrelated to anything previously found in the region."

The General chewed on that for a minute, but came to the right conclusion in Anne's opinion. "So either there was a society of unique ape-like creatures in the NWT eight thousand years ago, or we have proof that life from another world has visited Earth?"

"Possibly," the Director said, "There's no shortage of evidence to examine. It still isn't impossible all of it is Earthling like the rest of us. If this is a hoax, it's a very good and expensive one. And we have no evidence for it. An ordinary truck couldn't hike those stones to that location. Every one of them has more bodies underneath them too."

"Going by the average of the first three we've lifted up, there may be as many as a thousand of the creatures buried up there," Anne added, "It's almost certain we'll be able to get more DNA samples." The General paled. Anne smiled inwardly. Good, you understand the ramifications. If they're extraterrestrial, the evidence will be irrefutable.

The commanding officer of the Third Battalion got to his feet, his face red with anger. "Are you suggesting that aliens abducted our soldiers?!"

"Sit down!" the General commanded. The officer complied immediately, though his face was still a storm.

Seeing the key moment had arrived, Anne reached for the sample case at her feet. Might as well go all-in. "I'm not sure if abduction is the right word," she said, "Maybe your troops are still somewhere in that wilderness, or have been captured by another country using technology, and all of this is a coincidence. Or maybe they opened a door no one remembered or knew about before, to a place we've only written about in science fiction. Unless someone saw a flying saucer and Colonel Harris hasn't told us?" The Colonel snorted, amused by that little half-joke.

Good, Anne said to herself, You're calming down. This will go well. She placed the case on the table in front of her and stood up. The thing was large and heavy, she couldn't open it from a sitting position.

"What is that?" the General asked.

"Something else we found," Anne replied, before turning to the two officers commanding the missing troops, "If there was an abduction, I'm not saying little green aliens did it. At least not alone."

She lifted the outer shell off the sample case. Inside was a yellowed skull, clearly human or ape-like, but big enough to be used as a helmet by an ordinary person. It had a flat face, large square teeth and small eye sockets.

"Say hello to Bigfoot," Anne declared.

Chapter Text

The throne hall of Dragonstone shook with the shout from the throats of every kneeling lord present. Though they were few and all others had been cleared from the castle, they spoke loud enough that one would think the dragons carved into the stone walls had lent their voices to the men. And their words were the same.

HAIL STANNIS, KING!

Words spoken with anger over the audacity of the Queen-Regent, though Cressen was an old man, and well experienced in the thinking of noblemen of middling rank. Their enthusiasm was not provided by moral outrage. It came from the opportunity for many of their number to regain a place lost to history. Loyalty to the Mad King in the previous war had cost some of them dearly.

Velaryon, Celtigar, Sunglass, Bar Emmon… Old and famous vassals of the Targaryens left without a benefactor of note. No more. The lords of the Narrow Sea and the lords of the Crownlands now had someone to call king again, and they were determined to put him on the Iron Throne, so that they might have the influence and prestige denied to them by the man's own brother.

You're being too harsh, Cressen thought to himself from his perch off to the side, Their loyalty is not only self-serving. It was earned. He looked to Stannis, flanked by two fires, sitting on the throne of dark granite that Aegon the Conqueror had ruled from before conquering the Seven Kingdoms.

The new king was dressed in black and gold, and wore no crown. Instead, he wore an expression of determination, his heavy brow un-knitted and jaw relaxed. He is pleased, Cressen knew, and could not help but feel the same way despite himself. Despite the message he had in his robes, delivered by raven not an hour earlier.

Selyse and Shireen were present too, their own perch on the opposite side to that of Cressen's own. The king's wife seemed to glow with pride as she beamed at the assembled lords, the king's daughter only looked to her father worriedly.

It is a terrible thing when a child has more sense than their mother, Cressen thought, as he regarded the pair. The red woman stood over them, as tall as Selyse easily, though far more comely. Red silk wrapped tightly over pale, clear skin, and a ruby tied around her throat… Even the lords could not help but steal glances. But only Cressen himself looked at her with the suspicion she deserved.

"My lords!" Stannis declared, "I thank you for your loyalty and good sense. Together, we shall assure the rightful king shall always sit on the throne, and the depravity of the Lannisters will be remembered forever. Our enemies are doomed."

A cheer went up. The King frowned at the interruption, briefly.

"We have much work to do. These are my commands; ready your ships, rally your men-at-arms, prepare for war."

The King glanced at the red woman. What has she said to him? Cressen thought, What happened to the boy and the man who valued wise counsel and would never have fallen for a foreign witch's prattles? He could not believe it was the same reason many of the other lords would have paid her mind; a face and a body.

"And heed this; by the time we may move, much may have changed already. The coming war shall not be short. Tywin Lannister is no fool, even if his bastard grandson is. And his treasury is full of gold. This will require all our strength. Go now, I expect to hear of your preparations soon."

The lords rose as one, gave their bows and withdrew from the hall. Stannis quickly signalled for Ser Davos Seaworth to stay behind, and for Cressen to join him by the throne. Selyse quickly took Shireen out of the hall, but the red woman stayed behind, hovering at three paces from the King. Begone, witch.

"My king," Ser Davos said as he approached, "What do you need of me?"

"My ravens to the Stormlords have gone unanswered," Stannis said, with a look to Cressen, "And no one has word of Renly since he left King's Landing. We know he has not returned to Storm's End, but nothing else."

"Much of the Crownlands are now loyal to Lannister gold," Ser Davos said with a sniff, "The Queen was spreading it around for years. Perhaps Renly is having trouble escaping them." It could have happened that way, but Cressen knew the former smuggler better than that. He was searching for a good reason why the king's brother might not have returned to Storm's End, but wasn't so stupid as to dismiss the possibility that Renly was dead or had done something infinitely more unwise.

"My brother is a fanciful fool," Stannis said through gritted teeth, "But he had a significant retinue with him, and the Tyrell boy. He escaped. If I had to guess, he makes for Highgarden, to sit out the war. I just hope his friendship with the Tyrells keeps him from being held as hostage against me."

"The Tyrells have no love of the Lannisters, my king," Cressen said.

"Nor of their rightful king," Stannis replied, "And it is not yet the time to declare my claim to the greater realm. The Starks do not march, and Lady Arryn's instability troubles me. She has not sent her son as her husband promised, and word from Gulltown is she has not left the Eyrie since arriving."

"The time to declare yourself will come," intoned the red woman, "That, I can promise." Her voice was deep and warm in an accent that could only be from the furthest end of Essos. No wonder men and women fall for her tricks.

But the King was unimpressed. There was hope yet. "Be sure to tell me when the time does arrive," Stannis said, "In the mean time, I have need of your sailing and smuggling talents, Davos."

"For what, your Grace?"

"I need sellswords and sellsails. Tywin Lannister has deep pockets. He may prolong war with gold, by way of buying men and ships from Essos. You have contacts among such men yourself, I would buy them first."

"Unwise, my lord," Cressen interrupted, "Such men cannot be trusted. The Lannisters could bribe them to betray us."

"They can be trusted to fight for gold once contracted," Stannis responded, "They do so yearly in the Free Cities. And it is Your Grace, now."

Cressen bowed his head in apology, trying to ignore the red eyes of the red woman boring into him. What do you want from me?

"I shall bring men and ships, your Grace," Ser Davos confirmed, "Including my own from Cape Wrath, such as they are."

"Good. And once you have sent swords and ships, I would have you learn why the stormlords are not answering their king, and have them pledge their strength to ours."

Ser Davos' face curled. "They are lords, my king. I'm just a smuggler to their eyes. Someone of higher worth may be a better choice to speak to them."

"You are of higher worth, and the king's messenger besides, they will hear what you have to say and hear it in my voice," Stannis intoned gravely, "I could send a boy of ten to deliver such a question, and I would expect the same answer from the lords. I am the king. I would have them recognise it or reveal themselves as false."

"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Davos said, not mollified, "I will do as you command."

"I know you will," Stannis replied, "Now go…"

Cressen quickly intercepted Ser Davos' arm before the knight could leave, almost being dragged to the ground in doing so. The knight quickly steadied both of them with his mutilated hand, surprised at the movement.

"If I might, my king, two letters arrived from Castle Black that are… strange," Cressen said with a deep breath, "They talk of matters of great import if true. I think you might value the counsel of a worldly man in reading them, and I am sure Ser Davos such a man."

Stannis' brow moved ever so slightly upwards, his curiosity piqued. "Very well."

His stomach turning at what he was about to say, Cressen bowed his head again and retrieved the raven scroll. "Lord Commander Mormont and Maester Aemon both write to say that the Free Folk are assembling an army… And the dead are rising north of the Wall, turned into the slaves of the White Walkers returned again."

A silence fell over the hall that felt like it lasted for an hour, the stern blue eyes of the king boring into Cressen. He wonders if I have lost my mind.

"What?" Stannis snapped, grabbing the raven scroll, "Is this some sort of jape?"

Cressen shook his head slowly. If only it was. "The letter states explicitly that it is not and is genuine," he replied, "Chieftains showed up with some strange foreigners to negotiate moving the wildlings south of the Wall. They brought one of the resurrected dead to show the Lord Commander. Maester Aemon's letter goes into great detail about it."

He held up the other scroll, only to have it plucked from his fingers by the red woman, her eyes seeming to glow slightly. What business has a shadowbinder with the far North? he asked himself.

"They say dead men are rising north of the Wall?" Ser Davos asked, "Even if that is true, what do they expect us to do about it? I can't believe they would send this message to every great house."

"They haven't," Stannis said, his eyes moving from side to side as he read the rest of the letter, "The Night's Watch want to buy dragonglass, and half this island is made of it. They say it is only weapon other than fire or Valyrian steel that can kill the wights and the Walkers."

Ser Davos shook his head in disbelief.

"If I might suggest allowing them the dragonglass, my king," Cressen said, "Mayhaps they tell the truth. It is certainly possible. I have never considered Maester Aemon to be a foolish or frivolous man, he is well regarded even today at the Citadel."

"Jeor Mormont is not a fool either," Stannis agreed, "Even if his son is."

Cressen tried to remember what Mormont's son had done to earn the title of fool, but failed. Ten years ago I would have remembered such a thing at once.

"They could have discovered a superstition or obsession of the wildlings with the substance, and wish to profit from it," Ser Davos suggested, to Cressen's approval, "Does it really matter if it's for fighting dead men? No reason we can't profit too. It's well known the Watch haven't received the bounty of the realm."

"As well they shouldn't," Stannis replied, "It is the dumping ground for rapers, thieves, bastards and spare northern sons. What is the point of the Starks being Wardens of the North if they rely on such men to defend them from wildlings?"

Cressen frowned. "Your Grace, men did not build a wall hundreds of feet high to defend against wildlings that cannot even build a catapult. But Ser Davos may be right too. It is impossible to know soon. Ravens can take weeks to reach that far north at times."

A curious look came over Stannis' face. One that Cressen had never seen before. The sight of it scared him. What has happened to you, my boy?

The king looked to the red woman. "Well?" he said in a demanding tone, "Maester Cressen says it is impossible to know the mind of the men of the Night's Watch for weeks. My wife claims you have sight beyond sight. You predicted certain events before, what say you to this challenge?"

Cressen felt sweat begin to drop down his neck, feeling like ice. Predict certain events? What events?

The red woman did not reply, but smiled, holding out her lovely hand towards the king and looking at the letter from Lord Commander Mormont. The king placed the scroll in her grasp. She took both it and the scroll from Maester Aemon, and dropped them in the fire to the right of the throne. She did not take her eyes off the flames, as they rose higher than the two slips ought to have allowed. Cressen swore the ruby at her throat glowed slightly.

For a moment, nothing happened save for the paper of the scrolls being consumed. Cressen began to hope she was a false witch, a woman simply adept at reading the fears and hopes of the sort of person Selyse was. But as his sweating stopped, the red woman recoiled from the fire a step. Ser Davos moved to catch her, and the king shifted his weight. She recovered without help and returned to her place, eyes enraptured by the licking orange waves.

"The Wall and Castle Black have already fallen," the red woman said, with no small amount of surprise.

The king blew out a breath with amusement. "The White Walkers?" he asked.

The red woman shook her head slightly. "No, Your Grace. The foreigners the Lord Commander spoke of."

"Who are they?"

"I see four banners. A snowbear on a field of lillies. An eagle with wings of flame, perched on a harp in a green field. A golden dragon flying in a deep blue sky towards a white sun. A lion with a thick mane, a crown on its head, standing in a field of blood. All of them carry a red leaf of a maple tree."

Cressen baulked. "How could four foreign nobles take Castle Black? Do they have retinues with them?"

The red woman looked against into the fire. "I see them carve through the Wall with fire and smoke, cut down men of the Night's Watch as if they are nothing. It was not magic, I would have felt such a thing before now, but some clever knowledge. Many of the ones you call wildlings are now south of the great barrier."

Cressen did not know why, but he believed the words. He felt his heart lurch, his chest tighten. By the gods…

"I know not these sigils… save perhaps for a crowned lion…" Stannis thought aloud, his eyes briefly glazing over in thought, "But it could not be the lion of Lannister. There are none of that line at the Wall to my knowledge, and certainly none among the wildlings."

Ser Davos made a noise from his throat. Cressen knew he did not want to address the red woman directly, but the Onion Knight had a question nonetheless. "Are you saying the Night's Watch… They are all dead?"

"No. The Watch yet lives. It seems the Lord still has use for them."

Or the foreigners do. Cressen could not contain an outburst at that. "If the Watch lives, their purpose lives and the Wall has not truly fallen. I suppose you shall say we should not send the dragonglass regardless? That our king has other concerns?"

The red woman tilted her head, like he had just said something stupid. "No, the Lord of Light commands it. We must send the dragonglass, and be prepared for more. Once King's Landing and the Iron Throne belong to Stannis of the House Baratheon, we must look to the north. The Great Enemy has indeed stirred from his rest. There is still time to undo his machinations, but it will require the full strength of the Westerosi."

The king stood from his throne, lurching upwards to his full height and over the red woman's own. "How do I know you are telling me the truth? You say the dead are rising, and the North is being invaded by a wildling army led by foreigners unknown to our shores."

"No, Your Grace. The wildlings are led by one of their own, a man in black wool and red silk, a King Beyond the Wall."

Stannis' jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. "It matters not. If the Starks have wildlings to their north, or worse, they may hesitate to march south."

The red woman smiled brightly. "Worry not, Your Grace. The fires have shown that no matter who prevails, your enemies will suffer. The Lord of Light shall shine his light upon the victor."

"I do not believe in gods. My faith has never been rewarded."

"You shall, and it will."

"Answer my question. Why should I believe you?"

"One day, you shall learn the truth of what happened at the Wall, through others. On that day, if what I have said is false, kill me."

Cressen exchanged a look with Ser Davos. The red woman had just talked herself into a bet she could not withdraw. The king sat back down on the throne, and took the red woman's hand. The gesture lacked force, but it was not a kindly touch. "I shall remember that."

"I have no fear of being proven wrong, nor of death, Your Grace," the red woman replied.

Stannis' demeanour softened slightly, and he released her hand. "We shall see." He looked to no one in particular. "Leave me. I wish to be alone."

Alone or alone with her? It was a question that could not be asked. "So be it, Your Grace," Cressen replied, joining Ser Davos with a bow. To the visible surprise of both, the red woman did the same, and followed them out of the hall. Ser Davos made his apologies and rushed off to begin his preparations for the tasks the king had set for him. Without the Onion Knight's companionship to protect him, Cressen attempted to increase his pace to escape the other person present, but the red woman was tall and he was old.

"Maester," she intoned, catching up to him without trying, "My name is Melisandre of Asshai. You would do well to remember the name, and heed the words of the Lord of Light. The night is dark and full of terrors. It draws close for you in particular."

Anger bubbled up in Cressen, out of the deepest part of his soul. "My lady, I shall be long dead before I heed the commands of your strange god."

The 'Lady' Melisandre inclined her head in a nod. "Yes, I believe you shall."

Chapter Text

Each day's ride through the Gift was relentless.

They always started with something the Canadians called 'reveille' at dawn, a loud droning horn blast to wake all. Jon didn't think he could hate a horn so much, and it was obvious from every face that even the wildlings felt the same way.

Tents would be struck and packs loaded onto the horses, ponies and unicorns. A light breakfast would be had, for both men and mounts. The Canadians would then get inside their metal beast with Rowan Umber and it would take them away at great speed down the Kingsroad. From that point, three chieftains were in charge, though they often argued with the princess called Val. Two were called Ygritte and Ryk, the third was unknown to Jon.

Next came riding for every daylight hour. The wildling families and their herds moving south got off the road to allow passage of the column, while others dispersed into the countryside to settle.

This monotony was broken up with regular stops to rest, but they never seemed long enough to truly recover before the march resumed.

By command of Michael Duquesne, Jon rode with Val and her escort in the centre. Ygritte, the chieftain of the Laughing Tree tribe, rode at the front with the strange banners, and 'Longspear' Ryk, her second, rode at the back. At the pauses, Jon wondered if this was to prevent either him or the princess from riding away easily, or if it was to keep their own men and spearwives in line.

By the time the sun was getting low, the column had caught up with the Canadian machine, which travelled a steady rate each day. The foreigners from another world spent most of their time waiting for the riders to catch up, Jon quickly understood. The combination of their ease and his fatigue from the march made him feel resentment towards them, though he knew it was childish and born of his own pain.

The camp was usually complete with corral and palisades made from large stakes by the time the unicorn riders caught up at sunset. They rode in their own column to the rear.

The larger shaggy mounts were misliked by the horses, and were slower to move. They could also carry more, could move for longer without rest, and could eat plants and roots the horses could not. In fact, the evening feed for the horses was carried by these creatures in large saddlebags or in chariot-like carts. The unicorns themselves preferred stripping the local plant cover bare to eating grain.

Superior to horses in every way, one tribesman from another clan said to another, Except that they smell like cowshit fermented in sweat. Jon thought that description was insufficient, and thanked the gods the creatures slept downwind at all times. The foreigners must've had the same thought.

A meal followed by deep sleep was the way for most; all were exhausted after the exertions of the day, and it was the Canadians kept the night watch. Jon slept in his own simple tent made of hide nearby them; the wildlings were polite but no friends of his, that much was sure. The whole mass of them got just enough sleep before it all started again. Jon awoke each morning to find Ghost had joined him in the night.

After three days of that pace, there was a rest day. The Canadians did not want to stop, but the chieftains convinced them otherwise. Jon felt the exchange was very strange. Of course they do not know when horses need rest days, he mused to himself, They don't need horses to move about their realm at all. That such a people could exist had been beyond his comprehension only a few weeks earlier.

By coincidence and their excellent pace, the rest day fell just as they had reached the northern border of his father's lands, or near enough.

To the west of the road was the Wolfswood, to the east was the fallowlands of the Gift, the plains. Both directions had visible 'Free Folk' camps besides his own, these particular wildlings wanting to be as far south at possible without breaking trust with their King, or the Canadians that had just arrived.

There were also warning signs in runes carved on standing stones, telling travellers they were now in the Gift and so subject to the laws of the Night's Watch and the judgment of its Lord Commander. Jon had remembered seeing them on the way to Castle Black. I'm going home, he thought numbly as he walked over to one to investigate. Ghost padded after him, not having disappeared into the woods for once

"Subject to the laws of King Mance, now," said a woman's voice from behind.

Annoyance simmering up at the remark, Jon turned to find the princess standing behind him. Her bright blue eyes were looking directly at him, for her height was akin to his, and her blonde hair tied up in a long braid shook as she approached still closer. Gods, she is pretty. He bowed his head without thinking. "Princess… Apologies, I didn't hear you approach."

The princess let out a rumbling, mocking laugh that sent the blood straight to Jon's face in anger and embarrassment. She idled up beside Ghost and began stroking him behind the ear. "Still haven't learned after all our talk, Lord Snow? I'm no southron. Even if I'm to carry the name Umber for this journey. My sister is Queen. That does not make me a princess. My name is Val."

You've got the Umber mannerism of saying whatever you want, Jon thought with a frown, before looking away. "I was simply being courteous. It is a habit of mine. You can expect such courtesies when we arrive at Winterfell."

She regarded him for a moment. With pity, to his horror.

"Aye, I'm sure many such things were beaten into you there," Val said, "My mother told me many things of the South. Mance more still. No doubt your fine lords will think me a bastard too. The gods be thanked I am not a child to bend so easily to such notions."

"I was never beaten."

"You can beat someone down without a touch, Jon Snow."

Jon looked at her again, and saw sincerity. His resentment rose. Does she know her fate? "My brother is going to like you, my lady."

It was Val's turn to frown. "Why would that matter?"

"I was brought up in a noble household. I know why you asked me about him and my family. I know what Mance is trying to propose by sending you. A king or a lord does not send a young unmarried woman to another's keep with anything else in mind."

Val's face hardened, the frown disappearing behind a mask, from which only her eyes were a clue as to her thoughts. She was examining him. "Keep your tongue still about it."

Not a request, Jon thought, glancing at her belt where a sword and knife hung in easy reach. The movement of his gaze seemed to break the mask.

"I've gelded bigger men than you, Lord Snow, for trying to sneak into my tent," Val said, as a matter of fact, "Though none carried Valyrian steel. Perhaps you will best me. But do not count on it."

Realising what she meant, Jon blushed furiously for second time, though this was not out of anger. She thought I was looking at something other than her weapons.

Rescue came in the form of the thump of horse hooves, causing both Jon and Val to turn towards their source. The chieftain Ygritte was riding up towards them atop a jet black horse. The young woman was wearing a Canadian helmet with its strange protrusion for speaking to others over distance by radio, her bright red hair leaking out of the bottom of it. Her necklace of the strange brass tubes that somehow fed the Canadian weapons jingled slightly as she got nearer, a reminder of to whom she owed allegiance.

What does she want? Jon thought wearily.

"Michael Duquesne needs both of you further up the road," the chieftain said.

"Why?" Val demanded.

Ygritte wheeled her horse around them. "Trouble ahead. Someone has hung one of the boys that came south at an inn. And since both Eddard Stark's son and Dalla's sister is here, Duquesne thinks you can do something about it."

The chieftain rode off back the way she came, without further elaboration. Jon did not require any. He knew where to go.

"An inn?" Val asked, "What inn?"

"The Last Inn," Jon replied, "Only place to sleep in a bed on the Kingsroad between here and Mole's Town, unless you want to break into the homes of the smallfolk. It is usually hunters from the Umber lands that stay there, or so my uncle Benjen told me."

The fur-clothed body swung from the upper arch of a gateway, the rope slipping inside the hood to choke it. From the colour of the skin at the hand, the hanged man could not have breathed his last more than half a day before.

Gods, Jon prayed on seeing it up close, He is of an age with me. Clearly, this was one of the 'boys' that had been allowed through the Wall by virtue of the strange customs of the Canadians, who did not consider those below the age of eighteen years to be grown men.

The gates themselves were wide open to reveal the inn itself within; a high roofed, stout structure of ironwood with its doors and shutters closed tight, large enough for a whole herd of cattle or horses. Jon had stayed there when travelling to Castle Black, but only for a few hours.

His uncle Benjen had said it was made out of an old barn, by men who preferred the lower, poorly-collected taxes of the Night's Watch to those of the Umbers. Not a chance they will open their doors to me now.

The Canadians were nowhere to be found. Their horseless cart was not to be found in the yard of the inn, nor by the side of the Kingsroad. The tracks on the road told that they had been there before, and not long ago. Following the tracks into the distance with his eyes, Jon saw the unnatural beast off beside the nearest camp of Free Folk families.

"This means trouble," he thought aloud, hand going to his sword as he brought his horse to a stop.

"You don't need to be wise to see that," Val replied, riding closer to inspect the body, "One of Gerrick Kingsblood's tribe, or I'm a Thenn. No wonder he thought he could take what he wanted. Gerrick is haughty, and so are those that follow him."

She looked towards the camp. "They must have moved like the Others had breached the Wall to make it this far south so quickly."

"Right into the hands of the lords of the North," Jon stated, "They'll be the first caught by your cousins' men. And a hanging is the least they can expect."

"We will not allow it," Val replied, voice as cold as a north wind, "This is not like the times before when we have invaded the South, Jon Snow."

Jon opened his mouth to state otherwise… but found he had no argument against that. There were wights within sight at that very moment, tied and trussed up under furs, but still there. They gurgle in the night, sometimes. "You're right," he said, taking his hand off his sword, "It isn't."

Val's eyes flickered to him. "Lord Snow, I wonder," she said, "If you were kneeler-lord of Winterfell, what would you do?"

"I can never be lord of Winterfell," Jon replied bitterly, "It is not my place."

His reward was narrowed eyes of impatience and a flick of her long braid as her head moved. "Imagine the gods make it so, as they brought the Canadians. Remembering all that has happened, what would you do?"

What would Father do? Jon thought, his mind wandering to the details of a possible answer before he could notice, Can I answer honestly? He decided there was no point in hiding it. The Free Folk seemed adept at detecting a lie.

"I would do my duty as Warden of the North. I would gather my banners and fight you as quickly as I could," he said, "I would guard against my men committing excesses against your women and children. Once I had inflicted a large enough defeat, or captured your King, then I would make alliance against the Others and turn south to deal with the Lannisters." I would make you bend the knee.

Val breathed out a sigh, and read him like an open tome. "You would make us bend the knee, then. Why would you do that? You know what we face. Every man and spearwife you kill is one that cannot fight against the Others."

"Because someone needs to be in charge," Jon replied, before pointing at the hung boy of fifteen years, "Even if my brother agrees to let you live in the Gift, the agreement will be tested again and again until it breaks. We might both be blood of the First Men, but we live differently. Who will decide whether hanging this boy was justice or murder?"

A continuous roar in the distance announced the approach of the Canadians. Jon could see their machine moving around the Free Folk camp now in a slow arc. Horse riders followed in its wake, including the chieftain Ygritte, easily identified by her helmet.

When he looked back, he saw that Val's gaze had softened again, and a small smile spread across her lips. "So you do know something," she said, "My father often said to win a fight, you think about what your enemy would do. Now I know what you will do."

"Am I your enemy?" Jon asked.

"You are a Crow," Val said, as if that explained everything, "What will your brother do? Will he ride north to destroy us? Or will he do what you would do and leave us alive to fight wights?"

The memory of Robb and Catelyn when last he saw them flashed into Jon's mind from memory. Both standing together, waving goodbye, one sad to see her husband and daughters go, the other including him in his sadness. Their hair and eyes identical in colour. Tully colours.

Ghost nudged Jon's nose with his nose, causing the horse to shift uncomfortably. Jon understood what the wolf was doing. The lump in his throat that he hadn't even noticed melted away. "My brother can't ride north," he admitted, "Not unless you were to attack further south, and even then, Robb could not move with the strength needed to end a war with the wil… Free Folk quickly."

"Why not?"

"His mother is from the Riverlands, even further south. She married my father for an alliance, and her homeland is being raided. And my father is a prisoner of the same lords who have attacked it. Honour demands that Robb and his host must move further south, not north. The riverlords would not understand or accept anything less."

"So he will agree to our terms?"

"It will depend on the terms…" Jon answered. And if the lords accept you as an Umber and Lady of Winterfell out of desperation. "But it is not impossible."

The Canadians in their green armour, black boots and white coats finally arrived, and dismounted from their machine quickly. Rowan Umber descended too, helped by the one called Sayer. She was old, particularly for the Free Folk, and was tall too.

"Cut him down," commanded Duquesne to O'Neill, pointing at the hanged man.

"Yes, sir," the Sergeant replied with enthusiasm, pulling a steel knife from a sheath on the front of his armour. "You in the inn! I'm cutting the kid down. You don't like it? Shove it up yer hole!" No reply came and the man moved to the rope.

The Canadian leader looked to Jon and Val, as Zheng hovered behind, her weapon in hand. There is definitely going to be trouble, Jon thought.

"Mister Stark, dismount and get your magic sword out," Duquesne said to Jon, "The rest day you insisted upon isn't going to be restful."

Jon complied, getting out of his saddle and tying up his horse, before returning sword-in-hand. Val dismounted too, though she kept her knife and sword away. "What happened?" he asked.

"Negotiations failed," Duquesne said, "The innkeepers can't just hang people and put them on display. Eventually someone is going to take offence to that. It looks like the local clan want to teach the inhabitants some manners. We need to prevent it."

Jon moved so he could see the wildling camp past the foreign machine. Several dozen figures were mustering for a fight, spears, shields and axes collected from tents and packs. The skull of a stag with full antlers was visible atop one spear, the standard of this particular tribe. There'll be a battle.

"Should it not be certain Free Folk taught some manners?" Jon asked, gently, "The men inside did not hang this boy for nothing, it's not their way. We can't stay here protecting the inn forever."

"Already have an idea about that," Zheng replied, her black eyes peering at Jon over a smirking smile, "We weren't born yesterday."

"What idea?" Val asked.

"First thing is first, your Highness," Duquesnse said, watching as O'Neill finally lowered the boy's corpse to the ground, "The cavalry is en route now."

A long, drawn out horn blast sounded from the north, a sound that made Jon curl inside as it was the same as the reveille. Down the Kingsroad at a trot, the unicorns and their riders came, helmets on. Their barge-pole lances were held ready for the tilt towards the sky, the Laughing Tree banner carried on the foremost.

"Zheng, take Sayer, mount up and move to an enfilade position down the road," Duquesne commanded, "Let's not screw up this little gaomilaksir, no shooting before I command it."

The woman gave the strange salute of the Canadians by bringing her hand to her helmeted head, and pulled Sayer into the machine again, before it roared off again southwards down the road some hundred paces. It turned in a great ring like a snake, so its 'head' faced towards the camp where the wildling warriors gathered. Zheng and Sayer reappeared in the roof of the machine, their strange weapons ready.

What must war be like on their world? Jon wondered, Do they duel atop hundreds of such machines charging at each other, like knights?

Duquesne approached, wary of the direwolf at Jon's side. "Jon Stark, I have a legal question. Not sure if you're the person to ask but you're the only option I have."

Jon nodded. "I have often attended my father when he deals with such matters."

The Canadian made a strange gesture with his fingers, creating a loop between his thumb and forefinger with the others straight. "What are the punishments for killing an intruder and mutilation of a corpse?"

Jon saw why he was asking immediately. "Intruders in your home or place of commerce can be killed freely, though you must declare it so that no one can accuse you of breaking guest right. If you don't declare it, you can be accused of murder."

Duquesne nodded, though his eyes were on the unicorn riders. They had formed a rough line to charge across the open field at the other wildlings. I would not like to be in front of those lances and horns, Jon thought, Not even with a thousand pikemen.

"And mutilation?" the Canadian asked.

Jon frowned. He couldn't recall a time his father had ever dealt with such a matter. And he hadn't received the same teachings on the law that Robb had. "I am not sure, but it would be a lesser offence. Flogging and exile, or payment to the family, I should think. If it's a bad case, they might be mutilated themselves."

Both Duquense and O'Neill grimaced at the word flogging, an expression that only got worse when mutilation-in-turn was mentioned. They had an exchange in their own language, a look of resignation soon fell over both their faces.

"It might come to that more than once," O'Neill said, returning to the Common tongue, "They used to call it the English vice, back when Napoleon was kicking about."

"It might," Duquense agreed, before he took his weapon in hand.

The wildlings had left their camp and were advancing across the field slowly, wary of the unicorn cavalry more than the Canadian machine. They haven't seen the Canadian weapons work in person, Jon realised, hoping they wouldn't need to. The little warband was made up mostly of young women and boys, led on by their elder women. They didn't need to die.

"Princess," O'Neill asked, "If that inn was across the border in Umber lands, would the Kingsblood clan stay away?"

"Yes," Val stated with certainty, "They swore oaths. Gerrick would not forgive them who broke one. And they know Mance would be angry."

Another exchange between the Canadians in their own tongue followed the answer.

"Ah yeah," O'Neill nodded at last, "He did seem like he had a stick up his arse. Descendant of a King Beyond the Wall and all that shite."

Val let out a little laughter. "Aye, that's Gerrick. He tried to steal me once by arguing his bloodline, the fool."

O'Neill joined in the laugh. Jon felt a clutch in his chest at the sight of them both laughing, unable to identify where it came from.

"All to our advantage now, Princess," Duquense intoned, "Let's begin."

The two remaining Canadians struck out at a march towards the wildling warband, whispering orders over their radios, and bringing their weapons to their shoulders. Jon quickly followed, as did Val.

When they were about halfway between the Kingsroad and the warband, the foreigners stopped dead. Duquesne gave a single command. "Now."

From the machine in the distance, a thunder erupted from the large weapon atop it. The bullets zipped and cracked through the air, over the heads of the warband. That stopped the warriors in their tracks, but the Canadians did not stop there. Duquesne and O'Neill both raised their own rifles and shot three times in succession, again aiming above the warriors. The warband stopped, took a knee and raised their shields.

Duquesne nodded to O'Neill, as both lowered their weapons.

"Now that we have your attention!" O'Neill shouted, "Send out people to talk! We won't ask twice!"

Seemingly without hesitation, an old woman pushed her way through the shieldwall and walked towards them, pieces of antler hanging from threads all over her furs. Brave, Jon thought, And not because the Canadians might kill her. The warriors she had pushed through did not look pleased that she had left them.

"Who are you Canadians to tell us what to do?" the woman said, addressing O'Neill rather than Duquesne, "We are the Kingsblood."

"I'm the guy with the gun," O'Neill replied, shaking his rifle by its handle.

The old woman scoffed. "Your sorcery doesn't scare me, Canadian. Justice must be had for the boy those kneelers killed. The gods see the right of it."

Jon wanted to laugh. It wasn't the first time he had heard someone justify themselves like that. He had watched his father take their heads. "The laws of the gods do not say you can kill a person for defending their home," he said, "And they also say you don't disrespect a dead man's body. Both you and the innkeepers have wronged each other."

"The Stark speaks rightly," Val added, "You cannot kill a village because one of your boys failed to steal a wife. This is against our own laws."

The old woman grumbled to herself, knowing it to be true. "Our laws don't speak to kneelers."

"They speak wherever we of the Free Folk stand," Val said, "You are about to break your oath to Mance and the gods."

The old woman eyed the King's goodsister with an evil eye. "We break no oaths, Val of Snow's End."

Thinking fast, Jon saw what the Canadians had intended all along and what Val had caught onto. I hope the Lord Commander will agree with what I do.

He flourished and pointed Longclaw at the inn. "That place is not the Gift," he said, "As an officer of the Night's Watch, I declare it the land of the Umbers, who are sworn to my father, Eddard Stark. Your oath was to not settle beyond the Gift or raid the kneelers."

"And Mance will accept it as Umber land," Val agreed, "As King of the Gift, he will see a raid on the inn as breaking your oath. And even if you kill us all, he will find out."

The old woman scoffed, pointing a gnarled finger at Val. "This Stark-blooded Crow's words come out of your mouth. What of the boy killed! The kneelers didn't swear an oath, can they can kill us freely and hang our bodies like Ice River savages?"

"The innkeepers will be punished," Duquesne said, "According to the custom of this land."

"And what will that punishment be, I wonder?" the old woman sighed, "Perhaps a reward of silver for killing a 'wildling'? Is that not the custom of this land?"

It is, Jon's mind thought, his memory of the wildlings trying to take his brother strong in his mind, Father would have rewarded smallfolk for stopping those wildlings.

"Flogging," Duquesne stated, his previous discomfort with the word well hidden, "For hanging the body. The killing was justified by self defence."

The old woman's eyes widened. She hadn't expected that answer. "You would flog the men who hung the boy?"

Duquesne hesitated. Do they not flog men where he is from? "No, I'm not a lord here," he said, "But I would not stop you doing it, under the supervision of Jon as an officer of the Watch and Val as the King's representative."

"And what if the inn men want revenge?" the old woman asked.

"You have the right to self defence as much as they do," Jon replied.

Another horn blast sounded, higher and more shrill than before. The whole group turned to see a pair of riders moving at the gallop down and towards them. Ryk and Ygritte.

"Michael Duquesne!" 'Longspear' hollered, "The wargs have spotted a kneeler host coming up the Kingsroad!"

Chapter Text

The leadership council met less than an hour after news of the 'kneeler' force; the chiefs of the Laughing Tree, the chieftain of the unicorn riders, Michael's own section and Michael himself. Tagging along were Rowan, Val and Jon, though they were technically not part of it, and the old chief of the Kingsblood camp called Rikka, because she could bring more warriors into the equation.

O'Neill and Zheng had been forced to use in the crawler to gather up the others, as Ygritte had taken a party out to hunt (with some success), and the unicorn riders had moved their mounts to graze on the wild grasses of the plain to the east. Michael had spent the intervening time speaking in detail with the young warg Iola, the one that had spotted the enemy through the eyes of her white gyrfalcon. She had provided all the details.

Now the others awaited his word on what was coming, standing outside the inn where Michael himself had judged the best possibility for a defence could be made. It was damn good ground for that, in fact, which was probably why 'The Last Inn' was built there in the first place.

He began to explain, and hoped to get some answers from those present with more knowledge of the local lords.

"Seven hundred. They'll be here by mid-afternoon tomorrow. They're marching under a banner of yellow with green thistles on it."

"House Norrey," Jon Stark blurted out. Everyone turned their heads towards the young man. He looked thoroughly embarrassed he had said it.

Michael wasn't sure if his reaction to his own words was because he had given intelligence away, or if it was because he had spoken up like a schoolkid answering a teacher's question. Maybe he's taught things like lords' houses in such a way.

"House Norrey?"

"One of the mountain clans of the Starklands," Val answered before Stark could refuse, pointing towards the mountains to the southwest, "See those two peaks closest to us? They live in a valley that begins there, between the two of them. They prefer stave weapons and slings, but they have good armour like most kneelers. Better than the Crows."

Knowing exactly how Val had that information, Michael frowned for a moment, considering whether or not to ask her if that snippet should have been told to him before they left. Raiders must regularly make it this far south.

"I pray to the gods they're not akin to our mountain clans," Chief Rikka mumbled through her worn teeth, "Last thing we need is cannibals."

I hope they are alike, Michael thought to himself, Your mountain clans aren't equipped to fight anyone. "The warg reported poleaxes and slings," he confirmed to Val, "So that checks out. Sergeant, what is our current strength?"

"Four hundred and twenty six," O'Neill replied, "Three hundred Laughing Tree exactly, a hundred and twenty two unicorn riders, and us four. None sick or wounded, unless you count a sore arse."

"I don't," Michael replied flatly.

"We've about a hundred me…boys and spearwives," Rikka added.

Rescued yourself there, Michael thought, You almost admitted some of the boys are old enough to be men.

A rumble of disapproval sounded from beside the old woman. The man who made it was chief of the unicorn riders, Marcach. He was not a tall man, but he was built 'like a brick shithouse' in the words of the Sergeant.

Thick arms for carrying a long bargepole lance, and thick legs for clutching to the looped saddles his people used to ride unicorns, both bulged through the skins and furs wrapped around him. Like most of his people, his hair and beard were cut short, in defiance of the usual Free Folk style. Unicorns liked to chomp and pull on hair, that was how they got the attention of their fellow unicorns.

"Outnumbered," Marcach said, "I usually do not fight when outnumbered."

"Sometimes we don't have a choice," Michael said in return.

The chief shrugged his large shoulders. "True, but sometimes it's wiser to move away or hide. Do these kneelers have horses?"

"A number for scouts. Not sure how early they'll arrive, midday maybe. Far fewer than we have, though I don't think we should risk ours in a fight. We need to get to Winterfell and I don't want to leave anyone behind because the horses got shot full of arrows."

Ryk and Ygritte both agreed with nods.

"Do these 'Norreys' have the same armour as Crows?" Marcach asked, "My tribe hasn't raided south of the Wall."

"Because you're craven," sniffed Rikka, "Your kind did not join Sylas or the true King Beyond the Wall, Redbeard."

"How can a man climb the Wall with an unicorn?" Marcach growled back, "We had no care for the southlands. And still wouldn't, if dead men and their masters weren't coming to kill us."

"Shut up," O'Neill commanded, "The pair of you."

The chiefs complied, albeit without grace.

"Iola saw some sort of armour," Michael said, answering Marcach's question, "Thick coats with studs on them."

"Coat of plates!" Sayer declared, like it was his turn to answer the teacher.

Michael blinked. "Coat of plates?"

Sayer nodded. "Yeah, metal plates bolted inside a tough cloth or leather, that's what the studs are."

"How do you know that?" O'Neill asked.

"Video games."

Michael and O'Neill exchanged looks, but took his word for it.

"Full of useful information, aren't you?" the Sergeant muttered.

Sayer smiled and shrugged. "Wasn't useful before now."

Marcach crossed his arms. "So we're going to fight a warband with more warriors and better armour than what we have. Are we all drunk?"

Michael didn't like that attitude, but kept polite. "Like I said, we need to get to Winterfell, or we'll have far more than seven hundred soldiers to deal with. So we need to run, wait in the forest for the enemy to pass, or fight. Running means delay. Hiding means Mance will need to fight a battle with his own host, which might provoke a larger conflict. Fighting now prevents both of those things, but it'll probably cost us."

"We need to fight," Ygritte insisted.

"Aye," Rikka agreed.

Michael felt his brow raise. "Why's that?"

"This is Free Folk land now," Ygritte said.

"And I can't just move our camp," Rikka agreed, "Our herds are away grazing up in the hills. I've no way to know where the shepherds have taken them. They could come down any day and the kneelers would be waiting for them."

"And if you stay, the kneelers will fight you even if you don't want to," Michael said, completing the thought. Though that gives me an advantage.

"You can send someone to wait for the herders," Jon Stark objected, "Warn them off. Fighting my father's bannermen when you want to speak peace shall not endear you to my brother."

"We've no choice, Crow. The herders can't leave the sheep…" Rikka began.

"We'll plan to fight," Michael interrupted, "Then I'll decide what we're doing, based on whether or not I think it has deterrence value." So do what the Sergeant ordered and shut up was a thought he left unsaid.

Jon Stark looked sour at Michael's decision, which got his own back up.

"I'd prefer not to leave these people to the tender mercies of your father's men, Mister Stark," Michael stated with absolute certainty, "Because that would destroy the peace just as quickly. We're in the Gift, not the North. If those 'bannermen' cross the border, they're the ones invading."

"My brother will not see it that way."

"That is my problem," Val said, "Not yours." She gestured to Michael. "I would hear your plan."

Perceptive one, Michael thought, You know what I intended in bringing you here.

"Jon, if you wouldn't mind leaving," he said, "I have something for you, but it means you can't know what our intentions are. Sorry."

The teenager slunk off towards his horse in something of a huff, as if Michael had just insulted his honour somehow. Which was probably the case, Michael knew, but all would be explained later and that would probably help. At least his wolf is following him. Ghost padded away, tail bouncing happily.

When he was sure Stark couldn't hear, Michael continued.

"You'll carry out a classic L-shaped ambush," he declared, "With a twist."

"Ell?" asked Ryk.

"Ah, sorry," Michael smiled, "L is one of our letters. I'll show you. Here's where we'll fight."

He took hold of a stick he had brought for the purpose of drawing, and with it quickly sketched out the ground, explaining as he went.

"The north-south Kingsroad, the hill where the inn sits, and the forest on the adjoining foothills, sloping upwards east to west starting at the road. This circle on the inn's hill represents the inn's palisade, and the Xs are where each of the Free Folk camps sit, one near the inn is the Kingsblood one, one way further north in the trees is ours."

Lastly, he drew an L shape across the road, then across the inn and finally downwards, parallel to the road in the high ground among the trees.

"That's the L. You'll set up like this," Michael explained, "One part to stop the Norrey force advancing, another to attack from the side before they can form a proper line. We'll dig defences and make obstacles in the forest so they can't just charge. Since they don't have radios, all this should force the commanders of each section to do whatever they think is best for themselves. They won't be able to coordinate, especially if you shoot anyone with a horn or drum you can see."

"What if they run away south?" Ygritte asked, gesturing with her finger.

"Then you've won," Michael replied, "They're on foot, their wagons won't be able to keep up, and even a unicorn is faster than a man."

"Especially if he's wearing that much metal armour in his jacket," Zheng added, with a glance at Sayer.

Michael nodded. "Ryk, you'll lead the pikes and crossbows. Hide the pike troops behind the inn's palisade until the command to begin, and then block the road here. Crossbows can go on either side of the pikes and then switch to shields and axes when the enemy gets too close."

Ryk gave a casual salute in response, which Michael took as agreement.

"Ygritte, you'll take the real archers with shields and short spears to the middle part here, from north to south. When they've marched almost the full length of the road below you, that's more or less when you'll spring the trap. Fill the kneelers full of arrows as best you can. Kill their own archers and slingers first."

"Giving me the hard part?" Ygritte grinned as she gave a thumbs up, delighted at her role in the scenario. Michael blew an amused breath out, stifling the full laugh. Innuendo aside, her section of the battle line was the most vulnerable, sitting at the place he himself would choose to counterattack. She clearly knew that as well.

"I guess I am," he answered, "But that's why we'll dig some holes and pile up some dirt; to make it safer for your archers and harder for the Norreys to climb up and stomp you."

Michael looked to Rikka next.

"Your warband will be at the top of the L, here. Your job is to stop the enemy rolling the flank in that direction and distract the rear of the column. You should have an easier time of it, our warg saw that it was where the pack animals and supply carts are. And the soldiers guarding them seem younger."

Chief Rikka's eyes gleamed as soon as the words 'pack animals' and 'supply carts' were mentioned. She has loot on her mind, Michael saw, Or maybe just food. Is food counted as loot?

"And us?" Marcach asked, "Where do my riders go?"

"I'll explain that when we get to what happens as soon as the signal is given," Michael replied, "First, I'd like to…"

"What does Jon Stark do?" Val asked, interrupting, "What do I do?"

Interesting, she asked about Stark first. "Exactly what I was about to explain," Michael answered, "Stark is going to ride south today, with a wight. Alongside the Norreys, there's a brother of the Night's Watch. He must have been dispatched by Ser Alliser to fetch reinforcements as soon as possible. Which means other reinforcements could be coming by other ways."

"You're just letting the Crow go?" Marcach asked, "Won't he refuse to come back? Join these Norreys against us?"

Michael shook his head. The kid's character didn't suggest someone who'd break his word, and he seemed genuinely afraid of the Others. "Only place he'd go in that case would be Winterfell. We'd catch up with him, and he likely won't tell his brother anything Mormont hasn't already sent by now."

Val's lip curled. "If a Crow rides with the Norreys, then another rides with the Wulls of the coast also. They will bring warriors to the Shadow Tower. We must warn Dalla."

Dalla? Michael asked himself, Why Dalla and not Mance? Sisterly concern?

"We'll send a rider back north at dawn tomorrow," he agreed, "Jon must go today though, we need him to reach the Norreys and his Crow brother before they reach the Gift, and tomorrow may be too late. With luck, he can convince them of the threat beyond the Wall, and the need for peace. If he fails, we can consider fighting."

There were no objections to that.

"Where will you be?" Rikka asked, gesturing with an antler at the map in the dirt.

Michael pointed a way off the east, at the edge of another forest area. Nowhere near the road or where the fight would be. "Over there."

Rikka's face gathered in confusion, exposing every wrinkle. She looked off into the distance in the direction indicated, telling she at least knew how to read a map. "How do you mean to fight from there?" she asked, "Your weapons can strike from that far?"

"They can, but I don't mean to fight at all," Michael said, "Canada is not at war with the Starks. The Laughing Tree tribe will be considered Free Folk, it can fight. But we can't."

"This again…" Ygritte groaned.

"Are you craven too?" Rikka hissed, "You would have us fight your battle?"

"You're the one camped beside the border," Zheng replied with a shrug, "It's more your battle than ours. We can wait until the Norreys or whatever pass by, or just drive around them. You're the ones who have to fight or run."

Rikka gave her the evil eye in true Satanic witch fashion, to which Zheng simply stared back. The Chief lost the contest and quickly, realising the Corporal was right, as far as Michael could tell. Either that or Zheng's stare was too alien for the old woman to stand.

"We can help in other ways," he insisted, trying to smooth things over, "But if Jon Stark or any of the Norreys go to Winterfell, we need to be able to claim we didn't kill a single one of his father's bannermen and be believed. As far as he's concerned, we're giving you advice at best, not commanding you, understand?"

"How will you help?" Ygritte asked flatly.

"For one, you'll keep your radios," Michael said, "You'll all be able to work together. I have some other ideas too, but that's just for you and Ryk."

Ygritte put her gloved hands on her hips, regarding him with doubt, but said nothing more, accepting his words for now.

Rowan cleared her throat pointedly, twirling a hand in Michael's direction. "If you're not commanding this battle," she said, "Then who is? Or who will Jon Stark think is commanding it?"

Michael smirked. "Val."

Rowan cackled. "Now there's an idea! And he'll believe that? Isn't he a little kneeler, thinking women can't fight or think?"

"We'll make it convincing," Michael said, looking to Val herself, "You and your escort are all archers, right?"

"Yes," Val answered, "Some of the best."

Ygritte snorted. "Aye, so says the soft Snows End girl. Tomorrow you'll go arrow for arrow with me, and we'll see who's best."

Val shot a doubtful look like an arrow back at the spearwife.

"We'll put you on the corner of the L by the inn," Michael said, "It's on a hill, so you can see everything. We'll give you a radio too, so you can actually do the job, though I advise you to follow my ideas." I almost said orders.

"That position is where the slope of the hill is steepest too," O'Neill added, "As soon as Ryk gets moving, you should also be able to shoot over the pikemen into the units coming to engage them. If you're careful."

A small smile shot across Val's face. "This is beginning to sound like a good plan. The Starks won't treat with an untested girl. They may treat with someone who has defeated their bannermen. The Mormonts have such chieftains."

"I hadn't thought of that," Michael lied, "Unfortunate for us that I'm not able to do the same." Unfortunate that the press back home would hang me for attacking first, and more so that bullets don't grow on trees.

"Why don't we use the inn, sir?" O'Neill asked, "It's a fine defensive position."

Let's not open that can of worms. "If we fight, the Norreys need to be defeated in detail," Michael answered, "So they don't just leave us here and march north to rape and kill their way through other camps. And even if they don't, we don't have time for a siege."

The Sergeant scowled. "Harder for this lot to do that than us just shooting the clansmen ourselves, sir," he noted in English.

"Yeah."

The Kingsblood chief cleared her throat, resulting in follow-up coughs that had Marcach moving away from her. "If the Norreys are coming, I want the flogging down now," Rikka complained, "Justice for that boy can't wait. Mayhaps we lose the fight and those that hanged him escape what the gods proclaim is just."

Michael was struck dumb for a moment. Talk about twisted priorities. "This area is about to be teeming with kneelers," he said, "And you want to flog one just before they arrive?"

O'Neill weighed in too. "Have you considered what else will happen if we lose? When the hundreds of armed warriors hear what you did?"

"You said it was the another path to us taking our own justice and killing them all," the woman replied, "You said we would have a flogging at least, for what they did to our boy's body!"

Enough of this. Michael shook his head. "I agreed to it before because I thought I had no choice. Circumstances have changed."

"How so?" came a question, accompanied by narrowed eyes, "It doesn't take a day to flog a man."

"Because now I possess something you need."

"What's that?"

"The only force capable of defending you against the kneelers."

Chief Rikka's eyes bulged. "You wouldn't…"

"I absolutely would," Michael stated, "If you do not drop this arrogant demand for vengeance at once, we will withdraw and leave you to the mercy of these Norreys. I am not Free Folk, Madame Kingsblood. And those allied with me know better than to side with you in this."

Rikka looked to Ygritte. "Is that so?"

Ygritte crossed her arms. "Aye."

"And you agree with this shite?"

Ygritte quickly glanced at Michael. Cmon girl, you want to be my wifey, don't you? Her expression softened momentarily, before she answered the chief. "No, I don't agree with him. But this man and his clan broke the Wall and took Castle Black. We'd be fools to favour you over him."

"Nothing stopping you from getting justice later," Ryk added, "Mance is journeying through the Gift, settling the clans. He will no doubt visit here soon. Ask him for your justice, and stand with us against the kneelers now. The inn's men haven't been pardoned."

Chief Rikka snorted, and smiled revealing worn but still-white teeth, the antler pieces hanging from her furs clacking as she laughed quietly. It was a fake laugh, Michael could see. "I see I've no choice."

"You don't," Michael confirmed, "But if you go along with it, your clan might be able to say it was a part of the first Free Folk host to defeat the kneelers. I understand that might bring you some honour."

Rikka snorted again, a picture of derision. "Honour enough. But I won't forget this. The Kingsblood does not forget."

Not getting the message. Michael straightened himself up to his full height, and turned his body fully towards her, visibly taking his rifle into his hands. The eyes of every chief present widened.

"Don't threaten me, Rikka. The last people who did were the Crows. Me and mine took that as a declaration of war, and stacked a hundred and more of their corpses high inside their own castle. You stand here today, alive and not a slave to the White Walkers, because of that. I'm offering you the loot of the enemy wagons too, food to feed your clan."

He released his weapon from his grip again, letting it hang.

"Don't threaten us. Don't forget to whom you owe the lives."

The chief said nothing, her fists clenched. But she couldn't meet Michael's eyes any longer. Good, be ashamed.

Seeing the others watching the display, he felt a little ashamed himself that he had to resort to such a direct method of coercion. Better than watching a flogging though.

"Now," Michael said, relaxing his tone a little, "Let's talk through the ambush, step by step. You have a battle to win."

Sunset in the Gift was loud.

Bird calls, groans from nearby elk or moose, the howling of wolves in the distance… Michael had never heard a forest so alive, and wondered how many of the creatures making their sounds had been north of the Wall before. Before he had left Castle Black, Eastwatch had reported another herd of deer swimming the short sea gap, plunging from cliffs to do so.

Only an hour earlier and the scene would have been very different.

The Laughing Tree and the Kingsblood had both been hard at work digging and then camouflaging fortifications in the forest above the road. They had no tools but wooden ones, and the cold, dried mud wasn't easy to move. But they had got it done, a series of raised trenches and layers of stakes set along the middle of the wooded slope, all at optimal range for bows and disguised with dirt and relocated bushes.

The animals had stayed away during that process.

Now the Free Folk were safely back in their tents, sleeping and readying themselves for another long day when the sun rose again. Meanwhile, only Canadians stalked the forest, finishing up checks to the camouflage. By the time that was complete, Michael and O'Neill found themselves at the very edge of the Gift, beside the final two standing stones announcing where Night's Watch land begun and Umber land ended.

Michael stood at the very edge of where the Starks' ruled and looked south. "Do you think it'll be enough, Sergeant?" he asked.

"If it isn't, the Free Folk didn't deserve to win anyway, sir," O'Neill replied, "It would be easier if we helped them, all the same. With bullets, not helpful pointers."

"Impossible," Michael said with a shake of the head, "It's not our fight. Neither the lords in Winterfell or the politicians and journalists back home would see it as anything less than aggression."

O'Neill frowned. "Even if we're defending refugees?" he asked, "Because that's what those women and young lads are, sir."

"Don't worry, we won't stand by," Michael replied, "We'll unleash hell if it looks like a loss. The Norreys are screwed either way. But I prefer that no one else know that. The second we shoot one of Stark's men is the second we lose credibility as mediators here."

O'Neill grunted an incomprehensible curse. "You talked with Mormont and Jon Stark a bit about their attitudes, I see."

Michael nodded. "It's one thing to try and take a squad of Night's Watch prisoner in lands they don't own, or fight the Crows after they've declared war on us. It's another to kill a nobleman's vassals in open battle, without a declaration of war, in lands they most definitely consider their own. Big rocks saying otherwise be damned."

A derisive smile erupted on O'Neill's face. "Noble pride. They're nothing more than gangsters, sir."

"Mormont says the Starks are more than that," Michael said, "But they still have to play by gangster rules if we kill their people. So we'll leave that to Ryk, Ygritte and Marcach."

"Mormont says a lot of shit, sir. He gave us the barest information he thought he could get away with."

"True, but he's honest enough about the Starks. I think."

A crackle came over the comms, followed by the Corporal's voice. "We've finished covering up those last stakes. Orders, sir?"

Michael considered it for a moment. "Return to the OP. We'll walk back and do one last inspection." O'Neill groaned at that, muttering about his knees.

"Copy. You have Ygritte and Ryk coming up the road behind you as ordered, sir."

Michael and O'Neill both turned to see the pair, half-stumbling up the road. The two chiefs had both been digging and cutting as hard as anyone else that day, and it showed.

"Do you think this is a good idea?" Michael asked O'Neill.

"Yes," the Sergeant said, "No threat to our position, keeps them safer."

"Good."

Ryk gave a weak wave as he approached, while Ygritte concentrated on staying on her feet, until both stopped and gave tired salutes. Michael glanced at O'Neill, finding him disapproving of the slovenly display, and then returned the salute.

"What in the gods' arses made you bring us out here?" Ygritte asked.

"Sergeant."

O'Neill sighed and unholstered his pistol in a smooth motion. Michael took his own out too, though he didn't need to yet.

Ryk flinched, taking a step back, causing Ygritte to laugh. "They're not going to kill us," she chuckled mockingly, "Jumpy before the big fight, Longspear?"

"What are they doing then?" Ryk asked.

Ygritte's laughing stopped with a sigh. Because it's a good question.

"Watch," Michael said, before turning to O'Neill, "Sergeant, teach them the operation of the Browning Hi-Power pistol." Ye Old Second World War vintage.

The Sergeant frowned but complied. He waved the two Free Folk over and began explaining how to use the weapons safely. Startled but fascinated, Ygritte and Ryk listened as if nothing else in the world mattered.

Michael did not, trusting the Sergeant to do the job, and spent the time looked south again as it got darker, the western sky slipping into a bloody red-orange colour. Beautiful, he thought, But maybe too much of an omen.

There was clicking, as the two Free Folk demonstrated what they had been taught to by O'Neill, thankfully without bullets. "Don't forget," the Sergeant said at last, "Or it's your funeral."

The little training session over, Michael returned his attention to them, in time to see O'Neill hand his weapon and its holster to Ryk. The Free Folk warrior admired it for a moment, before stowing it in the holster and beginning to wrap it around his leg in the same way the Sergeant wore it.

Michael walked over to Ygritte, and offered his own pistol to her, along with a single loaded magazine. Her hand snapped out eagerly, fingers wrapping around the grip, but paused. She looked up at him for a few seconds, before taking the weapon and holster as Ryk had. She loaded the weapon but did not cock it to fire, before putting it away.

What was that about? Michael thought. "These aren't gifts. We'll want them back when this battle is over. And you're not getting any more shots than you already have."

"We'll turn the wrath of the gods on the kneelers all the same," Ryk smirked, patting the weapon holster with his palm.

The Sergeant loomed over the guy. "That's not why we've given these to you," O'Neill growled, "You're not to shoot the Norreys with them unless everything else is lost, you hear me?"

Ygritte grimaced with bemusement, like the Sergeant had said something incredibly stupid. "Then what are they for?"

"Authority," Michael replied, "Just as the lords of Westeros wear swords, officers and war leaders on our world wear these weapons. We would give Marcach one too, but we only have two and he was a chief already before we arrived. You weren't. The Laughing Tree is a new tribe, it doesn't have the same roots and loyalties as the others. The Kingsbloods might decide we're not friends the second the battle is over too."

The two Free Folk glanced at each other. They heard the implication, but didn't like it.

"Speak plain," Ryk interrupted, "Who do you mean for us to kill with these?"

"Whoever defies you in a way that threatens you," O'Neill said, "The Kingsbloods would be my bet. They're not happy about the flogging thing."

Ryk's eyes ballooned. "Shoot our own?! While the kneelers are near?"

Michael held up his hands. "Easy, I'm not saying you do it at a whim. In fact, we don't do that sort of thing ourselves back home… but we're not back home."

O'Neill nodded in agreement. "All it takes is one man or woman to lose their cool, start shouting about how you're all doomed or attack you guys to escape, and send everyone else running. At that point, you'll be mincemeat."

"You need the ability to … focus minds," Michael stated, "Every soldier of the Laughing Tree knows these weapons we're giving you. I'm confident the mere sight of you armed with them will make them obey and hold the line."

"Our warriors held before," Ygritte said, "Against wights. Against White Walkers and Crows."

"The wights are stupid, they just run at you wildly," O'Neill responded, his tone indicating he did not like the memory associated with his words, "Living opponents are smarter and more dangerous in a fight, man for man. The White Walkers didn't want to do their own killing, so your soldiers haven't really faced them. As for the Crows, you haven't fought them in a pitched battle. At Castle Black, they didn't have their weapons or armour, and got surrounded. This next fight will be more difficult for you."

"But if you succeed, you and the Laughing Tree will fear no one," Michael added, "The first time you go into battle as one unit, one warband, is always the hardest. It gets easier after that."

"We've all been in a fight before," Ygritte sniffed.

"Not like this," Michael stated, "It isn't every man out for his own glory, or survival against creatures that burst into flame if fire so much as brushes them. You'll see more blood and guts tomorrow than you've seen in your entire life. More than when we took Castle Black. So will the soldiers you command."

Ygritte breathed out hard. "And they'll fear the same thing happening to them," she agreed, glancing to Ryk, "More like when Mance took on the Thenns."

"Aye, that was bloody."

The spearwife crossed her arms. "We understand, Michael Duquesne. We accept your weapons and how to use 'em. Can we go get some sleep now? I feel like I've been carrying around a giant on my back all day."

Michael smiled widely. "Sure, just be careful not to get those stolen, eh?" He gestured at the pistols.

Ryk snorted. "The entire camp is already asleep, I'd bet. We'll be the ones doing stealings if anyone is."

With that, the pair departed, chattering about what they could steal. Exasperated by the conversation, Michael nonetheless ignored it and waited until they were out of earshot to speak. "Do you think the grenades would've helped?" he asked.

O'Neill shook his head. "They'd be just as likely to kill their own with explosives," he answered, "And it would be bad for you."

"What?"

"If that girl dies tomorrow from some 'kneeler' arrow, you'll blame the enemy. If she came back with her arm and half her face blown off from a grenade, you'd blame yourself. Same if it happened to Ryk or some other person, I guess. But especially her."

Michael wanted to rebuke O'Neill for that. It wasn't about his personal feelings about Ygritte. Fragmentation grenades would put down the mountain clansmen of the Starks easily, and it would be easy to say that the Free Folk had stolen them, so no direct blame could be attributed to any Canadian. In theory.

Unfortunately, the Sergeant was dead right about the scenario. Too right to dispute it. The Free Folk would have to do their killing the old fashioned way.

Chapter Text

After eating when the sun was highest, a day after Jon Stark rode south with a wight to try and stop a battle, the wargs announced that he had failed. The Norreys were marching back the way he went under the warmest sky Val had ever experienced.

Everyone who could hold a weapon armed themselves and went to the places where they would ambush the kneelers.

Draped in the black chainmail liberated from the Crows' armoury, Val and her six chosen archers were just west of the inn, using the curve of its log wall to hide. At the corner of the 'L', though the young Sayer called it a backwards 'L', whatever that meant.

What mattered was she was on high ground, and she could see the entire area where the ambush would catch the Norrey men, except for a curve where the Kingsbloods were. The road, the forest, the marshes between the road and the eastern forest, all of it.

The unicorn riders and half the Laughing Tree joined Chief Rikka's warband in the forest above the road, ready to rain arrows. Though invisible to anyone on the road, Val could see the piles of dirt and rocks, the stakes disguised as small bushes, and the trenches. It's like a long castle, she decided, I hope it works. I don't think I'd be fooled.

The other half of the Laughing Tree put their pikes with new steel tips together and hid behind the Inn, prepared to block the way forward and lock the enemy into the trap. Longspear Ryk led them, a shield in one hand, a sorcerous weapon of the outlanders he claimed to have stolen in the other. A likely story, Val thought to herself, As if he could steal anything from the Canadians.

"Here they come," said the O'Neill, "Scouts crossing the border now. Column behind at five hundred yards."

Val frowned. Not at the content of the message but its tone. Of course you can be calm, you don't have to fight. The man was atop their strange carriage, away to the east in another small forest, far from where the fighting would be. And the man declared that battle was certain as if he had just finished cooking a chicken and was offering part of it to the person next to them.

For her own part, Val could feel her blood move with every heartbeat. Though the kneelers were still around the curve over the road and she could not see them yet, her legs demanded she pace about. Her palms itched as they held her bow and arrows. Her tongue shifted in her mouth, wanting to ask seventeen different questions.

Calm yourself, fool, she told herself, Just because you trusted the kneeler doesn't mean you are responsible. The warriors do not know this is your first battle. If you act like a scared child, they will run and fall.

She quickly decided on a question to ask. There was one that rose above the others in anger. She quickly cleared her throat so her voice wouldn't squeak when she spoke it, and activated the sorcerous device the Canadians called a radio. "So Jon Stark has betrayed us," she intoned gravely, "Is he leading the scouts to us or is he skulking with the warband?"

There was a pause for a moment.

"Neither," Duquesne replied, "I don't see him at the front of the column at all. But I don't think he's betrayed us. They're not marching in close order, some of them don't have their helmets on."

"It wasn't wise to let him go alone," Val replied before thinking.

"O ye of little faith," Duquesne replied, "I can see him now. He's at the rear just in front of the supply wagons."

"His wolf is leashed in one of them, chewing the hell out of the wood," the O'Neill added, "And the man himself is riding with his hands tied in front of him. Looks like Jonny said some things his fellow Crow didn't like and got himself taken prisoner."

Val bit her lip. For some reason, that tiding was just as disturbing. If he's a prisoner, the Crow with him might kill him when the ambush begins, she told herself, And then what shall we say to his brother in Winterfell?

"Guess our theory was right, sir," Zheng continued, "Ser Alliser Thorne sent out men he could trust to stir shit."

There was something to be cheerful about, Val decided. "So they don't know we are waiting for them."

"Apparently not," Duquesne stated, "You and Ryk will have to deal with the scouts first though."

The kneelers on horses were moving slower than she had hoped, allowing their eyes to search everything nearby with more care than she had hoped. They're no untested boys.

"I see them." Fearing they'd soon examine the inn from a distance, Val quickly slipped along the round wall again, out of sight save for a single eye.

The scouts got closer and closer, and everyone became more and more still. The rustling and shifting of Ryk's warriors behind Val ceased entirely, as the Canadians gave reports over the radio on the progress of the enemy.

The kneeler horses were shaggy and small, like those of the Free Folk, and likely had the same endurance. To Val's eye, they would have looked at home beyond the Wall as much as anyone, except that their clothes and boots were better made.

It was clear the riders were truly alert. Their mouths were flat lines of concentration under drooping mustaches, and their hands kept clutching reins and crossbows. Their eyes swept the treelines, both those on the hill nearby and where the Canadians were.

Val recognised what these men were immediately, the tales of returned raiders ringing clearly in her head.

The eldest warrior of her party joined Val, a brown-haired, brown-eyed woman from the Frozen Shore clans ten years older than her, simply known as Gilliane. "The kneelers haven't seen the ambush. The gods are with us."

Val began wondering at that. She couldn't believe not a single person in the forest had been seen or heard. Or that neither the line of bushes and small trees to hide the positions nor the clearing of the way down the middle seemed out of place. Are they that arrogant? They'll notice. It's only a matter of time.

"They're men who seek the bounties on the heads of our raiders," Val replied to Gilliane, "Paid in silver for each."

The older woman blanched. "Is that so."

"They look like the survivors described. They like dragging raiders behind their horses until they're dead."

Gilliane bared her teeth. "Mayhaps we shall do the same to them."

Val glanced at her. "No time." She waited until the next pause in Canadian chatter about the Norreys and then activated the radio again. "Longspear, are you ready to take the scouts?"

"Have two dozen waiting inside the inn's palisade and…" he began, stopping mid-sentence only to continue, "By the gods! Stop him!"

There was a commotion both from beyond the inn and over the radio, heavy breathing.

"One of the kneelers in the inn just broke out!" Ryk hissed.

Val leaned out from the Wall, trying to see the man.

"We see him," Duquesne replied, "He's heading down the road, towards the scouts."

The leader of the Norrey riders at the front held up a hand, bringing the whole group to a halt. The innsman finally came into view, dressed in linens, his hands and arms moving wildly as he attempted to explain from a distance. Val felt an icy grip around her heart. He's going to warn them. We should've seized everyone inside the damned inn.

"You can't get him?" Ryk asked, meaning the Canadians.

"We kill him and the scouts will know we're up here," Ygritte whispered back first.

"We can't kill him either," O'Neill stated, "We need attention looking up the road, not on either side of it."

Val knew the truth when she heard it. "Everyone stay where you are," she said, ignoring the lump in her throat, "Doesn't take a warband to kill one man."

"What?" said a voice in her ear. She ignored it, turning to Gilliane and the others. "With me!"

Without checking to see that the others were following, Val burst forward around the log wall of the inn and onto the open slope. The scouts eyes tracked upwards from the innsman to her, causing the man himself to turn around to see what they were looking at. Still moving at pace, she nocked an arrow on her bow, took aim, and stopped to loose it.

The innsman bolted southwards, attempting to weave. But Val had hunted rabbits from the age of eight years. The black-fletched arrow sailed from her fingertips and stuck itself in the man's throat as he turned to see if she had shot. He tumbled hard, rolling off the road entirely onto the marshy ground beside it.

"Ouch," Zheng declared, her voice ringing in Val's ear. The leader of the scouts gave a shout and a wave forward. The riders nocked their crossbows or drew swords, and came at a charge up the road, throwing caution to the wind.

Val nocked another arrow, as her escort arrived and shot their own at the approaching horses. Two of the animals were hit, then one of the riders. All were three unable to ignore it and dropped out of the charge, dead or dying. The Crow arrows hit hard, Val thought gleefully, loosing another herself. She missed the leader by an inch, the man not flinching for a second.

Snarling at the failure, she realised at least some of the riders would reach her before being shot down. And at last, the front of the full enemy host came around the corner, led by their yellow and green-thistle banner, easily able to see her and the others.

"Back!" Val shouted to her escort as they loosed another volley, "Follow me!"

She rushed past them, fumbling for the radio control. There was no doubt they were following this time; their breaths and curses could've been heard in Winterfell itself.

"Longspear, we're going to go inside the walls," she breathed heavily, "Spring the trap as soon as they're inside!"

"Beautiful notion," Ryk replied, "Worry not. We'll fuck these kneelers right up the arse. Best hurry though, they look like they want to do the same to you."

Val ignored his cheer and his warning, though she picked up the pace. The thudding of horses' hooves was now floating through the air. Just as they neared the gate through the wooden wall, a crossbow bolt smacked into Gilliane's back. She sprawled into the mud.

Val turned and shot an arrow back, as two more of the escort dragged Gilliane through the gate. The scouts were very close now, and aiming their crossbows.

"Get out of there!" came a shout over the radio.

Shit. Val ducked inside the open gateway, quarrels chasing to where she had stood a breath before. She found Longspear's men hiding behind the gates themselves, vicious grins on their faces. Good. "Did the bolt hit you deeply?" she asked Gilliane, who was sitting up against a post and raking mud off her face and clothes with her fingers.

The woman shook her head. "The chainmail and furs did their job. Hurts bad. I'll bruise." A grin appeared. "Not the first time at that."

Realising Gilliane wasn't in any danger, she pulled her escort towards the inn itself, to get within the corral nearby. They just made within the strong wooden fence when the scouts rode in, wheeling inside towards them.

Val watched with grim satisfaction as Longspear's men slammed the gates shut and pulled the kneelers out of their saddles. Daggers, maces and warhammers did the bloody work after that, not a single one of the thirteen riders harming their attackers. They died too quickly, she thought, before the radio spoke again.

"Enemy azantyr moving up the road quicker now," Duquesne said, "Coat-of-plate, crossbows and poleaxes. Not many shields. As expected."

"Old Guard types at the front," O'Neill added, "Grey hairs and scars on every one of them. Younger guys in the rest of the column, I think. Some of them don't even have beards."

Column? "The old men and boys," Val thought aloud, "The Starks really are going to war in the South, if that is all the mountain clans can muster."

"Sure, but they know someone is in the inn now, Val," Duquesne continued, "They're halfway up the road. You need to make a choice. Wait for them to put their entire force in the ambush zone, or spring it now and take out the veterans to send the younger guys running."

Surprised the Canadian was not commanding her to do one thing or the other, Val nonetheless knew at once what had to happen. "We wait. The Norreys must be taught that trespassing on the lands of the King of Gift and Wall has a price. The Starks too. The kneelers will respect strength over mercy."

The Canadians said nothing for a moment, or were talking among themselves off their radio if Val had to guess.

"You're in command," Duquesne said at last, "It isn't what I would do, but it's your choice."

"I know. How long until the kneelers are where they must be?"

"A minute. I suggest you look for yourself."

The conversation over, Val climbed through the corral's wooden fence again, pausing only when she noted Gilliane staring at her.

"What?"

The older woman smirked. "You look utterly mad when speaking with that thing."

Val couldn't help but smile back. "I know. Come with me."

She marched straight to the gate, through the collection of the scouts' bodies in the process of being looted, the Free Folk warriors still guarding the way out looking on in envy. She looked to the latter. "Open up."

"Aye."

The gates swung in again. The looting stopped as the men and spearwives grabbed their weapons again, seeking another foe. Good to see Ryk's people are not imbeciles, Val thought, before she strode out into the road like she had built it herself and looked south.

The enemy was close enough to .

They were at the bottom of the hill and beginning to climb it, led by the banner of yellow with thistles on it. Behind, a long line of men stretched all the way to the next hill along the road, where wagons were being pulled into view. Every single warrior had armour of a sort that Free Folk chiefs would have killed entire clans to possess a single set.

The Norrey chieftain sat on horseback with a group of riders around him, carrying the Norrey thistles and the Stark direwolf in the middle of the line. He had even better, drawing Val's eye as it looked like parts of his arms had been replaced with metal ones, the steel shaped around his forearm and hands.

But it was when she looked at the vanguard closest to her again that Val felt like someone had poured icy slush down her back.

Though the gentle slope seemed to be challenging the legs of these older men, every single one of them stared out from under their helms with the look Val had seen only a few times before. They mean to take us alive and then make us die screaming.

"Gods," Gilliane muttered, nocking an arrow to loose it at the Norreymen.

Val didn't reply. She didn't even bother trying to keep her voice calm when her next words sprung out. Her throat felt like it was closing. "Ryk, Ygritte… now," she choked out, not hearing herself over the sound of hoarse shouts from the enemy.

A horn blew from behind and a greater shout.

From around the walls of the inn came Longspear Ryk and two others with banners; the golden horn of Joramun on a blue sky and the Laughing Tree. Behind them followed a hundred pikes, held by men and spearwives wearing the same black chainmail, shields and black helms that had struck fear into Free Folk for generations. With those were half as many again with crossbows, larger shields, axe and mace.

Val and her escort joined Longspear, letting arrows fly as he took up a place on the right side of the road near where Val had planned to spend the battle. The pikes and crossbows put themselves across the road beside their leader. No one will get past them, Val decided.

The Norreymen slowed, but didn't stop. They were near enough that the pockmarks of individual faces could be distinguished. And the pikes were still not levelled at them. The pikes were still arranging themselves somehow, and the crossbows were not shooting.

Val looked to Longspear to ask why he was taking so long and found him giving a snarling grin, taking his 'stolen' Canadian weapon into his hand. "Watch this." He raised it, and squeezed a small piece of it that could only be a trigger.

The weapon thundered, half jumping out of his hand. Three times it boomed, into the air around the Norreys. Why is he not killing them with it? Val wondered.

At last, the advance stopped. The remaining men glanced to the sides, as if being sure that the others were seeing what they were.

"What the hell are you doing, Ryk?" Duquesne demanded over the radio.

Longspear ignored him. "PIKES!" he roared.

The block of warriors beside him lowered their weapons towards the Norreymen at last. The first five rows presenting between each other in a wall of speartips, the rest holding the pikes just above the heads of the rest, ready to step in if someone further in front fell.

Val's mouth dropped open, before she stopped herself and closed it again. She had never seen anything like it before. And Longspear was not yet finished.

"Forward!" he shouted. His warriors responded.

"HUZZAH!" they shouted with each step taken.

HUZZAH, HUZZAH, HUZZAH!

Though the word was strange to her ear, Val knew that it was the signal for the next part of the ambush. She paid little heed as the pikes finally met the Norreymen, who tried and mostly failed to swat them away with their poleaxes. Her attention was elsewhere.

The rest of the kneelers were rushing to join the fight, their old men having marched forward more quickly on seeing Val shoot the innsman. Their neat line was breaking up in their eagerness to kill Free Folk, and more confusion came as a new sound could be heard over din of battle by the inn: Hooves.

Val moved further westwards to where she could get an unobstructed view of what was going to happen next. The kneelers are about to meet a tribe they have never fought in battle for a very long time.

From three paths cleared on the slope above the Kingsroad, the unicorn riders burst through the trees at a full gallop and lowered their lances. The Norreymen in the middle of their marching line had no chance to react. Like deer that have just seen a hunter, they froze as the massive beasts and the warriors atop them rode through.

Lances pierced both sides of the bodies of young men and shivered off, Crow-forged steel tips piercing the armour easily with the weight of the unicorns behind them. Then the animals themselves collided with those not lucky enough to die from the lances. Val sucked in a breath through her teeth as the unicorns headbutted their prey, rode them down, kicked them as they passed.

The Norrey chief just barely escaped being caught by a lance, though the standard bearer carrying the wolf banner was not so lucky, his mount falling to a unicorn horn to the rear haunches. The man and the banner fell under the grievously wounded horse, the remaining riders in the centre bolting to the rear while looking back at both with wide eyes.

Marcach led his people through the carnage they had made until he was almost on top of the Canadians in the opposite forest, before wheeling southwards to prepare another charge. The unicorns themselves were covered in blood, shaking their heads to get it out of the hair around their eyes.

Val felt a surge of excitement rise up through her like never before. How does it feel! She wanted to scream southwards, How does it feel to be ridden down, kneelers?! She just barely kept the words out of her mouth, controlling herself and looking to see what she might do to help next.

The attack split the enemy column in two, a gaping bloody chasm of dead and dying left behind separating the two surviving parts, at least a hundred dead or very badly injured between them. The old men in front and the younger men at the rear were now two warbands, not one.

Just as planned.

Ygritte and Rikka began their attack as soon as the unicorns were clear. The archers, the best of both tribes, stood up from their hiding holes on the slope above. Arrows began flying like birds between the trees, barely visible blurs until they bounced or buried themselves in the Norreys below.

Ygritte's arrows flew to the the men at the front who hadn't joined the fight against Longspear yet, forcing them to stand and stay behind what few shields they had. Their bows were powerful enough, and the range was not so great. The kneelers were being brought low quickly.

Further south, the Kingsbloods tried to pick off the less experienced kneelers at the rear. Val saw their arrows were not having the same success. Ygritte had made the decision to give over some of the Crow steel-tipped arrows to Rikka as a peace offering, but the Kingsbloods had already shot them or their bows were too weak.

Trouble, Val decided, Those kneelers will realise their armour protects them and charge. She waved for Gilliane to move and made her way up the slope. "Where are we going?" the woman asked her.

"Ygritte first," Val replied.

The appearance of the small group spooked a few of the archers in the holes closest to the inn, causing a few arrows to be aimed, but they realised Val and the others were friendly and the arrows were not shot.

Val travelled on the same path the entire host had used to get up into the hill the day before to dig the holes and camouflage the ground. So many feet had travelled it that it was almost as wide as the Kingsroad, though it did wind around large trees and bushes. It did not take long to reach Ygritte at all.

The spearwife was using a strange weirwood longbow that was taller than she was. Blood poured from the place she held its wood, dripping down her arm. She was nocking a bow as Val jumped into the hole with her, pushing branches of a leafy bush out of the way.

Ygritte half jumped at her arrival. "What.. Val the Princess. What do you want? What's so important you couldn't use the radio?"

Val had to ask. "Did you hurt your hand?"

"Duck!"

Val followed the advice, just in time for a slingstone to fly through the air, smashing the branch she had moved just before into splinters. Ygritte rose again, putting an arrow to the bowstring. Val stood and saw she was aiming at the slinger who had unleashed the stone. The man was among a group of about fifty others, using them as protection.

"It's not my blood," Ygritte said, "It's sap. Thing bleeds sticky sap all over me. But it can also do this!"

The arrow thrummed off the string, and buried itself through to the feathers in the chest of the slinger. He dropped his sling and a new stone to clutch it, staggering to the ground. What in the gods' name is that! Val wondered.

"Took it from an Other that Sayer killed," Ygritte explained, sensing the question, "What do you want, Princess?"

"The Kingsbloods aren't killing many kneelers back there," Val said, pointing southwards, "The Norrey chief is back there. Once he understands their arrows aren't doing anything, he'll charge."

Ygritte's lip curled. "Serves 'em right. They wanted the easy pickings and the loot." She loosed another arrow, which stuck again up to the feathers, this time in a shield. The man holding it flinched backwards, not killed or injured, opening a gap that another archer used to kill a different man.

Val opened her mouth to object, but Ygritte knew what she wanted. "You want some of my unit. You can have the fifty over there. They're not doing much at the moment."

"I want more Crow arrows too."

"Well, you can't have any except those the fifty have. We need the rest here."

Val bristled. Why am I called the warchief of this host in the first place? "I lead here, Ygritte of the Laughing Tree."

Ygritte turned towards her, revealing yet another of the Canadian weapons strapped to her leg. "I follow Michael Duquesne, Princess. Don't get all high and mighty with me."

Facing the vivid memory of just how easily the same weapon had killed kneelers in full armour only minutes before, Val grimaced and took a step back before she could stop herself.

That reaction seemed to amuse Ygritte. "Good you know what this is." She pat the weapon with her clean hand.

Val recovered her senses at once. She enjoys this too much. "Shall we ask Duquesne then?"

It was Ygritte's turn to grimace. "No… Just making sure you know I'm not yours to command. Take a sheaf of arrows each, they're against the tree behind us. One each. You take more and I'll come find you after."

Val did not thank her, but climbed out of the hole. Gilliane and the rest of her escort pulled themselves out of other ones, tracking her to the arrows in question. They all grabbed one bundle a piece, except for Val who took two, and together ran southwards again down the pathway. The Ygritte's archers joined in, the spearwife having sent a runner to get them moving

They crossed the cleared ground that the unicorns had charged down, which also marked where the Kingsblood and Laughing Tree warbands fought. Val caught a small glimpse of the carnage on the road that Marcach's riders had caused as she ran by, but any thought about it was interrupted.

A Kingsblood warrior quickly darted from out behind a tree, a bone spear in hand. "Stop!" he said.

He seemed too old to have passed through the Wall, though Val knew plenty 'boys' of age had done so under the noses of the Crows and Canadians. The older men don't want to see their boys die to the Others.

"We're bringing you more arrows," Val explained quickly, "Where's Rikka?"

"Down that way," the young man said.

Val and the others ran, the path curving slightly east with the curve of the hill. She could soon see the inn again. Longspear was pushing the Norreymen hard, and almost had them off that slope entirely. Marcach's unicorns were loping into view too, a charge against the men Ygritte had been shooting at about to start.

Half of her wanted to shake with glee. The northern part of the Norrey host was going to be killed to man. She could see it. But the southern part wasn't. Something needed to be done.

Val soon found Rikka in council with her tribeswomen, overlooking the Norrey wagons. The kneelers had wisely pulled them into a circle of sorts, the ground to either side scattered with the bodies of donkeys and a few oxen. The Kingsbloods were still shooting at them, though their arrows were tipped with antler and bone now. Even Jon Stark was out of his saddle and ducking behind a cart full of grain bags.

Don't move, Stark. "We brought more arrows," Val announced, joining the little group of elder Kingsblood women.

Rikka turned to see. "Good. We are running out. These kneelers are tough. We must thin their numbers before we take their wagons." The chief gestured to two younger women, who ran up and took the sheaves of arrows from Gilliane and the others.

Val glanced northwards again, seeing the unicorns crunch into the kneelers there once more. This time two or three of the beasts did not survive, the Norrey poleaxes working just as well as spears. The kneeler chief won't let that happen again.

"No, we need to charge," Val said, before pointing to the slaughter nearer the inn, "The kneelers cannot fight unicorns in the open. There is only one place them behind the wagons can flee to, they will …" She stopped speaking, as the thing she was describing happened.

The Norrey chief and his men charged out from the wagon circle and straight up the slope towards the Kingsbloods.

"Gods… they can't!" Rikka half-shouted at no one in particular.

"Of course they can," Gilliane growled back.

"Shoot them down!" Val commanded.

The archers with her obeyed the order, and the Kingsbloods too. A flurry of arrows rolled like a wave down through the trees, sticking in trees, men and dirt. And another. And another. Still the kneelers came, though more fell, not just to the archers but the small stakes and holes dug to slow them down.

Val hair seemed to stand on end as she looked at the sight, sure as anyone could be that the Norreys would not stop. We need more warriors. She activated her radio once more.

"Ygritte, the kneelers are charging. Get over here!"

The Laughing Tree's response was drowned out by a roaring shout. The first of the kneelers had reached the foxholes and were putting their poleaxes to work. Young boys and spearwives both were cut down mercilessly. Skulls split and shoulders shattered from the weapons, while others simply caught Others in nearby holes fled rather than shoot more arrows.

"Get everyone back!" Val declared, "Shieldwall, right here!"

A number of the elders looked to Rikka. "What are you lookin' at me fer! Go!" They ran to either side, shouting the command as they went.

The kneelers crept forwards ever closer, avoiding the traps and obstacles and using trees to shield from the Crow arrows striking hard again. Val brought her own bow up and added more to their woes. But she only hit one in two times, and every arrow spent made her feel like spiders were crawling all over her.

The shields of the Kingsbloods and Laughing Tree went up in front of Val as her last arrow killed a man of an age with her, which banished the crawling feeling for the moment. Thinking she knew what was coming next, she drew her sword and picked her round shield off its straps, two more pieces from the capture of Castle Black.

She barely had time to raise the shield before a swarm of axeheads came crashing downwards. One impacted the rim, almost ripping the shield from her grasp entirely. Others came slamming into helms and wood, or fur-covered skulls among the Kingsbloods. Men and spearwives recoiled in pain or dropped to the earth.

The man in front of Val dropped to his knees as the poleaxe that had struck her shield was pulled back, the bottom point of the axehead tearing part of his neck away. Wish we had some pikes here now. She quickly dragged him back, not sure if the wound was fatal, and took his place in the line.

The kneelers were not in a single group, but a number of them, striking as hard as they could against the shieldwall. The Norreyman directly opposite her was older than the others, Val saw, and bringing his poleaxe up again to strike. No you don't. She quickly rushed forward, under the reach of his weapon, and drove her sword through his throat.

The blood poured from the wound, soaking the length of the blade. The man's eyes rolled up and he dropped, clutching it. Val felt ill, but the enemy were so close that it burned like fire, helping her to swing wildly to keep them away.

"Follow Val!" Rikka called from behind, "Follow the kin of our King! Push!"

Val could've turned and killed her for that, but it didn't matter. Somehow the numbers were matched, and the kneelers were the ones who really wanted to keep the fighting at the length of a spear. The whole shieldwall erupted in warcries, spittle and swinging weapons. All around her, Val found her people on the attack, a whirlwind.

The kneelers stood for a minute, some twirling their poleaxes against this and that opponent, others switching to short swords or daggers. Their armour blocked many blows, though the slope of the hill sent a few tumbling downwards. The Kingsbloods' soon ground to a halt, the kneelers having too great an advantage in arms and protection.

Val felt the battle may be lost right there and then, and took a step forward to try and stop it. Yet more warcries stopped her.

Ygritte and another hundred warriors of the Laughing Tree appeared, charging from the left. They slammed into the first group of kneelers they could, and sent all of them dying or running. Ygritte herself waved them on, keeping her strange longbow in hand and sending an arrow or two through easy targets.

The Norreymen broke at that. "Back to the wagons!" cried one of them, and the rest took it as a command. They began moving back down the hill, as fast as they could.

Val saw the chance. "Charge!" she screamed.

The whole Free Folk warband moved down the hill, hot on the heels of the kneelers. Only a few were caught. It was harder to move with everyone else getting in the way, though Val and Gilliane managed to outpace the rest by a few steps.

When they broke out of the trees, Val could see Longspear's pikes moving down the road, Marcach's unicorns resting in the middle of the marshy field beyond… and the Canadians' machine moving the long way across the same, churning the ground into mud as it moved. The kneelers made it behind their wagons again.

It's over, Val thought, Almost.

To her surprise, Jon Stark soon appeared from between two of the carts, a blade at his throat. The man holding it was none other than his fellow Crow. Panic shot through Val.

"Hold!" she commanded, "Shieldwall!"

There were grumbles from behind her, but no arrows or charges set forth beyond her position. Wait for your loot, damn it.

"That's right!" the Crow said, "I know you need this boy. Move any closer and I'll gut him like a fish!"

"That's Lord Stark's son!" came a shout from within the wagon circle, "Let him go now!"

"You're a fool Norrey," the Crow replied, twisting his head back, "This man is a brother of the Night's Watch and a traitor. They're going to kill us all. Lord Stark will never know who killed his bastard, and bastard's brother will think it was these wildlings. You stay right where you are too if you value Snow's life, you hear?!"

Val took a step forward, which gained her the attention of the Crow and Jon Stark alike. "Let him go."

"March back the way you came and then I'll let him go."

A lie, Val knew, You just said he was a traitor.

"What do we do?" Gilliane asked quietly.

Val looked around. The Norreys were not in favour of what the Crow was doing, but Jon Stark was just as much a hostage to them as to the Free Folk. The Canadians were getting closer with each breath, but Val knew their arrival might cause the Crow to slit Jon on principle; they had taken Castle Black and the man knew that now.

Val made the decision. "We need to kill that Crow. Now."

Ygritte stepped up beside her. "Aye, I've had enough of this shite," she muttered, slinging her longbow over her shoulder.

"Do as I said!" the man himself called, "By the Seven, I am not afraid to die if it means pissing all over your dreams of peace with the Seven Kingdoms. But I'd rather live to see the Starks kill you all later. Move!"

Holding her hands up to show she was doing as he said, Val gave the nod to Rikka and Ygritte. Slowly and quietly, the Laughing Tree and Kingsblood warriors backed off. Quietly enough that the sound of the Canadian approach could be heard.

The Crow turned to look in the direction of the noise, craning his neck out from behind Jon. Val saw the opportunity.

"Ygritte," she mumbled, "Now."

The spearwife grabbed the Canadian weapon from its strap on her leg, and aimed it with both hands, smearing it with weirwood sap. The Crow barely noticed, the alien sight of the horseless carriages moving towards him too strange to dismiss. He was too close to miss.

Ygritte's weapon sounded once, a thunderclap that echoed back from the opposite hills. The Crow grew a bloody red hole on one side of his head, and fell turning to reveal a larger one on the opposite.

Gods, what power. Val felt her stomach sting her throat. She gulped, struggling to rid herself of it for a moment.

The Crow's knife scraped across Jon Stark's neck and jawline as he dropped, shaving hair and skin off, but the young man escaped with his life. He quickly shoved away and ran. His direwolf howled from outside sight, still trapped in another wagon, as Val and the others joined him, returning to the trees where the warband waited.

"I thank you, my lady," Jon said to Ygritte, holding his hand to his jaw as gore leaked between his fingers, "You saved my life."

Ygritte opened her mouth, but failed to find any words, blushing. "'twas this one's idea."

Jon Stark's grey eyes turned on Val, expelling her ill feelings and fatigue from fighting. "I thank you too, then."

Warmed by the words, Val fought hard to make sure he didn't know that. "You can thank me by talking to your brother on our behalf."

The young man gave a nod, causing him to wince with pain. Val offered him a piece of clean linen from the bag on her hip, which he took gladly, but didn't apply to his jaw. The rumble of the Canadian 'crawler' by the Kingsroad interrupted the moment. It avoided the bodies of the slain carefully, moving more nimbly than Val thought was possible.

Soon, it was within speaking distance and Michael Duquesne appeared on the top of the thing, the large weapon pointed directly at the Norrey wagon circle. He quickly spotted Val and the others in the trees, and a frown broke out on his face.

"Val of the Free Folk! Norreys of the North!" he shouted, "Enough blood has been spilled today. You've all proven your point!'"

Val blinked. "What is he doing?" she asked, moving out of the trees again.

"Saving the kneelers' lives all sudden-like," Ygritte sighed as she followed, "An annoying habit of his."

Val made a point of looking around and saw bodies scattered all over the forest and road. "Gods help us when he decides to kill."

"Aye," snorted Ygritte, "That'll be a day to see."

A man jumped up on a wagon right in front of the 'crawler'. Val realised it was the Norrey chief, his helm removed to reveal a bald spot. "You are the Canadeens?" he asked.

"Canadians, yes," Duquesne replied, "As you've probably been told, we're trying to get to Winterfell to talk peace with Lord Robb Stark."

"Peace?!" the Norrey chief snarled, "You call this, peace?" He gestured to the whole battleground. "This is a massacre!"

"We did not participate in this battle," Duquesne lied, "You were defeated by the Free Folk alone."

"I'm not defeated yet!"

"Yes, you are. And Jon told you about the wights, showed you one. You chose to disregard that."

"I chose to protect my lands and my smallfolk from wildling murderers and rapers. The wights aren't here yet, the wildlings are. There's a host gathering by the crossing of the Last River you won't be able to…"

Val couldn't believe her ears. They're bickering, not negotiating! "Enough!"

Both Duquesne and the Norrey chief turned their heads to her. Only the latter seemed angry about it.

"Lord Norrey," Val began, "I'm goodsister to Mance, King of the Wall and the Gift. I offer you the chance to take your remaining men home, with their weapons and armour. The wagons and carts stay here. We'll burn the dead."

The words felt like ashes in her mouth, but she pressed on.

"We'll let the Starks decide on war or peace, it's not for the Night's Watch or you to decide for them. Do you accept? Or shall we continue the slaughter to no gain? Will you leave your lands with no warriors at all to defend them?"

The Norrey chief ran both hands through his thinning hair, turning around to look down inside the wagon circle. There was some conversation that Val couldn't hear, but it caused the man to hang his head for a moment.

Without looking at Val or Duquesne, the kneeler gave his the reply.

"We accept, may the gods damn us all."

Chapter Text

The aurora borealis fluttered overhead, a show for one and all in the cold that seemed to bite bone deep even without a wind. Everyone in camp had trotted outside to watch for a while, the scientists standing around electric heaters and the few soldiers around wood fires in cut-up oil drums. Only a week or two before, it would've been too cold, but winter was ending at last.

Craning her neck to look upwards, Anne stood just outside the prefabricated hut that she shared as living quarters with her team, a mug of hot chocolate in her hand. The green streamers of light made her skin itch. The disappearance happened when there was an aurora overhead, one half of her mind whispered, It's connected, somehow.

The more rational part of her didn't speak so softly. We're in the North West Territories, Anne, it stated with certainty, The aurora is happening all the time here. All that changes is how much you can see it.

She sighed loudly. "You're tired Anne. Flying doesn't agree with you. And quick trips to Ottawa and back is a lot of flying. Twenty hours of cars and airports and cramped seats..." She shuddered, regretting having voiced the memory.

Seeking something else to look at so she could let her neck rest a little, Anne saw a figure moving towards her. The excavation area not fifty steps from the door glowed white in the darkness under the glare of a few floodlights, all the ground covered in fresh snow. He was skirting the edge of the lit area, rifle slung behind his shoulder, his camouflaged cold-protection covering every inch of his body. The soldiers' area was on the other side of the pattern of megaliths, closer to the nearest road.

Anne snorted as she knew exactly who it was. There was only one man who refused to walk on the Spiral. Not without orders, anyway. She remembered the first time he had been commanded onto it, he looked like he was walking on thin ice the whole time.

"Teixeira!" she called with a smile on her lips. One of the soldiers newly posted to the site after the original group were withdrawn, Lucas Marques Teixeira held the rank of master-corporal, whatever that meant. A nice, friendly, fills-out-his-uniform-nicely master-corporal, though Anne didn't have much chance to appreciate it given his uniform was usually under coats and armour. Can't wait for lunch in the mess.

The man waved and pulled his ski-mask down off his face. "Professor!" he called back as he got closer, "I heard you were back."

"I am," she confirmed, as the Sergeant kicked off his snow shoes beside her.

"How was Ottawa?" Teixeira asked, warm hazel eyes looking up in the way which made Anne feel just a little weak-kneed, "You know, I've never been there myself."

Knowing she couldn't discuss much about what she had done in Ottawa, Anne rubbed her neck like it was still hurting from the journey. "Can't say I've seen much of Ottawa myself. I flew in, got dragged to the big shots to speak my piece, flew back. All with a military escort that wouldn't speak to me and wouldn't let me speak to anyone but Doctor Shih."

Teixeira cocked an eyebrow. "Wouldn't speak to you?" he asked mockingly, "Some people have no taste."

"Well, we found some crazy stuff out here," Anne shrugged, "It's going to change the world."

Glancing behind to the lit up area, Teixeira shook his head. "And that's why I don't go near the thing. Don't want to be part of any world changing events, thanks. Well, I half expect to be in a war some time soon. Just keep me away from magic holes that swallow up whole vehicles and let aliens onto the Earth."

Anne's jaw dropped. "Why the hell do you think it's aliens? The whole reason your unit was brought up here was…"

Teixeira flashed a toothy grin, and Anne realised she had just screwed up. Just confirmed everything to him. "Not much makes it past the notice of the First Battalion, ma'am. If those Third Battalion pukes were up here, someone would've found them already."

Anne stared at the man, expecting a better answer. Eventually, his head dropped for a second and then returned upwards to deliver one.

"Your collection of scientists aren't so great at lying. Don't think we missed what's going on in the 'sample hut', did you? We guard the doors from a distance, sure, but your CSIS friends seem to forget we have scopes. You've got a couple of dozen Roswells here at least."

Anne scowled, finding it hard not to lecture him on the importance of secrecy. Not least because she didn't want half her research team arrested for breaking their new confidentiality agreements by accident. Best to say nothing, shouldn't further confirm his ideas by complaining that he knows something.

She made a mental note to call the CSIS Director and arrange something, before he did another something entirely. And now I'm working with military intelligence, God help me.

"Why are you back so early?" Teixeira asked, "Thought you'd be in the capital another few days."

"First Nations leadership need to be shown what we've discovered," Anne said, "There's rumours all over the place that we've found a native site. We need to show them it isn't one before we get accusations of desecration. Luckily, I had the wisdom to bring in the local patrimony experts from the start, so we can crush those rumours once we've got the local politicians caught up."

"So it is aliens," Teixeira smirked.

"I said it isn't First Nations," Anne corrected him, "I didn't say ET."

"You know those politicians will leak this, right?"

Anne grimaced. "No journalist will believe them. None that the public will believe anyway. More likely some accuse us of desecration anyway, that'll get the journalists sniffing around regardless." God, I sound like the Director. His words in my mouth.

"What happens when the CBC shows up with some cameras?"

"We show them some artefacts, show them there's no desecration happening. Tell them the finds are so unique that their value is massive and we got credible threats of looting, so we're protecting the site."

Teixeira laughed, a sound Anne very much liked. "Protect the site with mechanised infantry? They won't believe that, it's overkill. RCMP can do this shit, we've got IFVs. What are they saying we're afraid of, the Chinese gonna airdrop in light tanks?"

"Sure they'll believe," Anne grinned back, "It's all just part of the ongoing northern exercises. Instead of wasting money on driving around pretending, they're using the situation usefully."

His laugh dampening down to a chuckle, Teixeira stood up on the step of the prefab with Anne and looked up at the aurora himself. "All this over Angel Eyes disappearing. Can't say I'm surprised, man has bad luck all around."

Anne blinked. "Angel Eyes?"

Teixeira shifted his weight from side to side, still watching the sky. "Ah, wasn't supposed to mention that… One of the missing guys. The Lieutenant. He used to be with the First Battalion. My company, in fact. His nickname was Angel Eyes."

Anne's brow knitted. "How do you get a nom de guerre like that? Does he have a face like a Hollywood star or…?"

Teixeira stopped aurora-gazing, his mouth thinned. He nodded to and waited for two other soldiers to walk by before answering, out of earshot. "Something like that. I guess you've never seen the Good, the Bad and the Ugly?"

Anne searched her mind for what he was talking about. It took her a minute. "A western?"

Teixeira nodded. "Didn't remember it either until I heard the nickname and asked someone."

A pang of cold hitting her, Anne drank her hot chocolate. Someone had turned off the electric heater. She stood aside to let some of her team inside the building, getting tired nods of greeting as they passed. "So what? What's a western got to do with Lieutenant Duquesne?"

"The movie's about three guys. One good, one bad, one ugly. Angel Eyes is the bad guy."

Anne's eyes widened at that, forcing her eyes to tear up and half-blinding her. She rubbed them with her wrist, almost spilling her drink. Aren't bad guys in westerns really bad? "What did he do to earn that?"

Teixeira frowned. "Sorry Professor, some things have to stay between soldiers. We have a code. The whole thing was dealt with anyway, not for civilians to judge us."

Her mind filled with all sorts of criminal acts, Anne glared at him. He might be easy on the eyes, but he's still military. "A code? An omertà you mean."

Teixeira held up his hands in apology, causing Anne to sigh loudly. She couldn't stay mad at him, who knew what consequences he'd face for speaking out. "Sorry. Not the first time this week I've heard something like 'it's not for civilians to judge us', okay?"

The master-corporal didn't respond, his gaze aimed out over the Spiral, his eyes narrowing. "Jesus, what is that?!" He pointed.

Anne looked for herself, following the line drawn by the pointed finger. There was a figure in the centre of the megaliths; the exact spot where the soldiers went missing. She squinted, not sure what it was, except that it was made of ice and was shaped vaguely like a person. "An ice sculpture? Who put that there?" Annoyance rose like acid in her throat. Who is playing games with my artefact site?

"The thing moved," Teixeira declared, before mumbling into his radio mouthpiece and getting audible chatter back into his helmet.

It moved? Anne frowned, staring at the thing and blinking. The brightness of the lit-up area meant her eyes wouldn't focus quickly enough, and she had left her glasses inside. But as soldiers and CSIS agents began pouring out of the other buildings with their guns, she saw exactly what the Sergeant had; the ice sculpture was a man, with a massive sword. And the man was looking this way and that.

"Stay here," Teixeira said, jumping down off the stairs, stepping back into his snowshoes and flipping his rifle off his back. He began moving towards the Spiral without any of the superstition about being disappeared he had voiced before.

The hell I will stay here, Anne thought, jumping down behind him as he moved off. It was hard going without being able to stand on top of the snow, until the snow was properly dug out over the top of the stones. By the time she caught up with the knot of soldiers seemingly under Teixeira's command, two more groups had formed, catching the figure in the centre of what would no doubt be free fire zones if it made to do anything with the sword.

The figure turned towards Anne and Teixeira briefly, revealing glowing blue eyes and sending a shiver down Anne's spine.

It was shaped like a man but it couldn't possibly be human. As it moved, the light seemed to bend around inside it, like it was passing through clear ice or calm water, before shifting back to whites and blacks. Its outline was that of some kind of ancient warrior, armour and all.

She couldn't identify the culture of origin from its possessions, but military archaeology or history wasn't her speciality by any means. That fact let the rational part of Anne's brain quickly overwhelm whatever fear she was feeling, analysing what she was seeing before her. A new curiosity came to her quickly. It isn't one of the little three-fingered ones, it isn't a sasquatch type either. What is this? Why is it here?

"Copy, will approach and attempt to detain," Teixeira reported over his radio, before turning to his subordinates, "Okay, with me. Safeties off. Don't be afraid to back off if he gets too close with that blade. Everyone else will light him up like it's the First of July." He waved the soldiers with him to follow. Anne tagged along behind them, dancing this way and that to keep her eyes on the figure. It looks like it's made of ice, she thought, unable to stop herself trying to get a closer look, How is that possible?

Together, the troops spread out into a small line, aiming their weapons at the thing. It took the figure a minute to realise it was being approached, but when it did, it took its sword in hand. Teixeira's battle line stopped, some of the men kneeling to get a better shot.

Anne froze, afraid they would start fighting at once. And more afraid the soldiers wouldn't win. A creature made of living ice, would bullets even harm it? She fought back a sudden urge to run away. She had to see this up close.

There was a silent standoff for a moment, until Teixeira spoke. "What the hell do I say to the thing?" he asked, presumably to someone else over the radio. There was more chatter and eventually the master-corporal responded. "Copy."

"You have illegally entered a protected facility of the Canadian Forces!" Teixeira boomed, "Place the sword on the ground! Then step away and kneel, placing your hands on your head!"

The ice figure did nothing, its glowing eyes scanning the line of soldiers, even as Teixeira repeated the order. Anne saw no understanding or recognition there, its gaunt white face not reacting to the words. She knew what she needed to do.

She stepped up beside Teixeira, careful to not get in front of any of the weapons of his subordinates.

"What are you doing?" the master-corporal demanded, seemingly unwilling to drop his weapon's aim on the creature in order to stop her.

Anne ignored him and took one more step towards the ice figure. It gave her its full attention, and she found herself unable to get closer. It looks like it hates me.

Wanting to get what she intended over with, she gestured to the creature, and then mimed throwing away a sword, dropped to her knees onto the light dusting of snow and put her hands on her head. The creature blinked, definitely understanding what she was saying. But it didn't move.

Anne pointed at it again. Come on, do what you were told…

At last, the thing reacted. It lowered its sword and threw its head back, letting out loud laughter that sounded almost like someone crushing ice cubes. There wasn't a person alive that would mistake what it was communicating; mockery.

Teixeira grabbed Anne by the upper arm and dragged her backwards onto her feet and behind the firing line. He gave her a quick apologetic face, before speaking into his radio mouthpiece once more. "It's not obeying, not dropping its weapon… No, I don't think we can grab it without someone getting hurt… Yes, sir, we're clear, nothing behind it but trees… Yes sir, I understand."

Anne watched with horror as the master-corporal raised his weapon once again, and with a tone she had never heard him use before, passed on the command.

"Open fire."

The line of rifles aimed at the ice figure erupted like a volcano, half-deafening Anne, the bullet trails flying through the air and the figure, then into the woods, visibly bouncing off the ground between the trees. The laughing of the ice figure stopped, and it flinched and twitched. Yet it still stood there.

"Cease fire!" Teixeira called out, "Cease fire, cease fire!"

The soldiers stopped shooting, and Anne finally could see things clearly again without the flashing of the weapons. The ice figure had not dropped dead or been shattered by the attack. But it was clearly no longer amused or curious. Its ethereal face curled with what Anne would have guessed was frustration, if it had been a human.

Not responding to his radio, Teixeira crouched briefly, gathering snow up in his gloved hand. Anne watched with amazement as he balled it up into a snowball, and like a baseball pitcher, threw the packed ice straight at the creature. His aim was perfect, and the snowball sailed straight for the thing's chest… and then sailed right on through it.

The ice creature dissolved into nothing, melting into the air like it had never existed at all.

Anne rubbed her eyes, unable to believe what she had just seen.

At last, Teixeira responded to the chatter on his radio. "It was some kind of a projection, sir. It was never really here. We'll debrief, sir."

"What!" Anne half-shouted.

The master corporal leaned close to answer. "Our bullets never hit anything," Teixeira quietly responded to her, "They just flew on by, into the woods."

Anne glanced between him and where the figure had been standing. "But why? What was it doing here then?"

Teixeira frowned. "My guess? Taking a look around. And it didn't like the reception we gave it. That's the one thing keeping me from running for my life. Rifle fire doesn't agree with it."

Chapter Text

Alone, Michael lay in the 'summer snow' atop a hill, Sayer's scoped rifle standing on its bipod in front of him. His grey-and-white mottled arctic coat was draped over his body as camouflage. A necessary precaution. There were many potential eyes that could spot him, though the nearest to worry about was still about six hundred metres away.

After dealing with the aftermath of the Battle at the Last Inn, and a few more days travel down the Kingsroad, the joint Canadian-Free Folk force had finally arrived nearby the camp of the army assembling to help the Night's Watch.

The tent city sprawled in front of a massive forest and a fast flowing river. The north-south road ran through it, then over a strong stone bridge. After the bridge, the roadway appeared to widen and stood on an embankment to prevent being flooded out. The whole layout of shelters was surrounded by wooden stakes aimed northwards, freshly cut trees from the look of them.

It's well laid out, Michael thought to himself as he examined what he could see of the base, Organised latrine areas, proper defences against raids, armouries, corrals for mules… Makes Mance's camp look like amateur hour.

But he knew it was nothing they couldn't overcome if required. The bridge over the river was not defended properly. It would be a simple matter to storm that particular section of the camp with the crawler and unicorns, hold until the rest of the mounted force crossed the river, then withdraw across the bridge. Maybe even destroy it with the remaining plastic explosives.

Worst case scenario, Michael reminded himself, Don't be tempted to do it just because it would be easier than talking. After what had happened with Jon Stark's attempt to get Lord Norrey to stand down, he'd almost prefer to go in shooting.

When the young Crow had arrived at the Norrey camp, it turned out the mountain clan chief sworn to the Starks had another Crow with him. Thoren Smallwood, a Ranger of the Night's Watch. A friend of Ser Alliser Thorne according to Jon. In short, a worthless shit.

This Crow had listened to Jon tell the tale of what had happened at Castle Black. He then had convinced Lord Norrey to view the wight in private instead of showing the entire army, and that Jon Snow was a traitor for agreeing to join the mission of peace and for abandoning his post.

And lastly, Mr. Smallwood killed the wight with a fiery torch, something he would not have known to do if it hadn't been for Michael himself. The coup de grace had been so easy, it helped convince Lord Norrey that the 'wildlings' were the bigger threat.

That was why there had been a battle at all, and why Michael couldn’t decide whether or not to attack now. Will Mors Umber be equally as stupid after seeing a wight?

Stewing on whether or not to attack or let the plan proceed, Michael didn't notice immediately when someone climbed under his coat with him. It was only when he smelled roast pork and pine that he realised, and found Ygritte shifting on her belly closer to him, fur hood over her head.

"What're you doin' out here on your own?" she asked, "You can look at Umbers from camp." She nodded behind them, to a higher, wooded hill on the lee side of which the rest of the force was encamped.

"Needed a closer look," Michael replied, "The others know I'm down here."

"So you say," Ygritte said with a shrug. She didn't say anything else, but didn't leave either. Not really finding her a nuisance, Michael continued his observation.

He began picking out the banners on display on each part of the camp, based on a list he had as described by Jon Stark out of a great book that had been taken from the library of Castle Black.

The Umbers were the ones camped on either side of the road directly, of course, but there were others. Most of the army by the river was from smaller lordly ridings; the Lakes, the Knotts, the Liddles, the Harclays, the Whitehills. The only other major vassals Michael could see were the Karstarks, their white sun on black very easy to identify even without the scope.

Most importantly, Michael saw very few horses of any real size. They might have no cavalry, he thought, Definitely an advantage to us if so. The temptation to attack rose again. Dealing with locals on deployment was never easy, but the Westerosi seemed particularly difficult. They were aliens, yet strangely close to what had once existed on Earth in a number of places. He exhaled hard, as if expelling pure frustration. It didn't help much.

Without warning, Ygritte tipped his helmet off and pulled it aside. He turned to ask what the hell she was doing, but she quickly threaded her fingers in his hair by his neck. She started playing with it, half massaging and half pulling.

It felt damn relaxing.

"What's wrong, Michael Duquesne?" she asked, "You're going to get to talk to the kneelers again, aren't you? Kneeler talk is like a strong drink to you, keeps you coming back for more." Despite her mocking, she kept running her fingers through his hair.

Michael leaned in, as conspiratorially as can be. Ygritte's fingers stopped moving for a moment. She was misinterpreting his intentions. "Want to know a secret?" he whispered, "I want to ride straight through them, guns blazing. They're middlemen. Just important enough to be able to order men to kill us, but not important enough to understand trying that will doom their own people."

Ygritte brought her hand from Michael's hairline to his cheeks, and squeezed slightly. "Why not ride through then. If that's what you feel you should do. You owe the kneelers nothing. They told you obey or die."

Michael gently pulled her hand from his face, after which it returned to the back of his head and curled through his hair again. Damn it, that's disarming. "I'm not really supposed to go killing people if I can avoid it. Tends to make enemies I don't need."

"But you had us fight the Norreys? Your plan made fools of them."

And they don't need to know that. "I was defending a camp full of women and children, vulnerable people the kneelers hate. Whatever my morals are, letting the inevitable happen to them would've left a bad taste in my mouth."

"Mayhaps you care too much about others."

That'll be the day. Michael thought, returning his eye to the scope. "They were your people, Ygritte. Would you still crawl under my coat and pet me like a dog if I let them be taken by kneelers?"

Ygritte's fingers stopped moving for a moment, but continued as she scooted even closer, half her body resting against Michael's own. "So you let us kill those kneelers so I'd be happy, Michael Duquesne?"

Michael snorted with amusement. Count on this girl to be turned on by that idea. "I'll never tell." Ygritte's hand moved, skirting down his neck, down his side. Towards his belt. He shifted his weight to try and catch her. However he thought about the idea of her in his pants, under a coat in the open snow wasn't how he intended to go about it.

The radio crackled to life in his ear as Michael finally grabbed Ygritte's hand, giving him a crooked grin.

"Jonny boy and Rowan are ready to ride, sir," O'Neill reported, "Are we going ahead with this?"

Michael nudged Ygritte away, in case the Sergeant had eyes on them right now. Guy probably has X-ray vision to see under the coat too. Suddenly the right path seemed easier. He looked at Ygritte, realising her antics had calmed his mind enough to make a decision. "Let them go. That army will see our campfires tonight anyway."

O'Neill gave a single, mirthless chuckle. "Of course they'll see our campfires, we're going to be lighting six of them apiece. All we've been doing since setting camp is cutting up firewood."

"Nothing wrong with a little strategic deception, Sergeant."

"As you say, sir. The ambassadors are on their way."

That's it then, it's done. Michael crawled back a few paces, out of sight of the Umber camp, then pulled his coat on around him.

Pouting a little, Ygritte picked up Sayer's rifle and handed it down, anticipating that his time spying on the kneelers was done. "I don't like you pretending you don't want me, Michael Duquesne."

I don't know what I want, except to get off this rock. "We can't always have what we want, Ygritte," Michael replied, rolling up the survival bag and putting it in its own protective sheath, "Sometimes we need to wait. Sometimes we don't ever get it."

Ygritte's pout intensified, but whatever answer she had to that was interrupted by the thump and sloth of hooves entering snow and hitting the ground.

Around a curve in the Kingsroad, Jon Stark and Rowan rode their mounts, Jon holding an improvised black banner of the Night's Watch and Rowan clutching the reins of another horse, a wight slung across its back. The riders didn't seem to notice they were being watched. Jon's face was particularly stoney as he pushed his animal hard.

"Stark's sullen as usual," Michael remarked, "If he keeps that look on his face, it'll get stuck."

Ygritte eyed him without turning her head. "He's a pretty one. Even when scowling. Not sure any girls would mind."

Michael cocked an eyebrow back at her. Trying to make me jealous? "Am I not pretty?" he joked at her, "Making me feel like an old man over here. And that I am certainly not."

Ygritte's tongue worked in her mouth, like she was searching for the right answer. "Aye, you're a man, Michael Duquesne. Pretty's not the thing to say about that. But Jon Stark's still a boy, fancy sword or no."

Michael frowned, aware that Ygritte would barely be considered an adult herself if she had been born in Canada. Regardless of her life experience. He wasn't exactly long in the tooth either, he was easily the youngest lieutenant in the battalion. Even before being transported to another world, he had seen and done things most young men his age hadn't. Perhaps the three of us have that in common.

"Maybe he is a boy, but Jon's doing a man's work now."

The next morning, the whole Canadian-Free Folk force mounted up and crested the final hill as one unit. O'Neill and Michael rode on top of the crawler, Zheng driving and Sayer inside for support if things went south. The pace was slow, deliberate, so as not to provide an impression that an attack was going to happen, and it stopped as soon as the hill could mask just how few riders there actually were. Not that it made any difference.

The unicorns were now draped front and sides in black chainmail shirts backed by the padded gambesons, roped together crudely but tightly, like a packed clothesline. Their riders had also been up-armoured.

Cataphracts, Sayer called them, after the armoured cavalry of Parthians that had destroyed the Roman army of Crassus two thousand years before. The kid played too many video games. These ones were some strange mix between horses, bulls and rhinos, and Michael glad every morning the creatures and their riders were on his side. Even if they stunk to high hell.

To replace the chainmail now on the beasts, the riders of both horse and unicorn had plentiful coats-of-plate now, taken or surrendered from Norrey men both dead and alive, only keeping chainmail for their arms, legs and necks. All had lances or half-pikes, giving the impression they were all trained heavy and medium cavalry.

The badges of green thistles on yellow on the armour coats had been replaced with the Maple Leaf too, which also flew on a banner alongside those of the Laughing Tree and the Horn of Joramun.

The time of appearing to be separate were over, and the time of a united front had come.

As the line of cavalry stopped, the crawler proceeded halfway down the hill towards the Umber camp with just the leadership, as set out in the terms sent with Rowan. Michael waved a tree branch, a symbol of parley, and then sat directly on the front of the crawler, his legs overhanging and his rifle across his lap.

Below at the riverside, there was utter chaos. Panicky infantry milled about, rushing out of tents with weapons but no armour or running into the woods. For a little while, it looked like a battle might be inevitable as sergeants began shouting to restore order, but a collection of horsemen soon gathered in the Umber part of the camp. Too small to possibly be a defensive response.

Gotcha, Michael thought. He knew for sure now from Iola's scouting with her eagle that the kneeler force didn't have cavalry at all beyond a few bodyguards. The lords are coming. Just as planned.

"Here come the big hats and monocles," O'Neill commented quietly from behind, "You sure this is what we should be doing? The plan isn't exactly American-proof."

"Yes, I am," Michael replied with certainty, and equally as quietly. The others on horseback were close by to one side, and Marcach on his unicorn wasn't far on the other. Thankfully the wights were active again, and their squirming wasn't silent. Maybe they are the Others' CCTV after all.

The Sergeant scratched his chin and glanced back at the undead packages. "Zheng's idea of skipping all this is looking more appealing by the minute, sir."

That makes three of us. "Where's your insistence on the regs now?"

"Gone like a fart in the wind, the second I saw that army, sir. You getting laid doesn't trump the regs, but our lives do. And our lives are what we need to be concerned about now. We have more than enough bullets to break through and escape, if we strike now. As much as I wasn't planning on fighting a whole division."

He's right, but it'll be just as easy to decapitate the force and then breakout. If we need to. Michael exhaled, his breath smoking with the growing cold. Starting a running war to a place that might not even have a way home seemed like a bigger bet on longer odds. "We won't have to fight a whole division, Sergeant," he said, before waving at the machine gun, "Be ready with the pig, just in case."

"Yes, sir."

A large man led the way up towards the crawler on a horse that looked too small for him, followed by Rowan in her furs and Jon in his black cloak, then a collection of other bearded men.

The men all wore their 'sigils' on well-made full breastplates, their eyes peering out of helmets that seemed more advanced than what the Norreys or Crows had been wearing. Like something out of the Renaissance or Thirty Years War.

As the lords got close, their horses shook their heads and refused to get closer. Michael quickly realised the issue; the wind was blowing southbound and the animals smelled the unicorn. They didn't like it. Unable to any closer, the commotion was enough to force the lords back to dismount. Some young pageboys held the reins to keep the mounts from running off.

Michael brought up his rifle to look through his scope, his attention grabbed by one lord in particular: The leader.

The man was as tall and broad as O'Neill, though he was far older, his hair, moustache and bushy beard all white. One of his eyes was missing, replaced by a chunk of obsidian of all things. He wore a polar bear skin over his head, helmet, shoulders and back, and the symbol of the giant was etched into the leather covering of his breastplate. He carried a longsword with two hands, resting on his shoulder but ready to swing.

This is Mors Umber, Michael said to himself, Or I'm the King of Timbuktu. Almost as a battle line of their own, the lords began to walk up like a gang in a western. There were only a half dozen of them, but that somehow made them more menacing. Jon and Rowan's presence was drowned out by them.

Trained-from-birth killers, Michael thought, Two can play that game. "Ygritte, bring Val and Ryk, we'll meet them half way on foot. Let me do the talking," he commanded, climbing down from the crawler, "O'Neill, Zheng, watch for trouble. Sayer, be ready to grab a wight and roll it down to us."

The others dismounted too, though most took their horses along by the rein. Marcach had his massive unicorn lay down so he could climb off of it. The man wanted to join the discussion, it seemed. The great shaggy beast snorted as it thudded onto the snow and scratched its large twisting horn along the ground, as if sharpening it.

The group got together and marched down, Michael in front. When the lords were close enough to speak, he called out and held up a palm. "That's good."

Mors stopped at once. The others lurched to a halt, surprised their apparently leader had obeyed the command. But they haven't seen a rifle work up close.

"Outlander," Mors said in greeting, before his eyes locked with Val's. Neither said anything.

Not my name, mister. "Introductions are in order, I think," Michael replied, gesturing to himself first, "I am Lieutenant Michael Duquesne, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry. And Elector of Calgary," he began, "On behalf of her Majesty's Canadian Forces, I extend greetings."

"A royal guard?" the Karstark lord with the sigil of the white sun asked, seeming to direct his question at Mors.

"A royal officer," Michael corrected, before continuing, "I see you had a good conversation with your daughter and the man in black."

"Aye," Mors said, with the barest glance to Jon, "Lord Eddard's natural son spoke well for you. Not that it matters."

Jon scowled at the man, but he did not notice.

Michael shook his head. "His name is Jon. Now liaison officer to us from the Night's Watch. He's here to speak for them, not us." And for us with his brother.

Mors glanced at the rest of the wildlings.

"Ygritte Redbow and Ryk Longspear of the Laughing Tree tribe," Michael continued with a gesture to the pair. The nickname Ygritte had earned in battle seemed good enough as a surname, and she didn't complain. She just glared.

There was no reaction to that from Mors or the other lords. Just an awkward silence. Jesus, this is like pulling a fingernail. Michael turned to his left. "Marcach, leader of the unicorn riders."

This time, Mors did look properly, the short but stocky 'wildling' giving no indication as to his feelings about that.

The lord gave a harumphing laugh. "Aye, well met. Perhaps you'll steal a grand-niece of mine and take her away on your great beast. Or I'll split its head in two." The sentence ended with a gobbet of spit flying from the man's mouth to the ground.

Michael could've laughed. Just announce you're afraid of our cataphracts, why don't you?

The unicorn rider's eyes narrowed. "Such hospitality for our first time in the South," Marcach replied in the Old Tongue, "Unicorns can't climb the Wall, so we never thought it our concern to raid you. My clan and yours have never crossed lances. Something to keep in your thick head before you offend the gods with such insults at a first meeting."

Mors laughed louder and longer at that. "A wildling is a wildling, Lord Marcach," he replied in the same language, "The gods are on our side where insults and killings are concerned." This seemed to cause confusion among some of the lords. They don't speak the language, Michael realised, Why is that? He quickly gestured to the last person.

Val stepped forward, before Michael could make the introduction himself. "I am Val," she declared.

Mors said nothing in response, but continued his stare. Val looked to her mother, standing beside the man, but Rowan's lips thinned. She didn't know what was going on, what her own father was going to do.

For the love of… Michael thought. "Val Umber, Princess of Wall and Gift." Val made a face, but did not challenge the announcement.

There was some murmurs from the lesser lords, like they hadn't heard that before.

"Doesn't work like that," Rowan complained.

"It does now," Michael insisted. Stop being pedantic and help me out here, lady.

"Says who?"

"Me." And the whole buncha guns I've got with me.

Rowan blinked, but Michael ignored her. "This is a mission of peace. Mance is not invading. He is fleeing. He has the Gift, he doesn't need or want more."

At last, Mors Umber reacted, thumbing to himself. "The Gift is OURS!" he roared, "The Dragons took it from me and mine! If the Watch is defeated, it is ours once more. Not Mance's fief, not the wildlings'."

"The Gift will belong to an Umber in time," Val said, her flash of discontent at those words quickly hidden, "You have been told."

She's playing her part well, Michael thought, Appealing to his pride.

Mors took a breath. "Aye, I've been told, and I would hear it no more," he said, "The thought of my family's name being dragged through mud and shite, because wildlings swearing themselves to my blood kin raid and rape throughout the North…"

"Mance has given commands to prevent that," Val replied smoothly, "Those who disobey will be killed and fed to the weirwoods. Nothing tells men 'obey your oath' like seeing oathbreakers guts' hang from the branches, grandsire."

Fed to the weirwoods? Michael blanched at the thought, Is that why the trees' sap is red?

Mors hissed out a breath. "You are lucky you look like my mother's younger sister in her youth, little Val. And that I remember the woman fondly."

Val cocked an eyebrow. "Why is that?"

"Because it's said my aunt looked like my mother in her youth," Mors growled, "And that thought is the only thing stopping me from strangling you, here and now."

The man was exaggerating, Michael somehow knew. The news of his family among the Free Folk, descendants who had risen to the very top of 'wildling' tribes, had him confused and angry. Rowan understood it was bluster. Others did not.

A dark look flashed over Val's eyes, as Jon Stark stepped around the lord. Before Michael could stop him, the young man drew his magic sword and levelled it towards Mors. "Lady Val is an envoy of peace, Lord Mors. To threaten her with death is to offend the laws of gods and man."

"Jon…" Michael warned. The young man flashed a glare back, like it wasn't anyone's business but his. Michael was glad his wolf wasn't around, but wasn't about to take crap from a teenager, sword or not. He strode over as some of the other lords went for their swords, but Mors held up a hand to stop them all.

"He's a child," the lord thundered, "And Eddard Stark's blood besides. Though I never thought our lord's kin would need their ears cleaned out this badly!"

There was no laughter at that. "That's Valyrian steel, Umber," the Karstark declared.

Mors glared down at Jon. "Gods, it is! Where did you get that, boy?"

How'd he not notice that before? Did Jon not show it at camp?

"A gift from Lord Commander Mormont," Michael interrupted, before grabbing Jon by the scruff of the neck, "Jon, put away the sword and step back. You're threatening an envoy yourself right now, Lord Mors hasn't drawn his own weapon."

"Not that I'd need it, Valyrian steel or no," Mors joked back, such a ridiculous statement that it finally had both the kneeler lords and Val herself smiling, "Mayhaps they'll call me Crowfood for a different reason soon, boy."

With his scowl now doubled in intensity, Jon nonetheless obeyed the order he had been given and sheathed his sword. Though he didn't leave Val's side.

"We're getting distracted," Michael declared, "I'll be blunt. We want to go to Winterfell to make peace. Let's talk about you moving your army out of the way."

"What makes you think we want to talk about that?" the Karstark declared.

What a useless lie, Michael thought, You came up here at the double quick as soon as you saw the unicorn lancers, didn't you?

"Who are you?" Val asked.

The lord grimaced in a parody of a polite smile. "Cregan Karstark. Cousin to Lord Rickard Karstark of Karhold."

"Nobody, then," Val sighed back.

Lord Cregan balled a fist. "Careful, girl. You're pretty, but that won't save you."

Val regarded the man like a coil of dog crap placed on her dinner plate, and his anger withered into hatred at once.

She reached behind her, into a bag, and took out a large yellow cloth. Unfurling it to reveal the green thistles stitched onto it, she threw the banner at Cregan's feet. "Ask House Norrey if I need to be saved," she said, as icy as a White Walker.

The lords all burst out with strings of curses, fists curling around the hilts of swords and fingers pointed. Mors grit his teeth but said nothing, not restraining them but not joining them either.

Does he keep quiet because it's his granddaughter? Or is he impressed? Michael looked to Val and found her giving them all the same glare she had given Cregan Karstark. Just what we need.

"Enough!" Michael interrupted at the top of his voice, "This changes nothing. You were already at war! You have been fighting for generations!"

"Is Lord Norrey still alive?!" a man with a rope knot icon on his cuffs demanded, "Did you help these wildlings?!"

So perhaps we do look different to the Free Folk after all… "I wasn't present at the battle," Michael stated, "My people and I arrived just as it was ending. We didn't kill anyone." Even if I provided the plan that killed every single one of those that died, on both sides…

Val gave a nod. "The battle ended when the Norreys yielded, on good terms suggested by Duquesne. He saved their lives. knew they would never accept being left defenceless. Their lord is marching back home, with the survivors. We didn't take their weapons."

Most of the lords seemed to relax a notch at that, but not fully.

"How kind," the Karstark spat.

"No one is pretending anyone here is a friend," Michael stated, "You don't have to make peace with friends, you make it with enemies. Your two peoples are undoubtedly enemies. But I am not your enemy."

"You stand with our enemies," Cregan said.

Michael ignored him. "Lord Mors, have you received orders to stop us going to Winterfell?"

Mors frowned, scratching at his obsidian eye with a thumb before answering. "No."

"Then you should let us pass," Michael stated. This is above your pay-grade.

"I am Castellan of Last Hearth. I command these lands while my nephew is away."

"You are not Castellan of the all Stark lands though," Jon cut in, "You cannot block envoys to my brother."

Mors shook his head, and gestured over Jon's head to the hill behind. "What sort of envoys have an escort of four hundred knights and riders? To say nothing of the host waiting in the hills!"

The old Mongol campfire trick worked, at least, Michael thought with some degree of satisfaction, Only wish they'd take it seriously as a threat, rather than an invitation to fight.

"If you can call those knights," Cregan added with disgust, "I can smell them from here." Marcach shifted his weight at that statement, clearly wishing he was still atop his unicorn so he could ride down the Karstark.

Easy tiger.

"A strong escort is required," Michael replied, "We're envoys that can be disappeared without anyone on your side caring very much."

"What's to stop you raiding?" Cregan asked.

"My word," Jon stated, "They have not raided, nor do they speak of raiding. Nor would Lord Duquesne stand for it. He proved his honour by saving Lord Norrey."

"Aye, they would like as not keep quiet about that around a man wearing the black."

"If Jon's word as a son of Lord Stark isn't good enough," Michael replied, "We already showed you another reason. The wight."

Cregan shook his head and spat. "Got another diseased wildling to show, have you? The last one did not convince me. All I saw was a smoking corpse."

"Because you were late," the lord with a white mountain on his sigil complained, "It was dead but not dead, I swear on the gods."

Cregan began to complain back, but Mors directed his ire towards his fellow lords, talking too quietly to hear but gesticulating wildly.

"Keep the thing tied up this time," he growled at Jon, once he had finished his words with the Karstark.

The Crow nodded.

What did you do, Jon? Michael paused for a moment. There's division, but is that bad or good for us? He got on his comms. "Sayer, get another wight down here," he said quietly into his radio in English, "Need one for this dog and pony."

"Yessir."

The lords were looking at him like he was mad. "Why are you talking to yourself?" a man with green dots in a U shape on his armour asked.

"Just calling a man to bring down something," Michael replied.

"You barely spoke above a whisper," Cregan stated flatly, before looking to his fellows, "The man is mad."

Michael smiled, and waited. Soon, Sayer appeared from behind the crawler, rolling the wight along with his foot. Cregan and the others' faces grew stormy with confusion.

"And yet, here comes exactly what I asked for," Michael said, milking the mystery for what it's worth, "Something to consider, if I can speak to men so far away without shouting."

The lords remained silent at that, or perhaps did not recognise the full significance. Sayer arrived soon enough, the way the wights were wrapped up made their packages relatively cylindrical.

The Private gave one last shove with his foot to put the thing just in front of Michael, stood to attention like on parade, and gave a top notch salute. "As ordered, sir."

"Thank you, Sayer. Hang around, will you? I'll probably need help to get this thing back inside."

"Yessir."

Unwary of the young newcomer, Mors stepped forward without invitation. Sayer raised his rifle and Michael took his own in hand, giving the lord pause, but Michael quickly realised what the man wanted to do.

"Go ahead, Lord Mors." Sayer relaxed and the lord resumed what he was doing, taking a knee by the package and untying the cords. The outer layers of insulation fell away, revealing a tied body sandwiched between two slabs of ice.

In a minute, the wight was squirming like crazy on the ground in front of both delegations, jaw opening and closing rapidly as the only means by which the thing could hurt anyone.

It had a man in his fifties by Michael's reckoning, but didn't seem to have any wounds at all. That didn't mean the thing wasn't very obviously dead though. Its eyes glowed blue like the rest of its kind, its flesh was pale and darkened with rot in some places. It wasn't even wearing full furs, just skins with a light fur cloak and some kind of moccasins. Dressed for summer beyond the Wall?

"Well Cregan," Mors rumbled at the slack jawed Karstark, "Know of a disease that does this to men?"

The Karstark chewed on air for a moment. "No," he replied, "I don't, Lord Mors. I am no maester, but..."

Mors snorted, whatever triumph he felt at the admission dampened by disgust and fear at what he was seeing at his feet. The wight rolled, attempting to move towards him, but he kicked it back viciously.

An audible crack of a rib breaking sounded, but it did not phase the wriggling dead man.

Michael knew the other lords had noticed that. "This is what we need to show in Winterfell," he said, "Your fellow lords need to know these things are out there, thousands of them, commanded by White Walkers. They don't sleep, they don't feel pain, and they are very hard to kill."

Time for a gamble. "Anyone they kill join them in undeath," he lied smoothly, omitting that it seemed to require a White Walker to do that part.

"The Wall is still there," Mors said with a dismissive wave towards the wight, "What do I have to fear of dead men so long as it stands."

To Michael's great surprise, it was Cregan who countered that. "Lord Mors, these foreigners got through the Wall themselves, and wildlings climbed it to raid every year. If men who get tired and can be killed do so, then why can these things not do so?"

"Wrong question, Karstark," Mors replied, "If they can climb the Wall, they should have tried it already. Yet here we stand, unbothered by wights and walkers."

"How should we know why they haven't?" the green-dotted lord complained.

"It's common sense," countered another, a white mountain on purple decorating his front, "If it's the ancient enemy of the stories, then they'll want to kill us all."

A good point, but this isn't a debate club, Michael thought to himself."They probably do, but their masters are smart. They could know that there are strong armies down here."

"They're old and remember," Val added, "They will kill the Free Folk first to build their army. Then they will come for you."

"Then we will throw them back at the Wall!" Mors declared, "After we've thrown you back!"

Cregan shook his head, his pallor almost as bad as the moving corpse's now. "Mayhaps you don't know this as you have no coast in your fief, but wildlings cross the bays in boats too, Lord Mors. Doesn't take a Grand Maester to work out boats neither! The tales of the Walkers said they were cunning, if I remember the old nursemaids' tales correctly. Cunning enough to use a raft, surely."

There were nods from the other lords. Praise the god of infanteers, they believe!

"You're also a little preoccupied with a war in the South," Michael said, throwing fuel on the fire, "Castle Black got a message from your capital, declaring Lord Eddard Stark a traitor. Seems you've got a war against the living in your own country already. You're also already at war with the Others whether you like it or not. Declare war on the Free Folk, and that's a third war."

"And every one of us you kill will be a soldier for the Others in time," Val said, "The Walkers take their wights to graves and barrows to increase their numbers. A body can be turned into a wight years, decades after its death. Your host will not be enough to guard the Wall properly. You do not have enough warriors."

Cregan and another lord whispered furiously at Mors, but he swatted their comments away with a swing of his ham fist aimed nowhere in particular.

Rowan took her father's arm. "…Father, you need to let the Stark in Winterfell and the other lords decide this."

"Or what?" Mors asked.

"Or a whole lot of people will be dead," Michael replied, taking his rifle in hand, "But you first. Age before beauty."

Mors grinned wildly. "Gods, I really want to know what fighting you would be like," he declared, "Jon Snow's tales of sorcery seem true, and those creatures on the hill… I would test my mettle gladly." He turned to his fellow lords. "And you? Do you think as Cregan does? As my daughter does?"

Michael waited for the penny to drop.

The other lords said nothing, but couldn't meet the man's eyes. It was clear the majority agreed it was a matter for the Starks, above their paygrade really. But who could openly defy the mighty Mors Umber when he said he didn't want to give something to wildlings, of all people.

"How can I allow it?" Mors stated, "I'm sure the lords want no peace. And if they do, your wildling friends will have to kneel, their king or his heir will have to marry Starks. And I am sure Mance Rayder would refuse that offer."

"As am I," Cregan said, "I desire no peace either. The only good wildling is a dead one, Lord Mors. Even your kin."

He glanced at Val, causing her to bristle. Rowan and Jon too.

"But I am sure many assembled in Winterfell do not believe the report from the Wall. I didn't. They must learn there is a new threat. I would have Lord Robb know it. Then he can march up here first and settle matters. The Lannisters will not take Lord Stark's life. He's too valuable."

Michael frowned, getting the impression that Cregan Karstark wasn't the sharpest knife. If you march up north, aren't your allies further south in trouble? Or perhaps you don't care. "Fight us and you'll be starting a war, against your own granddaughters, only for their people to rise again as puppet corpses for ice demons. And you are not Lord of Winterfell, so you'll be doing it all without the rightful authority."

Lord Mors' head dropped, his chin touching the lip of his breastplate. He stayed like that for almost a full minute. Until it shot up again, chin pointed at the sky.

"Gods damn it all! My nephew the Lord of Last Hearth would tan my hide if I didn't let the lords see these things… and I'm past the age of being able to match him blow for blow. I'll let him decide if you're telling the truth."

"A wise decision, my lord," Jon stated.

The big man shook his head. "A wager, Jon Snow," Mors replied, "I have no intention of sending these men behind me home, nor will I leave the lands between here and the Gift without protection. I am sure the lords will not want peace. Your wildling friends will have to kneel, their king's heir will have to marry Starks. A King Beyond the Wall is no man to kneel. I am certain of it."

"That's for us to worry about," Michael replied, "In the mean time, this wight is yours. Show it to every single person in that camp. Show them what is coming."

Mors grunted his acknowledgement of the idea.

Good, you're not entirely an imbecile, Michael thought. "We'll depart today. Would you kindly clear the road and bridge for us, and move your warriors away from both?"

Mors brow knitted briefly together in anger, but he released a colossal sigh. He nodded once and took a long look at Val. When he had seen whatever it was he was looking for, he grabbed the wight by the scruff of the neck as he left, dragging it along. The other lords followed behind like children following a parent. Only Cregan Karstark paused to scan the line of unicorn and horse cavalry for a moment, before picking up the bundle of furs, rope and ice on the ground.

As soon as they were gone, Michael let out his own sigh and got on the radio. "Sergeant, we can stand down," he said, "Get everyone back to camp to pack. We go ASAP."

Chapter Text

THE CORPORAL

Mud and tree smells blowing in her face from a southerly wind, Lian watched the water of the White Knife glide under the nose of the barge, smoothly and without disturbing the whole craft for the first time since leaving Long Lake. Behind to the north was a few dozen more barges, each loaded with horses, unicorns and warriors.

Obtaining the craft and their crews had been surprisingly easy. All it had taken was one look at Jon Stark, his ever growing direwolf and the Free Folk force at his back for seneschal at 'Lakehold' to agree. A portion of the gold and silver in the Lieutenant's possession greased the palms of the bargemen to make things easier. Their usual cargo was lumber, wool or furs, not mortal enemies, but the money shut them right up. The hardest part of it all had been getting the crawler onto the largest barge.

But it had been worth it. The whole convoy of barges moved down the river effortlessly, carrying the whole force as they shot the rapids, passed by ox trails and villages on the river banks. Before sunset every day, the barges would land and camp would be set.

Every place the river had banks that could land a barge also had a village. None of them were welcoming places. Even if you couldn't have smelled the fear on the air, the locals armed themselves and locked up their houses tighter than a tick's ass. Strict

As the river journey continued, Lian was just glad it only cost gold and silver. They had saved the equivalent of three quarters of the horse food and crawler fuel to drive and ride from the top of Long Lake to Winterfell. The horses, unicorns… even Ghost had been so tired by the time they reached the docks, they had got onto the barges without any trouble and just laid down. Even with rest days, the speed of the march had gotten into their bones.

Without any driving to do, or anything else except stand watch when it was her turn, Lian had taken to trying to read the books they had taken from Castle Black.

It doesn't make any sense, she told herself, If we can speak every language in this world, why can't we read their texts? The thought of being trapped on another world without access to the knowledge needed to survive it drove her on. She had no doubt vital intelligence was lurking in every one of the tomes, and that nobles would look down on her for not being able to read them.

Her plan had been to read books with illustrations. The idea was to mimic how young kids learn to read at first. The big book on the noble houses of Westeros was perfect for the job, with each of the noble families having their own logo both drawn and described in it. But no matter how much Lian examined them, the words refused to untangle. The mess of lines and curves just looked like the gothic script with alien letters.

The only word she learned was 'house', but she wasn't even sure that was the same word as in English or if it meant specifically a noble dynasty.

"What book is that?" said a voice from behind.

Lian turned around, and found a white-furred, red-eyed demon approaching closely. Ghost's snout quickly poked her here and there, nose sniffling as she was inspected closely. Every hair on her body stood on end.

Ghost was already larger than any dog or wolf Lian had ever seen. She hadn't believed the Lieutenant or Sayer when they had described the beast after encountering it. She had seen the direwolf eat its hunted prey by the roadside. His teeth could easily tear her apart. Her hand dropped the book to the deck and reached for the carbine at her back, failing to find it the first time.

"Back Ghost!" called Jon Stark, his black cloak billowing in the southerly wind, "Back!"

The direwolf turned and stared at his master pointing away, whuffed silently to himself and padded off towards the stern of the barge again. Lian watched it closely, ignoring Stark. Ghost went to O'Neill of all people, who smiled widely and scratched it behind the ears. The Sergeant definitely had big dogs as a child.

"Sorry about that, my lady," Jon said, stepping into her vision.

My lady? Lian's mind asked in confusion, before it clicked, Ah, my fake title. It is a bit more frivilous than Elector.

Jon continued. "Ghost has been looking to do that since you let us through at Castle Black again. Something about your smell…" The boy's eyes widened, realising what he was saying could be miscontrued. "I mean, only that you are strange and interesting to him."

Yay, more people treating me like a zoo exhibit or an exotic stripper. Lian regarded the kid with cool eyes. "Interesting to lots of others too, it seems."

Jon looked away quickly, finding something less suspicious to look in the book at her feet. "My apologies my lady, as I was saying… what book is that?"

Lian frowned, bent over and picked up the thing off the deck again. How best to handle this… Bluff with enough truth to make it believable, I suppose. "You tell me. Our translation magic can't seem to understand your writing. Which makes no sense. I've been trying to solve that." She offered the book to him, and he took it.

"When Women Ruled: Ladies of the Aftermath," Jon read aloud from the cover, "Not sure I know this one, my Lady."

"I do. Your friend Tarly recommended it when I asked for something about how women are treated here," Lian replied, "He gave me this and one about morals of the Andals. Six Pointed Star?"

"The Seven-Pointed Star," Jon corrected her, holding up the book, "It is like Sam to know what books to give you… You say you can't read it?"

"No."

"Do you even know the sounds of the letters?"

"No…" Lian paused for a moment, having a good idea. If we can't do it the easy way, we'll do it the hard way. "I don't suppose you'd write out your alphabet for me?" She rummaged in a pocket to produce a small notebook and a ballpoint pen, before offering them to the kid.

Jon looked at the items like they were bugs or something. "Alphabet?"

Rolling her eyes, Lian stepped up beside, and wrote out the English-Latin alphabet, showing both how to use the pen and what she wanted of him. "Every letter in our language, it's called an alphabet. Can you write out the letters of your Common Tongue while telling me the sounds of each?"

Jon had no objection, and took the pen, stopping only for a second to admire how easy it was to write with.

Lian was surprised at the result. The Common alphabet had a few more letters than the English one, but the extra ones replaced English combinations like 'th' and 'ch'. There was a letter at the end which meant 'and' for some reason. Easy compared to Guoyu.

They had no easy song to learn the thing, so Lian spent a good fifteen minutes going over it a few times to get it all in her head. She had a knack for languages, being bilingual since she was a toddler. It wasn't long before she was concocting a means of remembering it; the whole string had a sort of rhythm to it that was probably why they didn't have the song.

"Does that help?" Jon asked after her seventh successful repetition.

"Probably not," Lian admitted, "But thanks anyway."

"Happy to be of assistance," Jon said with a small smile, "I hope you'll be to agree with my brother, Lady Zheng. He's a good man. A better man than me, in some ways. You'll see that and deal fairly with him."

He's a boy like you if the Lord Commander is right, Lian thought, plastering a smile on her face, over her worries about feudal lords fucking everything up. "I'll keep that in mind."

With that, Jon bowed his head as a goodbye and left, moving towards his wolf which by then was thoroughly spoiled by O'Neill. Lian watched him go, thinking it was going to be a pity when she had to shoot up his family home. With a sigh, she returned her attention to the book.

Lian eyes felt blurry as they fell on the cover title. She blinked and rubbed them with the back of her hand. The blur resolved itself, and she looked again. She almost dropped the book, catching herself quickly. "When Women Ruled: Ladies of the Aftermath." The title now appeared to be English, though it was a bit like reading in the dark. It was difficult and hurt her eyeballs somehow. But the difficulty didn't matter. She felt victorious at last, lifting her hands into the air.

"Lian, you're a fucking sorceress!"

The population of the riverport, Oxbow, was nowhere to be seen. The landing areas, piers, thatched wooden houses and warehouses were as quiet as crypts. Carefully empty, Lian knew.

There wasn't a single oceangoing ship in sight either, despite this being the place where goods from the north were transferred to real ships or bigger barges. According to Jon Stark, it was unusual for the place to be without at least one ship present. The people weren't present either. Is a port town still a port town if there are no ships and no people?

Every soul had fled into the twin keeps guarding the settlement, wedding cake looking things made of grey stone. One of the mini-castles stood on the banks of the river south of the town, guarding the route up from the ocean. The other sat on top of a hill inland to the northwest, where roads and trails twisted through the country. Neither really existed to block a 'wildling' force coming down the river from Long Lake.

Lian's previous good mood had soured. She didn't view the lack of resistance as a good omen, because there was no sign of the element of surprise being on her side of the equation. No doubt the ravens or owls or whatever had flown from Lakehold days before, and this was a reaction to the news. If the locals were hiding, then the lords in Winterfell knew the Free Folk were coming from the south-east now.

At least they can't ambush us on the forest road, she thought to herself, looking out over the land.

Open fields stretched for as far as the eye could see, with deep furrows everywhere. There weren't many fences or walls or hedges to separate them out. The land seemed chequered with two types of crops and fields left idle for shaggy big-horned cattle, of which there were a lot. Here and there, like studs nailed onto the land afterwards to keep everything down, there were woods.

Nothing at all like beyond the Wall, or the Gift, or even the Umberlands.

The barges landed on the soft, brown sand where they must have done a thousand times before. The craft carrying Lian and the crawler was first onto solid ground, leaving no real time for the others to enjoy her discovery of how to use their translation magic to read the Common tongue.

The crawler came off the barge more easily than it had climbed onto it, even with the fuel trailer. She drove around town with O'Neill on top with the machinegun, to make sure there wasn't an ambush. She saw a few stubborn people locked up tight in their homes, but no threat.

Meanwhile, the LT dealt with the bargemen. By the time Lian returned, they were shouting at Duquesne as the mounts began to be disembarked. The men suddenly reduced their ire with indecent speed on the approach of the vehicle, narrowed eyes and frowns on all of their faces.

That's right, assholes, Lian smirked to herself as she dismounted, ET is Canadian, and prefers you to be polite. The bargemen didn't like not being able to get back to Long Lake as soon as possible. The ox drivers and their animals that usually pulled the barges upriver again were nowhere to be seen. The complainers soon dispersed, allowing the Sergeant and her access to their superior officer.

"Place is a ghost town, mostly," O'Neill reported, "Reckon we can use the warehouses for the night, sir. It'll be the devil's own work keeping the boys and girls from stealing from the houses though."

Lian snorted. The way O'Neill said 'devil' was barely recognisable.

The man glared at her briefly, misunderstanding her intent. "Volunteering for the job, corporal?"

Lian shook her head. "Not a chance. Only way to stop those crimes would be to shoot them." She glanced over her shoulder. "Besides, if there's anything worth taking in those houses, someone around here didn't do their fucking job before we showed up."

The LT's lips pursed as he thought about that, his eyes scanning the town. "Seems that way. Let our friends poke around if they want. I still want a watch though, Zheng. I don't want anyone shot over stealing, but if they start burning or raping…"

"Then I'll teach them to smoke through new holes in their foreheads, sir."

It was O'Neill's turn to snort. "Oh aren't you full of it today? And in a better mood now that you figured this magic shit out."

Lian lifted her carbine and balanced the butt on her hip. "Figured this magic shit out again, Sergeant. I'm two for two on language sorcery."

O'Neill rolled his eyes and shook his head. "And what'll your next trick be?" He looked to the LT for some response. The man was still thinking, and didn't say anything for a few moments.

"Sergeant, talk to Ygritte, Ryk and Marcach please," Duquesne commanded, "Make sure they're aware of the rules. And another two for them; no taking crap we don't need, and no going anywhere here alone. Got it?"

"Have it by the short and curlies, sir," O'Neill replied, snapping off a salute. He turned and strode straight towards Marcach, who was helping to coax his own unicorn off a barge nearby with a large carrot.

Sarge is in a good mood too, Lian thought, Why does that make me nervous? She stared off at the town, looking for anything she missed before that might be wrong.

"What's wrong, Zheng?" the LT asked, "You sorta just stopped dead there."

Lian exhaled through her teeth, not happy he had noticed. But he had asked the question, so she would have to answer. "Nothing is wrong, so everything is wrong. I keep waiting for the sky to fall on our heads."

"We're making progress," Duquesne sighed, "Sayer's barge idea was great. You're not the only one pulling rabbits out of hats."

Frustration burning her throat, Lian let her carbine hang off its straps again and put her hands on her hips. "Yeah, but progress towards what, sir? A theme park where all our dreams come true, everything is explained and we get to go home? I'll believe it when I see it."

The LT's eyes looked around, checking if anyone else was around. Once they had confirmed there was not, they aimed towards her like a tank's turret. "This isn't the first time you've said something like that. If you keep it up, it's going to affect morale and belief in the mission at critical moments. I'm sure the Sergeant has already spoken to you about this."

O'Neill had, but Lian couldn't shake the feeling.

The dread of being left in this damned world was like stigmata. A place on the brink of zombie apocalypse, where she was nothing but a womb or a convenient hole to screw, lorded over by barely literate tyrants… It ebbed and flowed, sometimes with events and sometimes at random, along with the memories of everyone she had to kill so far… especially those with glowing blue eyes she had to put down twice in one night.

"The Sergeant has talked to me, sir."

The LT nodded to himself. "Here's what's going to happen. You and I are going to have this out, where no one can hear us. Then it stops, Corporal."

Lian opened her mouth to speak, but Duquesne continued.

"We'll chat. I'll take your objections under advisement. For real, not just to say that I have heard you. Then you'll shut up until the point you get to say I told you so. If that ever arrives, I'll admit all fault. Understood?"

Grimacing, Lian nonetheless nodded her head. There was no arguing with officers when they got insistent, even when they were being stupid. And although this was the first time she had seen Duquesne get serious in this way. Is he cracking at last?

"Yes, sir."

"Follow me then. I want a look at that inland fort." The LT began walking through the town, shouting to Sayer to sit up on the crawler while he was away.

Lian followed, not even able to look at his back. This is going to be unpleasant. She quickly fell into her duties, gripping her carbine to cover every nook and cranny she could as they moved. All the better to distract herself for a few minutes, letting the business of keeping safe calm her down.

They made it out of the warehouse area, passing by an empty corral that smelled even worse than the unicorns did, through a clutch of houses, and onto a cart path. The keep came back into view. Guards and townspeople, judging by their clothes, were gawking down from the crenellations with interest, at all three levels of the wedding cake shape.

Curious and looking for any way to delay the coming conversation, Lian raised her carbine and looked through the scope. Not many of the gawkers had weapons, and most of those were crossbows, not something that could strike at range. Though if they decided to sally out, it might be a problem.

Lian sucked in a breath. "We might want to stop here, sir. There's a lot of them, not sure we want to get too close in case they get the idea to rush us."

Duquesne snorted. "I'd almost like to see them try. But no, they're not up there just because they're afraid of us. They're up there because Winterfell told them to be. If they wanted to do us harm, they would've defended the riverbank, put stakes in the river to hole the barges. That kind of thing."

Lian scowled, not sure that was a good theory. Duquesne laughed. "They're not going to overhear us, if that's what you're worried about."

"It wasn't, sir."

"Good."

Lian didn't know where to begin, and didn't look at the Lieutenant. He didn't look at her, leaning against a fence post. They just both stared up at the keep, as the people in it stared down at them. After a while, it began to get awkward. But Lian preferred awkward to the conversation to come.

The LT didn't. "Well, you're the one with the grievance, Corporal," Duquesne said out of nowhere, "Speak your mind. That's an order."

Lian bit her bottom lip. What do I say? She decided to keep it simple.

"We're never getting home, sir."

Duquesne clicked his tongue. "And you're not shy about that opinion… but that is all it is, an opinion."

"Then here's a fact: Our coming here was a freak accident, sir."

"It's also proof there's magic or science that can move people and things between worlds. Odds are that if it can happen by accident, it can happen deliberately."

Lian rubbed her face, feeling like her jaw would lock shut with frustration. The man is as stubborn as a mule.

"Odds are that there is nobody left that knows how to make it happen deliberately. I've talked to people. No one has seen these Children of the Forest for fifty or sixty years north of the Wall, and it wasn't like they were walking around doing meet and greets then. And Jon isn't sure anyone has seen them in the south for centuries!"

The LT briefly turned away and raised his rifle, to look at the keep through his scope. Whatever he thought he saw wasn't there, and he returned his attention to Lian. "And yet every single person we talk to agrees that the one place magic might still be around is the Isle of Faces. An island few people come back from. Not to mention the books we've been shown by Mance and Tarly."

"Just because they write myth or ancient history in a book, that doesn't mean we'll find what they describe when we get there, sir."

"Doesn't mean we'll find nothing either."

Jaw opening and closing wordlessly, Lian turned her head and then her body away from the LT, pacing away from him and then back, trying to avoid saying something she would regret. She couldn't do it.

"How the fuck are you this naive!" she exploded, "Your level of self-deception is off the charts! I understand why O'Neill and Sayer believe it's worth our time. The Sarge has kids, Sayer thinks he'd be okay staying here, but you? You should know better! You should be trying to protect us from this piece of shit world, not pretending we can leave it! Why on Earth are you dragging us across this continent chasing a fantasy?!"

Not finished, Lian had to pause and force air back into her lungs. She almost choked when she saw the look the Lieutenant was giving her in return. His eyes were soft, no anger in them. Pity, she realised, He pities me. Her own anger began to rise again.

"Feel any better to have it out?" he asked, before she could formulate a rebuke.

"No!" Lian said, "I'll feel better when I understand what the hell you're thinking."

The LT nodded. "I'm sorry, Corporal. I knew you were worried about our situation, but I would've done this sooner if I knew you were having this bad a time."

"Fuck you, sir. You should have thought about it. You and the others'll be okay, you've all got cocks between your legs to impress other cock-owners. Ever since I got here, I've been ogled like some piece of exotic meat to screw. And from what Stark, Tarly and other Crows told me, the southern nobles are going to be worse. At least the Free Folk respect a woman with a weapon, if she can use it and pays attention."

The LT glanced away, at least appearing ashamed. Good, you should be ashamed. "Yeah, that's probably not going to get better. Our cover story for you is good, but it won't save you from judgment. Just from being used as a bargaining chip."

"So you understand why you're pissing me off, sir?" Lian continued, "We should be figuring out how to survive in this place, our way, not screwing around with the locals to get right into the middle of a warzone when we are gambling on the result."

"I wish we could."

Lian froze. "What?"

Duquesne stood up straight and sighed. "I wish we could just dismiss the possibility of getting home. It would make things more simple, even if it would break O'Neill and as much as I want to get home for personal reasons. But we don't have the luxury."

The man was insane. "Of course we have that luxury, it's our only option."

"Everything points to magic being somewhere, Corporal."

"So what?"

"So, I have no intention of becoming another campfire tale. There have been stories like that for thousands of years. Lost Roman legions, ghost ships… Hell, even in our own lifetimes, there has been strange shit. That Japanese destroyer that went missing in the Pacific, or the Chinook that just plain disappeared out of the air over Syria. I'm taking any chance at getting back, because we have a duty."

Lian sighed. Here comes the officer-grade guilt trip. "What duty?"

"We're standing on another world, Corporal. And there are human beings here. Do you have any idea what the consequences of that are? For science, politics, religion? Not to mention the existence of magical creatures bent on killing everyone. Our duty is to carry that news back home. Reality isn't what anyone back home thought it was."

"That's what you're risking our lives for, sir, without any idea if it'll pay off? The big picture? Fuck that noise."

"I'm a big picture kind of guy, and being an officer is a big picture kinda job."

"Excuse me if that isn't comforting."

"You joined the Army, Corporal. Your job, our job is to serve the bigger picture. You know what's going on at home, it isn't like we are in the safest occupation there ever was."

Hanging her head, Lian was sure she couldn't counter that. She knew what she had signed up for when she had joined the military. Not just that she might die, but that she might be captured and abused. All of a sudden, the possibilities of the new world did not seem so different to the old one, just… more likely. She was still armed and deadly. That left just one thing.

"What if you're wrong?" she asked, "What if I'm right, there is no magic door home. Do you even have a plan?"

The LT scratched his chin. "Yeah. A skeleton of one or two, at least. Your discovery today made them a little more solid, by the way."

"What are they?"

A grimace. "Not ideas I want the Sergeant to hear until it's necessary."

Lian made a noise from her throat, raised of its own volition. "What makes you think I'd tell the Sergeant?"

A laugh burst from Duquesne's lips, and he tilted his head. The question in all of it was loud and clear. 'Really?' The LT was new to the platoon. O'Neill and she were not. Yeah, okay, I'd tell the Sergeant.

Lian glared back. "Then you must have truly stupid plans."

Duquesne smirked. "I would think so too, but there are precedents."

"What precedents?"

"Nice try, Corporal."

Lian grit her teeth. Clearly she wasn't getting an answer today. But somehow, she felt a little better. Now she knew that Duquesne had at least thought about what happened if the big dream turned out to be a nightmare.

"We done, sir?"

"Just one more thing," Duquesne said, "I apologise, for not having this conversation sooner."

Lian waved that off, however much she appreciated it. "Don't apologise, be better… Sir."

The LT grunted something, glancing up at the keep and the audience before stepping away again. "Let's get out of here. I held up my end of the bargain. You hold up yours. We get to Winterfell, then the Isle, then home. Or make a home if we can't."

Bargain? You mean orders, Lian thought, as she followed him back towards the river. "Yes, sir, I'll shut up about not getting home. You'll stop being an ass. It's balanced, at least."

The LT didn't miss a step about her snarking.

He's not going to stop being an ass at all, Lian thought with a frown, His plans better be good. Make a home fucking how?

Chapter Text

THEON

One hand on his sword's grip, Theon used his other to button up his black velvet doublet again as he walked through the streets of Wintertown, his boots crunching in the half-frozen morning snow. The town was bustling, but not in the manner to be expected of a keep's settlement as the banners arrived.

Word had gotten out; the wildlings were coming. Knights quartered in the houses were leaving in their armour. Winter shutters were being closed and bolted. Carts of food moved in behind the walls of Winterfell itself without any orders to do so. The young women of the town were being dispatched to relatives and acquaintances elsewhere for safekeeping.

Theon had learned of the last part at the most inconvenient time.

At the Smoking Log, Kyra had just shrugged out of her tunic. The promise of a fine start to the day with his favourite wench had beckoned, until the door opened with a bang and the innkeeper stormed inside Kyra's room. Shoving Theon out the door with his breeches, belt, scabbard and sword, the man had ignored any admonitions in favour of shouting at Kyra to dress warmly for a journey and slamming the door shut again.

So Theon had found himself in the corridor, with no breeches on, fuming. In a flush of rage, he almost kicked the door down to use his sword and answer the insult… but downstairs, the inn was full of Bolton and Cerwyn men. They would be unlikely to understand or wait to find out the reason behind the innkeeper being cut down.

So instead, Theon had left, fuming and full of want. As he walked, he decided to take out his needs on the wildlings. He knew Robb would be riding out to meet them. He knew there were women among them. A fight and some wild woman to tame, he thought, That's what I need. The thought of it amused and aroused him, before he bit down the stirrings; he would need to concentrate on not getting killed first.

He made his way into Winterfell via the south gate, and found the whole courtyard full of riders. Every lord in the North seemed to have donned whatever armour could be put on quickly and was mounting their horse.

Theon cursed to himself, unable to see Robb in the throng. He swiftly made his way through the clusters of lords to get to the stables themselves, bearing with the glares of hatred. They all knew who he was, of course. Very few liked him. I'll show them what I'm capable of, he promised himself, And I better make sure I'm never late to a fight again.

"Not joining us, squidling?!" called a booming voice.

A bolt of fear stopped Theon in his tracks. There could only be one owner of that voice. He turned to find Greatjon Umber approaching from the side, the largest sword ever forged by man on his back.

"Going to the stables to find my horse, Lord Umber," Theon replied, as loudly as he could, "Worry not, this sword will soon shed wildling blood."

The Greatjon looked down at him with a sneer. "Aye, I'm sure they'll be right afraid of you, in your fine doublet. Even their antler-tipped arrows will go clean through that armour, my lord Greyjoy." A collection of nearby lordlings laughed.

Theon bristled. "Then I'll be sure to stand behind you then, Lord Umber, until we're close enough to kiss the wildlings with our blades," he said, "You'll make a fine pincushion."

The Greatjon gave a laugh, slapping the front of his coat-of-plates. "Wildling arrows will bounce off my armour like it was the side of a great hillside, squidling. And I'm told behind me is an unpleasant place to be, at times."

More laughter. Theon gave a false smile, and bowed slightly to take his leave before striding away, simmering anger in his stomach. There was nothing he could do now but get to his horse.

Theon found Robb in the stables mounting his own horse, already equipped with breastplate, a white cloak and helm. His shield with the wolf of Stark on it hung from his saddle, and his longsword from his belt. Yet the Stark in Wintefell carried no supplies with him, nor were there any attendants mounting up to join the pursuit.

Maester Luwin stood nearby, allowing the horseboy that had brought the mount to leave by the furthest route, for Greywind stood in the other direction, watching proceedings. The direwolf met Theon's eyes, and gave a big yawn, showing all its fangs. I hope that means it just woke up, not a warning. Greywind was hard to read, even among the direwolves, except when it was displeased.

"Robb!" Theon called, coming from the same direction the boy was leaving, "Are we riding against the wildlings?"

"Riding to meet them," Robb confirmed, "Whether there will be a battle, I know not. I hope not. Jon's letter from Lakehold said they have not raided, and the keeps at Oxbow and Flaxfield reported some light looting but no harm to the smallfolk, not even when they couldn't flee."

Theon sniffed. "Be more simple to kill them," he said, "Send a message to the savages in the Gift."

"Lord Stark rots in the black cells of King's Landing," Luwin intoned gravely, "Lord Robb's sisters are captives too. And Mance Rayder has a hundred thousand warriors. It is wise to be cautious about getting into wars in two places at once, when you must save your liege lord and kin."

Who asked you, old man? Theon thought, though he guarded his tongue against saying any such thing.

"I'll not kill envoys coming under protection of the gods, Theon," Robb said, "I shall hear them out, get counsel from my father's lords, then decide."

Luwin nodded, to Theon's annoyance. Of course you approve, you're likely the man who advised such action. The maester made Robb weak, in Theon's opinion. The sooner they left Winterfell, the better. All the quicker to let the wolf out of his skin, and join the kraken in eating the lions alive.

Theon relented. "I'll get my armour and bow," he said, "Just in case this is a wildling plot to kill you."

"No time," Robb said, wheeling his horse as Greywind padded over nearby, "The wildling host will be here by sunset."

What? "Impossible," Theon said, "Those savages couldn't possibly have went so far from Oxbow since we had word of their landing."

"It seems these foreigners have taught the wildlings some discipline," Luwin said, "Ravens have brought news of well laid out camps, among other things."

Theon smirked. He knew well what other things meant. "More talk of unicorns? I wonder what the wildlings have dressed their horses with to make Mors Umber and the smallfolk believe such things." All the better than the Greatjon comes from such foolish stock. If only he came from smaller.

Robb gave a small frown. "Get on your horse." It was a command.

Theon judged disobedience as a doomed notion, and quickly gave a bow of the head. His horse was readied in a minute, and together, Robb and he rode out to join the now-mounted host.

"My lords!" Robb called, "With me!"

A great roar of approval erupted from every corner of the courtyard. Theon felt a lump form in his throat at the sound. Shall my lords hail me with such volume when I return to Pyke?

He did not have time to think about it. Robb spurred his horse forward and out the south gate, with Greywind close behind, forcing Theon and the lords to follow.

A thousand riders were at Robb's back for nearly three hours, rushing down the twin roads towards Oxbox, passing by crops being harvested out of the morning frost and woods being scoured. Less than two weeks before the northern host assembled at Winterfell would march south, and even now, the smallfolk laboured to make more rations and more arrows.

Greywind led the way, better than any scout at detecting danger, the wolf somehow knew where to go at every fork and crossroads too. The beast also set the pace, which was ferocious. Robb had to call the stops. Theon and his arse were deeply grateful for the break each time that happened, as were the lords. Not all of them were young men, and the grumbling could almost be heard over the hooves thumping.

Between two halts in the march, something else unusual appeared. In the sky above, a white eagle began to follow the column of riders. And then a snowy owl. And then a seagull. Soon, near a dozen birds were criss-crossing the road from above. The next time he got the chance, Theon pointed this out to Robb as soon as Rickard Karstark stopped speaking. It was more as a piece of passing strange than out of any concern. Robb heard the enquiry with eyes aimed up at the circling birds.

"Aye, Lord Commander Mormont mentioned wargs. I did not believe that of all things, until now."

Theon let out a laugh, before realising Robb was not joking. "Skinchangers? How could that be? If the wildlings had such abilities, surely they would far more difficult to defeat."

Robb nodded. "The accounts of my forebearers tell tales of having to fight bears, wolves, even great cats that marched alongside the wildlings. But also that their wargs are spread out through the tribes, most only have one or two."

Theon glanced upwards. "That is not one or two. And they're only the birds." The thought of having to fight off a bear with a man controlling it like a puppet did not appeal to him. All the more so when he remembered he had only a sword and no armour.

Robb agreed. "Aye. Either Mance is more cunning than any King Beyond the Wall before him, or yet more tricks have been taught to the wildlings by the foreigners. The same way we would not spread out our cavalry, they have learned not to spread out their skinchangers."

"Your ancestors beat them back before," Theon said, "You can beat them again."

Robb remained quiet, until the time to continue the march forced Theon to remount and take his place behind the lords again. It wasn't long before the first sign that the wildlings were close came loping down the road in front.

It started with Greywind living up to its name. It burst forward with a new speed, quickly going out of sight over a hill. Fearing for his wolf, Robb called out for the column to hurry too, and the horses quickly carried the whole host to the top of the hill.

The ride stopped when they found Greywind standing some distance down the road, jumping and dancing between two fields full of ripe rye, and it was not alone. A second direwolf was doing the same thing, both creatures' tails wagging wildly. A white-furred beast.

Ghost, Theon's mind whispered, Jon is close. Which means the wildlings are close. He searched this way and that, looking for the foe. Many of the other lords did too. All he could detect was a strange scent on the air, like rotting grass after rain. He almost jumped in the saddle when the bastard of Winterfell strolled out from the field to the left of the road, pulling along his horse by the reins.

Theon immediately saw the large sword at his hip with the head of his white wolf on the pommel, a pang of jealousy running up his throat. A fine weapon, too fine for Jon.

"Robb!" Jon called out, as he moved closer.

Greywind ran to him, Ghost close at its heels, jumping up to nuzzle Jon at the neck and almost knocking him over. To Theon's surprise, Robb did not ride out to immediately greet his baseborn brother, however much he smiled from the head of the column. Instead, Stark called to Snow.

"Jon! It's good to see you again! You've got some explaining to do, I think."

That made Theon to understand. Jon had brought wildlings south. Even though he had sent messages to Robb secretly, informing him of this or that development, the lords were not like to look kindly on any man of the Night's Watch. And rightly so, they failed their duty like no others before them. Robb should claim the entire Gift for the Starks.

Jon did not answer at once, but got back on his horse and rode up to join the column, falling in beside Theon. The man gave a nod of greeting to Theon, which he returned, as much out of habit as anything else.

"Much has happened since we parted," Jon finally agreed, "The Canadians sent me ahead once they spotted you, to find out if you intended to fight. A thousand riders is hard to miss. Even now, they watch through their wildling wargs." Jon motioned to the sky, where the cavalcade of birds now circled at different heights.

Robb glanced at his lords behind him, before asking the question Theon most wanted an answer for. "Where are they, Jon?"

"Close. The unicorn riders are laying down behind the field I came through. The rest are ahead a mile." Jon gestured to both places. He had spoken too loudly.

The heads of Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark and Roose Bolton all swivelled to the left. They saw no unicorns, but a word to their attendants later, and riders were moving back down the column, shouting to turn to face the threat.

"My lords?" Robb asked, unsure whether he should stop his bannermen but hiding it well.

"Better to be prepared, my lord," Roose Bolton responded, barely making himself heard over the drawing of blades and complained breathing of horses. The column had turned to become a line of battle quickly, the road was wide enough to allow four horsemen abreast of it, which now became four ranks of knights.

"Best not," Jon cut in, "They'll take actions to be prepared themselves."

As if Jon had ordered it, at the far end of the rye field, the heads and shoulders of mounted men appeared, as did the tips of the longest lances that Theon had ever seen. There were only a hundred or so of them, but the smell he had caught on the air before intensified and the rye was tall enough that they shouldn't have been able to see anything but the tops of helms. Unicorns, Theon realised, They really are riding unicorns. He imagined very tall men on very tall, horned horses.

"Gods," the Greatjon growled, "Look at those." The man's incredible height likely allowed him to see even more. And his face did not show any great deal of confidence about the sight in question.

"My lords, under no circumstances are we to attempt battle first," Robb stated with a finality Theon hadn't heard him muster before, "We may have the advantage in numbers but we cannot charge through the crops."

"The horses wouldn't be able to see," Theon agreed.

"We must attack, my lord," Rickard Karstark thundered, "This may be our best chance."

"You will do nothing, Lord Karstark," Robb commanded, "Unless I give leave."

Karstark let out a shout and flourished his sword, but did not order a charge or put his horn to his lips. Theon smirked to himself. Amusement that died when he noticed a house moving through the rye field to the right. By the Drowned, old and new gods, what is that?

Robb continued, not noticing. "Jon, ride back to the foreigners and tell them I want to meet. I will not permit their approach to…"

"Robb!" Theon declared, finally gathering his wits, "Look!" He pointed at the strange sight, causing all the lords to turn in the saddle to watch. Two men soon appeared on the roof of the moving house, which soon turned out to be two such houses moving one behind the other. The men had round helmets covered in a green fabric, and strange looking bows.

The foreigners.

Even Jon looked shocked. He didn't know they were there, Theon thought. "What now?"

"We talk to them," Robb stated, "Lord Bolton, ride back and put the rear of the column into the field behind us. Assurance against any further trap."

"Yes, my lord," replied the Dreadfort's lord quietly, before spurring his horse away back northwest again to do as he was commanded.

The moving houses moved across the field, a strange rumbling on the air getting louder as it got closer. About halfway across, they changed their path, moving so that they would cross the road ahead of the direction the column had been riding.

When the thing finally made its appearance, glowing eyes over a caged face shone light forwards, stalks of rye caught in the bars of the cage. The whole thing appeared to be made of metal. A large glass window revealed a space inside the front 'house', the person driving inside it plain to see. It seemed to travel on its own road, made of some kind of layered black leather that was unrolled before it and then gathered up again behind after it passed.

Theon, Robb and the lords were silent and unmoving as the dead, though their horses shifted uneasily beneath them. Only Jon was truly calm and unconcerned, Theon noted, as the foreigners came close enough to see properly. They all wore the round helmets, along with tunics and breastplates of the same colour. They had strange ropes and boxes hanging from pouches and even inside their helms, the purpose of which Theon could not determine.

At last, the strange machine came to a halt thirty yards away from Robb and Jon, a burning smell wafting from it. Its rumbling sound ceased, and one of the men atop it ducked down from the roof and exited out of a door in the side.

In the mean time, Jon dismounted too, and walked back to meet the newcomer. Ghost padded along too. They exchanged few words, and the man stood waiting, looking expectantly at Robb.

"Lord Umber, Theon, with me," Robb commanded, "We'll go on foot."

"My lord, I object, if you are lost…" Lord Karstark began, before being silenced by a look from Robb. Greywind raised its hackles.

"Lord Karstark, you are in command," Robb added, to soothe any resentment, "If I am attacked, you are charged with bringing the wrath of the North in response."

The Karstark appeared pleased at that. "By your command, my lord."

He's learning, Theon thought, These lords open their mouths too quickly. Robb is worth twice of any dozen of them.

Theon got off his saddle, his arse as equally as pleased as Lord Karstark, and fell in beside Robb. Lord Umber soon loomed too. "Why is the squid coming?" the man asked.

"Because I want him to," Robb replied, before Theon could respond himself, "No time to lose." He walked directly towards the foreign leader. Lord Umber and Theon competed to be the first to catch up, and to Theon's annoyance, he lost that contest.

The foreigner was tall, a little over six feet in height. Piercing blue eyes peered out from under the green helm, his face was clean shaven, and unknown markings covered the lapels and shoulders of the man's tunic. A strange black stick poked out of the helm to hold a small metal box beside the man's mouth. Though Theon could not see much underneath the armour, he was certain the man was strong from the collection of things he was carrying. The bow spotted before was just as strange, it had a trigger which implied it was some sort of crossbow or bolt-thrower but had no arms nor coiled rope for tension nor a bowstring.

The man examined Robb, Theon and the Greatjon as they approached, taking the longest with Robb until Greywind loped into view from behind. The foreigner was quick to reach for his weapon, though Theon knew not what he would do without a long blade. The foreigner's bolt thrower would surely not kill a beast like Greywind before it got its fangs into his throat.

Robb said nothing when he finally arrived close enough to speak without raising his voice, and neither Theon nor the Greatjon did either. In fact, the Greatjon's gaze looked for someone else entirely. Does he know something I do not?

It was Jon that broke the silence. "Robb, this is Lord Michael Duquesne of Canada, Elector of Calgary and Lieutenant of Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry."

Robb inclined his head in greeting, and then looked to Theon. He knew what Robb wanted.

"This is Lord Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, heir to Eddard Stark, Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. I am Lord Theon Greyjoy, heir to Lord Balon Greyjoy of Pyke, Lord of the Iron Islands."

"And I'm Jon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth," the Greatjon boomed, not to be forgotten in the exchange of pleasantries.

Lord Duquesne smiled. "I guessed as much, Lord Umber. You look like Mors, if he was six inches taller, still had colour in his hair and had both his eyes." The man's accent was light, refined, but strange. It had a far-northern flavour that was not unfamiliar.

The Greatjon gave a guffaw, ill-humoured but acknowledging the truth of the statement.

Robb straightened up and rested a hand on the pommel of his sword. "Lord Duquesne, by what right do you come to negotiate with us. You ride through my father's lands without permission, attack my father's vassals when it suits you. The wildlings have never offered terms before, and to my knowledge they abhor such diplomacy. Some of the leal lords of the North would have me send a force to crush them."

Duquesne's smile widened.

"I am an officer of the Canadian Army. I am empowered to negotiate with all local authorities if my duties compel me to. I have attacked none of your vassals. The Free Folk did repulse Lord Brandon Norrey and his force from the Gift, yes, but the Gift is not your father's land as I understand it. The Free Folk offer terms for the reasons I outlined; the White Walkers are mustering north of the Wall. I am sure you've received word from people you trust more than I about that by now."

The foreigner looked to Lord Umber before answering.

"As for your lords' opinion, can you afford to fight a hundred thousand wildlings while also fighting the Baratheons and Lannisters? I have read the Queen's message to the Lord Commander. Can your lords really tell you to march north when your father is a captive in the south?"

Theon could not help but be impressed. Driving between the lords more worried about the wildlings and those honour-bound to Lord Stark. There had been some doubt that the foreigners really were nobles themselves. Theon had shared that doubt, but no longer.

Robb did not find the response all that impressive. "No wildling force has ever stood before the strength of the North, and I have more levies to call should I require it."

"Maybe you do, maybe they sweep aside Mors Umber's force before you can reinforce it," Duquesne responded, "But that's a matter for discussion between you and the Free Folk. As the initiating party of this negotiation, I request a formal audience in Winterfell, between you Lord Robb, the Free Folk envoy and myself. To hammer out a real treaty of peace, and for us to show you the true enemy in the far north."

Wights. Are they real? Theon half-remembered strange tales among the ironborn that reaved the Frozen Shores beyond the Wall, taking wildlings as thralls. Giants and direwolves and snowcats featured among them. But dead men walking?

Robb considered this for a moment. Theon knew many of the lords would not like the proposal, though they would not raise their swords to oppose talking. "There are grievances that we must address before I could grant that," he replied at once, "You have already spoken of the attack on Lord Norrey's host. What of Castle Black? Lord Commander Mormont tells me you seized his armoury and killed hundreds with sorcerous weapons before he could yield the castle."

Theon regarded the thing held in Lord Duquesne's hands once again. Hundreds? Such a small armament did not seem likely to be able to do such a thing.

The foreigner's smile disappeared. He did not like the question. "The Night's Watch demanded loyalty to your Iron Throne," Duquesne said, "We could not agree. We all swore to serve Her Majesty, Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, Queen of Canada."

"A queen rules your land?" Theon asked, "Your lords allow such a thing?"

Duquesne sighed, and levelled a glare at Theon as if the questions were ridiculous. "Yes, a queen rules our land, though it is more complicated than how one would rule here."

Theon's jaw set. Who is this man to speak to me like a child? It was all the worse that the Greatjon could not help but make a noise of approval at the put down. As if you'd follow a woman, even if you are half-wildling yourself.

"To get back to my point," Duquesne pressed on, "Ser Alliser Thorne as acting Lord Commander also declared that if we did not agree to his terms, that meant the Night's Watch would treat us as wildlings. He declared war on us, on behalf of his brotherhood. He lost that war. The Night's Watch now exists solely at the discretion of the Canadian Forces and King Mance, to fight the Others and guard the Wall."

"And yet the Shadow Tower stands defiant, does it not?" Robb said, "We have had no word from that keep. There was a raven from Eastwatch dispatched as it was stormed, and soon after your own flew from Castle Black. Silence from the west means they perhaps do not know that the other keeps have fallen. I have no doubt Ser Denys Mallister still holds it against the wildings. If you cannot take that keep, you have no hope against Winterfell or Last Hearth."

"We don't need to take the Shadow Tower. Commander Mallister has been ordered to continue his duties by Lord Commander Mormont," Duquesne replied, "We do not need to take Last Hearth or Winterfell either, wrecking your war in the south would not require it. And I broke the Wall, I doubt Winterfell has as impressive defences as that."

Theon doubted that was the true way of how events had played out. "How did you break the Wall?" he asked, "Are you sure you did not climb it with your strange crawling carriages there?"

Duquesne smirked. "Maybe we did. That would be inconvenient for you and your castles, wouldn't it?"

"I suspect the lords and riders behind me would prefer to face you in open battle," Robb interjected, "Where such abilities would mean nothing."

"All the better to shoot you down, without stone walls," Duquesne replied, "That is not why I came here, but I will not hesitate to do so if we can't even try and agree terms. You should consider what happened at Castle Black and to the Norreys a good cause to try, rather than a reason not to. The same way I'll consider the strength of your azantyr and the experience of your lords in making war as good cause to try. None of us benefit from conflict without at least an attempt at peace, we both have more dangerous enemies to fight and none of us claim each other's territory."

Theon did not know why the foreigner used a High Valyrian word, but it was a strange sound.

"If the Night's Watch have fallen, then the New Gift is mine by right," the Greatjon declared, "The rightful fief of House Umber. And House Karstark, nearer the coast."

To Theon's surprise, Duquesne nodded his head. "We believe we can address that. I believe you already know how we can."

The Greatjon snorted, his face guarded against any other indication about how he felt. What has Robb not told me? Theon thought. He had expected the Greatjon to be foaming at the mouth to face the wildlings in battle.

Robb inclined his head, a gesture of agreement, before turning to his half brother. "Jon… how many are there in their host?"

Duquesne frowned with disapproval, but waved to Jon to answer. The bastard appeared to consider the question, as if he didn't know the answer. A mummer's farce. The baseborn lad had already supplied Robb with the information that there were a little over three hundred left, by the raven that flew from Lakehold. "A hundred or so unicorn riders. Two hundred or so mounted on horses."

Theon leaned in towards Robb to whisper. "If they took Castle Black with so few, they could take one of the keeps in Winterfell and hold it. A keep would be very bloody to take back."

Robb's lips curled back, liking not that possibility. "Lord Duquesne, I cannot allow the quartering of three hundred and more wildlings within the walls of Winterfell, nor in Wintertown or the environs of our host's camps. The possibility for mischief is too high, and not just from your side."

The foreigner scratched his chin. "You may be right," Duquesne agreed, "I'll bring a group of fifteen including myself, and allow the Free Folk envoy to select another fifteen. The rest will move closer but out of sight. You'll withdraw your mounted azantys and our delegation will ride to Winterfell in the morning."

"You will not bring that machine to Winterfell either," Robb continued, pointing at the horseless carriages, "And I insist that only two of you Canadians are a part of the delegation."

Theon heartily approved of that. The tale Mormont had told was blood-curdling, even if it was unbelievable. Robb had been lucky the Lord Commander had seen fit to get the message through. No need to leave the matter to the gods where its truth was concerned. "You should have them leave their weapons behind too."

"I agree with the squidling," the Greatjon declared, "If they want to talk peace, they have no need of weapons, whether they're blades or magicks."

"No," Duquesne stated firmly, "I'll leave the crawler behind, I'll bring only one of my own people with me, but we shall be armed in whatever manner we want. I doubt you'll disarm your lords and soldiers for my sake, and I have no intention of cooling my heels in your dungeon."

The Greatjon smiled. "You're no fool, then."

The foreigner did not return the sentiment. "Lord Greyjoy is more a fool for asking, Lord Umber." The big man's smile widened.

Who's the fool here? Theon pointed back at the machine. "Should we not see these wights you claim to have? Surely there is no point in speaking if they do not exist."

"I will show the wights only when I stand in Winterfell, where I can show them to every lord, every lady and every one of your soldiers present. But I agree, it will be necessary to do so before we begin negotiations."

"Very well, Lord Duquesne," Robb said, "We have an agreement. But know that I do not believe a treaty of peace is possible."

"Pray that it is," Jon said, "Or we might all be dead sooner rather than later."

Duquesne was pleased. "I shall see you in Winterfell tomorrow, then. We'll wait here a little while to allow you to return without worry." The foreigner waved to the carriages, and two men sitting within got out.

The first was wearing a hood of the finest red colour that Theon had ever seen, and reminded him of certain kinds of Dornishmen he had met once or twice.

The second was no man at all, but a woman. She took off her helmet, revealing jet black hair that was arrow straight, a stern but noble countenance, full lips and eyes so black they reminded Theon of the deepest parts of the ocean. Once a merchant vessel from the Summer Isles brought men of YiTi to Pyke, just before his father's rebellion. This woman was clearly of their blood, and clearly a warrior.

His ardour from the morning, forgotten in the hard riding through the farmlands, returned with a vengeance. He did not understand why, but he did not care.

Perhaps we should be amiable after all, he thought to himself.

Chapter Text

Even from a distance, Winterfell was the most impressive castle complex that Michael had ever seen or heard of. There were two sets of high walls with a moat between them, multiple large keeps within, towers, gatehouses and crenellations, all in some sort of granite.

But he also saw weaknesses. The walls were straight lines, and they had blind spots at the bottom of them. They weren't entirely smoothsided either, a decent climber could make the top with basic equipment. On the south and east sides, there was a town almost right up to the fortifications, and on the north and west, the large forest called the Wolfswood was nearby, plenty of cover and plenty of wood to build siege engines.

But there wasn't much time to dwell on that.

As Jon 'Snow' led the way, the delegation moved slowly by Wintertown and to the east gate. Stark men guarded the way, blocking every street exit both ways. To Michael's irritation, there were no crowds of people to gawk and throw rocks. Normally that would be an inconvenience, but he had intended to put on a show.

Three wights were marched between the horses at the front and the few unicorns at the back. They were attached to poles with leather loops around their necks to keep them in control, two a piece. The guys keeping control were not happy to be doing the job, but promises of decent food that would come with a diplomatic event worked. At least the Stark men-at-arms appeared equally displeased to be near the things, some of them forgetting their duty as the wights passed by and backing way off from the road.

In the mean time, Corporal Zheng's jaw was practically wired shut, a deep frown set in place. Aside from being voluntold into joining the delegation due to her cover story, she had no horse riding skills whatsoever and little patience to learn for the moment. She radiated unhappiness, but kept her promise and hadn't complained.

Her reins were held instead by Val, riding alongside, the 'princess' dressed in fine white furs, her long blonde hair tied in an exceptionally long single braid adorned with silver rings and clasps. Val was too busy staring up at Winterfell to betray any other thoughts.

Robb Stark waited at the gate, with some of his lords and what appeared to be another maester, a small man dressed in grey robes with a small multi-metal chain around his neck. The lords weren't dressed in armour this time. A good sign.

Michael was still surprised at how young Jon's brother was. He had assumed the legitimate son of the ruler of this part of the world had been at least a few years older, but aside from being thicker built, the elder Stark could've been born the same day as the younger. He had neck length red hair and blue eyes, and his gaze was cool and wary.

Negotiating with a child, Michael thought to himself with annoyance, before another part of his brain reminded him the child likely had received political education from the day he could speak. But probably not with someone I can dupe.

Soon the column reached the gates, and Michael put two fingers in his mouth, whistling loudly. The wight-keepers moved their charges up the column and in front of the party blocking the way. Michael had selected two biggest of the wights for the job, former Free Folk warriors who had gone down fighting and rose again with the most horrific wounds. The third was a woman, practically untouched but dead all the same.

Hissed curses and roars of shock blew out as soon as the undead came into view of the lords. And then they looked at Michael with bewilderment. Good, they believe. And not just about the wights.

Robb Stark himself kept his mouth shut and his face blank, though he paid attention to nothing except the wights for quite some time.

He's grown up too fast, Michael realised, before making sure that Zheng was recording the event with her phone. He moved his horse between the two parties, aside from the wights, and addressed the man. "Lord Robb Stark, I present the wights as promised."

Robb took a moment to realise he had been spoken to, but the mask of a practiced noble quickly fell over his already muted shock. "That you have, Lord Duquesne." A quick glance to either side of his brother Jon followed. "Who are these you have brought with you?"

Val nudged her horse forward a few steps to join Michael, bringing Zheng along with her. She met the eyes of her cousin, Jon Umber, and inclined her head in greeting. To Michael's surprise, the huge man inclined his head in return, drawing the attention of many a lord. Finally, the Free Folk's chosen speaker inhaled a large breath and introduced herself to the lords. "I am Val Umber, Princess of Wall and Gift. Goodsister to Mance Rayder, our King. I come to speak peace and to warn of the threat to us all." She pointed sharply to the wights.

There were rumbles of discontent that rolled and built, threatening to burst into outright shouting. Michael made a mental note of all those that were displeased, via their house sigils. When he looked at the man he guessed was most capable of making noise, he heard and saw no objection at all. Jon Umber was as silent as Val had been on the approach. What's your game, big guy?

Robb Stark soon raised his voice over the din, cutting it off. "My lords! You shall have the chance to voice your concerns, but not here before the gates!"

The lords shut up quickly, though not before Lord Greyjoy and another older noble lent their own voices to telling them to be quiet.

"And who else?" Robb asked, looking to Zheng. Michael waited for the Corporal to introduce herself, but she did not, instead staring at him with her hand on O'Neill's pistol. It took him a minute to realise what she wanted, and he was glad she was getting into the role. The whole idea was to save her from being a bargaining chip, after all.

"May I present Her Royal Highness, Leanne Zheng, Princess of Taipei, Elector of Vancouver."

As the lords' brows knit deeply, Zheng smiled widely and looked back at them. "A pleasure, Lord Robb," she purred. Robb, Jon, the maester, even Val looked like a dog had just transformed into a dragon and declared itself king. "Don't be so surprised," Zheng said to Jon. The Crow blinked back, and Zheng wove a dismissal.

"A princess?" Robb asked.

"My family is in exile, we were expelled from our homeland, however respected we are in Canada," Zheng replied casually, "And I'm the youngest child of many. It's not very likely I'll ever wear a crown. Yet blood is blood, is it not?"

The lords' faces relaxed. They knew what blood right meant. They accepted that idea. It was familiar to them. The grand deception was working, the half-truths easy to sell. Zheng's family had been thrown out of China during their civil war, and her father's side still had ties to the leadership of Taiwan. Why the hell she had joined the Canadian Army with that sort of background, Michael couldn't wring out of her, but it wasn't necessary for his purposes.

Robb seemed to view Zheng with softer eyes. "Lady Zheng, Lady Val, Lord Duquesne, I bid you welcome to Winterfell. We have bread and salt here, though I know not if you follow the tradition of guest right."

Zheng smirked over at Michael, no doubt amusing herself by thinking of how she killed Craster after deceiving him. She was under strict orders to accept and eat the damn food this time.

"We don't," Michael answered honestly, "Our tradition is different, we regard diplomatic negotiations like this one to be sacrosanct without the need for such a gift, with all parties' lives and property to be respected to the highest degree possible. We will however accept your gift of bread and salt, as a sign to you that we intend to follow that tradition."

Robb Stark gestured to his maester, who proceeded forward with the offering. The older man offered it first to Jon. The Crow looked at Robb with some hurt, which Michael didn't entirely understand. He quickly tore off a part of the loaf and dipped it in the salt, before eating as instructed. The maester repeated this with the entire column.

The bread was better tasting than any Michael had eaten on this world, being made with wheat flour rather than rye. The salt even improved the flavour.

When the whole delegation had taken their bread and salt, Robb Stark stood up in his saddle.

"You are now guests of House Stark. Follow us to your quarters. Know that any breach of the laws of the gods where behaviour as a guest is concerned will bring the wrath of mine host upon your entire party!" The lords gave a cheer.

The Free Folk remained silent. Such threats were nothing to them. And even less to Michael. I'm going inside your big walls, kid, he mused to himself, You're the one who ought to be afraid of my wrath.

The wights were rolled up again in their ice, leather and furs, and packed back onto the unicorn's haunches. Robb led his lords and the delegation through the gatehouse, across the moat, through a second gatehouse and into a large courtyard. The horses were put into a stable, though Val and the other Free Folk were reluctant to do so. The three unicorns carrying Marcach's representatives kept stirring up the horses, so they were brought along instead. Robb and some guards continued to lead the delegation onwards, with Jon and the lords disappearing into the largest keep in the middle of the complex instead.

Michael was nonplussed when the building they were to stay in was not in fact built for the purpose of housing guests.

"It's a fucking church, sir," Zheng declared in English.

"I noticed, Corporal. There's a priest standing in the doorway."

Zheng said something in Chinese that Michael had little doubt was anatomically impossible, while the priest in question gawked at the unicorns. He wasn't old, maybe the same age as Zheng herself. Like the priest of the Seven at the Wall, he had a crystal hanging off of his neck on a chain. Unlike his counterpart however, he didn't reek of booze.

"This is Septon Chayle, he will see to your quartering in the sept," Robb said, "Aside from this building, you are permitted access to the grounds, the Great Hall at mealtimes, and the godswood. Nowhere else. Jon will show you where those are, after I speak to him. Guards have been posted."

The sept connected to no other buildings, and the nearby guardtowers and balconies had great lines of sight to every exit. Good thing we brought smoke, Michael thought. "I take it putting us in a guest house or a tower would piss off too many of your lords?"

Robb smiled. "You're lucky you aren't sleeping in the stables or kennels, Lord Duquesne. My bannermen would have happily insisted on it, if they knew I had planned this." With that, he departed, though half of his guards did not, instead remaining to guard the exit into the adjoining courtyard.

"Perhaps they meant it as an insult," Val added, "We are lucky Varamyr or the Thenns are not here. Though I have no quarrel with it, false gods do not scare me."

"Thought as much," Michael muttered to himself, before raising his voice, "Okay, let's go inside and get settled first."

"Allow me to help," Septon Chayle said cheerily, approaching and taking one of Michael's packs, "It's not very often I get so many visitors. To say nothing of visitors rumoured to be merciless savages. Yet here you are to treat and make terms."

Val scowled from behind the priest, but said nothing.

"I was surprised, to be honest," Michael answered, "I didn't think we'd find a priest of the Seven gods here. We were told the North was almost entirely old god worshippers."

"Lord Stark's lady wife follows the new gods," Chayle explained, as they moved inside, "And their children have been instructed in both faiths, though Lord Robb favours his father's. There are more of us along the White Knife and especially at White Harbour, where House Manderly follows the gods of their southerly ancestors."

The inside of the 'sept' was just about spacious enough for thirty people camping out, and had its own fireplaces. It smelled of strongly of incense with a little woodsmoke. Icons of the Seven Gods hung in front of seven carved statuettes of the same, on seven walls.

At least they're consistent with the divine numerology, Michael thought as he claimed a corner between the king of the gods and the warrior god, placing his second pack down carefully so the munitions boxes inside wouldn't bang on the hard wooden floor. Chayle quickly put the other pack of Michael's he was carrying down beside it, while others filed in and claimed their own spaces.

It took some time to get the space liveable, secure the unicorns and wights outside, set a watch on the courtyard outside via the small windows at the tops of the seven walls, and get a radio check in with O'Neill outside of Winterfell. All of that went without a hitch, though the priest hovered about the whole time. Something that wasn't going to fly.

"Do you sleep in here, Septon?" Michael asked.

"No, though I can if you wish," Chayle replied, bouncing on his heels, "I would learn of your customs, if at all possible. Such matters are of interest to me. And you could learn of the Seven too."

Michael wondered where the priest's energy was coming from. "We'd prefer privacy, Septon, though I'm happy to speak about our customs," he replied, seeing Val come into the building and tilt her head to point behind her, "Corporal, with me."

Zheng unslung her weapon and did as ordered.

The door banged open, and thing Val was warning of strode in; Lord Greyjoy with a pair of Stark guards. The black haired teenager with a sword and a golden giant squid on his jacket half-flinched when he noticed Michael so close to the door. But his gaze soon floated over to Zheng and Val, interrupting whatever train of thought the young man had.

Thinking with his cock, Michael thought with amusement. "Lord Greyjoy, is there something you came here for?"

Greyjoy woke up from eye-fucking Zheng, just in time to avoid getting a gun stuck in his face, and cleared his throat. "Lord Robb demands that you join him in his father's solar to discuss the terms of peace."

Michael resisted the desire to roll his eyes at the use of 'demand' in what was more likely a diplomatic request. "Very well. We'll dress into something more suitable and follow you in five minutes."

Twenty minutes and a radio check in with O'Neill later, Michael and Zheng were kitted out in their walking-out dress, complete with shined shoes, berets and the addition of their slung rifles and some smaller bags. Outside, Lord Greyjoy was red in the face with impatience and began to say something arrogant until a Val glare shut him down. Jon Stark was also present, though he did not move to follow Greyjoy.

"Not coming with us?" Michael asked.

"The lords don't trust the Night's Watch any more," Jon replied, "Robb says I will join the negotiations after today, but for now, only the northernmost lords will attend. I'll see your people are well treated, Lord Duquesne."

Michael gave a thumbs up. "Thank you, Jon."

The young Crow gave a little bow, and went into the sept. Michael saw a great many lords standing around the entrance to the great hall, staring at him. We really do have a mountain to climb here…

"What are you doing?" Greyjoy demanded from across the courtyard.

Michael did not respond. He half jogged to Zheng and the others, putting the problem out of his mind for now. Let's just get through the first meeting.

The destination was the Great Keep of Winterfell, a massive round tower with sub-towers around it. It had an entrance hall at the base with arrow-slit windows, and many closed rooms accessible through winding stairways. It was also a lot more warm than Michael imagined it would be, considering it snowed at random even in winter in the part of the planet they were on.

"Does this place have air conditioning?" Zheng asked, pulling at her collar.

"What?" the 'squidling' asked.

"She means it's warm," Michael responded.

Greyjoy stopped on the stairs to explain, aiming his response at Zheng. "There are hot springs underneath Winterfell. The hot water and steam runs through the centre of the keep into its walls. Other buildings too. Keeps everyone warm, especially in winter. That's what I was told when I asked when I first arrived, though I have not been here during a true winter."

It was three flights upwards until they reached the place for the negotiations. The 'solar' was essentially a large office, circular with a fireplace at the opposite point to the door. It smelled of ink, parchment and burning turf, not unlike the library at Castle Black. It was completed with tapestries on the wall, shelves for both books and scrolls, a sort of plank-and-trestle table in front of a fine large oak desk and a finer oak chair.

Lord Robb was sitting in the chair, his maester attending beside him. Standing on one side of the table was a trio of other nobles. Their badges were not hard to miss, and all three had more than passing resemblances to relatives Michael had already met.

"Thank you Theon," Robb said to Greyjoy, "Leave us." The latter man bowed, glanced at Zheng and then left. There was a silence for a moment, as both parties sized each other up.

Michael started things with a salute. "Lord Umber, Lord Karstark, Lady Mormont," he rattled off, before looking to the main contender, "And Lord Robb Stark. Greetings on behalf of her Majesty's Canadian Forces."

"And the King of Wall and Gift," Val added, politely but without salute or bow.

After getting no reaction from the nobles, the maester whispered something in Robb Stark's ear. "Lord Duquesne… your Highness, Lady Umber," Robb replied, "Shall we begin?" He gestured to the trestle table, as the maester proceeded to pick up a writing tablet with parchment nailed to it. Val took a seat at once, opposite her cousin across the centre of the table. They stared at each other, as the lords took their own places.

"I need a minute, Lord Robb," Michael replied, reaching for his bag. He pulled out his laptop, and placed it on the table at the end. "Corporal, stay standing," he said in English, "Be ready if something goes wrong. Mind the door and the lords. They've got swords and maces."

Zheng frowned. "Yes sir." She began pacing at the end of the table. Michael wasn't sure if she was trying to be menacing or if she was just uncomfortable.

"You have a strange tongue, my lord," the maester commented, "I have never heard it before, and I am a man with much learning in the tongues of this world. Maester Aemon at the Wall even more so." The room seemed to watch the deployment of the computer with some interest, whispering as it powered on.

"I'm certain no one south of the Wall has," Michael replied, "And that you have no idea what this thing is. Don't bother asking questions, I won't answer and we have more pressing business… Though not so much that I shouldn't know your name, Maester…?"

"Luwin, my lord."

"Good to meet you," Michael said, as he started recording every sound in the room, "Let's begin."

"At last," Lord Umber complained.

"We'll be direct for the sake of our collective sanity," Michael promised, "Val, tell them what you want."

The 'princess' looked to Robb. The young lord returned her attention, examining more than her face for a moment before discipline reasserted itself. The Greyjoy isn't the only one to think with his cock. Maybe Mance wasn't making a mistake choosing her after all.

Val spoke clearly and firmly. "The Free Folk want peace, the Gift as our kingdom, and a promise from you to fight against the White Walkers. We offer oaths to not raid your lands and to punish those that do in the way of our ancestors; sacrifice to the weirwoods."

Laughter bubbled out of the lords, and the Lady Mormont cackled. Robb Stark and Maester Luwin remained silent. They're letting the underlings vent.

"Do you think us drunks and cravens, cousin?" Lord Umber asked Val, "They'd no longer call me the Greatjon if I accepted such a proposal, they'd call me the Greatloon."

"And I Rickard the Cockless," Lord Karstark added grimly, "A hundred thousand wildlings or no."

"We've always been able to push the wildings back," Lady Mormont agreed.

"This is a negotiation," Michael reminded them, "That was what you would call an opening proposal." He looked to Lord Robb. "Do you have one? Putting things how they were before isn't going to be possible."

"I would know yours, first," Robb replied, "We've heard what Mance Rayder wants. What do you want? You are not 'Free Folk', after all."

He's carefully read whatever reports the Lord Commander and Mors Umber sent. Michael saw little point in hiding his intent though.

"Free passage to the Isle of Faces, unmolested by any force loyal to you or your allies. If your enemies resist our movements, then we'll fight alongside you to remove them as obstacles to our progress. We would have no obligation to follow your orders."

"Just that?" Robb said, surprised.

"No," Michael replied, "Many of the warriors with me are also descendants of the people taken by raiders and dragged north of the Wall. I would demand their right to return to the homes of their mothers and grandmothers, as well as thousands more of their cousins that remained at the Wall."

Lord Karstark pulled on his beard. "How do we know they are who they say they are?" he complained, "How do we know this is not a plot to put wildlings on our lands?"

"I would imagine Lord Umber's Aunt Rowan can verify their stories," Michael replied, with a false smile to the Greatjon, "But even so… They split off from Mance to swear loyalty to us, so I could bring them home. That alone makes them different to the others. They know what a return means too. They want to 'bend the knee' as long as there is peace."

Val's nose turned up slightly at that, but she did not verbalise her displeasure.

Robb nodded, tapping his fingers on his father's desk. "Why do you want to go to the Isle of Faces?"

"That is our business," Zheng replied.

"A waystation," Michael lied, "From there, we can receive orders from our government. Whether that's to stay or return home, it does not matter. Our requirements have no more cost to you than provisions for the journey south, and could benefit you if we have to fight your enemies to get where we want to go. Canada's demands are the least of your worries."

The lords were quiet and didn't make any sign of objecting to that. Looks like they don't really care about us, except that we've helped the 'wildlings'.

"Jon says you claim you're from another world," Robb said, "Do you offer proof of this, beyond what we can see before us now?" He gestured at the laptop.

"Aye, a strange thing," Lord Karstark commented, "It hums to itself. Though that's not proof of any sort."

"I've not seen or heard the like," Maester Luwin stated, "And I have studied the deeper mysteries. The Citadel is unaware of this, or hides the knowledge at the highest level."

"Mayhaps we best see a demonstration of the weaponry my brother speaks of," Lady Maege added, peering out from her grey hair towards Michael's rifle where it was propped up against the table's edge.

Michael shook his head. "Our origin is not relevant. The fact I'm sitting here at all is proof of our capabilities. I didn't come here to put on a show for you." If I spend bullets here, it'll be to kill you, not impress you.

"It's relevant if you're off your bloody heads," the Greatjon snorted.

"Or if you're sorcerous fiends of some kind," Karstark added, "The Others' return means the return of the magicks, that is told in all the old tales."

Zheng let out a laugh, circling to the front of the table and leaning on her palms over it. "If we're mad sorcerers, then you're really in trouble, aren't you?"

"Ha, true!" the Greatjon said.

Michael scratched his chin for a moment. We're getting off track. "I've stated what we want, Lady Umber has stated what her people want. Lord Robb, it is time for you to state your position. With the greatest respect, stop dancing around it."

The teenage lord clasped his hands in front of him in thought, and the maester ducked his head to consult. The two spoke for some time, before Luwin finally stood up straight again and cleared his throat.

"The North requires all those in the Gift to swear fealty and bend the knee to Lord Robb in place of his father, Eddard Stark, Warden of the North."

Michael's jaw clenched. Ser Alliser's shit all over again, he thought, I have more leverage this time, but maybe that doesn't matter.

Luwin's pronouncements continued. "The lands of the New Gift will be returned to their rightful lords; namely Lord Umber, Lord Karstark, as well as the chiefs of House Wull and House Norrey."

"And about time too," the Greatjon smiled, nudging an equally pleased beard-tugging Lord Karstark with his shoulder.

"Not a chance Mance will accept that," Zheng said, rolling her eyes.

Michael looked to Val, and found her still locked in a staring contest with Robb Stark. Why isn't she saying anything?

"Brandon's Gift will return to the North also. We are willing to name Mance Rayder's heir as lord of part of it, and we are prepared to name chiefs who bend the knee as vassal lords across the entire Gift. We shall require each to send their heirs to Winterfell as wards, including Mance, as well as all their daughters. Marriages will be arranged as appropriate to tie the new vassals to the realm."

Val's head finally turned to the maester. She loves her sister too much to like that proposal, Michael knew.

"We also require a marriage pact from each of you with one of the northern lords," Luwin concluded, "Perhaps Lady Val to a Karstark… Yourself Lord Duquesne to Lady Mormont's eldest daughter."

Michael sucked in a large breath, exasperated that the marriage demands had begun already. Before he could concoct a coherent response, Lady Mormont rose and slammed her palm of the table, shaking the whole thing. "Maester, I'll not have my daughter wed to the man that shamed my brother!"

Lord Robb straightened up in his chair and addressed her directly. "'Twas only a suggestion, my lady," he intervened, "No offence was meant." Lady Mormont sat again, nostrils still flared with anger. Well, she doesn't like us.

"Perhaps Lady Zheng could marry Lord Umber's son instead," Luwin offered, "We can discuss the exact matches in due course, if the principle of the thing is accepted."

Michael glanced at Zheng, and found her finger was on her carbine's trigger, her thumb brushing the selector switch, threatening to throw it to full-auto. Her face was not twisted with anger or fear though. She's calmly contemplating a massacre. He quickly raised his palm under the table at her. Let me handle it, Corporal.

The maester wasn't done. "Naturally, Lord Robb would expect both the chiefs of the … Free Folk and you Canadians to fight on his behalf to free his father from captivity," Luwin concluded.

"There are our preferred terms," Robb stated, "I imagine you find them as unacceptable as we find yours. But know this; my lords will not abide large concessions without beneficial return."

He looked to Val again. "Lord Umber, Lord Karstark and Lady Mormont are here as they are the nobles who would have to live beside your people, Lady Val. Even if we accept you as an Umber, and we do not concede that except as a courtesy for the moment, they must accept whatever we agree on or our words will be nothing but air in the wind."

"So we must meet in the middle," Val said coolly, "That is the way of things, where two tribes possess no clear advantage."

Robb nodded once.

"You can put marriage out of your mind right now," Michael said, "For us at least. Lady Zheng cannot marry without permission of her father, and you wouldn't get it even if you could ask. Another of our number is already married. The last is too young." Lies to protect everyone, so easy.

"And you?" Luwin asked.

Ygritte entered Michael's mind, the sensation of her running her fingers through his hair. "My situation is complicated."

"Jon says you are betrothed, my lord," Robb cut in, "To the chieftess of the Laughing Tree tribe."

The lords and lady clenched fists and gripped the table, not liking that news. Michael wanted to deny it, but The Situation was a key link to the Free Folk he could not just toss away. Not until they were well clear of the Starks' lands. Assuming I'm not stupid enough to take her along to Canada…

Michael's silence must have been answer enough. "All the more reason we should have a marriage pact between our peoples," Robb continued, "You already have one with the wildlings."

"No, we don't."

"Your man who is too young," Luwin said, "How many years has he seen? Jon Snow said he was older than he is. Perhaps this man can be asked his opinion on the matter…"

"Marriage is not how we build military alliances in Canada," Michael countered, "And if we are ordered to leave this continent, a marriage would not keep us here. Given the situation, our government would regard it as being made under duress and not recognise the pact as legal."

"Marriages are how we create alliances here, my lord," Luwin pressed on, "You are not in Canada."

"Our ways are not yours," Zheng said, cutting to the chase, "Accept it and move on." Her thumb finally moved her carbine's selector switch. The maester cocked an hairy eyebrow, perhaps having worked out what that meant.

"Yes, there are more important differences," Michael said quickly.

"My people will not bend the knee," Val said, "Not when we have taken the Wall."

"You did not take the Wall," Robb replied, before pointing at Michael, "He did."

"It was both of us," Michael said, "And that was the unfortunate result of a single man's arrogant belief that he was better than us. One man's personal war."

"Ser Alliser Thorne was a dragonloving cunt," the Greatjon rumbled, "And he liked killing wildlings very much. But I doubt the fault was all his."

Michael felt his skin crawl. "We are dangerously close to an impasse that will result in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people. It won't just be wildlings, and it may result in total loss at the hands of the undead creatures you've already seen today. Now, can you please begin to speak about how we're going to resolve the differences between your two positions?"

"What about the difference between you and I?" Robb asked, "You refuse a pact."

"I just told you, a marriage pact wouldn't be legal," Michael replied, struggling to keep his voice down, "It wouldn't bind me at all. Your demand is pointless. And on top of that, I'm the one returning the people taken by raiders to you, and their descendants, strengthening you with skilled hunters, fishers, woodworkers, tanners, fursmen and warriors."

"Wildlings," Lord Karstark declared, "They're wildlings. They can't be trusted."

"They're your families," Michael countered, "The legitimate cousin of Lord Umber is beside me, in plain view, not a yard from where you're sitting. And she is far from the only one with relatives in your lands. And after all I've heard and seen since arriving on this damn world, it surprises me above everything else to hear a noble lord argue that blood ties are meaningless."

Karstark bristled, puffing up with outrage. "Will that stop them raiding? Will that stop them following the ways of the tribes they were raised in?"

"Yes," Val said, turning all heads to her, "If we have the Gift, we do not need to raid."

"Though I'm sure there would be outliers," Michael added, in the name of managing expectations.

"Those are men and women we would kill, and then hang their guts from the branches of the sacred trees," Val said, "We knew you would say such things, Lord Karstark. It is why we offered to do this from the start. It is no small thing. The chieftains committed their men to killing our own to keep a peace at great risk. But when they give their word and oath to the gods and the King who brought us south of the Wall, both are kept."

Though they'll lawyer the hell out of both too, Michael thought to himself, And some won't listen anyway.

"We're no fools, Lord Stark," Val said, "I am prepared to exchange terms, if you are. A way we both get most of what we want."

Luwin and Robb exchanged looks, but it was the maester that answered first. "That would depend on the concessions you offer."

"And if you have the authority to make them," Robb said, "What if your chieftains do not like what you have given up?"

"They agreed to follow my decisions," Val said, "And to what I can offer."

"Another sacred oath?" Lady Mormont scoffed.

"Aye."

"Impossible. Every wildling thinks himself a king."

"Not so much any more," Michael interrupted, "The Free Folk have learned a lot since we met them. More than you can imagine."

"I'm sure you taught them well," Lord Karstark quipped. He was laying the blame for the whole situation at Michael's feet.

Robb cleared his throat pointedly. "Let's hear what you think we should accept."

Val's hand grabbed her long braid under the table, playing with the end of it where the lords could not see. What's wrong? Michael asked, She can't possibly be that nervous. She had quipped and stood tall the whole time.

"You agree to our terms as I have already stated. The Gift will be our kingdom, you will aid us against the Others, we will not raid you."

"We spin in circles," Lord Karstark complained.

Val kept speaking. "In return, the chiefs will send their heirs as wards to Winterfell and Last Hearth, for those that are young enough. In time, marriages can be arranged, to assure peace beyond the winter to come. We offer gold and silver for your war in the far south… And warriors."

There was an awkward silence for a moment.

"Warriors?" Robb asked, "You mean to join us in trying to free my father and sisters, to punish those who took them?"

"Aye."

Michael could hardly believe his ears. Though he had suggested something like this, the chieftains hadn't breathed a word of joining the Starks, or else he would've heard it through Taryne before leaving Molestown.

"What?" Zheng said. Michael glared at her to be quiet. We need to know her plan.

"The Gift is enough for my people," Val explained, "But many of our people would get as far away from the Others as they can, as far south as they can. Some tribes will not take well to peace and will want to raid, but they know that raiding the lands of the Starks would doom them. They cannot trust that the Canadians will assist us against you if they provoke a war. So we offer warriors, spearwives and wargs to go south, to fight your enemies and to raid upon their lands instead."

Lady Mormont cackled again. "There is a certain poetry in sending the wildlings to kill Lannisters," she admitted, "Can you imagine Lord Tywin's reaction?"

The maester frowned, writing down the statement. "How many swords do you pledge, Lady Val?" Luwin asked.

"Thousands of warriors, perhaps ten thousand," Val said, "And hundreds of skinchangers."

Michael had heard enough, but he couldn't speak to stop it. She didn't come here to make peace. She came here to make an alliance so Mance's warriors would fight a different enemy, steal from different villagers, drag off different women. He wanted to say that and more, but one whiff of serious division like that, and the lords would pounce on it.

"We intended to ride south soon," Robb said, "Your warriors will not arrive in time to aid us."

Val folded her hands on the table. "The city your father is held in, Mance says it has high walls and a castle as big as this one."

"Not quite as big," Luwin said.

"It matters not. Mance says you will not take the city easily, nor will your enemies allow it to happen without battle. Your war will last many months, if not a year. Our warriors will have the time to join yours. And we need not send all the warriors at once. Smaller hosts can move more swiftly."

"What of our lands?" Lord Umber boomed, "Much of the New Gift belongs to me, cousin. By right, now the dragons are gone and the black brothers have been defeated."

"An Umber will be King of the Gift one day," Val promised, "Even now, that king may grow in my sister's belly. If we are kin, then my family will always rise to the defence of yours. And who's to say our families will remain separate forever more? The same for the Karstark. The strength of both your clans will grow and prosper with ours, that I do promise."

"What a lovely tapestry weaved from the lips of a lovely maid," Lord Karstark said without warmth, "But mayhaps you fill our ears with honey, so that your warriors can betray us on a southern battlefield, leaving the North stripped bare of men-at-arms for your multitudes to descend on. Or perhaps the treachery will arrive before that, as your host moves down to join ours. Can wildlings resist the offer of Lannister gold and promises of even more of our land? I think not."

"I offer a promise against that too," Val said.

"What promise?" Robb asked.

Val seemed to brace herself on the table. "That you and I shall wed, Lord Stark."

Son of a bitch, Michael thought, Mance, you crafty piece of work. Val had pale blue eyes on a pretty face, long hair blonde hair, curves in the right places. Most men would have killed to be with her for a night, and Michael was sure they had.

Robb Stark was a hormone-soaked teenager regardless of upbringing, and one that had spent most of the meeting watching her, even as he listened to everyone else. It didn't take a genius to see the strategy. Though Val must have also seen something in the young lord too. Michael couldn't see her agreeing to a marriage otherwise, even if Mance ordered it. She's as much a spearwife as Ygritte, all told.

Robb Stark did not immediately shoot down the idea, as Michael thought he would not, instead searching Val's face for the answer.

Lord Karstark rose from his seat like a shot, his face red. "The heir to Winterfell to marry a wildling?!" he shouted, and stormed out past Zheng, who gave him a wide berth. Lord Umber and Lady Mormont rose to follow him, though they both bowed to Robb first before taking their leave.

"What the hell just happened?" Zheng asked in English.

"It seems we all have some things to think about," Michael replied in the Common Tongue, "Lord Robb, I think we should adjourn for the day."

"So do I," the young man said, "I need to consult with my lords on… everything that has transpired here. We shall return tomorrow morning."

"Understood," Michael said, ending the recording on the laptop and shutting it, "Lady Val, can I have a word with you?"

Chapter Text

Only half listening, Michael watched the day's negotiations as he mulled over his miscalculations, wishing he had gotten more sleep. Val had not been receptive to his objections to unleashing the worst Free Folk raiders on the Starks' enemies. She saw it as the only way to keep said raiders from attacking the Starks or rebelling against Mance. And that was that.

The nobles' arguing kept intruding on his attempts to come up with an answer to the problem.

The arrangement of Lord Robb's solar had been changed, and comfortable seats arranged in a circle in the middle of the room. Two had been set aside for he and Zheng, another for Val near theirs with Lord Umber beside her, and a greater array of the lords filling out the rest with Lord Robb directly across from Val. There was no escaping the talk, and it was all about the price of alliance.

The idea of unleashing wildlings on their enemies positively tickled every one of the nobles present, they had spoken about the consequences for the Lannisters for an hour at least. The sore part was over how to make sure one side didn't betray the other. Not very much headway was being made.

Almost all lords loudly disagreed with the idea of Val marrying Robb, except Lord Umber, who advocated for the marriage with certain conditions. Michael could guess his game though. He wanted Umbers in control on both sides of the border, a situation his family could benefit from in numerous ways.

The nobles weren't going along with that, though they did recognise Val as an Umber, addressing her as Lady. That was something Michael couldn't figure out entirely. His best guess was that because Lord Karstark wanted her to marry one of his sons instead of Robb, and with Lord Umber being the main advocate of taking Val's deal straight up, the other nobles were trying to split the neighbours. Turn Umber against Karstark over potentially owning the Gift, and force a better deal for them.

Val herself remained firm. She had been when Michael had confronted her the night before too, and it seems that disagreement had just been practice.

The Free Folk needed a significant marriage that would stop any of the other noble lords from attacking the Gift. That meant a marriage to a Stark, as far as Val was concerned. The cost to civilians in the south was meaningless to her.

To the lords, she openly stated her disdain for such a marriage, preferring that the man she married should properly steal her in the tradition of her father's people. She was willing to make the sacrifice for the safety of her people.

Naturally, she expected the Starks to do the same. That was one moment Michael did pay full attention to, if only to see the lords squirm and try to not look like hypocrites.

The counter to her argument was an offer to marry Brandon Stark, the younger brother of Robb. The kid himself was present, sitting in a chair beside Lord Robb, each of them with a direwolf curled up at their feet. Brandon Stark was disabled, unable to move his legs, and Michael did not want to ask how that had happened. Val was not tactful in her rejection of the idea, on account of age and infirmity.

So around and around they argued, trying to figure out the best way to work together to pillage the hell out of the lands of their enemies. Eventually even Zheng got bored watching for some threat, got up from her chair and returned with two mugs of something.

"Beer, sir," Zheng said quietly in English, "It's even fluffy on top." She offered one mug to him. Despite needing his wits about him, Michael couldn't help but take it. It was a pure shit of a day. The beer tasted pretty damn good too. If he wasn't on another world, he would've thought it some sort of German lager.

"Thank you, Corporal," Michael replied, before taking another gulp and putting the drink down.

"No problem," Zheng yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, "These guys love to argue, don't they? Thought the whole medieval nobles thing was 'do what I say, or else'. Though maybe I've been in the Army too long, thinking that way."

You argue more than they do, Michael thought, before realising that probably wasn't true. "They have a hierarchy," he said, "But it's a long way from a chain of command."

Zheng shrugged, and took another sip before leaning on her chair's armrest, so she wouldn't distract from the main conversation. "They're a long way from modern warfare too. Did you see their armour when they were riding out to meet us?"

"Yeah, straight out of a history book like the rest of it."

Zheng drank deeply. "Think our bullets can go through all that metal, sir? Looks like stronger stuff than what we took from the Norreys."

Michael smirked. "The pig, Sayer's Ranger rifle or that big revolver he is hiding in his pack would shoot holes in through three knights and out the other side." He pat the side of his rifle. "Ours might be an issue."

Zheng pulled her own carbine onto her lap, examining it. "556 won't go through that steel?"

Michael shook his head. "No, it would go through, it's just the C6 would get a lot more meat per bullet…"

"Lord Duquesne," said Robb Stark in Common, "Do you have something to add?"

Michael brought his hands together. "No."

Lord Robb narrowed his eyes. "Then what were you speaking to Lady Zheng about?"

Michael raised his mug off the small table beside him. "How this beer tastes. It's a lot like something from home."

"Are we boring you, Lord Duquesne?" Lord Karstark asked.

"No, you're not boring me, Lord Karstark," Michael said, "I just think you can only say the same thing so many times before you're saying nothing. Is that your objective? End these talks with no conclusion?"

The lord looked around the room. Others were interested in the question's answer. "No," Karstark replied.

"Time for another recess, Lord Robb," Michael said, getting out of his seat and taking his rifle in hand, "Your lords seem to be competing over a prize. I suggest you decide who gets it. Call us back when you choose someone the prize will choose for herself. Thank you for the beer."

Michael drained his mug, smacking his lips as he set it down. He looked to Zheng and Val. "Let's go." Zheng got up at once. Val took a few seconds, but followed too. Together, they left the solar, Michael stretching as soon as they were out of sight of the lords. So many hours, sat on ass…

"What was that about?" Zheng asked, as they descended the spiral stairway.

"I've let them speak their grievances," Michael said, "Now I'm letting them stew. Hopefully they'll get over whatever bullshit is preventing them from accepting the marriage offer. If not, we'll need a demonstration of what will happen if they keep being stubborn."

"So now you are aiding me," Val scoffed from behind, "After objecting to our joining with the Starks?"

"Don't get twisted about it," Michael said, "I've decided I can't stop you, and that you have the right to make that offer. So I'm expediting my own exit out of this hellhole. If it ends the war in the south more quickly, that's at least an outcome I can live with. Assuming I ever find out about it."

Michael dressed back into his No.5s, had a good lunch, gave some emergency orders to O'Neill via radio, and lay down for a nap. By the time he did, the lords had moved to the Great Hall and their shouts could be heard across the courtyard through the windows.

He didn't try and work out what their mood was from the echoes. He just drifted off and waited to see what luck would grant him, prepared for most outcomes he could imagine.

He wasn't prepared to be kicked awake, however politely.

"Wake up, Lord Duquesne."

Michael blinked away the sleep, finding the only thing he could see clearly was the daylight still pouring in through the windows of the sept near the roof. He rolled over to see who had kicked him, and found one of the unicorn riders standing over him. "What the hell do you want?" he growled at the man, sitting up from his bedroll.

"Is that any way to speak to a king?" the man quietly chuckled, "Such a change from when we first met. It was Your Majesty then."

Michael stood up, what the man had said not quite clicking at first, until he looked at the man's face properly. Long hair had been shaved and a well trimmed beard had been grown out in the fashion of the unicorn riders', but the eyes and easy grin were the same.

"Mance?" Michael asked.

"You seem surprised," Mance replied, "I thought you had discovered who I was during the battle with the Norreys as we rode by your position, and just kept it to yourself."

Michael blinked. "You've been with us the whole time?!"

"Aye, to see the Starks' preparations for war for myself, and aid Val, should she need it. Though she has not spoken to me since arriving, likely to keep attention away from me."

Fury rose in Michael's throat. If he's here, who commands at the Wall?! "Corporal!" he erupted, "Come here!"

Zheng rang across the sept, carbine gripped and ready to aim. "Sir?" she asked on arriving behind.

"Corporal, put this man on his knees now."

Zheng impressed Michael with her complete lack of hesitation. Mance barely had time for his eyes to widen before her foot shot out, catching him on the back of the leg and forcing him onto the stone floor. He flopped down all the way, before Zheng pulled him back up again by the shoulder; on his knees.

Val and some others made to intervene, but Michael grabbed up his own rifle. "No one gets closer!" he declared, "Corporal, cover him." Zheng's carbine came up, the barrel pointing almost down Mance's ear.

The other Free Folk obeyed, but only Val and the other unicorn riders froze solid. They knew. The rest didn't, but they knew. Which means Marcach knew. Michael returned his attention to Mance and Zheng, finding the latter glancing between him and her prisoner. Wondering what his crime was.

"Turn your head to her," Michael said to Mance, "Show her your face." The man didn't do it.

Zheng jabbed him in the cheek with the barrel of her weapon. Mance finally looked, and the Corporal's dark eyes grew to the size of saucers. "Son of a bitch!"

"My thoughts exactly, Corporal," Michael said, "The real question is why he's revealing himself now."

"As I said," Mance intoned, "I thought you discovered the truth at the battle with the Norreys."

"Well, I didn't. Don't make me ask twice, Mance, you won't like my reaction."

Mance scoffed, but answered nonetheless. "I'll pretend I believe you'd bring the Starks' wrath down on yourself for violating guest right, then. The young lord hasn't accepted our offer, accepted Val as his bride. Who would have thought such a thing possible? I came to offer my assistance, talk to the lords as simply another chieftain. I have a talent for convincing men to act in their best interest instead of on their instinct."

Michael lowered himself to a squat and looked the man in the eye. Mance turned his head away, preferring to stare at Zheng's carbine an inch from his nose.

"Time to work that talent now," Michael said, "My instinct is telling me this is all a ruse. That while you are here, pretending to help, things are going to hell at the Wall. Without me there to threaten them and you there to convince them, the chieftains may decide our deal on who gets to go through the Wall isn't worth shit. And that will force me to fight on your side of the war that results, because as far as I could tell, you tried your best."

Mance met his gaze again. "My Queen is more than capable of keeping my word. Tormund and Styr know I went south too, and are assisting her. Between the three of them, there is no collection of chieftains that could possibly make a challenge, not when they control the gates at Castle Black and the Nightfort. And Eastwatch is in the hands of coast and river tribes who are not fond of the rest of us. They'll let no one but their own through. Then there are the Crows, who don't want our menfolk to come through either. Our agreement stands."

"Does it?" Michael asked, standing up again. He pointed at Val, and then at the ground beside him. The 'princess' came over, hand on her dagger. "Take your hand off that weapon."

Val curled her lip, but held up the hand in question. "What are you doing with Mance?"

Not even an apology for the deception. "I'm not sure yet," Michael said, "But a thought did occur to me. You decided to trade the services of your raiders to the Starks for recognition. I could trade you for free passage south, and leave behind your plans to rape and murder."

"You would not do that," Val said, "I have seen you with the Laughing Tree. I have seen you with Ygritte. You would not betray and abandon them."

"I also can't be involved with rape and murder."

Val sighed deeply, eyes narrowed. "What do you think the Stark men will do?"

Michael scratched his chin. "What do you mean? Do to you?"

"Not only to me. Do you think the Stark warriors will leave women alone, not steal what they can, or kill who they want? Do men not do these things on your world?"

"They're punished for those crimes."

"Sometimes," Zheng said flatly, "Only sometimes, sir."

Michael gave a nod, conceding that was true. "Far more often than here, I suspect." Zheng couldn't deny that herself. "Would the Starks do that? Aren't they going to defend their allies?"

"It won't matter, overmuch," Mance said, "And if the Starks drive their enemies from their allies' lands, they'll move into the enemies' lands afterwards. Then the chances of mercy and restraint prevailing are…"

"Zero," Michael interrupted, seeing the issue, "Damn it, you have a point. Lower your weapon, Corporal. Help the man onto his feet again."

Zheng grimaced, but offered Mance a hand. The rest of the room began to go about their own business again. The king got up, giving Michael the stink eye the whole time.

"Don't give me that look," Michael growled, "You put yourself on that floor when you lied to me, because I required the truth."

Mance bent down and rubbed the leg Zheng had kicked. "I would have given that to you."

Michael crossed his arms. "You didn't trust me enough to tell me you were coming along. You got Val, Marcach and presumably all of the unicorn riders to lie to me. Why should I trust you in return?"

"Wallbreaker!" sounded a voice from across the sept.