Author's Note: Though this fanfic primarily draws on book cannon, some elements are taken from the show. The description of Tormund Giantsbane is one such instance. As a character, he is based on the books, visually however, I am describing him as he appeared in Game of Thrones. I've also elected to keep him more in line with the Show's age, assuming he was late 30s, early 40s.

Smalljon

Fuck it was cold up here. He felt the wind whip into the tunnel through the Wall the moment the gate was opened on the north side. So cold it made his balls ache. How did those mad fuckers manage to live up here? The wildlings must be fucking mad to want to live beyond the Wall. Of course, if what Jon said was true, they now desperately wanted to live south of it. Probably the first smart thing any wildling had ever done.

He still couldn't believe he was doing this. Going beyond the Wall to talk to wildlings. Ever since he was a boy, he'd believed that the only good wildling was a dead wildling. Hells, he still believed that. His King may be willing to give the fuckers the benefit of the doubt, but he wasn't so ready to let bygones be bygones. These gods damned wildlings better have one fucking good story to tell if they wanted him to willingly let them through the Wall and settle in the very lands they had raided, reaved and raped for generations.

The King was riding at the head of the small party. He was still mainly dressed in black. The only thing he wore that wasn't black was his cloak. As the King put it, "It was the only thing he had left that still fit from before he joined the Watch."

When Jon exited the King's Tower that morning, his hair had been freshly trimmed and his beard wasn't as unkempt as it had been the night before. He supposed that the King had wanted to look as Kingly as possible for his mission this morning. Not that he understood why he'd even bothered. They were going to talk to fucking wildlings. It's not like they gave a shit about things like that. Every wildling he'd ever come across had only cared about three things: keeping their weapons sharp, their bellies full and their bodies warm.

Fucking hells. There was a group of Wildlings up ahead. Including two giants. Instinctively, his hand dropped to the pommel of his great sword. Just in case. Glancing to his right out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dacey doing the same thing and tightly gripping that axe she was so fond of. Ahead of his and in front of the giants was a man on a garon with a beard of flaming red that would have impressed even his own father, a man known for his great shaggy beard.

As they approached the group the man leading the wildling called out in an exceptionally strong voice, "So, the crow returns, eh?! I knew you couldn't stay away for long Jon Snow. Tired of kneeling already?"

"Something like that Tormund," replied Jon.

"I see you're not all in black. The crows throw you out and you've come to beg to join us again?"

"Not exactly. It's a long story, and one best heard sitting down."

"You've got a weight on you lad. I can read it in your eyes. Well, Mance wants a word. Not sure he wants one with you though. Wants to run a sword through you maybe."

"Once he hears what I've got to say, he'll be glad I'm the one he's talking to."

"You say so. What about that lot with you?"

"They're with me. They're here on behalf of three of the Great Houses of the North."

Saying that, Jon pointed to each of them and continued, "Marlon Manderly, Smalljon Umber and Dacey Mormont."

When Tormund heard the names, his face got serious. "You're a fucking Mormont?!" he asked Dacey. "Like the last Lord Commander?"

"My uncle," she replied.

"You're uncle slaughtered us like pigs!"

"And what have your people done on Bear Island? Come ashore to share gardening tips?"

Tormund through his head back and laughed heartily. "Thought you southorns didn't have spearwives Snow! What I wouldn't give for a woman with a fire in her belly like that!"

Glancing at Dacey, Jon laconically replied, "Better be glad you're too old for her then Tormund. She'd probably cut your balls off with that axe of hers and make you eat them for breakfast."

That set the wildling raider into another bout of laughter. Once he finally got his laughter under control, he said, "You fought us hard here. Harder than that fool Styr thought you would. He die?"

Nodding his head, Jon replied "Inside the Castle. Killed him myself. Never did like him."

"Me either. Fool thought he could just waltz right through you crows and throw open the gates and let us all through and all we'd have to do is sing while we marched."

Just then, Jon's horse half hoped over a fallen log and Jon winced and grabbed his leg when the horse landed. Tormund, and everyone in the party from both sides, noticed it immediately.

"What happened to your leg?"

"An arrow. I think it was from Ygritte."

Chuckling, Tormund said, "Women. One minute they're loving you, the next they're trying to fill you with arrows. What happened to her?"

"She's dead. I burned her body myself."

"Shame. She was a woman. If I was younger... Well, no use crying over her now."

Pulling a wine skin from his saddlebags, Tormund proclaimed, "To Ygritte, kissed by fire!" And then he proceeded to drink deeply before handing the skin to the King who repeated the phrase and if possible, drank even deeper.

"Was it you who killed her?"

"No. I don't know who did. I found her with a knife buried in her chest and her bow in her hand."

"Well, a better death than some."

"Aye."

After that, the two men lapsed into an almost companionable silence. Who was this man that they had proclaimed King? Jon and the wildling seemed to be almost friendly with each other. This was all very odd to him. Hells, the fact that he was riding north of the Wall was strange all by itself. That he was riding to offer peace to fucking wildlings was damn near mind blowing.

As they crested what passed for a ridge, the Wildling camp appeared before them. The sight caused Smalljon to suck in his breath for the merest fraction of a moment before his mind caught up with his eyes. The Wildling camp was large. Far larger than he had ever expected it to be. If anyone had told him that there were this many wildlings beyond the wall, he would have laughed them out of the room.

But as he looked over the camp, he began to notice that not everything was as it seemed. For as large as the camp was, there was no organization to it, no plan, no defenses. Tents and lean-tos seemed to be set up wherever their owners decided to stop walking with little regard for keeping paths open between tents or for how they could defend the camp. There were piss pits dug haphazardly next to almost every tent instead of a single latrine dug outside the camp. Horses, goats, sheep and pigs wandered throughout the camp. Gods, if he had a thousand heavy horse he could sweep through the wildlings like a heated blade through warm butter. Whoever this "King-Beyond-The-Wall" was, he better thank the gods above that they were only coming to talk, not to attack.

As they entered the camp, most people ignored them and went about their day. But enough gave them hostile looks that Smalljon's anxiety levels were steadily climbing. On any given day, he wouldn't have cared. One Northern warrior, properly armed and armored, could kill a dozen or more wildlings without any real trouble. But here, there were just so many of them that they'd get swamped by sheer numbers.

Some of the people were also openly glaring at the banners that were flying above them. His and Dacey's in particular. There was certainly no love lost between the wildlings and the Umbers or Mormonts. They hated us, and we hated them, Smalljon thought to himself. At least the wildlings had good reason to recognize their banners. As the two Houses most exposed to their raids we did tend to react strongly to them. The numbers of wildlings that had been killed and their bodies hung over the Wall as a warning to the rest had to number in the thousands over the centuries. That's what was making this so damn difficult. All he ever knew was fighting the wildlings. Now he was being told to make peace with them. If Jon hadn't been Robb's brother, he wasn't sure he could go through with this.

As they neared a large white tent atop a small rise in the ground, he noticed a man in a black and red cloak with grayish brown hair standing outside it, seemingly waiting for them. He was surrounded by a group of wildlings that were as diverse as they terrifying. One was a short, broad man wearing bones for armor and what looked like a giant's skull as helm. There was also a woman who had a pole in her left hand with a dog's head mounted atop it. These were the people that Jon wanted to let through the Wall? What in the seven hells was the man thinking? There was no way that this would end well for anyone.

As they approached the tent, arguments were shouted back and forth between everyone. It looked like Jon and the wildling that had escorted them (Tormund? Was that his name? Fuck if he knew.) were mostly arguing together against the other three. Two of those three had practically drawn steel on the King already while the man in the red and black cloak seemed like he was trying to make up his mind.

Eventually, the man in the cloak shouted, "Enough! We wanted to talk, they're here to talk. Jon Snow came in good faith. We'll hear what he has to say then decide whether he leaves the camp alive or not."

That seemed to at least shut everyone up for the moment. Which, judging by the way the rest of the camp sounded, was an accomplishment in and of itself. When they entered the tent, Smalljon's breath was taken away by the sight of the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, wildling or not. She was dressed in pure white with long honey colored hair, a slender body, full bosom and blue, almost grey eyes. She was enough to make the blood of any man race through his veins. He didn't realize that he'd been staring until Dacey, who was right behind him, practically punched him in the back to get him to move forward into the tent. For fuck's sake, what was wrong with him? He'd seen beautiful women before. Shaking his head gruffly, he moved into the tent and sat on the stool next to Jon while Dacey sat on the other side of Jon with Marlon next to her.

Smalljon sat and watched as the King in the North and the King-beyond-the-Wall sized each other up. This was likely the first time since the Age of Heroes that both Kings had been in the same room and hadn't tried to kill each other. At least they hadn't tried yet. As the two Kings talked, Smalljon tuned out most of it. It had more to do with Jon's time in the Watch than anything else. His attention was fixed on the girl in the tent. He'd heard her called Val. While he looked at her, he started to wonder if she would be as impressive out of her clothes as she was in them. It was only when the two Kings in the tent turned to the real reason they were talking that Smalljon finally pulled his attention away from the beauty before him. Ah well, duty calls.

Mance

He almost found himself liking Jon Snow, despite him being a turncloak bastard who had betrayed him. Which presented a bit of a problem for him. The boy had only been doing what he had been ordered to do when he joined up with his camp and then later betrayed them to the Watch. But he'd lied to him and by extension, the Free Folk as a whole. And to the Free Folk, that was a worse crime than just about anything else. North of the Wall, a man's word had to stand for something. Any man who failed to live up to what he'd promised wasn't worth the food to keep him alive. So those men, and women, were killed out of hand. For him to keep the respect of the Free Folk, he really had to kill the boy. But gods damn him to all the seven hells, he liked the lad.

Jon hadn't tried to dodge what he did once since Tormund brought him to the camp. Instead, he'd simply said that he'd been ordered to do it, so he'd done it. Of course, the boy hadn't been that great a liar. He'd seen through most his charade almost immediately when he'd first joined them. But Mance felt sure that buried deep within Jon, some part of him actually wanted to join with him, and that not everything he'd said was a lie. Not that it would matter to those around him. He'd given the lad a chance to prove himself, and he'd failed. And now that he'd returned the clan chieftains, Rattleshirt and Harma Dogshead in particular, were being vocal about wanting to gut the lad. Only Tormund seemed willing to give him another chance.

He was still unsure why Jon had come back beyond the Wall to begin with though. While it was true he wanted to parley with the Watch, Tormund hadn't even had a chance to deliver his message to the Watch yet. Jon's party had found Tormund's before he'd even reached the Wall. That made it curious to him. And things that were curious were things that were worth exploring. So he made a show of being angry, one that wasn't entirely faked, then sat and argued and talked with Jon about what he'd done while he'd been in his camp and on his climb over the Wall.

That was when Val had interrupted and asked about Jarl. Jon at least had the good sense to look saddened when he told his goodsister that Jarl had fallen from the Wall when the patch of ice they were on had given way. Jon had sadly told her that if the men could be spared, they'd likely find his body below the Wall outside Greyguard. Val had thanked him, then turned back to caring for her sister. Then there was that giant of an Umber with Jon. Mance would have to have been blind not to notice the looks that the Umber fellow was giving Val. Or how he perked up when she spoke and how he paid attention to the reply. Something to watch there. It could be trouble down the road or it could be something to use to his advantage. Only time would tell there.

After that, they moved onto the real reason why Jon was here. To parley. Unlike most in his camp, Mance understood what the banners flying above the small party meant. As a Man of the Night's Watch, Jon was not entitled to fly the banner of any House or wear any sigil. Yet he had approached them under a Stark banner. And the lad was not dressed all in black. He had a pretty good idea what that meant, but he wanted to hear Jon say it aloud. Just as he thought that, Jon started to speak again.

"Mance, you were raised south of the Wall," he began. At hearing that, Tormund, Harma and Rattleshirt all bristled slightly. The fact that someone raised in the south and that had been a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch had become King-beyond-the-Wall still rankled them a bit. It was something Mance knew they would always hold against him. Not that it mattered. They had all agreed to follow him because he was the only one who had a plan to get them south.

Continuing on, Jon said, "You know what our banners mean. The fact that I rode to your camp under the banner of House Stark won't be lost on you." It was at this point that Jon took a deep breath and looked down at his lap before looking back up with a hard glint in his eyes and saying, "By decree of my brother, Robb Stark, the King in the North, I've been legitimized and named as a Stark. He did this so that I could be his heir."

It was here that Jon's voice broke for a moment before he could continue. And when he did, the voice that came from the boy was far different. It was no longer the voice of a lad who had only seen one winter. It was the voice of a very hard and dangerous man. Something that everyone in the tent immediately picked up on.

In a voice harder than Valyrian Steel, Jon said, "But my brother was murdered. He was betrayed by some of his own bannermen and killed while at a wedding. And now the Throne of Winter is mine. I'm here to make peace between our peoples so I can deal with the traitorous scum that killed Robb. And I know what's coming for us. I've seen them, just as you have. The North can't fight the Free Folk, the Southorns, and the dead. So for the sake of my people, I'm willing to make peace."

Mance actually rocked back on his seat at hearing that. He had figured that Jon had been named a Stark, but hearing that he was actually King in the North was a shock. And it was an even bigger shock hearing that he was willing to make peace with the Free Folk. Part of him wanted to dance with joy then break down sobbing in relief. But another part of him whispered that caution would be needed. He had to negotiate terms that would be suitable for all the tribes and clans following him. And they were a diverse lot. Well, perhaps that was getting too much into the details right now. What he needed to know was what Jon was offering. Because some things, he could not accept.

Leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees, he asked Jon, "What are you offering?"

"Your people will be allowed south of the Wall. I'll allow them to settle on and farm the Gift. In return, your people will agree not to raid, rape or reave any of the lands south of the Wall. The Northern Houses will agree not to attack your people in exchange. The Free Folk will be required to garrison the castles along the Wall and to fight the dead when they come. Many of those castles are in very poor condition. They'll need to be repaired or rebuilt to be suitable to live in.

"Every chieftain in your camp will surrender one son, or daughter if they don't have any sons, to be held as a hostage to ensure their clan's good behavior. Additionally, you and your people will surrender half your gold and silver to the Night's Watch.

"If called upon, your people will assist mine in fighting and killing the Northern Traitors and any Southorn armies that try and come North. These are my terms. You can either accept them and come safely south of the Wall, or you can reject them and stay here to become fodder for the Night King and his Army."

Mance dropped his head and slowly shook it before replying. When he did he said, "Lad, you know I can't accept that. The Free Folk would tear out my guts and make me eat them if I did that. You're demanding too much and offering too little."

Turning to Tormund Mance said, "Go get the horn. We'll wait here."

Nodding in reply, Tormund got up and left to go to his tent. While he was gone, a deadly quiet ruled the air inside the tent. No one said a word, instead the tense silence hung heavily over them. The only noise that could be heard was the crackling of the fire near the center of the tent.

When Tormund reentered the tent, he carried an object wrapped in furs in his hands. Handing it Mance, he took his seat to Mance's right again and shot an intense look at Jon, silently imploring the King in the North to listen to what Mance had to say. The look was not lost on Mance. Gods, Tormund really did like the poor bugger.

Weighing the fur wrapped horn in his hands, Mance looked down at it gravely before slowly and almost reverently unwrapping it. Holding the unwrapped black horn up, the torches in the tent began to reflect off the gold bands that were wrapped around it. Looking Jon in the eye, Mance said:

"Do you know what this is lad? This is the Horn of Joramun. Also called the Horn of Winter. With one blast, this horn could level the Wall and then what's to stop me from bringing my people south? Either you let my people south of the Wall, or I tell Tormund here to blow his heart out."

On hearing that, Jon looked at Mance with a sly look in his eyes and said, "No, you won't. You need the Wall between your people and the Others. If you blow that Horn, what's going to stop them from marching right on south and slaughtering you as they go? So you won't blow that Horn Mance. Not now, not ever."

"Aye, they'll still come. But I'll buy my people months to live. Years even, maybe. Why shouldn't I blow it if it buys my people years to live?"

"Because you don't want the chance of your people living for years. You want to know that your people will survive for generations. And the only way that happens, is if the Wall still stands. Now, if that's all you have to offer, a threat to blow down the Wall with a magic horn, which may or may not work, then I'll lead my men back behind the Wall and we'll prepare as best we can to face the Long Night without you.

"Call my naive if you want to Mance, but I don't believe that you actually want Tormund to put those lungs of his to the test and blow that Horn. What if it doesn't do what you think it does? Then your bluff is just that. A bluff with nothing to back it up. And what if it does do what you think it will? Then there's nothing between your people and the Others.

"So, now that I'm calling your bluff, what are you really after? Because we both know that you don't want to fight your way south of the Wall. It would cost you and me too many men and women. Warriors that will be needed to fight the Long Night. So what's it going to be? Make a deal that gets your people south, or wait here on the wrong side of the Wall for the Others to come and slaughter you all?"

"No, Jon. That's the wrong question. What are you offering to keep me from blowing this horn? Or from sending my people to fight our way through?"

"Phrase it anyway you want. But if you and your people want to get south of the Wall, we'll have to make a deal."

"Alright. You let us south, I'll turn the Horn over to you, no more threat of knocking the Wall down. And I'll ask the Free Folk not to raid."

"Mance, you know that's not enough. You turn over the Horn, and the Night's Watch and the various Houses of the North will send builders, carpenters, stone masons and blacksmiths to the various Castles to help your people rebuild them so that they're in a fit state to live in during the winter and to fight from during the Long Night.

"Have each Chieftan surrender a son or daughter as a hostage, and my bannermen will treat them as they would any other Highborn hostage. No chains, no dungeons, no being locked in a cell. They'll be taught to read and write and how to fight. After the Long Night, they'll be returned to their families, unharmed. But if any of their Clan's breaks their vow not to raid, reave or rape the North, they'll be executed.

"Surrender half your gold and silver to the Nights Watch, and they'll use the money to purchase arms and armor, lumber and stone, food and drink. Those items will be used to arm and armor your people to fight the Long Night, to repair and rebuild the castles along the Wall, and to fill the larders of those castles so that we can all eat while we hold off the army of the dead.

"And if called, your people will answer the call to fight any Southorn armies that march North to attack us."

Shaking his head again Mance said, "No lad. That won't work at all. I'll agree to turn over the Horn of Joramun to you in return for aid in rebuild and repairing the castles on the Wall. But in no uncertain terms will I let you use my people as soldiers to fight your wars in the South."

"Fine. I won't ask you to fight my wars so long as your people agree to return north of the Wall after the Long Night. If any clan wishes to remain south of the Wall however, they'll have to swear an Oath of Fealty to me and abide by the laws of the North. The clan Chieftan will be made a Lord, given a keep and his people allowed to settle the lands around that Holdfast. But that clan will be required to fight for me should I ever call my banners and they will have to obey all the Laws of the North."

That last comment made some heads jerk upright. Particularly those of that Umber fellow and the Mormont girl. So. That was apparently something that the King in the North hadn't discussed with his Lords. Huh. That was interesting to learn as well. This King in the North had some balls on him to make decisions like that. And it was a pretty big concession.

"Alright," replied Mance. "That will be up to each individual and clan. If they want to stay in the south and become a kneeler, they can. I won't stop them. But unless and until they decide that, the Free Folk won't bow to your laws lad. We'll agree not to raid the Northern Lords. But that's the extent of it."

"I'll take that. I know that's about the best I can hope for on that count. What about the rest?"

"We'll talk. Those are decisions that need to be made by the all the Chieftains together, not by me alone. It's going to be a long day and night Jon Stark."

Turning to Val Mance said, "Goodsister, will you please bring some ale along with some of that bread and salt. We've got a long discussion ahead of us."

Olyvar

Where is it? Where is it? It had to be here! Olyvar was frantically ransacking Ryman's rooms in The Twins looking for King Robb's crown. He knew it had to be here. He had heard Ryman boasting of how he had his whores wear it while he fucked them. He liked to call the whore he was with "The Queen of Whores." He didn't have long to find it before Ryman returned.

Where in the seven hells was it? He had torn apart the chests and dressers in here and still couldn't find it. It may only have been made of beaten bronze and iron, but it had still been worn by a King. And that made it valuable. Surely Ryman would take care not to misplace it? So where the fuck was it? He was about to tear his hair out looking for it.

As he bent over to rummage through the discarded pile of clothes on the floor, out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of light as the sun coming in through the window reflected off of something. Dropping to his knees and peering under the bed, he let out a gasp and with trembling hands, slowly reached out and picked up King Robb's crown. He'd found it. Finally. As he reverently held the crown in his hands, he felt a tear fall from his eyes.

Fuck his Gods damned family. He had been treated like shit ever since Robb's wedding to Jeyne Westerling, all because he wanted to remain by his King's side as his squire. And ever since he'd learned about what his family was planning for Lord Tully's wedding, he'd been kept separate and under guard because they thought he would warn them. They were right. He would have betrayed his family if it meant doing what was right and honorable. It was only desperation on his part and sloppiness on the part of the guard that saw him break free.

Looking down at his chest, he saw the Twin Towers of his house on his doublet and was sickened by them. He had worn his family's sigil with pride and honor. But after what his gods damned father had done, he would never wear these colors again. His House used to be respected. Now, anyone seeing him was as like to spit on him as greet him courteously. And that went for highborn and small folk alike.

He had heard some of the men around the castle talking about how Robb had named his bastard half brother his heir. Robb had often talked of his brother, about how close they had been and how his brother had chosen to join the Night's Watch. If the Gods be good, he'd get to meet that brother soon. He was determined to take Robb's crown to his brother. He would head first to Winterfell, then to Castle Black to find him.

Well, it was time for him leave. He had what he came for. Now he just needed to get out of the Twins and head north. The last he had heard, the Ironborne still held Moat Cailin, so he would need to find a way past it. He had heard that there were paths and trails through the swamp to the east of the ancient fortress. Perhaps a single man could slip through where an army would drown? Only one way to find out.

As Olyvar slipped out of Ryman's room and made his way to the stables, he stopped and thought for a moment. He needed coin and food. He had a small purse on him with a few Dragons and Stags in it. He knew where more was, but by the time he got there and back, the alarm would likely have been raised. He'd just have to stretch what he had then. Food was just slightly more vital though. Alright, a short detour to the kitchens to grab what he could through in a sack, then he would be on his way.

Bluffing about his business to the kitchen staff, Olyvar was able to quickly fill a sack with a haunch of mutton, two pies, some venison and a small sack of apples. Throwing the now full sack over his shoulder, he hurried to the stables to make good his escape. The Gods must have been with him as he made it there without trouble. While he saddled his horse, he glanced down the stable and there, at the end of the stables, was Robb's horse. For a brief moment, he considered taking Robb's destrier, but soon decided against it. His own courser would be a better choice for the journey he had to make.

As the sun began to set in the west, Olyvar pulled on a heavy traveling cloak with a large cowl to hide his face, mounted his courser, and rode out of The Twins forever. Once again the Gods were with him as no one challenged him or saw him leave. Taking one last look at what had been his home, he was revolted by what it now represented. The bile rose in his throat as his gaze dropped to the northern battlements. For there, suspended in a cage for all the world to see and for the crows to feast on, was what remained of King Robb's body with Grey Wind's head still obscenely attached to it. "A traitor's fate," his father called it. What would his father say, he wondered, when he realized that to the North, he was the traitor? What fate would he expect then?

With his eyes once again facing the North, Olyvar spurred his horse on and left the Twins behind. When he reached the King in the North, he would ask the King's permission to abandon his family name and to found a new House in the North. Mayhaps he could find a nice Northern girl to wed and establish himself there. Smalljon Umber had talked often of his sisters, and he and the Smalljon had been friendly in a way.

While Olyvar dreamed of the House he would found, the woman he would marry and the sons he would raise, the miles fell away behind him. Staying off the roads, he slipped through the brush and forests just out of sight. Twice he saw parties of men sent out by his father, likely out searching for him. His father may be a coward, but he was no fool. His taking of Robb's Crown would have telegraphed his intentions to everyone in The Twins. Ravens had probably already flown to Moat Cailin, the Dreadfort and every castle between here and the Neck. He had considered trying for Raventree Hall, but given what his bloody father had done, the Blackwoods would have little reason to trust him. In the end, he decided it would be safest for him to stay out of sight and raise as little suspicion as possible.

Six days after leaving The Twins, he found tracks. Tracks that were traveling in the same direction. Whoever it was, they had tried to conceal their numbers by walking in single file, but here and there a footprint didn't line up just right or the gait seemed to falter a bit. Looking about carefully, he casually dropped a hand to the sword attached to his saddle and loosened the blade in the scabbard. Should he need his sword, he would need it in one damn big hurry with no time to mess about.

Riding forward cautiously, he saw his horse's ears suddenly prick and before he could quiet his mount, it let out a soft whinny. Fuck, he thought. If they're bandits I'm fucked and if they're from my father I'm dead. As he reached down to scratch his horse's neck and try to quiet him, an arrow flew by his face and with a solid thwack embedded itself in a tree right next to him.

"The next one flies true lad. That was just a warning," a voice said from somewhere off to his left.

Raising his hands slowly away from his weapons, he slowly turned towards the voice that had called out. Replying to it, he said, "I don't want any trouble. I'm just passing through."

"People who don't want trouble use the road. People who are avoiding trouble ride up here. If you were just passing through as you claim, you'd be down on the road minding your own business, not looking all about to see how many men are around you. And the answer is eighty lad. So don't even think of trying something stupid, you'll be cut down before you could make it five paces."

Cursing under his breath at being caught checking for others, Olyvar nodded and said, "Alright, have it your way. I am avoiding trouble. You say you have eighty men around me. Yet not one shows himself. I think you're bluffing. A force of eighty wouldn't hide from one man."

Chuckling, the voice told him, "From one man, no we wouldn't hide. From a scout, we surely would. You're wearing fine clothes, relatively well groomed for a man who's been traveling, mounted on a well bred horse and carrying castle forged steel. You're either High Born or a scout. And I'll lay my money on high born."

That voice! I know that voice! Olyvar thought to himself. But from where? Suddenly it dawned him. "Lord Glover! I knew I recognized your voice. You have nothing to fear from me My Lord. We fight for the same cause, you and I. I fought beside King Robb at the Whispering Wood and at the Crag."

Slowly pulling the cowl back from his head where it had been keeping him mostly dry in the light drizzle, he showed himself to the Lord of Deepwood Motte. Hearing a grunt of recognition, Galbart Glover stepped out from he was concealed and strode up to Olyvar. But there was no warmth in his eyes and his hand never left the hilt of his sword. While all around him, bowmen silently appeared, all with arrows knocked and drawn.

With iron in his voice, Lord Glover said, "Get down off that horse you Frey bastard. One small move that we don't like and you'll end up so full of arrows you'll be mistaken for a hedgehog."

His fucking family. Olyvar had been loyal to King Robb, yet his family was likely to get him killed because of their actions. Easing down to the ground, he told Lord Glover, "Lord Glover, look in my left saddle bag. You'll see the reason I'm heading North. I had no part in what happened to the King. I tried to warn him. My fucking family kept me under guard in my rooms so I couldn't warn His Grace."

"I don't fucking care. You're a Frey. The Frey's betrayed us. The Freys murdered us. We all heard about what happened. Some of these men were there and only got away by chance. So you can save your lies. I'll save the King the trouble and behead you mysel..."

Galbart's voice trailed off as he saw what was in Olyvar's saddlebags. Reaching in, he pulled out King Robb's crown. His brother's crown now.

"I was riding North to bring that to Robb's brother. He's the King now and that crown is rightfully his. I had nothing to do with the Red Wedding. I despise my family for what they've done, and I won't be associated with it."

Without ever taking his eyes off the crown that he held in his hands, Galbart replied, "That makes no difference lad. You're still a Frey, and no Frey will ever be trusted by another Northman. We're all trying to get home. You'll come with us under guard as a prisoner and I'll let King Jon deal with you."

Turning to his men he told them, "Strip his arms and armor, check for any hidden blades too. Then tie him up so he can't run off and bring him into the camp. We leave for home tomorrow."

It had taken nearly a month, but they had finally reached Winterfell. A month of dodging roving patrols of men from the Riverlands, the Westerlands and the Reach. A month spent crawling through the mud and ooze of the Neck. A month of hard night rides over the Barrows to avoid any prying eyes.

And in all that time, never did any of the Northmen change their attitude to him in the slightest. To them, he was nothing more than a vermin to be exterminated. His family named condemned him to death, regardless of any past actions. It was unfair. He had never once betrayed Robb. Hells, he had betrayed his own family in trying to bring Robb's crown north. But none of that mattered to those cold hard bastards from the North. He was Frey, and thus was damned.

Riding through the gates of the massive fortress, Olyvar marveled at eighty foot tall outer walls and the even taller hundred foot tall inner wall. How anyone could ever take this castle was beyond him. All his life, he had thought that The Twins were impressive. But here, the Inner Castle alone was larger than both towers of his ancestral home. From the walls above him and draped from several of the largest buildings were the grey and white banners of House Stark. The King in the North had returned.

As Lord Glover's party, now numbering over two hundred, had entered the courtyard, they were met by the new King in the North. Upon seeing him, all in the party dropped to one knee in recognition of their King. While he was kept separate and guarded, Lord Glover received bread and salt from King Jon and the two men swiftly made their way inside the castle. Meanwhile, he was left to stew in the yard. At least they hadn't executed him yet or thrown him straight into the dungeons.

After what seemed an interminable wait, he was marched into the Great Hall of Winterfell. Seated at the far end on the Throne of Winter was King Jon Stark. Flanking him were Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont, Galbart Glover and several other Lords and Ladies. None looked pleased. On the table in front of the King was the crown that he had risked his life to bring North.

As he was led up to the throne, he dropped to one knee before his King and didn't even raise his eyes until he heard the voice of the King.

"Look at me," Jon said.

Raising his eyes, he saw the cold grey eyes of Jon Stark boring into him. And perhaps shockingly, the red eyes of a huge white direwolf as well. Where in the seven hells did that come from, he wondered. It wasn't there when he was led in here.

"Why?" asked the King.

"You're Grace?"

Jon replied, his voice rising with every question, "Why? Why risk your life coming all this way to bring my brother's crown to me? Why, when you and your family murdered our families in cold blood after offering them guest right? Why?!"

"Because I had no part in that, Your Grace. I tried to warn King Robb. But I was kept locked up and cut off from anyone who could get a message to the King. The only people I saw until after the wedding were Black Walder and Lothar. No one else was trusted to see me. I hate my bloody father for what he's done. I came because that crown is yours now, Your Grace. I came, because it was the right thing to do."

Continuing in a whisper, Olyvar said, "I came because I owed it to Robb."

Several of the people flanking the King muttered at that. He heard Smalljon say that he had shown bravery at the Whispering Wood and had fought side by side with Robb several times. Even Dacey grudgingly agreed with that. But judging by the hard looks being sent his way, all that mattered to them was that he was a Frey.

After was likely about a half hour or so of discussion, some sort of agreement was reached and he was finally asked some questions.

"What happened to my brother's bones?" asked Jon.

"He was beheaded Your Grace and his head was sent to King's Landing. His body was mutilated by Black Walder and then hung in a cage from the northern battlements."

"Grey Wind?"

"Killed, Your Grace."

"Lord Umber?"

"He was killed while defending the King, Your Grace. I heard the servants talking about how he killed a dozen men before finally falling."

There was a grunt at that from Smalljon. "Be like him to go like that. You know, he always knew he would fall in battle one day. Gods rest him."

"Aye," Jon replied. "Father often talked about him, how he'd never seen a man drink so much ale and still be alert. My condolences, Lord Umber."

After the Smalljon nodded his thanks, King Jon continued, "Who else fell?"

"Wendel Manderly, Your Grace. He fell fighting. Lady Stark. Lothar slit her throat."

"What happened to Lady Stark's body?"

"At first, nothing. They were too busy celebrating. Then search parties were sent out looking for Lord Umber and Lady Dacey. After that, most of the bodies were gathered up and thrown in a mass grave. I heard that they kept the bodies of Lord Umber, Lord Wendel and the other highborn separate to return their bones to their respective Houses in an attempt to keep them from rebelling."

That drew a snort from both Dacey and Smalljon. Dacey said, "Not fucking likely. The Boltons and Freys are traitorous scum. We'll never submit as long as they're still alive."

"Continue Olyvar," the King said.

"I heard my brothers laughing at what they had done to Lady Stark's body. They said they stripped her naked and threw her into the Trident."

At that, a wave of anger rippled through the Great Hall. Lady Stark may not have been born in the North, but she was much loved by these Northmen. And the way her bones had been treated only served to add to their anger.

Holding a hand up for silence, the King asked, "Anyone else? Anyone captured?"

"Lord Tully was captured. Along with Patrek Mallister and Donnel Locke. Lord Tully is being held at The Twins. Patrek Mallister is being held at Seagard. I don't where Donnel Locke is. Owen Norrey, Robin Flint, Lucas Blackwood, Ser Marc Piper and so many more were killed, Your Grace."

"Thank you Olyvar," the King said. Reaching down, he picked up the crown off the table, looked at it for a long moment, then slowly raised it and placed it on his head.

"As King in the North, I find no reason to believe your words. Your House has proven through their actions time and time again that it cannot be trusted. However, Lord Umber spoke of your bravery in fighting by my brother's side. That fact alone warrants some small consideration for you.

"Olyvar Frey, I Jon, of the House Stark, Third of my Name, King in the the North and of the Trident, sentence you to die. However, in recognition of your prior service to my House, I will grant you to chance to redeem your name. Should you wish, I will allow to join the Night's Watch, where you will spend the rest of your days on The Wall, guarding the realms of men from the threat that lies beyond. Your decision?"

Olyvar blanched. The blood drained from his face. This was so unfair! He had risked everything to travel to the North and pledge his fealty to the King. And this was how he was being thanked? By being given the choice of losing his head or his freedom? What had he done to so anger the Gods this way? Even as he asked himself that, a small voice in his head whispered the answer to him: he had betrayed his family. Even considering that his family was cursed in all the Seven Kingdoms, he had still betrayed them. He was a fool. He had abandoned his family and the only thing he had to offer the King in the North was a circle of hammered bronze and iron. His father was right about him. He was a worthless idiot.

It was only when the King spoke again that Olyvar realized that he had been silent for quite some time. Jon said, "Olyvar Frey, I will take your silence as your decision." Turning to the guardsmen that were in the Great Hall Jon said, "Take him out to the yard."

"Your Grace, wait," Olyvar practically shouted! "I'll join the Watch, Your Grace. I'll join."

Nodding sharply, King Jon Stark turned to one of the men by his side and said, "Ser Marlon?"

"Your Grace?"

"Olyvar Frey once provided honorable service to the North. But, as no one can speak to his actions since then, I am left with no option but to sentence him to death. However, he has asked for the honor of joining the Night's Watch instead of death. Therefore, you will anoint Olyvar as a Knight, then see that he is escorted to Castle Black, where he will live out his days serving the realm with the Night's Watch."