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."
Noting the difference in names between the absent father and the bastard son, Michael cocked an eyebrow. He looked at the younger man.
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."