THE OLD BEAR
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.