The Iron Emperor

by Tau2357

Original history by DhertyDan: Napoleon was slated to be the Master of the World. The Battle of Borodino would have brought him to the city of Moscow and deliver the Russians a killing blow, but a mysterious force intervenes. Napoleon and the French Great Army strives to conquer the Known World, while the Night King and his hordes bide their time to bring forth another Long Winter.

9. Napoleon's Promise

Chapter VII — Napoleon's Promise

"A leader is a dealer in hope."

— Napoleon of House Bonaparte, ? AC

---

Claude

Time passed rather quickly in the Elysian Valley. The settlement of the First Eclaireurs had been established in a well-mannered order, as was the case several days ago. As such, the encampment sported the immediate needs of the forty-four men led by the Colonel. It was all thanks to the scavenging encouraged by Napoleon during the Grand Army's campaigns, of course. He couldn't forget that. None of them could.

Claude met the morning with a slight shiver down his spine, the mild cold air kissing face as a breeze passed by. Some had managed to seep through the flaps. He rubbed his arms with his hands and made a deep sigh. He noticed small clouds of his hot breath. Even with the presence of volcanoes and lush, green forestry, it was still cold. A little better from their experiences racing across the Wasteland.

Claude thought about the Valley. It was ironic to him that volcanic activity, an entity capable of so much death and destruction, made it possible for the valley to exist. Another brilliant yet frightening attribute to nature and its ceaseless wonders. He also came to realize that man, ever since Cain and Abel, has decided for itself that destruction is the only path to glory and prosperity. And now, brothers and sister, fight one another until one triumphs over the other. It was a never ending cycle of death. Man was the true enemy of nature, and just like that, nature can destroy all of them.

The conflicts of man were petty squabbles compared to the divine creations of God himself, the Earth as a speck to the larger universe. Once again, it amazed Claude.

Despite this sudden surge of existential crisis, Claude couldn't forget about the Empire. He couldn't forget about the brave men of the Empire. He was sure that the Grand Army was itself experiencing some form of inner conflict, with the desire for survival and homesickness overlapping that. So, he has told himself every day ever since they have arrived on this world that it was for France.

His reverie, however, came to an abrupt end. Duty has called for him to lead the men of the First Eclaireurs.

Claude, now resolved as ever to continue this miserable life of hunting and being hunted by nightmares and barbarians and animals of cruel savagery, readied himself for this bright new morning.

He donned his uniform, overcoat, and brass helmet, a variation of the Empress Dragoons' uniform that he had yet to depart from, and departed the somewhat warm comforts of his tent. Before he left, he pocketed an apple from the side. Claude's pale face stiffened at the sudden assault of sunlight, matched with a light breeze that made his skin shiver once again, as well as the chirping of trees in the distance. His eyes had hurt, but as soon as it readjusted, he was able to see clearly.

The encampment they had made is coming along well. It was a concentrated mass of a dozen or so tents, surrounded by dirt mounds with trenches, as well as pikes surrounding the vicinity of the camp. The men had resolved to sharing quarters to both save space and maximize security. It was also done to build up more morale and fellowship among the cadre of elite cavalrymen, an achievement they had succeeded in doing during their first one-week expedition, and a second time while on their current mission. Claude was convinced to exceed all of those previous performances and create a true brotherhood.

Overnight, he had been brainstorming about the future of this small regiment of elite horsemen. Would the Emperor disband them after they had completed their uses? To be redistributed as commanders of their own respective divisions and squadrons? Or would the Emperor see the importance of the Scouts in the face of imminent disaster, when the Grand Army marched with an empty stomach and a hunger for victory and glory? The regiment of forty-five had grown on him, like a mother's love for a son. Claude would cherish the days he spent with these young and old, brave men, who had in all circumstances, upheld the core values and virtues of the standing French Grand Army, as well as the meaning behind the French Empire, the Republic, its culture, and people. So, what had Claude decided to do?

Assure that the Scouts survive of course.

Napoleon had taken it upon himself to save forty-five men, elite and skillful cavalrymen, to create a scouting party for the Grand Army. And mind you, the only scouting party to be given the accountability to map the New World in all its glory, wonders, and horrors, and the first group of men to be entrusted with the Emperor's heavily guarded secret ever since that heavy snowstorm. The Eclaireurs were prideful of that, to be provided with so much trust and responsibility by the Emperor himself, an honor none of them truly had ever acknowledged. The disaster of the invasion had left them with nothing to expect, but this brightened their hopes for a better future.

Claude had since decided that the Eclaireurs would endure time itself, engraved permanently in memory and history, never forgotten. The scouts were to be re-established as a Corps, the Éclaireurs de la Garde, that would remain in perpetual loyalty to the Emperor and his descendants and fall under the Imperial Guard. They would become the bravest of warriors, the strongest of fighters, the sharpest of thinkers, and the most noblest of the virtuous. They would become archetypes for the perfect French citizen: from soldier to politician, laborer to businessman, and piety to clergy. All would look up to those valiant men, the protectors of the Empire and the Emperor, the shields of all France and her peoples. They would become the True Heros of the Empire.

But all of that was for another time, Claude conceded, and returned to harsh reality. The Eclaireurs were short on men. That would have to change soon. When the time comes, he would ask the Emperor personally to vitalize the importance of the Scouts within the Imperial Guard. It would only succeed when the Empire is safe and comfortable, perhaps in the Valley, where conditions were better and the leaders of the Republic could entertain such projects. He would get more men for more regiments, and more officers and commanders. The Eclaireurs of the Guard will surpass all expectations and standards, even that of the Imperial Guard, and emerge as the greatest men to have ever lived.

It was already stored in his mind. He would not forget the sacrifices the Eclaireurs had made. Not at all.

Claude shook it off. Now was the time to focus on the task at hand.

He chuckled. The camp had no trumpeter, so no réveille would be called. That meant that he had to wake at least one of the Eclaireurs and convey along the message to awaken the others. Like a domino effect, the men started to rise, stretching here and there, breathing in the fresh air from the forestry. He some stomp on barely burning and charred firewood, perhaps to replace it later and prevent attraction of unwanted visitors, such as the natives themselves. The fires would only alight when it was time for lunch or supper, as well as throughout the night. There wasn't much activity beyond dusk, so the extra warmth kept slumbering comfortable.

Out of the forty five people in the camp, only fifteen were French, with another ten Austrians, ten Italians, and ten Poles. They were, after all, the majority nationalities that comprised of the Grand Army. For their respective nations to be represented here was not only an honor, but also kept the other cultures at bay. It promoted a deeper bond and connection regarding the struggle of man against nature. Claude smiled. This type of brotherhood was indeed a boon for the Empire overall.

Speaking of nights, Claude had set up something of a night's watch, if you will, and not in anyway related to the information shared to him by the Napoleon. There were four initial watchmen at the start of the night—one French, one Pole, one Austrian, and one Italian. In periods of four hours, they would swap with others, letting them rest while the others continue the watch. It was standard procedure for any army, and so, Claude introduced it to the encampment as well. After all, they needed to retain that sense of alert.

This time, though, they were relieved of their duty as the morning revealed itself and men crawled out of their tents. He approached one of the watchmen, a Maréchal des logis-chef by the name of Rémi Cormier, who saluted as soon as he was spotted. The Colonel paid back the salute in kind.

"Debrief me on tonight's watch, Chief Marshal," he asked. It was also necessary that he hear about any strange occurrences around the camp, as well as any traitorous actions by the other nationalities, namely the Austrians.

"As garnered from other reports of previous shifts, no irregularities were spotted, Sire. No signs of dissent from the other watchmen either. I believe our position to be secure unless we somehow lure out the barbarians from their caves," Cormier answered.

"Good. We can't have anyone backstabbing anyone now can we? The Eclaireurs must maintain its station, regardless of strife. Do you understand, Chief Marshal?"

"Yes, Colonel," the man of lower rank reciprocated. The Colonel nodded.

"Put an ease to your observations. Pass it to others. Now that we've observed them for a while, with nothing to show for their supposed machinations, my gut tells me they'll remain loyal to the Emperor's cause. Connect with them. Bond with them. They are our brothers now."

"Any further orders, Sire?" the Chief Marshal inquired.

"You are to go with Sous-lieutenant Lalande to conduct the regular patrol patterns around the camp. Additionally, inform Chief Marshals Boissande and Sartre to report to Oberleutnant Schlager for the hunting and gathering party for their morning duties. The others within our ranks have already given their mission statements. Food and water stocks are running low and we need ourselves to remain alive until the Grand Army comes to pass by."

Cormier nodded and saluted. Claude repeated the salute and the Chief Marshal made his way to the center of the camp.

With a pivot, the Colonel headed for the horses, their necks leashed to the thin stems of wooden poles. The forest's limits opened into a wide field of green grass and flat pasture that extended for tens of miles, until ending on the more central sections of the Valley. The scale was too massive for even Claude to comprehend. The gigantic equestrian creatures stood in their majestic forms, their mighty bodies walking about as far away as their bonds would allow them. Others were simply slumped on the soft grass or enjoyed nibbling on the grass around. Claude swerved his head around, and saw what he came for.

Hiver, with his chestnut coat and smooth mare, was resting on the ground as well, eyes observing the herd with an awareness only found in humans and domesticated social animals. The stallion stood up as Claude approached. Hiver greeted with a huff from his nose and walked closer.

The Colonel released a hearty laugh. He allowed his free hand to ruffle the stallion's mane.

He brought out the apple from before and handed it to the equine. Hiver, surprised and in appreciation, took the apple and devoured it without mercy. This made Claude laugh even harder.

"I'll see you later boy. I've got work to do," he whispered. Hiver seemingly nodded in acknowledgement and returned to his initial position, his body once again resting on the grass. Claude promptly walked back into the camp.

—x—X—x—

Claude, along with others, officers and non-commissioned cavalrymen, were hauling the massive form of a stag, oozing with blood after a trap had pierced it several times on the side. It was a gory demise for such another majestic creature. The men had seen it flailing about, trying to move, clinging to that very small hope for escape. They had to make it quick and give the animal it's rest. Using a dagger, a thin slice to neck sufficed, which was now a large gaping wound across the stem, still dripping some of that red liquid here and there.

Their haul was dropped on a spread-out sheet of canvas, the carcass making a squishing sound as it landed upon the cloth. The men were tired, red stains splattered on their uniforms, hands, faces, as well as little hints and droplets on the forest's dirt flooring.

His Chief Marshals had done well, coordinating properly with the Austrians to acquire a something as large as this. It was strange though—it seemed that the stag was larger than anything he had ever seen, for a stag that is. It was as big as a moose, in fact, that it frightened him. Yes, the game they had caught were large too, but Claude dismissed it as a lack of human presence. Now, larger animals appeared to be a reality. What were bears like? Wolves? Elephants? How about sharks and whales?

Claude didn't know. This was a new world, of course, and it will be explored in the name of God and the Republic.

The stag was the last procurement of the day, another addition to their supply. The bodies were skinned for their pelts and furs, which aided in warming their beds and tents, while the meat was diced for supper. The rest of the flesh were hung up on strings, loosely swaying on a game hanger of their own design, constructed from sticks and wood they had chopped down.

Claude could smell the sizzling of meat as it's fatty oil was cooked to high temperatures, skewered on several spits as the sunlight died down. Their meal was ready and everyone took part in the feast, happily discussing with each other personal matters like they were all the best of friends. Even with a lack of a wine or some proper ale to drink on, the men rejoiced in the blessings given to them. They sang patriotic hymns such as Le Chant du Départ andChanson de l'Oignon. As they reached the last stanza of La Marseilles, just as the last vestiges of the sun's rays peaked through the edge of the horizon, ears twitched and the songs had come to a swift conclusion.

Claude, immediately unsheathing his sabre, desperately looked around. He could sense it. The breathing and growling of other... men. Monsters hiding in the darkness of the void. There weren't alone.

"Sabres out! Now!" the Colonel ordered. The men complied immediately as dozens of blades slid of their respective scabbards, arms raising and falling just as quickly. The men started taking stances, readying themselves for an inevitable fight.

There was silence.

And then there was roaring.

The barbarians had come. God save us, he thought, as his mind went on a frenzy.

The deafening shrieks of savages and uncivilized men came closer and closer until dark silhouettes emerged from the darkness of the forest. Weapons of various shapes and sizes were raised up high as the foreigners screamed, a bloodlust Claude had come to realize. They came from all sides, rushing into the camp with no remorse.

It was only a few moments before the entire scene had devolved into a battlefield. Only through iron will did the Eclaireurs remained strong and stubborn against the wave of vagrants that had come to assault their settlement.

Claude was thrown into the fray, his eyes frantically moving from left to right for any attackers. Everyone was occupied with their own corners of the fight, slicing and hacking their way on the barbarians. Three of the vagabonds had decided that he was their prey and took after him. One of them attacked with a mighty roar, followed by a sloppy swing of a stone axe, barely held together with ropes and rotten threads. He easily dodged this and pushed the hammer away, the barbarian loosing his balance with a grant and landing on the forest ground. At the same time, one of his companions made the effort of attack as well, bring down a blunt and rusty sword. Claude did not want to know the fate of those killed by a rough-edged blade, so he quickly blocked it and sent a swift slice on the man's abdomen. The fur was no match for the deadly edge of the sabre, tearing through the coat and wounding a deep gash into the barbarian's stomach. The man belched as his innards spilled into an awful mess of intestines and blood. Feeling that he shouldn't suffer any longer, Claude made quick of the man's death, snapping the neck as he fell on his knees. It made a cracking noice that made the Colonel shiver. This was too much. He didn't even know he was capable of this.

The two others were now furious about their fallen comrade.

"I'm gonna enjoy feasting on your flesh you fucking crow!" one of them taunted, but to Claude, it only sounded like gibberish.

The two attacked simultaneously, an axe's swing downwards joined by another sword's poorly coordinated thrusts. Claude fended off the assaults with parry after parry, pushing away the weapons as he carried out his own maneuvers. The axe almost made it home as Claude's brass helm was struck. Fortunately, the metal became only tended. He quickly removed his cover and prepared for the next succession of attacks. He went for the offensive, catching one of the barbarians off guard. Another poorly thought out swing and the attacker was incapacitated, his sword flying into the ground. Claude went for the head and blood spilled from the latter's neck. The man tried to prevent it, but a kick made sure he stayed down. The last barbarian wasted no time in returning fire, his axe fast coming. Claude had thought it was over, raising his sabre in a futile attempt to deflect the attack. He closed his eyes, willing to meet his end.

But it did not come, for a sudden thunder erupted from faraway. Claude opened his eyes to see a large, gaping hole pulsating, with more blood and damaged flesh than anyone can think of, between the savage's eyes. It was a brutal sight, but the deed was done. The man fell into the grass, blood still oozing from the head.

He looked around as more gunfire erupted from the camp. Here and there, officers and those of lower rank used a mixture of sabres, pistols, and carbines to protect the camp from the further waves of tribesmen. Barbarians dropped like flies here and there as there guys and brains were blown off their coated bodies, carnage spilling everywhere. Might as well as join them, he thought, inspecting the fire everywhere. He raised his sabre and dashed into action, striking the routing barbarians while their fellow compatriots died of wounds from the guns. They were confused, scared, and terrified of the new appearance of such sorcery, so they ran, unsure of what to do and too frightened to think it through.

Claude carved bones and flesh, making good work of the barbarians who dared attack their encampment. With a roar, the French, Austrians, Italians, and Poles screamed their war-cries as they charged outwards from the center of the camp, with sabre and carabiners in hand, firing and stabbing on the unruly men. The barbarians had dispersed, even more terrified. They disappeared into the darkness once again, never daring to return.

The men cheered in their victory, joined by their Colonel as well.

"Vive l'Empereur! Vive la France!" the French bellowed.

"Sieg!" the Austrians answered with a mighty chorus, "Sieg für den Kaiser!"

The Italians and Poles followed with their own rejoicing of victory, in the face of a totally larger belligerent of enemies. The night was won, and as dawn approached, so was the day grasped in their astonishing achievement.

Claude smiled. The Eclaireurs were elites, and so, there were no casualties. Their first round with those barbarians wouldn't be the last one. But today, let the men enjoy their triumph.

---

Mance

The King-Beyond-the-Wall coursed through his memories of days before, as the massive amalgamation of foreigners marched northwards. He and Loboda, as well as other Thenn warriors, were attached to the Northern Flank of the "French Grand Army" as Mance had come to calling it. The alliance was made only recently, but already, cracks had began to appear regardless of how youthful the "treaty" may have been. The Thenn were cautious in their interaction with the foreigners, and vice versa. The 10th Army Corps seemed to reciprocate that same feeling of uneasiness and distrust. Yet, Mance knew it was for the good of the Free folk. This was their only chance of getting past the Wall without much trouble.

Currently, the Army has decided to split. Mance has directed Tormund Giantsbane and the rest of his retinue to guide the main body of the French Grand Army, headed by the Napoleon himself, towards Skirling Pass, were most of the Free folk had gathered, making preparations for their eventual passage south of the Wall. Mance had recalled that he had sent the Lord of Bones east, towards Storrold's Point, leading a small contingent of his warband, to see to it that Hardhome could settled. Mance has wanted a better base of operations and starting point for the Operation—closer to the weaker stronghold of the Eastwatch-By-the-Sea and more accessible to needed resources. Men could both hunt and fish.

While Tormund would help the Emperor get to the Pass, with the aid of a translator, and as far as Mance has remembered, the man was called Charles, the X Corps was to be led by "Marshals" Davoust and MacDonald towards the Thenn Valley, for three distinct reasons: recover the scouting forces settled there, gather as much supplies as possible, and establish diplomatic ties and agreements with the Magnar. Even if he has managed to get Styr's agreement to following him as King-Beyond-the-Wall, it would much more difficult in having to deal with the Magnar should it concern an alliance with foreigners. Already aware of such a circumstance, Mance was resolved to convincing the leader of the most advanced tribe of Free folk in the lands beyond the Wall that they needed this. For the good of all.

Speaking of the "treaty", or whatever that term entails, Mance was met with very generous conditions when he had encountered this Napoleon figure, the supposed Emperor of the French. What he saw was a man of about average height, a stern and confident expression that permanently hiding the true personality of a grand strategist and cunning tactician. He had eyes that yelled out ambition, scheming, plots, and grand plans. This man, he knew, was an ambitious visionary that could no doubt tip the balance in every possible way. He had heard from Maester Aemon of the ways of the south, with their petty kingdoms and wars for an iron throne, with their houses and honor and titles as well as tales of knights and pretty maidens, it had made no sense to Mance, who had, in the majority of life, lived amongst criminals and men who were considered spares in the eyes of the fathers. This Napoleon could change that. He carried an aura that irradiated power, control, and respect, that appreciated merit over name or position in society.

In addition to the formidable Emperor, he had the honor of having closer interactions with the ever so intriguing Louis-Nicolas Davoust, which Napoleon has proclaimed as the official mediator of the "Franco-Thennic Confederation." He didn't quite understand the use of the Thenn name to represent all the Free folk, but it came to him that his people lacked a real name to proudly call themselves, one that would successively describe the direct descendants of the First Men. On the plus side, there were no other recorded encounter between the Free folk and the Grand Army with the exception of their alliance and that encounter near the Valley. Davoust was carried a personality that coincided with Napoleon's own, a no-nonsense attitude that the King greatly appreciated. At least not all men around were foolhardy and inept leaders.

Mance had developed a great sense of respect for such both men, whom had allowed himself to ally with what the Seven Kingdoms call savages, and had promised them their place in the south. He remembered what the Emperor has declared: Aid me in my conquest, he said, and you shall be blessed with my gratitude. I promise you with that. You will see your people thrive alongside my Empire.

The terms were simple: the Free folk would aid the Grand Army in conquering Westeros, to establish an empire like no other. The next Aegon the Conqueror, but instead of dragons, weapons that roared and breathed death and destruction like dragons. In return, they would have free passage south, to do whatever it is they want. Mance had wanted to reveal to him then and there about the danger of the Others and the devastation that they will leave in their path. As soon as the Free folk was safe, only then will the true preparations would be made for the coming of the Long Night. The next Battle for the Dawn would be soon upon them. The Free folk will stand guard, whoever it is that is willing, to defend man to their last

In addition to their discussion of alliances was the fact that they were foreigners, from another world. Napoleon had explained to him that they come from a world where the common folk had began to rise against their lords and kings, breaking their chains and making their own destinies. The French Republic, and the French Empire, was one of many such realms to have risen up, the people deposing their tyrannical rulers and set about a series of events that Mance could only dream of. It was what the Free folk had wanted: the government made and ruled by the people and for the people. But the Free folk had been left to fend for themselves, in the wintry wastelands beyond the Wall, kept from their true place in the world. A world where they deserved just as much peace and prosperity as my other realm or race of man, and protection from the monsters within and without.

Indeed, the Old Gods has witnessed that man needs all the help it can get, and used their divine powers to transport an army, much more advanced and much more stronger than any before conceived, to north of the Wall, where it could aid the last true descendants of the First Men.

Mance finally returned from his thoughts and scanned the surroundings. It was way past noon and the the sky had grown orange. His steed, a stallion kindly provided by the ever so illustrious Davoust. Loboda and his Thenn counterparts were lucky enough to be extended a similar sense of hospitality after walking the entire way. They were still stealing glances on the foreigners, and then Mance himself, watching furiously and angrily as the King-Beyond-the-Wall may have as we signed way their sovereignty.

In the eve of dusk, when the the X Corps had made encampment for the night, Mance and his company was cordially invited to observe a demonstration. Mance, actually willing to see this "weapons" in action, hastily agreed. Loboda and the Thenn had reluctantly joined the King-Beyond-the-Wall. He looked on at the field, where a fusilier company was arranged into a line formation of four ranks, a hundred yards away and parallel to a pile of horse carcasses. Frozen to death, he said, as the night before had taken their lives away. They were stored for food.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Orders were given out in a language that was still unfathomable to him. When he tried to pronounce any of the words, it didn't sound right and didn't roll of his tongue quite well. Shaking his head, he focused back on the scene, intent on learning about their spear-like sticks.

The fusiliers of the line, with their blue coats of red piped white collar and cuffs, white piped red lapels, blue piped red cuff flaps and shoulder straps, white turnbacks piped red, and brass buttons, matching with shakos made of black felt, chevron on the side and visor, a brass diamond shaped plate stamped with the Imperial eagle over the unit's regimental number, white cords, and brass chin scales proved to be an impressive scene that depicted experienced and veteran soldiers, a concentration of determination, self-restraint, volition, and bravery. There was a feeling of majesty in seeing the disciplined men lined up in such a fashion. They rammed into their respective weapons with metallic rods, placing small ball-like ammunition and a packet of a strange combustible called black powder.

The weapons, known as a "musket", were held up high and pointed towards the carcasses. He didn't expect any further, since Mance had yet to actually see it in action. Another order came out and chaos proliferated around his ears.

The thunderous roars of what sounded like a thousand storms all releasing their night in simultaneous order rendered his ears ringing, having been assaulted with various sound waves that were unfamiliar to his body. The Thenn retinue covered their ears as well, eyes closed as they quickly ducked and panicked. Mance saw Loboda's eyes—there was a nervousness and trepidation on his pupils, a sensation that unfurled dread. The Free folk were now confused and scared at the same time. It was all too much.

As the muskets roared their terrifying howls, fire erupted and jolted from said weapons, a quick explosion of gases and force that was unknown to the wildlings. And then he raced his sights towards the carcasses. Mance saw horror.

The bodies were blown to smithereens as seemingly invisible projectiles made their work, tearing flesh and bones apart. The still preserved blood sloshed into various directions, landing on the snow's white sheet. It was too quick and rapid, a procession of events that was hard even for Mance to grasp. This was something else entirely.

As if the destruction of the horse carcasses weren't enough, Mance to his shock found the foreigners hauling a large metallic barrel on wheels, pulled by horses. The men aimed the large queer object toward the shredded flesh of the dead animals. The company retreated away.

There was a signal to fire.

There was some silence as the men near the object lighted a fuse at the end of the barrel, and impulsively covered their ears.

Another reverberant sound was expelled from the weapon, but this time, louder than anything Mance had ever heard, compared to the thunder of cracks of previous. It was I describable as the ground seemed to shake while the weapon unleashed its payload, fire and brimstone ejected violently from the barrel's hole, a red-orange light blinding Mance's eyes. These "cannons" could literally wake up giants. It was then that the King looked towards the carcasses.

A tremor shook his very core.

The carcasses were no more—raining down into the ground with ash, fire, and flames. The flesh and bones burned to a crisp as the force of the round projectile made its impact, leaving a charred ground that melted snow and exposed a damaged ground. A small crater had formed that could easily fit a dozen men standing up-right inside.

Mance was at a loss for words.

He had found his Horn of Winter.

And it was terrifying.

And then, the King-Beyond-the-Wall realized that the Free folk, Night's Watch, or even the Seven Kingdoms combined couldn't beat the Grand Army. They had to make haste to the Valley and then rush towards Skirling Pass. Time was with them, and so was Napoleon's guns.

Napoleon's conquest was inevitable.

And Mance was either regretting or rejoicing at the prospect of helping such an individual establish his dynasty, one that has promised that the Free folk shall be safe. The wilding king counted on it.

---

Charles

The only other person capable of speaking some decent English was, unsurprisingly, Charles, who in his childhood, applied himself to studying Latin and literature, in addition to his primary courses of physical sciences and math. So, he was fluent at least in a few languages, including Spanish and Italian, all of which originate from the Romantic tongue. It was truly fortunate the Romance languages shared similar meanings and borrowed words.

In addition to his new tasks as head cartographer for the entire Grand Army, he was assigned as a translator for the Emperor when communicating with their new friends. He did not know for the life of him why Napoleon was so desperate, in fact, that French has allies themselves with uneducated savages. He had no grudge against them, but it was still a strange decision. Perhaps it was their knowledge of the surrounding lands. Or for the manpower. It was a various, crisscrossing network of advantages and disadvantages that their Emperor has meticulously covered, reviewed, and factored into his grand plan. Charles knew that. And for that, the engineer simply conceded to the monarch's will. Nothing can be achieved by being idle and indecisive.

And just like that, summons became more complacent as the Engineer Park is suddenly assaulted with new work. Cartographers, civil engineers, and other men of honorable professions observed the land, making new additions to a copy of Minard's detailed map. With the Army marching south instead, it was only prudent that they apply more information. Crucial information. They required to report every day and every night, to examine lands and natural formations should it concern the movement of the Army. They accounted for streams, hills, and to their rear, the massive, sprawling maze of the "Haunted Forest." Even as they came nearer to the new goal, the crooked tendrils of pitch black barks and stems still made his back shiver.

Other parts of the engineering parks busied themselves with the portable telegraph system devised by Claude Clappe, using visual signals as a means of long distance communication. Instead of usually static brick towers, the system used wagons and carriages to move the pivoting shutters. It was ingenious in design and sophisticated in all manners. Sadly, he was not included in testing the prototypes for the equipment, and had been allocated to concentrate on his cartography, civilian engineering, and translator duties.

Everyone in the support services were busy doing their part, everyone had their uses. People labored day and night to help the Army continue its performance.

It had been a three to four days now since the Grand Army had split between the Northern Flank and the rest of the forces. The detachment of three-thousand or so took with them some companies of sappers, pontooniers, and many other support services. Supply trains had to be borrowed as well, and further partitioning of supplies until a more proper way of accessing food was acquired, probably and more preferably in the form of farming. Foraging has its perks, but no one could argue against a belly full of aged cider, or wine, and the roasted smell of beef in the morning.

He was sad to see Grand Marshal Davoust go, having been the one to actually approach him on the first expedition. Napoleon may be the mastermind, but Davoust carried out the orders. It was only a day ago when Marshals Ney, Berthier, Oudinot, and a few others had been promoted to ranks of Grande Maréchal d'Empire, raising them to a newly created rank with honors supposedly far greater than a normal Marshal of the Empire. Charles Joseph Minard understood why the Emperor had done that.

To avoid factionalism, the Emperor gave away ranks to cur people's favor, as was normal in his General Staff. It was clear that there was strife in the top brass—Marshals were not known for their ability to cooperate with other Marshals, especially in the absence of the Emperor, and when they did, it usually led to many military consequences. He was sure that Marshal MacDonald would act in ill-fate while under Davoust, who had been appointed temporary command over the X Corps as the Mediator for the Confederation.

This too, was a major problem. With being elevated to a higher responsibility, Davoust would be seen as a biased favorite of the Emperor, incurring the wrath of the others, Grand Marshal or not. Charles already sensed tension begin to arise, particularly from Grand Marshal Berthier and Ney. He had seen them a while ago, discussing about "bringing down the stubborn fool", but whoever that fool was, Charles did not know. It could be anyone.

It wasn't as if he saw the upper echelons of the Grand Army as an incompetent collective of men. They were skilled generals, tacticians, cunning politicians, and individuals of high standing that command respective, power, and even fear. They led the Empire to victory and he couldn't question that. But their lust for overreaching authority got the better of their efficiency when it comes to coordinating with one another. It seemed that the Emperor was the only one capable of discouraging Marshals from having themselves at each other's throats.

He resolved to keep his findings to himself, lest he too experience the wrath of the scheming Grand Marshals. It wasn't his fight anyway. That one was for the leadership to resolve themselves.

Claude returned to polishing the sketch of his work, making minor changes here and there for appropriate reasons. Nicolas-Jacques Conté's revolutionary lead pencils was one of many uses. Since the days of the French Republic, the people were under economic blockade, unable to receive much of the needed resources for some products. Conté had been ordered to devise a pencil that did not require foreign imports. And then modern pencil was born, the lead itself a mixture of clay and powdered graphite, encrusted within two halves of a wooden cylinder.

The engineer glanced around, the noon sun high above the grey sky, himself joined by his team of scholars: Javier, Piedmont, and Bachelet. The others from that campfire all those days ago were concerned with their own responsibilities, from the Artillery General Park to the Equipages, as well as the other engineering corps out there in the field.

When the work was done, they rejoined the hulking sea of soldiers that continued its march across the snow-covered lands. The mountains from beforehand, the "Frostfangs", loomed in the distance, the sharp peaks of the mountains towering over a river known as the Milkwater. His thoughts once again wandered to the past week.

After some civil talks with the barbarians, he found this Tormund fellow to be quite the character. He was boastful, arrogant, but overall, with good intentions and too jolly for the engineer's taste. Nonetheless, he seemed friendly to them, despite being from a different world.

"Ya know why they called me Giantsbane?" the savage said with a terrifying grin. The burly, red-headed vagrant told him of his various titles, from "Tall-talker", "Husband to Bears", "Mead king of Ruddy Hall", "the Thunderfirst", as well as "Hornblower" and "Giantsbabe." Charles had first thought the man mad, with his strange stories of having slain a giant, being tended to by a female giant, allowing him to suckle on her tits. The man had also claimed that giant's milk had made him large and would drink it almost everyday. Where he found this milk, Charles did not know.

Charles had inquired to him about the lands beyond the Wall, the "Free folk", and the "First Men." Tormund returned in kind, explaining that the Free folk are nothing more than a loose collection of hundreds of tribes and war bands roaming around the lands like nomads, hunting and gathering like the humans of ancient times, slitting each other's throats at the most opportune time. Others lived off the land in villages and settlements, usually within the confines of the Haunted Forest, such as Whitetree, or the larger towns of the Thenn in the Valley, as well as those of the Frozen Shore. There were also dwellers in the Frostfangs.

What intrigued him the most was the mention of the Wall, a massive barrier south of these lands, guarded by what Tormund called "the Night's Watch". It was supposedly built by "the kneelers", men who kneeled and swore their loyalty to lords, ladies, and kings and queens. Tormund said it was unmanly and only cravens kneeled. It sounded a whole lot like medieval Europe. Why the Emperor kept such information classified he did not know. The only information reciprocated to him was the one provided by Davoust according to the young man they had caught all those days ago.

Yes, he remembered.

Goes by the name of Will.

Unless the Emperor had ordered some information to be kept from public eye, there was something else at play here. ormund said it was a hundred leagues in length, and towered to almost seven hundred feet into the air. Charles was fascinated. What did it look like? Why so large? Was it used to keep the Free folk out of those 'more' civilized lands down south? Or was it intended for something else entirely?

The Chinese built the Great Wall to defend against the invading hordes of the Mongolians. What would be more dangerous than the Mongolians if the highest was multiples almost forty-five times? To Charles, he did not know.

The talks with the Giantsbane had been pleasing as he had learned much from their discussions. He did not know why, but Tormund has grown on him, big bag of air and lies he was. Perhaps another friend? Maybe. Just maybe.

While not entirely busy, he rode far to meet Will, Davoust's "ward", if he could be called that, and asked the boy some questions about the Night's Watch. The new member of the voltigeur in General Compans's fifth infantry division was startled at first, not entirely aware that another English speaker was present in the Grand Army. The younger man remembered him though, as that one man who had accompanied Grand Marshal Davoust in his visits. To his shock, Will demonstrated a cunning that only a few soldiers held. Though, Charles noted a slight problem with the lad. The boy sometimes fidgeted, murmured, and delivered some strange messages in his statements, sprinkled all over like puzzle pieces. All in all, Will remained intact through and through, having been promoted to Caporalin merely two weeks within appointment as a basic Soldat. For this, he was impressed. A Charleville was always on his hands, in which he either cleaned it or was inspecting the sharpness of the musket's bayonet blade.

He found out much about the Night's Watch, led by a Lore Commander Jeor Mormont, with various other peoples like Alliser Thorne, the master-at-arms, "Maester" Aemon, a position Charles had only surmised as a sort of book keeper. He did not know these people, but it was worth it that he should know. It could be useful for the future.

When asked about the Wall, Will was eager to talk about its various strongholds and forts. There was a total of 17 castles, with only three functioning due to an undermanned pool of available recruits and rangers. The only Castle to be currently held was the Shadow Tower, Castle Black, and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Additional mental notes was useful after all. After gathering what knowledge he could reveal from the younger man, Charles offered Will a chance to learn some French. The blonde was all too eager to accept.

And soon, Will took some lessons with Charles, more than happy to help the boy learn the language of the engineer's homeland. He earned himself two friendships in the matter of a week, which was good. Charles was aware that it would be long before he would see Colonel Claude Testot-Ferry, the first of his closest friends in the Grand Army.

His racing mind had always strived for knowledge, to the point that he had ignored the prospect of friends and or family. His father was proud, but that was it. Charles only knew that his father died proud, but nothing else. He wished he had spent more time with him, and the rest of his kin.

Now, though, those up above have given him a chance to redeem himself.

—x—X—x—

It was finally in the time that the Army had reached what their wildling allies described as "the Fist of the First Men." An ancient location beyond the Wall, Tormund had said it was "an old place, and strong." The hill, as it actually is, sported a massive stone formation at the top, the crumble ruins of a once might castle that stood up above, creating commanding views over the fields and slopes surrounding it. The Fist also offered steep slopes in its north and west side, and a slightly less dangerous slope in its east. At the foot of the hill runs a small stream. The brook was a good source of some freshwater.

Fortifications seemed to have been built as well, crowning the top of the stony hill, and covering a large circumference around the fist-like formation. A ringwall of chest-high grey stone stood, with various breaches in its entire length. As such, it was all but in disrepair, owing to the lack innovation or necessary building skills in part of the wildlings, as well as braving storms and the wonders of mother nature over the thousands of years it had existed.

With another long day of marching coming to an end, the Grand Army made camp here, its fifty to seventy-strong bathing in the last bit of sunlight for the day. The other separated flanks had also joined good time, the Left and Right flanks arriving first, followed by the Rear Central flank, and then finally, a flow of human bodies that consisted of the rear guard and the South Flank. Tents and pavilions were set up about, hourly patrols all over the vicinity of the camp, while dozens of hunting and scavenging parties were sent out to collect whatever game or animal it is they could find.

Charles replicated the view over the area on the sheet of paper in great detail, recording the approximate elevation and scale of the place.

Under advise from the Grand Marshals, and a lengthy explanation from Tormund Giantsbane and his savagely cohorts of eight other barbarian warriors, the Emperor had resolved to only sending himself, his brother Prince Jérôme, a company of a hundred and fifty from the Old Guard, as well as Charles who will aid in the talks with the many Wildling chieftains, accompanied by their barbarian friends. In the next day, the Marshals and Grand Marshals were left in charge of the encamped flanks, while Napoleon's retinue left at early dawn. Additionally, orders were given by the Emperor to repair the fortifications of the Fist with pikes and logs to block off the breaches of the ring fort and create an outpost that would the first for the French. The place was ideal for a defensive position, providing cover for the crossing of the Milkwater, should an enemy force seem passage.

Tormund had informed that the Skirling Pass through the Frostfangs, named for the keening sound the wind makes as it blows through it, is a long twisting course between the mountain peaks and hidden valleys. With a little too much detail in his wording, the Giantsbane added a few descriptions here and there. Charles was all too grateful to not listen, as he drew his sketches and maps.

There were no grass save a few weeds and pale lichen clinging to life amongst cracks in the rock. The highest point of the pass is marked with a a stone archway. From the top there is a hidden valley, long and v-shaped, amongst the mountains. A glacier of ice several thousand feet high plugs one end, squeezed between the mountains. Under that icy height is a great lake, its waters a deep cobalt that reflect the snow-capped peaks that surround it.

The journey was long and difficult. The crossing of the Milkwater was much more simpler, as the stones and ice settled on the river bed were tall enough to offer a fragmented bridge. It took much time to hop off between the rocks, the crevices allowing water to seep through and continue its flow. For this, the pontooniers that were brought along had been forced to march back to the Fist, much to their chagrin, carrying with them loads of equipment. There day could have been spent on better things than useless round trips.

The Old Guard was more than skilled to take into combat the legendary shadowcats that roamed about the Pass, large black felines that were a mix between tigers and mountain lions. Tormund had said them to vicious creatures of deadly speed, precision, and the most silent monster to ever roam the frozen lands. A single shot from a Charlville had rendered the large felines as scared as kittens, running speedily up the slopes soon as the weapon had unleashed its deafening roar, which was amplified by the tall halls of the pass, echoing all over the valley. The men had feared avalanches to swallow them, but it was still and calm throughout their endeavor.

With their domination over the mountain felines established, they were no longer bothered by the shadowcats. Some have wandered by though, not yet familiar with the danger posed by the contingent of Old Guard veterans. Another blank shot was enough, done by just simply applying the gunpowder without their ball bullets. No need to waste ammo after all.

He remembered Tormund and the other Free folk stare in awe as the muskets made their work, downing a half-starved shadowcat in a gory mess, the head having exploded from a bullet's impact, tearing skull, brains, and bones, and splattering them within the Pass's snowy and icy corridors. The chieftain had then asked if he could use one the "horns" (the name which the wildling man had given to describe the contraption) as well, before the Emperor dejected with a prompt "Non." The man grumbled but conceded anyways.

It had taken them about four days to traverse across the crooked pathways of Skirling Pass, dodging encounters from mountain dwellers that were too violent and and too arrogant to actually join Mance's wildling host, as well as avoiding clashes with the said shadowcats as much as possible. Despite this, though, rams who also called the Pass home provided the entourage much needed meat, a boon for the guardsmen who had been consuming horse flesh for some weeks now. The bellowing of musket fire became complacent, but only rarely, when it was necessary to fend off any of the inhabitants of the mountains. Less so when hunting game, sabres raised and used to carve their prey.

Along the way, they too met sentries sent over by the wildling encampment to patrol for any crows or new arrivals. Usually in groups of three or four, many times were the French envoys mistaken for men of the Night's Watch. One of Old Guards were harassed by accident, earning an injury to the leg, stabbed with a flint javelin. The burry and crude blade only served to worsen the pain of the attack. Another had unfortunately broken his arm while being attacked by another set of sentries. Tormund had intervened in time, identifying himself to the patrolmen, and introduced Napoleon as an ally. The patrols were still skeptical, though, and Tormund's explanation clearly wasn't enough to pacify all their suspicions.

When they reached the top of the pass, they were welcomed with the grandeur of the hidden valley, and encamped within it, the massive wildling settlement headed and ruled over the King-Beyond-the-Wall and his council of lieutenants and chieftains, whom then took authority over the different tribes represented. A massive field of tents and huts built from animal skin, bones, and sticks occupied a large area of the snow covering the valley, cornered by several peaks and formations of dark-textured stones, superimposed by the bustling activities of the wildings, large animals, and... giants.

It had been a shock to everyone, even Napoleon, who glared at the huge monsters in confusion. Though, the Emperor and his brother managed to maintain their composure, it wasn't the same for the Old Guard, as they started to enter the wildling encampment. Many had cried "deviltry" and "witchcraft." The other Old Guards, infamous for their constant grumbling even in the presence of their Emperor, though Napoleon had given them that sole right due to having his respect, engaged freely on that privilege. They whined and argued, bickering amongst themselves in regards. Despite this, hulking beasts pounded their feet across the camp, brandishing massive fur coats and stems of evergreen trees. They continued on, not bothered by the ramblings of Old Men. Some still retained their branches, while others had some semblance of a spear, sharpened at their ends. What fascinated Charles more was their use of the larger, wooly cousins of elephants: mammoths.

French anatomist Georges Cuvier had said that these animals had went extinct, a concept not widely accepted at the time, and to this day. Charles was different though. He wasn't much of a religious man, as scientific research had resorted to using biblical explanations for unexplainable things in the physical and natural world. And so, he believed in Cuvier's conclusion, as there were no possible ways to explain the arrival of modern elephants from continent separated by the oceans to another. Charles had though he'd seen it all with the giants, but for mammoths to exist as well? He didn't know whether they were biologically or taxonomically similar, but they were still mammoths.

The giants, standing over two times the height of the average man, between ten to fourteen feet tall, had heads are thrusted forward from their shoulder blades. They have squashed-in faces with square teeth and tiny eyes amidst folds of horny flesh. Tormund explained that their eyesight is poor and they snuffle constantly, smelling as much as they see. Additionally, they have sloped chests, and their lower torsos are about half again as wide as their upper torsos. Their arms hang lower than a man's, while their legs are shorter than their arms, ending in splayed and horny feet that need no shoes even in the coldest weather. Despite the shaggy pelt of fur that covers them, they still worse loose articles of clothing, sewn together poorly and haphazardly. Charles observed them, using the mammoths as war mounts and beasts of burden, hauling large loads of logs or the occasional game from hunts.

"There's more of 'em up north, by the Thenn and their valley. They speak more of the Old Tongue, those hairless cunts," Tormund intruded upon his reverie, a horn of giant's milk on his right and axe on his left. Charles swerved his head around, only to see the man chug down the drink with huge gulps. Without much care, the white liquid split onto the barbarian's red beard, trickling down into his furs and the pale features of the snow. After only a few seconds, he stopped and finished off with a loud sigh, owing to his satisfaction.

"Giant's milk! Hah!" The wildling turned to Charles, who only wore an amused expression. "C'mon Charles, it's time to meet your new friends. Go get that Emperor of yours." The burly red-head patted him on shoulder with a mighty hand and went on, signaling the rest of the contingent to follow.

He hadn't even began describing the wildlings. From what he saw, the free folk exhibited the all too familiar image of a normal European, with fair skin of various tones, mostly pale, facial structures that resembled more of Anglo-Saxons, and hair that ranged from brown, to black, and even ginger or blonde. He could gather that they were a united peoples from hundreds of cultures, tribes, and clans that managed to be convinced by a lone man.

Their clothing were nothing more than occasional boiled leather or several coats and layers of fur, some equipped with queer pieces of armor and metals, others even wore full armor that were akin to medieval outfits of footmen. Helmets, metallic or of bones, were also common gear in the camp. Charles presumed that they were acquired through raids. Their weaponry wrought of stone, wood, and bronze, such as axes and flails, fire-hardened spears and lances, and bows of wood and horn.

Children played and laughed. Some were even sparring with one another, or skinning animals, or even brandishing bloody weapons from a recent kill. From an animal or person, he did not wish to know. Women, who were just as wild and as unruly as the men, carried their own weapons. "Spearwives," they were called, keeping up with the spirit of free folk independence. Other women chose not to as well. They carried on everyday tasks from cooking to tending to their children. The males did most of the dirty work, with their bows and weapons, pushing, pulling, carrying, setting up tents and such, raiding, and patrolling the premises.

The men were reluctant to continue, Charles could see, but these things brought only curiosity. This was a new world, coupled with its own billions and billions of mysteries, waiting to be analyzed and discovered. It was more knowledge. He hoped that the next few days would manage to sate his hunger.

Braving the barbarians—men, women, and children alike—the French escort moved forwards, following their Emperor as he was guided by Tormund. They earned numerous stares from the crowd: confusion, fascination, interest, anxiety, fury, anger, and wrath were the prevailing tones of the moment. Charles took a brief glance at the Emperor and his brother.

The lead monarch, his bicorne hat covering a thin layer of curly black hair, a grey coat to protect himself from the freezing temperatures, and a stern expression revealed nothing but a straightforward determination to journey on, no matter the cost. Hands folded behind his back, the Emperor once again held an authoritative aura that many of the wildlings seem to recognize. Prince Jérôme, on the other hand, held an alerted stance, his hand on the pommel of his sabre. Or was it his pistol? He didn't know. The Prince was too far away.

Seeing them confident revitalized the men's iron will. If they're Emperor was this brave, then it wouldn't do to disappoint him. The Old Guard were elite of France, the bravest of the brave. They would gladly surge against the henchmen of the Devil if it meant they fought for freedom, glory, and for the Republic and cast him down to Hell all over again. The Emperor's work as God's work.

They finally reached the supposed council of the King-Beyond-the-Wall, a motley bunch, arrayed at the forefront of a particularly large tent, yet small in dimensions compared to the grandiose of the Emperor's Pavilion. Charles watched as Tormund approached the group.

"Giantsbane, who are these people?" a wildling woman asked. The lieutenants around here looked ready to pounce at the slightest way harm was incited. Hands were either at the pommel of their clubs, axes, and hammers, or on their bows of hand-carved wood, aching to grab an arrow within seconds

"Who? These?" He wiped his nose and sniffed. Tormund cranes his neck towards the crowd of "Mance made us some allies. These 'ere are the French." The pronunciation poorly rolled over Tormund's tongue, utterly and savagely beating the term senseless. Charles cringed out how it was pronounced. He couldn't blame the wildling. English was a strange language after all, if not beautiful in its tendency power words from Germanic and Romantic literacy.

"And where is the King? Seeing as you managed to get 'ere without getting you cock chopped off and boiled by the Thenns, you either left him to mercy of the bald bastards, killed him, or he told you to head here," another asked, this time a man of a thick stature and blonde top holding a large scythe, his eyes red and watery.

"Weeper, didn't know you'd be here," Tormund asked genuinely, "I had thought you'd be down south, killin' some crows."

"I was, until the Lord o' Bones came by and told me he saw kneelers by Hardhome. Said that Ygritte, one of 'is, was headed for the Thenns to talk to Mance. We just tagged along," the Weeper answered, wiping his free hand on his face to remove some of the tears.

"Its true I tell you," one piped in, his face covered with a skull, only allowing the mouth to show clearly, sporting a beard that only showed his aging. The man was dressed literally in bones, with a giant' skull as a helmet and an armor made of exposed and dried femurs, phalanges, ribs, mandibles, and fangs of animals. The armor extended from his shoulder and towards his arms, torso, and the majority of his thighs. His knee and elbows, in addition, was protected by the craniums of some horned animals. It looked like it belonged to a goat or ram. "They were in their ships. Somehow and someway, the Night's Watch got help from them Southrons. I came to take my warband back and cross the Wall. Mance is taking too much time."

"No one will be leaving until we find out what the frozen hells is happening," the Weeper reminded his fellow warrior. The Lord of Bones, as impatient as ever, though surprisingly, chose to keep his mouth shut.

"So, who are they really?" the woman from before asked once again.

"They call themselves the Grand Army. Trust me, I don't know what the hells they are on about, but I know enough. Their 'Emperor' is here as well."

"Emperor?" the Lord of Bones asked, now encouraged to speak his part. His voice was low, but could be heard just barely.

"Don't know, don't give a shit, but he's their leader. A good man, from what I heard. Mance had been droning about 'em. Can't talk any fucking common though, thats for sure. They have a translator with them who can talk though, Charles," Tormund answered, and looked at the French engineer.

"Pardon?" he said in French by accident, trying to reorganize his thoughts. Their hosts' expressions went into varying shapes confusion and bewilderment. They did not understand him at all. He blinked and shook his head, removing the perplexed guise written all over his face. "Oh," the engineer added. Charles stepped forward.

"You stand before His Imperial and Royal Majesty Napoleon the First, of the House of Bonaparte, By the Grace of God and the Constitutions of the Empire, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, and Co-Prince of Andorra. With him is his brother, His Imperial Majesty Jérôme the First, French Prince, and King of Westphalia. The Empire of France has offered its allegiance to the Free folk under Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall. Your king has accepted our terms and an alliance has been established," he began and looked toward Napoleon, who also took a pace onwards. The Emperor slightly nodded his head in greeting. "The Emperor lacks the necessary fluency in the English language and he deeply apologizes for such an inconvenience. He hopes that a translator would suffice."

A request for the wildlings to kneel or bowwas expected, but never came, which only worsened the uncertainties of the wildling leadership. They definitely are not from the south. Charles watched in well-hidden amusement.

"See? Told you we're allies," Tormund justified.

"So, Mance has allied the Free folk to fight with these green cunts? They're kneelers! They look like fucking pansies!" the Lord of Bones reasoned. "We might as well wear dresses! We'll look real pretty for them crows."

Charles understood that clearly and felt a simmering anger rise up to his head. This barbarian had no right! No right at all! Just as he was about to respond with his own retaliatory insult, someone else had broken the brief moment of silence.

"You better watch your fucking mouth, Rattleshirt, or'll make sure it stays closed," warned Tormund. The red head took a step before the bone-covered savage made another retort, and then the same feminine voice entered the air.

"You shit heads finished sucking each other's cocks? Yeah? Then stuff it," the woman enforced again, clearly irritated. The men stopped, but Charles knew this wasn't finished. Not a chance. He still felt the tension in the air. She started walking, steering over to Charles.

"The name's Dalla, spearwife to my husband, the King-Beyond-the-Wall. And no, I'm no queen. I was just lucky to marry Mance. His type only appears in a few hundred years so, compared to the fuckers I have to deal with every day in this miserable cesspool," she declared. She examined Charles, who was unsure of what to do. Dalla turned towards the other chieftains. The translator merely looked about, not really sure what the barbarian women had intended to do or say.

"They speak the truth," the woman concluded, turning away from the crowd of foreigners.

"What makes you so sure?" the Weeper beseeched. "Tormund could have gone mad due to the piss 'es been drinkin' and killed Mance 'imself." The scythe was raised to the man's eye level, the free hand caressing the blade with much care and admiration. Tears continued to poor down the blond's cheeks, eventually reaching the streak of blond hair along the barbarian's jaw. "Let's just get rid of 'em now. It'll save us the trouble."

"Hey! I'm still here!" Tormund countered, agitated at the prospect of being ignored, doubted, and then, threatened to be killed for treason.

"No, Tormund wouldn't lie if it came to Mance. And Mance, places much trust on the Giantsbane. And the Charles fellow. He's not from around here, along with his Emperor. They look like kneelers, but don't at the same time. They can't even speak Common. That's telling you something. They're not Andals."

It made sense, from the perspective of Charles. Very good analysis on her part.

"We're foreigners, you see," the engineer asserted. He walked closer. "My people come from afar, so far in fact that you wouldn't comprehend it. Like Tormund had said, we are the French, and he," Charles pointed at Napoleon, "is our Emperor. We know not of your ways or dealings, or even of your enemies or friends. We only extend to you aid and cooperation. We do not wish to fight. Mance had told us you wanted to cross the Wall, so we shall help you do that with minimal losses to your side."

Many raised their brows while Dalla looked surprised. It really is genuine. "We'll continue this... inside."

"Aye," the Weeper inserted.

The entire time, Napoleon had looked on, unfazed and unmoving as the tribesmen made their judgement. Jérôme stood beside his brother with a similae iron resolve.

—x—X—x—

The Old Guard was instructed to remain outside and settled quite distance away from the tent. As they rested their aching knees and ankles, the Old Guard became apprehensive of the barbarians surrounding them. It was something of mythical proportions, as if they were witnessing history, looking upon their would-be ancestors. Any wrong move on their part could lead to something far worse than just a brawl. It could cause war.

Resolved in not failing their Emperor, the Old Guard stood vigilant, but at the same time, ignored the rabble and curses of the Free folk who bombarded them with insults. Those brave enough even tried to confront the Old Guard eye to eye. But the veterans could not understand. They can see their anger and hatred, but they could not understand. So the company remained silent, daring the savages to try something other than throwing meaningless insults. Their leaders had told them to control themselves while they spoke with the Emperor.

The gathered joint leadership of the Free folk army, from the major lieutenants to the most minor of chiefs, confined themselves within the large tent from some time ago. Charles was seated at the left of the Emperor, with Jérôme flanking him to his right. They were on logs of wood, the closest thing to chairs apparently, in this part of the New World. The wildlings had no masonry or craftsmanship, save for their ability to make from scratch their tools of war, traps, and their settlements. There was no sense of innovation, and he could, for a few thousand years. The Free folk were in stagnation, and there conditions will remain so. Luckily for them, the Grand Army is here.

The leadership of the Wildling camp introduced themselves one by one, arranged into a semi-circle that nearly covered the entire length of the tent's interior, opposite the French representatives. Tormund Giantsbane was standing from afar, at the backdrop of the pavilion. Already convinced that Mance chose the correct decision, he left himself out of the picture. He wasn't much for talking anyways.

The Weeper sat, flanked by his curved scythe of metal and whose eyes constantly teared. He's known for savagely killing Night's Watch rangers and attacking as far as south as "the Vale" and their mountain clans. The man supposedly blinds his victims before killing them or letting them go as a means of spreading psychological fear.

Dalla was beside him, who ready presented herself as the spearwife to the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder. Charles noticed a bulge on her belly, to which she tenderly rubbed or massaged. Along with her is Val, her younger sister, a beautiful young woman with blonde hair, the color of dark honey, and reaching to her waist, with sharp cheek bones, pale grey or blue eyes, and a slender body with a full bosom.

The Lord of Bones was in a state of rest as well, his skull helmet on his lap. The man was small in stature, but that made up for his explosive attitude and sadistic nature. Tormund had explained to him that the Lord of Bones, while an "irritable piece of shit" was still an effective leader of his respective warband and a skilled warrior as well.

Varamyr Sixskins sat next, a diminutive skinchanger who is accompanied by three wolves, a snowbear and a shadowcat. The animals were considered safe by the wildlings, but Charles remained with an uneasy discomfort. The snowbear was much larger than even the shadowcat, but was nowhere close to the size of the majestic mammoths.

Harma Dogshead followed, another infamous spearwife and wildling leader that has a peculiar fear of dogs. Additional chieftains include Karsi, another wildling spearwife, and Dim Dalba, both hailing from the shoreline to east, as well as Alfyn Crowkiller, Soren Shieldbreaker, Morna White Mask, the newly arrived Great Walrus of the Frozen Shore, Devin Sealskinner, Ygon Oldfather, Gavin Trader, Howd Wandererer, and siblings Harle the Handsome and Harle the Huntsman. Other minor clan leaders simply stood behind the assembled council, observing in great interest, confusion, or engrossment. The only other men to accompany the Emperor was the Capitaineof the grenadier company and his three Lieutenants, gallantly holding their posts behind Napoleon. The Emperor began, with Charles taking the more reduced role of translator. He avoided giving his own opinions on important matters such as this.

"I understand your concern," Napoleon started, "seeing as that we strange men in strange coats, introducing ourselves as friends without much to show for it. As Emperor, I provide with truth. Mance Rayder, your king, and I have come to an agreement. The Grand Army, in exchange for manpower and materiel for our continued performance, will aid the Free folk nation in breaching and conquering the Wall. This I have sworn and my word is my bond. I shall not break that promise. Your people will cross safely, I will make sure of that."

He stood and removed his bicorne cover, combing over his head with one hand. Napoleon turned to Charles and nodded at the engineer for reassurance. He could only return the gesture before the monarch resumed his monologue. Charles prepared to translate the words of his Emperor.

"I recognize those faces, of battle hardened men and women. Even perhaps your children. Your environment and world forces you to apply to your offspring the harsh realities of existence within a tundra of never ending frost and ice. What I offered to your king, I only repeat to you with the same enthusiasm and remark."

"You hate me for I am a foreigner, a man you know nothing of. My people, strangers to you, that you feel more apprehension than actual trust. It is not your fault. I do not blame you for that."

"God works through many wonders. And you? You have your gods. You have your idols. You have the sun, the moon, the sky, the trees, the forest, and the earth to honor for your very existence. It is a violent existence, one complacent with bloodshed and hate and gore and mindless violence. Madness and chaos. Yet you survive all the same."

"Either my people's God or your Gods has whisked me away from my home, to vanquish me to a realm of ice and snow. And for what reason? My men are dying. Defeated. Harassed. Starved. Tormented by unseen enemies who hide in the darkness of blizzards and snowstorms. They were savage in their efforts, slaughtering my men by the hundreds each and every day. I came upon this land, and to see it as a chance for redemption, I took it. Their Emperor has led them. And now, I stand before you to hand my allegiance, for a common cause. My people seeks peace and liberty and the comfort of civilized society. I plan to plant my manner on those southern lands, to spread my people, to expand my empire, to create a republic that will outlive even human civilization."

"My arms are open. Your king has accepted. Let me help you. You see the wall as impassable. I shall send forth my legions and weapons of great devastation. Let them come, that they may taste bitter defeat and the steel of which is burdened upon my brethren. I shall bring down that Wall for you. Give me good men and good supply, and I will give you the whole world."

A damning silence saturated the atmosphere of the encounter. When Charles finished his part, he probed his foreground. The men around him were seemingly entranced in a spell, various emotions and thoughts clashing in a great battle deep in those minds. Their eyes showed it all. They were looking down.

Dalla was the first to respond, finally escaping from her bewitchment, ascending from her relaxed position.

"Those are tall words from a man we only met a while ago," she japed, "and too many words. You drive a bargain no one, not even I, could see as unfair to us in anyway."

"You are a straightforward man, Napoleon, and an odd one at that. You and your Army wear clothing that are unfamiliar to us, use weapons unfamiliar to us, and carry a culture and language unfamiliar to us. For that, I can see the truth simply from your words. A crow would behead us without thought, but you Frenchmen, took time to talk to us. You are no kneeler nor Andal invader. I am grateful to have you as an ally, by the grace of the Old Gods of the Forest, and, by the trusted judgment of my husband."

It was the Weeper's turn as he stood up, either crying real tears at the moving words or just enduring the symptoms of his peculiar condition.

"I don't like any of you," the teary-eyed man admitted, "but if Dalla believes you, I'll believe her. I swore my loyalty to Mance Rayder so he can save us. I saw his skill with the sword and his way with words, and I damned well fell for it. If he has really allied with you, and you intend to help the Free folk, I'm fine with that. If Mance believes something is good for us, he's usually right. The Free folk needed to be united if we were all to survive. He's one of the few people that actually make sense in this fucking frozen wasteland. So, aye, I'll give you my trust, but backstab us, I'll make sure you regret ever showing your cunt faces here." It was a rather deviant way of announcing one's opinion, but it got some grumbles of agreement from the chiefs behind semi-circle.

"I'm with Dalla and the Weeper. We trust Mance Rayder. If he trusts you, then we might as well extend that courtesy to you, Emperor," the wildling woman Karsi interjected. "Karsi's sword is with you, by the will of the King-Beyond-the-Wall and the Gods... and if you shall ask for it." There were sounds of agreement from the crowd behind the congregated leaders. Eventually, more had joined the fray of accord, until everyone had voiced their rapport, all except for the Lord of Bones.

"You're all fucking mad," he murmured and stormed off, shoving aside clan leaders that too voiced their support, disappearing into the dull light. He was a minor defeat, none too important to the Emperor's cause. Surely Mance would sway him as soon things moved along.

"They've accepted, Your Majesty," Charles directed at his Emperor, "you have their trust."

"No, we have it."

It was a victory for the entire Grand Army.

---

Villeneuve

"Sire, the boats are waiting," informed Capitaine de vaisseau Jean-Jacques Magendie, his captain's uniform covered with a long, blue overcoat. He was flanked with two of his sub-lieutenants, standing just before the entrance to the great cabin, kindly and so graciously opened by the guarding Marines.

"Thank you, Megandie," he answered promptly and got up. Donning his cover and greatcoat as well, they departed from the stern with the captain, coming upon a busy quarter deck with crew and troops running hear and there, pulling ropes, and setting the ship to anchor. Attached to the ship's davits were the ship's boats. Longboats, to be specific, with a maximum rower capacity of ten oars, five on each side, and used for the primary propulsion of the ship's tenders. Villeneuve eyes the Admiral's barge keenly, being prepared to be drawn into the sea, along with the Captain's gig—ship's boats that were for the personal use of the command staff. The French admiral boarded the barge, and finally, with a slight tremor as the pressure from the pulley system were released, the diminutive vessels were lowered onto the frosty water, thrashing against the tumblehome hull of the Bucentaure. The white-on-black color scheme of the two-decker Third Rate was highlighted with the bluish glow of the surrounding bay, the skies a dull grey, and the seas itself dark and lacked transparency. The longboats held riflemen, sailors, and equipment, for the foraging and camping operations. Slowly but surely, the Vice-Admiral's longboat swerved away from the French flagship, and joined by other vessels of the smaller scale, were rowed by eight oars onto the beach.

The longboats ground to a halt as it skidded on stony shore, displacing some sand and gravel further up the precipitous slope. Boots splashed upon the shallow waves as the troops jumped off to quickly secure the perimeter. Equipment were heaved to the shore as well. Villeneuve was joined by Rear Admirals Pierre-Etienne-René-Marie Dumanoir Le Pelley and Charles René Magon de Médine as strutted forward deeper into the seaside, also flanked by their captains.

The scene was nothing short of disappointing.

The beach was covered in a thick sheet of snow, a wide landscape that stretched from east to west of the peninsula's small extremities, curving upward from an unknown continent of evenly unknown proportions. The cape resembled nothing from the maps, with the mass matching none of the graphs and illustrations from the stocks. Villeneuve's own collection of scrolls and books didn't prove anything worthwhile, but it did provide a much needed answer. They were no longer in the Mediterranean. They were somewhere else in the new world, far away from base and homeland. Why flat and dull, the beach was accommodated by sharp edges of stones in some areas of the shore while tall, daunting blackened rocks protruded upward, in various differentiating angles, distributed around the beach like marbles arranged in a random manner. The beach, deeper into the countryside, stretched and hugged a mountainous hill that slowly rose into a steep peak, also blackened with dark rocks in contrast to the snow. To the west, a settlement of some sorts was situated, hidden behind wooden palisades, in disrepair and neglect as charred wood jutted out from the permafrost. Villeneuve decided that an investigation was to be at hand.

Approaching the broken rampart and the gates, the breaches on the poorly maintained walls opened to a modestly-sized village that was all but destroyed. The sight had earned some gasps from his attendants, including Le Pelley who whispered "God save us all."

It was a disturbing spectacle. All the buildings—from huts, cottages, and cabins of wood and straw and animal skin—were burned to the ground, with nothing but ash and remnants of timber that had refused to give in to the flames. The ground was embellished with the remnants of human bodies that included scorched skulls, bones, and ribs as well as a nasty, pervading scent that penetrated their noses. It was a miasma so surreal and so disgusting that the men had to cover their snouts just to remain in the ruins. It wasn't recent either. It looked like the village had been burned years ago, but to how much, Villeneuve didn't know. The wood had become rotten and the skulls and skeletons preserved under heaps of ice and snow.

Down the slope, towards the seas, was a literal graveyard of various vessels, though, no larger than a simple fishing boat. The dockyard was neglected, with the some parts of the causeways burnt and having collapsed into the shallow waters.

Having enough, Villeneuve gave the order to withdraw. There wasn't much else here to see, other than the twisting path that led to the mountains and beyond. He ignored the passageway and went on his way, back to the beach.

As they closed in, longboats approached the shore, this time of Spanish origin, running into the ground, followed by troops and sailors hopping off while officers patiently scaled down from the tenders. The longboats were secured, while the soldiers spread about the area to guard the premises for any attack.

The Commander-in-chief of the Armada Español, Admiral Federico Carlos Gravina led a contingent of the Spanish Admiralty from the small vessels, all maintaining stern faces that expressed nothing. However, a feeling of dread and remorse hung in the air.

Villeneuve recognized each of the Spanish general officers: Admiral Gravina walked beside Vice Admiral Ignacio María de Álava y Navarrete, followed by Rear Admirals Báltasar Hidalgo de Cisneros and Antonio de Escaño. Others escorted the through ranks behind the leadership, with some commodores and captains of higher standing. Currently, the only representatives present were from the Bucentaure, the Formidable, and the Algésiras, while their respective captains took command of their flagships at the moment.

"Admiral Gravina," Villeneuve greeted calmly. Said admiral took a step forward, face still expressionless.

"Admiral Villeneuve," the man retorted in Spanish, translated by a polyglot beside him. Federico Gravina, compared to Villeneuve, was a far more superior naval officer, with the same innovative, strategic, and tactical mindset necessary to maintain a rank of such great respect and responsibility. All genius and decision in even the most chaotic and disastrous of combat and engagement, Gravina was rivaled only by the Royal Navy's very own Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson, noted for the same inspirational leadership, grasp of strategy, and unconventional tactics, which together resulted in a number of decisive British naval victories. He hated to admit it, but Villeneuve neither the charm of Nelson or the skills of Gravina. He was but a former noble, promoted to Vice Admiral because of his standing in society.

"It seems to me, Admiral, that we are no longer in the Mediterranean. North America is also a negative, as our maps are yet to provide us a valid answer. Another conclusion to the problem has been found, however: the fleet has found itself in a new land. The Arctic Circle hasn't been properly explored in detail. Perhaps we have wondered there, as in, here," Villeneuve informed thoroughly.

"I can't fault you for the ocean's current, Vice Admiral, but we shouldn't have left in the first place. We have warned you, by God, we have warned you. But you were too ignorant and prideful to listen. Now, our fleet lies in the middle of nowhere, with rocks and ice to keep us company," Gravina said with a stinging venom in his voice, a tone that was menacing and loathing. "You have doomed us, both. Spain and the fleet! Your incompetence has brought the war effort to ruin!"

It was a tension culminating from the initial start of the Trafalgar Campaign, and the indecisive Battle of Cape Finisterre only worsened that state of affairs. The Spanish lost two of their ships, an embarassment and insult at the same time as the French had failed to act accordingly. Soon after that, French and Spanish officers argued loudly in the war councils held in the Bucantaure, and they rarely led to compromise. These conferences ended disastrously. There was always two sides, a balanced, and sometimes, uneven mixture of both nationalities, but Villeneuve usually had the last say in matters. Opposing officers couldn't do anything to protest, and simply followed the French admiral's whims. Several mistakes later and they were trapped in Cádiz, facing disorder and chaos as the British surrounded them in every channel or route.

The Combined Fleet of French and Spanish warships anchored in Cádiz and under the leadership of Admiral Villeneuve was in disarray. On sixteenth of September, Villeneuve received orders from Napoleon to sail the Combined Fleet from Cádiz to Naples. At first, Villeneuve was optimistic about returning to the Mediterranean, but soon had second thoughts. One particular war council was held aboard his flagship, on the eighth of October. While some of the French captains wished to obey Napoleon's orders, the Spanish captains and other French officers, including Villeneuve, thought it best to remain in Cádiz. Villeneuve changed his mind yet again on the eighteenth of that same month, ordering the Combined Fleet to sail immediately even though there were only very light winds.

The sudden change was prompted by a letter Villeneuve had received on 18 October, informing him that Vice-Admiral François Étienne de Rosily-Mesros had arrived in Madrid with orders to take command of the Combined Fleet. Stung by the prospect of being disgraced before the fleet, Villeneuve resolved to go to sea before his successor could reach Cádiz. At the same time, he received intelligence that a detachment of six British ships, had docked at Gibraltar, thus weakening the British fleet. This was used as the pretext for sudden change.

The weather, however, suddenly turned calm following a week of gales. This slowed the progress of the fleet leaving the harbour, giving the British plenty of warning. Villeneuve had drawn up plans to form a force of four squadrons, each containing both French and Spanish ships. Following their earlier vote on 8 October to stay put, some captains were reluctant to leave Cádiz, and as a result they failed to follow Villeneuve's orders closely and the fleet straggled out of the harbour in no particular formation.

It took most of 20 October for Villeneuve to get his fleet organised; it eventually set sail in three columns for the Straits of Gibraltar to the southeast. A strange fog rolled in, and just like that, the tides have brought them wherever they were as of now. The Spanish, bitter with contempt, has blamed the ineptitude and indecisiveness of Villeneuve by luring the fleet to its ultimately doom.

The Emperor never did receive his fleet. The British Invasion was never carried out. Unbeknownst to them, the War of the Third Coalition climaxed in a French victory.

But not now, Villeneuve thought. He could not bring it to himself to gut the man now, for the insult on his honor. Too many mistakes have been made. Too many.

He betrayed his Emperor and Nation. To disobey a direct order from Napoleon was a dishonor. Villeneuve has brought greater shame upon himself than Graniva could ever muster at this moment, for the man's rant is but a fraction of the flaws the French admiral is willing to reveal to the world.

Returning to the real world, the Spanish naval commander was still conducting a lengthy oration, the tirade escalating to yells and shouts.

Villeneuve remained silent. Once Graniva was finished with his verbal beating, his counterpart began to talk.

"It's true that I have made terrible mistakes," he detailed, "I have not been a decisive commander of the fleet. Now, the armada is lost because of him. I am a traitor."

The officers were shocked to hear the French commander accuse himself of treachery. Even Gravina was perplexed, stepping away from Villeneuve.

"I have not the attributes that your bare, Admiral Gravina. I have not your decisiveness, nor your ability to command effectively. I have not the words for which inspire your men in the brink of a fight to the death. I am but a noble, who, given the opportunity, betrayed my king for another. I gave up my name and aristocracy for my position. I became Vice Admiral because I was there, to exist, and to support the Emperor. I'm no commander or warrior. And for that, I am no longer fit... to command."

A brief moment of silence followed, and then erupted the shouts of officers and admirals alike. Chaos was ignited as the leadership of the French clashed with one another over the perceived travesty. Faces had gone red, fingers were pointed and placed on chests in accusation, and everything was bound to devolve into a nasty brawl—with daggers, muskets, rapiers, and cannon missile.

"Sire, you cannot do this!" Le Pelley pleaded, unaware that Villeneuve was bound to be ousted from his position anyway.

"The men! Who will lead them?" asked Médine.

"Silence! All of you!" Villeneuve ordered. The French conceded immediately.

"In my capacity as Commander-in-chief, I hereby resign from the position," he stated, "...and nominate Admiral Gravina to replace me in my stead."

Further yelling was emitted, this time between the two nationalities. Gravina was shocked to silence.

"Stop! All of you! Do you hear yourselves? We must not follow through with this infighting! How will we ever fight this war?" Villeneuve lashed out. They all stopped at his words, upon realization that they themselves are fighting like children.

"This disunity has gone on for too long. Please, believe in me that I only did what I could for the besf of our operations. Admiral Gravina will take over the command of the combined fleet. He is far more suited to replace me," he argued. "And as such, I trust he will do his duty well, by the Grace of the Emperor, the Empire of France, and the Peoples, for I cannot judge a man greater than me in ability and capacity, so help me God."

Villeneuve veered towards the silent Gravina, who, with a quizzical look, inspected the soles of his boots. The older man swung his neck upwards and looked the Frenchman in the eye, an apologetic glint in his pupils.

"I..." He struggled to compose a sentence and paused, taking a few seconds until he could form a proper response. Preening his uniform and covers, the Spaniard resumed his reply.

"I... I have... have said words today I should not have," Graniva confessed, "especially towards a forward ally such as yourself. True that we are, at best, friendly acquittances, but at worst, we are but bitter men who have realized our differences and are determined to slow one another's efforts any way we can. There is tension, as always."

"But today, I hear a man transparent in his faults. I have all but cursed the day you were born. I see now the fault in my actions. I have flaws myself. I do not want to see Spain face such an embarrassment, to lose its fleet to those damnable English dogs. I swore an oath to protect my king and country. Perhaps you did as well with your Emperor. And I am sure you wanted to leave Cádiz for the sake of our alliance and the security of the campaign."

"Today, I also offer my apologize to you, as a man and as an officer, whom is expected to keep his integrity and rectitude in the face of even the most unimaginable of disasters. Comparing annihilation to our circumstances now would be foolish. The Combined Fleet is still afloat. We can still lead towards Naples."

For that, Villeneuve smiled. Graniva stepped forward and held out his hand. "I will gladly carry out my duty, Admiral. Our alliance calls for it. As the good Lord is my witness, I shall perform in the highest service and to the best of my capacity, until I have done my king, country, and people the greatest service. And, for France, the noblest and bravest of our allies."

"For Spain and France," the other admirals repeated in agreement, both French and Spanish personnel in joint concurrence and understanding of one another.

"For Spain and France, my friend," Villeneuve gladly retorted and shook the man's hands. They rendered into salutes in respect for each other. After placing their hands down, the French commander continued. "It would be an honor and pleasure to serve with the finest Admiral next to Nelson."

"And it will be as well to coordinate with a man of your esteem," Graniva answered thoroughly.

"So, what now, Admiral Gravina? What will be our heading?" inquired Villeneuve, confident that he had made the right decision to give the command to the right man. The Emperor would be pleased in his choice to give it up, for the sake of the war. He was done chasing power and glory.

Villeneuve will now fight for France. He has seen that a nation is greater than the individual. He would strive to see his republic and its allies rise to dominate the world, for freedom, justice, and liberty.

—x—X—x—

After the confrontation on the beach, the French and Spanish retinue of naval officers had resumed the commands of their respective vessels. With Gravina now heading the fleet, Villeneuve only served to offer his advise and committed to concentrating the Bucentaure in its employ to lead the core of the combined fleet.

Gravina ordered the fleet to head southwards, and hopefully avoid the patrolling of British Canada, convince the Americans that they weren't there to impress upon their sailors and purchase some rations, and finally reach the Caribbean to fully resupply. Admiral Le Pelley had cleverly suggested the course so that their supply troubles could be resolved, further train the inexperienced crews, and prepare Combined Fleet with better conditions, experience, and materiel. Within a few weeks, they would return to Europe and finally crush the unsuspecting British.

The race was afoot and the fleet weighed anchor from the frozen peninsula, and sailed downwards, towards lands they assumed belong to the ever so unpleasant and ghastly hordes of the English. The departure had happened a day after Gravina took command of the fleet, allowing them to have time to at least replenish some of their ship's stores. The men, using longboats, fished the surprisingly abundant waters, having harvested a variety of fish from salmon to cod, and even some tuna. Sailors had also sighted sea lions coasting along the cape.

Soon after that, the ship's cooks prepared a much appreciated meal for each of the vessels. The sailors rejoiced with a new-found vigor as tensions seemed to have improved. The men descended into slumber, while the troops took the night's watch, replaced after each shift, should the enemy, wherever they are, revealed themselves.

The night was peaceful, and in the next dawn, the Combined Fleet made way south, curving across the strange cape, while still keeping in view of the shoreline. With a good wind, the fleet arranged into three columns, as reorganized by Gravina, with the Principe de Asturias as its new flagship. After only an hour into the journey, they had encountered something far from strange.

The Scipion, a two-decker Third Rate heading the middle column of the formation and captained by Capitaine de vaisseau Charles Berrenger, reported the sighting a ship close to the shore. With an opening between the spaces of the ships, Villeneuve extended his spyglass and brought it up his right eye. And he observed. Along with every other man that took the effort to see the reported vessel, Villeneuve was bewildered. None of it made sense. With his mind nonplussed, he scrutinized the image registering on his mind.

The ship, if you can even call it that, bore no colors, except for the distinguishable faded grey sails attached to two masts that extended to higher than even a brig's topsails, matched with an exterior that was as black as a raven's feather. The bloated hull was perhaps two to three decks, with ports that were too small for even guns. Villeneuve had concluded that use of muskets, or even, swivel pieces instead, but that was soon shut down with the presence of a few oars. The long, wooden paddles aided the propulsion of the seemingly ancient watercraft. It was proceeding towards the opposite direction of the fleet.

"Whatever could that be, Sire? It resembles no British or American ships. Looks like a poor man's fishing boat," one of the officers chided. Villeneuve nodded.

"Indeed, a queer one to behold. The ship is hundreds of years from our past histories, for it is a galley, one that has stood against the tests of time and nature," Magendie answered, "I have not a slimmer of knowledge as to why the dogs use such obsolete vessels."

"Could the other fleets have crippled the naval power of the British in this corner of the world that they have resorted to using the tools of barbarians?" another officer, curiously glancing at the other mysterious craft.

"Not likely," Magendie retorted and turned to the former commander-in-chief, "Shall we signal the Asturias, Admiral?" the captain forwarded to Villeneuve. The French commander shrunk his spyglass, hid it, and with a nod, agreed to Magendie's inquiry.

"Inform them of the new developments. Graniva will need to know of thus," he directed.

The wind had died down and slowed the progress of the armada, and the galley was too distant to be of any threat to the flotilla. Nonetheless, it was a matter of great importance and calls for the investigation of the Combined Forces' leadership. Villeneuve took a deep breath, appreciating the fresh breeze brought on by the oceans. However relieving the air may be, a sudden flow of fatigue consumed his body. It was weeks of stress building up, he knew, and he was yet to get any real sleep.

"I'm returning to my quarters, captain. You have the command," Villeneuve prompted and turned away from the forecastle, promptly set down on the quarter deck, and finally retreating into the comforts of the stern's great cabin.

Intending to have a quick break from the events of the day, his rest was interrupted by a knocking on the door.

"Enter," he replied, massaging the bridge of his nose to emphasize the exhausting nature of these week's past happenings. The guard belonging to the pair that stood posted outside his personal quarters peeked in, entered, closed the door, and simultaneously walked to the forefront of the Admiral's desk. The marine saluted, the gesture returned by Villeneuve.

"Sire, Captain Magendie requests your presence. Admiral Gravina has ordered that intelligence be gathered to the best of generation," the soldier informed after returning to a resting position, "...and he also wishes the war council to reconvene when the fleets drops anchor."

"Thank you, Soldat. You are dismissed."

The marine saluted and embarked from the cabin, leaving Villeneuve to himself. He affixed his covers and proceeded to make way for the sterncastle. Magendie was already there to meet him.

"Ahh, Admiral, welcome back. Was your rest to your liking?" the captain said with a tone far too sincere in its demeanor.

"I have only been absent for a few minutes, Captain, and it has warranted me nothing but the apparent weakening of my bones. I shall be fine nonetheless. What did you have to say?"

"Right, Sire. I apologize for the intrusion. Notwithstanding, the situation has been identified by Admiral Graniva. He has sent the Argusto intercept with galley, and hopefully, without the necessity of interrogation, probe it's captain and crew about the strange circumstances. The brig has also transferred one of the Admiral's linguists into its quarters."

Villeneuve stopped to think. What could all of this possibly mean? Motioning for his spyglass, the French Admiral acted to observe the procession with an intensifying desire to get it all over with.

—x—X—x—

After some minutes of painful waiting, the Argus seemed to have returned from its task and, with a semaphore signal, passed the information they gave collected from the galley, which deviated from its original heading. It passed the French flagship, to return to its position.

"What's the news then, Captain?" the Admiral probed Magendie, eager to achieve the prospect of knowing their whereabouts. It should make chartering within the navigation room easier, after all.

"Sire..." the Captain of the Bucentaure set about with a nervous air to his words, "the Argus has said that the ship's name is the Blackbird, as translated by the linguist onboard. They asked the captain, an 'Old Tattersalt.' A strange name, though, but the strangest thing they found was that none of them, not even the Captain, could understand their maps. They know not of Canada, or for that reason, the presence of even North America."

Villeneuve, who had stood by the sterncastle in anticipation of a much compulsory report, twisted his brows into a disconcerted fashion, discouraged and furious that no good had at all come from their query. "No, that cannot be right. We're suppose to be far up north, near the Arctic. Where is Nova Scotia? If this is some elaborate ploy by the British..."

"They spoke English, Sire, according to the Argus, and they have given out that they belong to a 'Night's Watch.' No mention of the British colonies or America, in all essence. I fear they may be lying Sire, but that is down to their origin. The Blackbird claims to have hailed from the Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, a castle and port located, as indicates by the name, the eastern fringes of 'the Wall.'"

"The Wall? What in the good Lord's name is that?" Villeneuve responded in questioning.

"A barrier it seems, Sire, but not much detail was included in its description," the Captain answered, this time, a little calmer.

"Signal the Asturias, Captain, we need direction from Admiral Gravina on this matter," Villeneuve directed decisively, getting a salute from the Captain.

"Right away, Sire."

"Good."

A few more minutes of waiting and Villeneuve received his answer. "The reply from Admiral Gravina, Sire. He orders the fleet to maintain column, but under the guidance of the galley Blackbird, will follow said ship to it's port. He hopes that some more questions would be answered by the authorities there, so that the Combined forces may be on its way to the Caribbean."

"Very well. Delegate the new orders, Captain. France and Spain awaits our call," Villeneuve authorized with a patriotic fervor, something he had only felt since the Revolution.

"With haste, Admiral."

With the intricate and complex movements of flags, waved at the nearest ships, to and fro as the Bucantaure rode the wild waves, the frosted water wrangling with it's tar-covered substratum, the ports still closed, but ready to be used once combat came into sight. Progress was once again afoot as the Franco-Spanish Fleet made ready for the truth behind their disappearance from the aquatic extremities at the Cape of Trafalgar, where a fatal mistake would have spelt doom for the Emperor's plan to invade the damnable little island called Great Britain.

---

Benjen

A forceful gale swiftly passed the upper crevices of the great, ice barrier that stretched from one coast to another, literally connecting the Narrow and Sunset Seas with solid water. In a manner of speaking, it was true. Towards the foot of the Wall, and resting on the snowy ground, was a large open space clear of any trees and obstacles that may seek to impede upon the views from above. It was impertinent to spotting any wildlings, should they suddenly gather the necessary courage to brave the incalculable hail of arrows and bolts, as well as scale the Wall itself or storm the nine-inch solid oakwood gate that guarded the only tunnel through the massive structure.

Benjen Stark felt the breeze pass his black hair, touch the pale features of his face, and chill his very shoulders and bone. The bellowing wind blew back his black fur coat, dragging him backwards. Though, he resisted with great strength as the powerful breeze threatened to topple him into his back. It was a futile attempt by the weather to bring him down, for as long as he lives, be will stand to guard.

His watch had only began a little more than a decade ago. Now was not the time to drop dead like flies.

Its always been customary for a Stark to brood, to ponder and contemplate the circumstances that has led to this very moment in their life. To question their actions, thoughts, and behavior, and scrutinize every meticulous detail set before them, from the surrounding environment to people of close relation, from friends, families, enemies and allies. To judge everything they see from right and wrong and act upon their faith and belief. The virtues that made a Stark, well, a Stark. And now, he was rejoicing to an effect, as the tradition continues to be passed down, all the way from the Age of Heroes, and more specifically, the rise of Brandon the Builder as the first King of Winter. However, Benjen, like all others of the realm, were doubtful of such mythical prospects.

Brooding was not the only reason as to why he had arrived at the top of the Wall in the first place, to revel himself with the dilapidated state of wooden poles and supports and their roofless ceilings, to embrace the frost and snow as he struggled to absorb what little heat came from the torched and braziers. No. There was a far larger matter that, to some degree, concerned his duty as the First Ranger of the Night's Watch.

A few black brothers has disappeared on their way to investigate the trail. Intelligence has it that the wildlings, for some odd reason, has decided to leave their settlements near the Wall. It was problematic for the Night's Watch. Either something was coming, or the wildlings tribes plan on doing something. Whatever they were scheming, it did not bode well for the Wall or its protectors and mostly involuntary inhabitants and tenders. Villages have become deserted and desolate of life. There were fewer encounters. Fewer bloodshed. Indeed, an unknown has been stressing the conditions of the wild men.

The whereabouts of Will, Gared, and Ser Waymar Royce were currently unknown. Ever since there failure to report back as soon as they had finished their task, another dozen that ventured out into the tremendously gargantuan maze of trees, hills, and rocks that was the Haunted Forest had also disappeared with no clue as to where they might be. It has been a little less than a month since these string of disappearances had occurred.

Benjen, resolute and adamant in finding his lost brothers, had decided to search for them and lead a ranging north. Turning, with his greatcoat streaming from behind him, he maneuvered his way from the high corridors of the Wall's upper level, every so often greeted by other men of the Night's Watch, whom returned to their duties on the battlements, watching intently for any strange or foul play from below. He also passed by other faculties, including the warming shed next to a wooden crane, utilized by the Watch to haul supplies or raw material for repairs and maintenance.

Eventually, Benjen rounded the corner, coming upon an large iron cage, suspended seven-hundred feet in the air, overlooking the sprawling landmass that was the Gift, a parcel of territory given by the Starks and the Targaryens due to their high esteem in regards to the duty of the Night's Watch. For thousands of years the order stood, protecting the realm from the wildlings beyond the Wall. Fifty leagues did the Night's Watch domain extend southwards, to provide for the tax and supplies of Castle Black, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and the Shadow Tower. However, raids and constant pillaging by the 'Free folk' had rendered the rolling hills and forests, of which numerous holdfasts and villages called the Gift him, were left abandoned by its people, fearful for their lives and the well-being of their kin. Thus, the Gift barely provided for the Night's Watch and served no other purpose. With no one there to work the land or pay their share, the military order had resolved to depending upon the gracious donations of House Stark and willing noble houses.

Alternatively, a great switchback staircase anchored to the face of the Wall was an optional choice as a means of travel from the top and foot of the Wall, should the wince be unavailable at the time.

Benjen headed off and entered the iron cage, signaling the men below to lower it. The cage could hold ten men in the round trip scaling the face of the Wall, or their equivalent in goods, on many occasions, barrels of gravel. It was slow and agonizing, however, as the malevolent air would naught but torment you in your journey. It was a painstaking process that left one freezing whether they reached the bottom or the top, toppled with a lack of movement and feelings of claustrophobia. Attached to the winch apparatus, with great wooden beams embedded deep inside the frost scarping, the long iron chains uncoiled, rattling as it scraped across wood and ice, allowing the lift to begin its descent. In such a manner, the winch was powered with the strength of men, cranking the chain along a drum. No beast of burden had been used ever since. As to why, Benjen did not know. Must be the cold, and they fare better in the south. Cattle or oxen more certainly do not belong to the upper fringes of the North.

Then, he was closer to the place he now called home, so long as he lives and breathes. Castle Black, the ancient and main stronghold of the Night's Watch, is situated between the abandoned fortresses of Queensgate to the west and Oakenshield to the east. It was, for a very good reason, confined upon the center of the Wall, and connected to the northern end of the Kingsroad. Half a league down the route, the village of Mole's Town remains. Benjen himself had frequented the facilities provided by the settlement, and was amazed that it was not as deserted when he had first laid eyes upon it. Three-quarters of the village lie beneath ground in deep damp warm cellars and vaults connected by a warren of tunnels. Buildings above ground include a smithy, a stable and a small number of hovels with shuttered windows and wooden slats. A brothel exists within the caverns of Mole Town. It is said that brothers go to Mole's Town to dig for "buried treasure", euphemism for going to Mole's Town to drink, unwind and engage the services of whores.

To whore was to break their oaths, but that was the reality of the Night's Watch. No man can be celibate for the rest of his wives. The Lord Commander seemed to ignore it anyways, regardless of his earlier pleas so long ago, when he was but a inexperienced youth as he faced the true challenges when it came to manning the Wall. Naïvety played a major role in shaping his character and maturity over the Long Summer, and it has done him wonders.

The smallfolk there farm the land at the behest of the Watch, to provide for the village itself as well as the inhabitants of Castle Black, Eastwatch, and the Shadow Tower. As scarce as it is, it was sufficient in granting the black brothers much needed sustenance.

From the memories of Mole Town came the view over Castle Black, with its various stone towers, battlements, and timber keeps. It was no true castle, for it lacked protective ramparts to its west, south, and east. The layout enlarged through his vision as the winch and iron cage came to a halt, touching down upon the raised wooden platform that spilled over into the training yard, the main square of the fortress. New recruits and trainees filed into the yard, brandishing practice swords and lumber wasters to spar and fight against each other. The practice involved rigorous courses. At the end of the raised platform, the master-at-arms of Castle Black, Alliser Thorne, rested his hands upon the rotten railing. The man was quick to bark out commands, usually mixed with the usual vulgarity of battle-hardened warrior.

"You lot are the most miserable cunts I've ever seen. Put your arses into it!" Thorne echoed from his throat. His constant telling served only to agitate the men, and applied all that fury into their swings, thrusts, and dodges. Benjen pulled over to the master-at-arms, himself grinning.

"Ser Alliser, I see you're doing well in this fine morning," he greeted with as much courtesy as he could muster. The old man glanced at him with a look of utter indifference, and returned to whatever his eyes were busying themselves with.

"Lord Stark," Thorne remarked mockingly, the ever bitter and cold voice pervading Benjen's ears, "you finished brooding? Never thought you'd come back to the land of the living."

"I thought it time to distance myself from any further mental trappings. It can help with the cold, though," he replied. The huff from Thorne signified his wavering effort to continue the conversation. One of the men training fell on his buttocks, groaning loudly in the sudden pain.

The disgraced knight of the South, who served the former Mad King with a patriotic fervor and complete loyalty, turned and set about the stairs leading to the bare ground of gravel, dirt, and snow. Benjen followed suit.

"You fucking pansy! Get off your arse, now!" Thorne blared angrily, "Don't you know how to bloody parry? Seven hells..." The trainee was quick to get up as the master-at-arms continued his bombardment of insults, a vehement brutality within his eyes. Afterwards, the recruit resorted blind slashes, angered at the audacity of the older man to judge him.

"Instead of real men, we get thieves, robbers, and rapers. What a load of horse piss," the former knight complained, shaking his head, "they won't survive out there, even with you, Stark."

"We have to work with what we have, Alliser, there's no changing that. The Night's Watch has... fallen from grace, but it still lives," Benjen offered, "only in death will our watch end."

"Hmph."

"You don't sound too happy," Benjen surmised.

"I'm a pragmatic man, Lord Stark. I do not hope," replied Thorne, "Go, run along. I have my duties to attend to, and you have yours. The Lord Commander seeks your presence."

Without another word, Thorne parted and left Benjen to his own dealings. Relations with men such as Alliser Thorne was neutral at best, and at its very worst, deadly. A skilled swordsman and veteran such as he could bring down newer knights with ease and could be a threat to even the most experienced of soldiers in the realm.

He didn't waste any time, as he finally strutted away from the training yard and headed for the Lord Commander's Tower, one of the more distinguishable structures that made Castle Black such a unique fortress. The formidable monument served as the main quarters for the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, namely it's two top floors, while below were cells for other black others and an undervault, for captives and prisoners. He climbed several flights of stairs, slowly progressing to the top. Inside, torches emitted yellow hues against the dark and blackened halls, while windows along the walls provided some illumination from the dull light of the outside. Finally, he stopped at the solar's door, took a deep sigh, and advanced to knock on the door. A polite and customary gesture, yes, but a welcome one. Not many in the Night's Watch were educated in the intrigue and traditions of the court. Majority didn't even know how to read or write. It only enhanced his sense of dread towards the black brothers. There some fine men here, but then again, who could trust the promises of criminality.

His rapping of the door finished, the expected response to "Come in" arrived just as he had predicted, and Benjen motioned to open the enclosed frame.

The solar consisted of a plain oaken desk and chair, which was occupied by the Lord Commander himself, flanked by stone barriers and windows equipped with heavy drapes. A table stood in the center as well. Scrolls, manuscripts, and tomes were arranged on bookcases around the chambers. While bookkeeping was usually the task of the maester, it was also the responsibility of the Lord Commander to keep his own records. Most written knowledge, however, was still retained within the deep archives of Castle Black's subterranean library, which contained books and accounts even the Citadel did not have. An inner door resides in the far end of the room, separating the Lord Commander's study and sleeping cell.

Jeor Mormont, currently scratching away his feather quill, had his fur great coat mounted on the back of his chair. The atmosphere was silent and calm, and the room having a warmth that reminded him of the corridors of Winterfell. The candle stand's lit flame danced and flowed with a fluid movement, highly emphasizing upon the silence of the scene. Jeor remains an imposing figure in spite of his age, and most brothers hold him in great esteem. He has broad-shoulders and a stern gaze, having lost most of his hair save for his shaggy grey-white beard. Considered as a strong, resolute leader and a formidable battle commander, he was fearless in the face of adversity.

"Benjen. You've come. I wanted a word with you," the former head of House Mormont announced.

"As do I, Lord Commander. There is a matter of great importance, and I do hope you'll understand my intentions," the Stark retorted respectfully.

"Indeed."

The peace, however juxtaposed it may be to the Old Bear, was broken when a raven flew in and perched itself on window nearest to the desk. The avian, considered too large for it's species, had scruffy feathers, big black wings, and beady eyes. Eyes that held an ingenuity rare for such animals. The Lord Commander's pet bird had been a long time friend and reliable companion for the wizened leader of the Night's Watch. It is, after all, a clever bird. Perhaps too clever.

Oh.

It also spoke.

"Corn! Corn!" the raven screeched demandingly, which did little more than to annoy the Lord Commander. Much to both men's chagrin, the raven's voice was high pitched and it was a further irritation to the ear.

"Quiet down that racket," Jeor reciprocated, but that only encouraged the bird to nag him more. Finally relenting, the Lord Commander tossed some grain onto his desk. The creature happily bobbed up and down, hopping to the small mound of cereal. The older man's hands moved to give the bird several pets, in which it cawed, before he returned to the topic at hand. His face, as opposed to the cheery attitude he expressed when interacting with the long-time friend, dramatically transitioned to one of a serious note.

"Reports came in today," Lord Mormont began grimly, "...and it seems that our patrols have failed to find any sign of desertion. The lads found no trace of Ser Waymar, Will, or Gared. The Last Hearth, under our request, had also sent some sentries along the boundaries of the Gift. Lord Umber's efforts fruited no finds, however."

"So, they haven't deserted?" Benjen asked.

"As much as I doubt it, they are still out there in the forest, and we certainly don't know where they'll go."

Benjen released a deep breathe. They haven't deserted!He was happy that, at least, none of those purported to missing had used the opportunity to disappear south, never to return. Yet, he had the feeling that they were threatened by the wildlings and forced to join them. Or worse, they were killed without mercy, or even, left to die in the freezing cold with nothing but there breeches.

"That leaves their whereabouts beyond the Wall and conditions uncertain. We don't know if they're either dead, alive, captured, or defected," Benjen countered.

"And you want something done about it," the Old Bear offered almost immediately.

"Aye. They are honorable men. They deserve to be brought home, if any. Whatever their past crimes, whatever their inexperience, they have proved themselves as sworn brothers of the Night's Watch. I won't have them left out there."

"I can't say no to that. You have permission from me. But before that, there is another matter, this time of greater importance," the Lord Commander answered, "a raven from Winterfell has come to inform of us about King Robert's arrival."

Benjen knew where this was going. With the king's arrival in Winterfell, the Night's Watch had the most opportune moment to plea to the monarch to provide more support for the order and its efforts. Lord Mormont wanted someone there, perhaps even the Lord Commander himself, to represent the black brothers, and present the king with his case. It was perfect.

"Lord Stark has personally sent for his brother, Benjen. That would be you."

"Me?" Benjen asked, perplexed. "Why me? Would it not suit the occasion better that you attend the festivities, Lord Mormont?"

"Perhaps. But alas, Lord Stark has requested that you come. Stomach it Benjen."

"I suppose so. I'll make preparations immediately Lord Commander," Benjen decided. The sooner he left, the sooner he could come back and resume his duties. However deep and concentrated his devotion to the Night's Watch may be, there still lingers his longing for family. His father, mother, and brothers, and sweet Lyanna, all important. His nephews and nieces, just as much as significant to his mind, soul, and heart. He had made his visits, and after each one, he grew homesick in a sense, but was good in hiding it. The Wall was his home, but so is the rest of Winterfell and the North. He would protect his home.

His thoughts drifted to his nephew. Benjen, in all honesty, missed the 'bastard' son of his older brother the most. Regardless, the boy was a man now, he was sure, and all the more eager to join the sworn brothers since his last visit. Benjen thought it as a pity, to throw away one's life because of their status. He knew that Catelyn could have at least tried to be a mother figure to Lyanna's son. If she only knew.

Benjen knew about that whole debacle.

The forbidden love that split the Seven Kingdoms apart that killed his father and brother. The forbidden love that killed thousands of soldiers and smallfolk. The forbidden love that set about a fragile peace in the realm that could easily descend into chaos and war with a simple lie.

The Night's Watch provided him refuge from the petty squabbles of the southern kingdoms, and however that will play out with the affairs of the North. As much as he wanted to aid his brother, court intrigue did not captivate him in the slightest bit. Nor did answering and resolving the never ending problems of the smallfolk, bandits, and lower houses. The Others take them and their tomfoolery.

Jon needed to know soon, despite the lack of appreciable love and care in his life. Otherwise, he would all be wasting it away. He would not know the true meaning of family.

His train of thought ended, and compared to relative time, was but a quick flash in his mind that left as fast as it had came.

"I'll take my leave then, Lord Commander," he said.

"Do you duty well, First Ranger. The Watch counts on you."

As soon as he turned to leave and strolled to cross the doorway, he was blocked by the darkly robed and scrawny figure of Maester Aemon upon the entry, supported by one of his scribes.

"Ahh, First Ranger. I wasn't aware you were present right now. I'm pleased to see you this gentle morning," the hundred-year-old man greeted.

"And to you too, Maester Aemon. I was just leaving. Let me get out of your way."

The bald, wrinkled, shrunken, and blinded man shrugged off the surprise and motioned to enter as Benjen stepped aside for him and his aid to pass. Before he could leave, of course, the maester had already started on his report.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Maester Aemon?" the Lord Commander treated, while the still feeding raven roared with its beak in a similar manner of welcome.

"A letter from Cotter Pyke, my lord, from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."

"More reports? Have the wildlings attempted to sail their way around the Wall again?"

"I do not think it concerns wildlings, my lord. Something else different is afoot."

The Old Bear was handed a small sheet of rolled parchment. The man came to unfurl it and read upon its contents. When Benjen was already in the act of closing the door, Jeor interrupted.

"Benjen, I need you back here."

"Yes, Lord Commander?"

"Read it," he said, reaching out the parchment towards Benjen. The First Ranger of the Night's Watch recovered and ambled towards the forefront of the desk. He too opened the rolled parchment and carefully inspected the writing before him. A few seconds later, he set the message on the table, unable to discern the meaning behind strange words and names.

"Who in the name of the Old Gods and the New is the Combined Fleet?" He asked, but got nothing as Lord Mormont only stared off into the distance, unable to make sense of the provided words.

A silence came upon them.

This changes everything.

AN: I haven't been answering reviews for some time, and I've lost track. However, I'm still open to suggestions and/or questions regarding the narrative. Thank you for reading!