Year 295 After the Conquest
Ygritte should've realised what they were doing was bloody stupid after seeing the city for the first time.
It was a blight upon the world, a terrible scar in the face of the icy earth, the air thick with the smoke and steam of the steel god at its heart. She hadn't gone the first time, with Mance Rayder, but the stories of all those who returned convinced her to go when Rattleshirt called for his warband. Her, and by the looks of things, many others.
After all, who didn't want to see this god of fire and steel that this city worshipped?
Rattleshirt was convinced he could take the city for himself, and never live in fear of the cold anymore. He convinced many others too, that all they needed was to kill this Captain and the city would submit. They covered themselves in furs and hide over their armours, and blended into the rest of the crowd as they approached the crater, ready to sneak into the city.
They shuffled like sheep towards the cage landings, herded by at least a dozen guards holding strange shortspears. The lanterns on their chests shone with a harsh light as they shoved anyone trying to leave back into the line. To their left, Ygritte spotted the metal skeleton of a massive construction, workers straddling steel rafters with masks and… doing something. All she could make out was that horrible screeching of metal and the shower of sparks raining to the snow.
"That wasn't there before," Ryk muttered.
"What wasn't?" she asked.
"That," he pointed, then moved his finger, "And that."
Ygritte followed his attention, and found the pipes climbing up the sides of the crater walls like snakes. There was another cage on the opposite side of the pit, and she wondered why they couldn't use that to get down too.
"The last time, the cages weren't very big," said Ryk, "Maybe they're making them larger, or making new ones."
"How did they even create this pit?" Ygritte asked.
Ryk shrugged, "Some fire devilry."
"Shut your flappy traps, the both you," Rattleshirt growled, "Don't draw any attention."
Ygritte rolled her eyes.
"Alright ladies and gentlemen!" a man climbed onto the roof of the landing cabin, holding some device that loudened his voice over the winds, "My name's Charlie Richman, and I'm the one in charge of you sorry wretches! One you step onto the cages, you are entering the city of New London, you must follow our rules! Now, they are all very simple! No stealing or assaulting, don't make a public nuisance - basically, don't be a bloody asshole!"
"If you are only visiting, you cannot stay longer than seven days! If you break our laws, we'll kick you out of the city!" he announced, "If you are intending to stay, you will be treated as citizens of the British Empire! Break our laws, and we'll throw you in the bloody slammer! Do something really stupid, and we'll feed you to the Generator!"
The Generator. Was that the name of that thing? As if in response, a massive plume of steam roared out of the monster's iron jaws, sending a wave of heat rippling outwards and melting the snow at their feet.
"Make yourselves in groups of ten!" Charlie Richman shouted, "Carefully now, you'll be living with them for the foreseeable future! Once you get that, come forward!"
There were twenty of them, Ygritte thought, twenty raiders who followed Rattleshirt to this city called New London. Already, the first free folk were walking forwards, stopping to say their names and surrendering any weapons. These London folk wanted to lord over them, they wanted the free folk to bend the knee to their British Empire.
She wondered if they were all like this south of the Wall.
In front of them, Rattleshirt was stopped by a guard.
"Name?"
"Lord o' Bones."
The guard snorted, "Nobody's going to be calling you that, mate. Where'd you from?"
"What's it to you?"
"Figured," the guard marked something down in a little book, "Doesn't look like you got weapons on you. Do you?"
"No."
"Don't make any trouble. In you go," the guard shoved him into the cabin, "Next!"
"Our turn," Ryk muttered.
Ygritte and Ryk walked forward, and she noticed a pile of spears half buried in the snow off to the side.
"Name."
"Ygritte. This is Ryk."
"Where'd you from?"
She shared a look with Ryk. They were from the same village, but it was a sorry thing and was never named. Not many villages were named. There wasn't any point in giving them one.
"We're from the same village," Ryk said, "It didn't have a name. Likely long gone by now."
"Sorry to hear that," the guard drawled, "Any weapons on you?"
Ygritte had a knife tucked into her belt, under her furs.
"No," she said.
"Don't make any trouble. In you go."
Ygritte started forward before she could be pushed. The moment she walked into the cabin, a blast of warmth swept over her, chasing the cold away. It was empty save for a single man standing over an odd panel of levers. He wore a coat with a red-black ribbon around his left arm.
They waited in awkward silence for a moment, before an iron cage appeared from below and moved towards the platform. They stepped onto it warily, feeling it swing under their feet. The next person entered the cabin, letting in a wave of cold air.
"Do you know why we didn't search you for weapons?" the man operating the cage asked.
Ygritte struggled to keep her expression under control.
"It's so when you barbarians do something stupid," he continued as the next person entered, "We can kill you off immediately. If you folk can't be trusted to be honest, you can't be trusted to reflect on your actions in prison."
The fifth person stepped into the cage, silent as a tree.
The man glanced at them, revealing a suspicious glare, "Welcome to New London, free folk. If you want to be respected, you will have to give up some of that freedom."
He pulled down the lever, and the cage began to descend. Ygritte's stomach clenched as she repeated his words in her head, only feeling her uneasiness rise. Just what were they getting into? This wasn't just any raid.
Ryk nudged her, "Ygritte, look."
She turned around, and felt her breath catch in her throat. The Generator rose like a monolith, its dull roar heard like the thunderhead of an incoming storm. A choking haze cradled the city, the sooty odour of burning fires invading her nose. The city was built in rings wrapping around the Generator, creating canyons of timberwork that gutted through the plateau of rooftops. The snows on their furs began to melt, seeping into their clothes and wetting the air they breathed.
Then, the cage shuddered to a stop, and Ygritte was the first out into the cabin landing. She took a breath, relieved at escaping the cramped cage.
"You catching a piss in there!?" there was banging on the door, "Get out, you sorry twats!"
Ygritte stumbled through the doorway, and was immediately captured by a man grabbing her shoulders. Before she could even put up the effort to struggle, he had twisted her in a direction and shoved her forward.
"Keep walking, and don't stray off the path!"
Overwhelmed by the noise, the smell, and everything, she could only numbly follow their orders, cheeks burning in humiliation.
"Rattleshirt's plan ain't going to work," Ryk muttered in her ear as he caught up.
"What?"
"Look up," he whispered, "Don't make it obvious."
Ygritte met his eyes, then tilted her head to make it as if she was admiring the buildings - and she was. She had never seen constructions so tall or so sturdy, each like a block unmoving before the elements. Heat seemed to emanate from every crook and crevice, and spumes of steam hissed from beneath her feet and from the serpentine pipes snaking along the walkways and across the walls.
Were all southron houses like this? But this isn't the south, another voice told her, this is north of the Wall. An empire, north of the Wall. She did not believe it.
Then, she found what Ryk was talking about.
Watchtowers. Rising above the clutter of the city to the heights of the sky, stern beams of false sunrays scouring the streets of the city and burning the dark places away. Ygritte felt the golden blot of light pass over her, heating up the top of her head as it raked along the street and carved away a line in what little snow-powder had layered on.
And high above in the sky, round paunches floated in the air, tied down by chains and ropes. The highest of them was little more than a small blotch upon the blue vastness, intermittently flashing with light.
They were being watched.
"You lot with that funny Lord of Bones fellow!?" a woman marched up to them.
"Aye," Ryk said, "We are."
"When you reach the plaza, stick to the right 'til the next exit," she said, "Don't loiter. And if you see an automaton coming, for the love of God just give way. On you go."
Thrusted forward once more, they were suddenly swept along by an outpour of New Londoners emerging from a towering building buzzing with strange engines. She could only walk along with them, their chest-lanterns hazing the spots in her eyes. And then they were vomited out into the plaza.
The roar was in her ears, and she stared up at the thing. The so-called god. Ygritte resisted the urge to peel off a layer, feeling rivulets of sweat trickle down her temples. She spotted several free folk women and children kneeling before the Generator, as if praying. This was a god?
She could believe it.
Ygritte stood in the shadow of the beating heart of an unknowable beast of flame and steel, and she felt no greater than an ant.
A group of soldiers in drab coats - all with that red-black band around their arms - marched in like a storm, kicking the free folk women to their feet and shouting for them to stand and move. Ygritte felt her blood bubble into a rage. Just who did these empire-folk think they were!? Her hand moved to the knife beneath her furs - only for Ryk to snatch her arm, holding it in place.
"I know what you want to do, Ygritte," he hissed, "But don't. Not now. They're watching."
Ygritte glanced at the corner of her eye, and saw all the workers from earlier taking in the scene with an air of somberness. Their faces were pallid and marred with soot, skin as lifeless as stone. There were women among them, and even children, peeking from behind the adults.
They hold themselves like slaves. Are we going to be like them too?
No, a voice told her. We're going to take this city, then Mance can use it as a stronghold against the Others.
She let Ryk drag her away, eyes fixed on the free folk being thrown to their feet and shooed away like insects. All while the empire-folk watched and did nothing, dead on their feet. It was more of the same everywhere. The same blocky houses standing stark against the wind, exact copies of each other, everywhere. It was the same watchtowers and their piercing sunrays, sweeping across the city. It was the same people, the same sallow faces and dark eyes, trudging along the wet roads.
It was all so… bleak. There wasn't the wind through their hair or the singing of the birds, the bright snows that seem to light up the world or the sun that cradled with its warmth. Only smoke and ash, the lifeless lights and unnatural warmth. A dull howl of inhuman beasts and metal monsters. The southrons believe in seven hells, Ygritte believed this must be one of them.
They found their house easily, thanks to a guide holding a list pointing the way. Another list, these empire-folk really seemed to like their lists.
"Look at his place," Ryk muttered as they entered the building, "It's like a manse."
The space was vast, the landing leading to large common space. Buzzing yellow lights dimly lit up the house, flies swarming around them. There was even a staircase to a second floor. A second floor! And how'd they do that?
"Look at this!" Ragwyle laughed, "Silver spoons! Silver knives! And metal bowls and plates! What kind of fancy shit do they eat with these things!? You could wear this as armour! It'll be more useful than Rattleshirt's bony drab!"
"In here!" Lenyl's muffled voice reached them, "They've got pelt beds!"
Ygritte walked past Ragwyle admiring the kitchen space and into a hallway that had five doors, one ajar. Lenyl was inside that one, and she found him lying spread eagle on a fur bed.
He grinned at her, sitting up, "Look at this!"
Lenyl bounced up at down, and the bed squeaked, rebounding, "How'd they do that?"
Fire devilry, Ryk's voice echoes in her head, though there wasn't much fire here.
"There's a fucking bed for each of us!" Ragwyle cried gleefully, "We'll be sleeping like kings!"
Each room had its own bed!? It was cold, in the wild, and free folk huddled together in the same tents for warmth. Those who did not share could afford to swaddle themselves like babes under thick furs. Why were all the empire-folk so grim, if they lived in such luxury like this?
"Where's Rattleshirt?" Ygritte asked.
"Upstairs," Lenyl scoffed, "Claimed it all for himself. Like I fucking care, this room s'already better than sleeping in some tent."
There was a knock on the door outside, and Ygritte left the bedchamber to investigate. Ryk was standing in the common room, watching the closed door, but not moving. Ragwyle and Lenyl emerged as well, standing quietly.
The door was knocked again.
Why don't they just enter?
"...Come in!" Ygritte called.
A pause - and then the door creaked open, revealing a neatly dressed woman with a hawkish face and two large men behind her. She stepped across the threshold with all the grace of a shadowcat, sharp eyes scanning their faces.
"Greetings," her voice matched her face, sober with an edge that spoke of impatience for frivolity, "Is there one Lord of Bones here?"
Ygritte's blood froze, despite the almost sweltering temperature in the house. She had been so awed by the city she had forgotten their purpose here - or of all the warnings the empire-folk had given them. And from the looks, that sentiment was shared across all four of them. Rattleshirt was upstairs, she remembered.
"...And who're you?" Ragwyle demanded.
"My name is Isabella Bird," the woman said, "I oversee almost all matters in New London. And I have been informed by Mister Mance Rayder that there is a troublemaker among your group who is prone to delinquency. After a fact, he appears to go by the Lord of Bones."
Mance did!? Ygritte struggled to hide her disbelief. Didn't they leave in secret as well? Mance couldn't have realised until it was too late - or knew from the moment they left, and informed New London immediately. But how could he? Did he send a horseman? If he did, none of them saw the messenger pass by.
And why would he tell New London in the first place?
She did not understand.
"So?" the Bird prodded, "Is he here?"
"He ain't," Ryk lied, and Ygritte prayed that the sod Rattleshirt didn't traipse down the stairs now, "We haven't seen 'im since we entered the city. You can find him easily, he always wears that bone armour of his that clatters whenever he walks."
Isabella the Bird scribbled something down before snapping her book shut. Books! She heard of them from Mance, but she never imagined she would find one north of the Wall.
"Do any of you know how to read?"
Why aren't they leaving? Ygritte cringed.
"No," Ryk said hastily.
One of the men behind the Bird snorted.
"I figured," Isabella sighed, before producing ten slips of paper, "If you wish to be a citizen of the British Empire, you must prove yourself useful to society. Delinquency will not be tolerated, tardiness will not be tolerated, indiscipline will not be tolerated. These are your timecards."
She placed the pieces of paper on the table.
"Since you cannot read, I will brief you," she carried on, to their collective impatience, "Tomorrow, you will decide on a sector to work in at the plaza. There is the Engineer Corps, the Hunter Corps, and the Scout Corps. You may also decide to join the cooks, physicians, and clerks. You may not know what they entail, but you will know tomorrow."
"You will work in that sector for one week, on probation, where they will teach you how to read, write, and understand both the laws of New London and how to operate your new job. If you decide it is not for you, you may restart your probation in another sector. Those timecards on the table have your names on them, keep them safe. From now until you decide to leave New London for good, they are your life."
"This house belongs to all ten people who live here, and we will not interfere with your arrangements. You are entitled to three square meals a day from the cookhouse, and access to the public house after working hours. You are also entitled to healthcare if needed. If you feel ill in any way, dispatch yourself to an infirmary immediately," Isabella Bird tipped her head, "Good day to you, and welcome to New London."
The woman turned on her heel and marched out of the house, her cronies right behind her. Rattleshirt finally emerged from the flight of stairs, stripped of his bones and only wearing his boiled leather jerkin.
"Is that whiny bitch gone?"
Ygritte felt a pit settle in her stomach. She had a feeling they had gotten much more than they had bargained for.