A/N: Thanks for the support

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

Twenty-One

Robb:

The Oakhearts proved to be generous hosts. The wine flowed freely, and the food was plentiful.

Robb sat at a place of honor on the dais at the lord's table. It was made from a single great oak, split in half, legend goes, by John the Oak, with some claiming he ripped it in two with his bare hands. Beside him sat Arwyn Oakheart, the Lady of Old Oak on her other side sat her sons, Eladon, Thoren, and Arys.

Old Oak's great hall was filled with round tables that varied in sizes, sitting from eight to two dozen men. They were made to resemble tree trunks. Garlands of colorful flowers were strewn above their heads like a spider's web, emitting sweet floral scents that hung in the air. Robb was certain he saw a songbird or two fluttering around, a trill following as they rested and perched up above in the greenery that hung from the thick wooden beams like tapestries.

He had the new Lord of Casterly Rock to thank for Robb being here. It was Lord Tyrion who thought to reach out to the Reach. His uncle, Ser Stafford had told him that Oakheart and Rowan lands were well defended. Both families had kept a large portion of their levies with them instead of sending them to the capital.

"And who should send the letter to them?" Robb had remembered asking, when Tyrion had suggested it. He doubted a letter bearing the seal of either Stark or Lannister would be warmly received at Old Oak.

Lord Tyrion had smiled. "We have the perfect messenger."

Ser Arys Oakheart, Robb had felt foolish for forgetting about the kingsguard knight who now served King Stannis. Ser Arys sent a letter to his mother, the Lady of Old Oak while Robb sent one to their king knowing it would be unwise to move forward without clear orders from Stannis.

Lady Arwyn's letter came first. Robb remembered it well, coy and blithering. But not to Lord Tyrion, he had been impressed at how the Lannister was able to read words that were not there and meanings that were not said in ink. And then the king's letter arrived. Despite his previous success, he was still surprised to learn that Stannis had permitted him to move forward. Giving him the authority to negotiate for the Crown.

Robb was determined not to squander that trust.

There had been some instructions left by the king on what Robb could potentially give to allies, but also what could not be promised. Regardless, it was enough for Lord Tyrion to act. Armed with this information, an exchange of letters went back and forth between Casterly Rock and Old Oak. Some battles are won with swords, and spears Lannister had said, others with quills and ravens.

Not wanting to feel useless, Robb busied himself with maps in case the Lannister's negotiating fell through. He was consulted on the letters to make sure there were no false promises or claims offered to their potential allies, but he rarely contributed to the actual letters. He threw himself into the martial tasks. Going over the numbers of men they now had, supplies they'd need, the lands of the Reach, what to expect from their enemies if or when or where they found each other across the battlefield.

Lord Tyrion had welcomed him into his solar to do his planning. He was even more grateful when the Lord of Casterly Rock did not speak on the absence in the castle. Her parting had hurt, and in some ways, their brief time only exacerbated that pain. Feeling her skin against his, holding her, loving her, the thoughts and memories falling onto each other without order. It is done, he'd remind himself, she was gone.

"Are you betrothed, Lord Robb?" asked the lady who sat on his other side.

A flicker of green eyes and golden hair passed before him. "I am not." He was back at Old Oak, no longer lost in the memories at Casterly Rock.

Lady Bethany Rowan was a handsome woman with streaks of grey in her auburn hair. It was strange to find himself sitting beside her, knowing that he may have called her Aunt Bethany had Uncle Brynden married her all those years ago. But he hadn't . The Blackfish was absent from tonight's feast. He had gone south with a few scouts wanting to become familiar with the lands before they marched. That he made the decision after it was announced of the Rowans' coming to Old Oak, Robb noticed, but didn't say aloud.

In writing to Old Oak, they had learned that the Rowans too had become wary of the Tyrells' blatant ambition. With Stannis' allies only swelling with the inclusion of the Westerlands and now Dorne. The latter had surprised Robb, unsure how the king had gotten them, especially given the history between the two houses. Lord Tyrion had supplied his thoughts on the matter: believing Princess Shireen had been promised to one of the Dornish princes. Regardless of how it came to be and with the rumors of the Vale stirring, the Rowans and Oakhearts saw an opportunity.

And Lord Tyrion brought it and them altogether. Robb suspected had Stannis' list of allies remained thin, they likely would have stayed loyal to the Tyrells and Renly. Instead, they swore to Stannis, Lady Rowan's second daughter would be marrying Lady Oakheart's second son. They would form a new house and be given a prestigious seat in the Reach while also granting the two families large tracts of land that would be taken by families who followed Renly.

Her freckled face creased in surprise by his answer, but he saw the flickering glint in her blue eyes, he braced himself for what was to follow. "You must meet my daughter," She insisted, "I knew I should've brought her with me from Golden Grove." her tone thickened with disappointment. "She has great hips, and our maester agrees. She'll be able to give you many children, strong sons and pretty daughters," flashing him a smile, "She's a pious girl who I'm sure will please you."

Lord Tyrion was the one to rescue him. "Lord Robb and his family follow the old gods, Lady Bethany. Your pious d aughter would be as useful to them as nipples on a breastplate."

Robb snorted but covered his mirth by feigning a cough. Bethany was not amused. She sniffed, a haughty sound, but Lord Tyrion merely smiled back, beside him sat his cousin, Ser Daven, who chuckled. Another Lannister, Robb found himself liking, much to his surprise. The Lannisters' seats were only separated by Lady Bethany and her daughter. The latter excused herself so she could dance with her newly announced betrothed.

That was when Lady Arwyn wisely suggested that Robb and Lady Bethany switch seats, allowing the two Reach noblewomen to converse about the pending wedding.

"To be handsome, young, and the heir to a great house," Tyrion gave an exaggerated sigh when Robb took his new seat, "You have my condolences, Stark."

Robb smiled, having grown used to the Lannister's japes, and even beginning to like some of them. "And you have mine as well, Lannister." Robb reached for the bottle in front of him, first refilling the Lannisters and then his own cup.

"Alas, I have only been blessed with two."

"The handsome hair?" Daven asked, face flushed from wine. He then laughed, realizing his mistake, fumbling to correct himself. "I mean the handsome heir."

He missed Lord Tyrion's reply, lost in the tumult of music and laughter from one of the tables below. The booming laugh was all too familiar for Robb, looking down to see Smalljon Umber had a half dozen empty tankards in front of him. He was flanked by Lord Halys and Lady Maege, across from the northern lords were young knights of the Reach, who Robb didn't recognize, but the game he did. Spotting less tankards on the knights side, he couldn't help but smile, nearly pitying them for what they had gotten themselves into.

It did please him to see his men sitting and conversing with those who were once their enemies. At other tables he saw riverlords mingling with other northern lords, as well as with the lords and knights of the West and Reach. Former enemies turned allies, it made for a difficult balance for Robb, the various kingdoms under his command. His youth only added to it, but his victories over the western nobles had helped to earn some respect from them. There was still tension and bickering, but it had cooled these past few weeks.

As commander of the armies, he remained vigilant. He made sure to ride with a different lord each day during the march and sup with a different one at each meal. It's important that they know me, Robb thought his father would do the same, and for me to hear them. This morning, he had broken his fast with Lord Roland Crakehall, knowing him a warrior with experience, he asked many questions, which Crakehall was happy to answer. He did not see Lord Crakehall at one of the nearby tables, but he did see one of his sons, Ser Lyle Crakehall, who was known as Strongboar.

An apt name, Robb thought, watching the large knight make his way to Smalljon's table. He felt a cold tinge of apprehension when the table quieted and Smalljon rose from his seat. The table that separated the two big men, seemed as small as a stool.

"Took you long enough," Smalljon said excitedly, breaking the silence. He sat back down before pointing to the empty seats that the Reach knights had vacated. One was lying on his back on the ground. The other two were holding each other up, wobbling with pale faces, struggling to make an exit.

Strongboar laughed, before taking a seat while a grinning Maege filled up the tankards.

"Was I the only one who thought that was about to get messy?" Lord Tyrion asked, just then the knight on the ground retched, " Messier ," he amended with a smile.

Betrothed, Riverrun, Royce.

The words from his mother's letter congealed in his mind. The rest of the lines were blurs to him. A fresh batch of letters had come to Old Oaks from Casterly Rock, letters that would have been unable to reach him during his march first through the Westerlands and then into the lands of the northern Reach.

I'm to be married. Something inside his chest tightened. He read on, ignoring it, focusing on his new betrothed. The Lady Ysilla, daughter of Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone. His mother then wrote about her good character and her family's reputation, but he knew these were father's words. He unfairly passed over those sentences to see the other word that had stuck with him on his first read.

She is traveling to Riverrun. Mother wrote, adding she'd begin lessons with Mother on Winterfell's household and the duties expected of its Lady. The betrothal announcement should not have surprised him, he expected as much. His father had told him before they separated that there would be discussions if needed.

But that didn't stop me, Robb saw the tumble of golden curls fan over the pillow, from lying with her, with loving her. He sighed, folding the letter, and wishing he could just as easily fold those memories. He'd read the rest of it and the other letters later, doubting, he'd miss anything of equal importance if he put them aside until evenfall.

"Are you lost, Lord Robb?"

The soft voice of Lord Bolton went down Robb's back like ice water. "No," he lied, he had gotten distracted in his reverie, and blinking in his new surroundings, he found himself unsure where he was within this unfamiliar castle. They were in a corridor, its walls draped with tapestries, one of which the Lord of Dreadfort was standing in front of.

"The red is vivid," Lord Bolton didn't turn to face him. That particular tapestry had captured a frenzied scene of fighting between Oakhearts and Dornishmen. It was awash with colors, but the only red was in one particular spot where a dornish soldier had been speared by a lethal thrust from an Oakheart knight. The red was bright against the brown and green backdrop. There were other soldiers in the tapestry, fighting, and dying, wounded or dead, but there was no red. Only there.

"We have many decorations at the Dreadfort depicting our own victories throughout the ages," Bolton remarked, "Though not all have been captured on fine cloths such as these." He then turned to face Robb, his hands were clasped in front of him. He was holding something. He must have sensed Robb's gaze, since he raised them to show his own bundle of letters. "From my son at Winterfell, and his wife, Lady Bolton."

Sansa, Robb still found it strange to hear those words used to describe his sister. Even knowing for years that it was to happen, and even after her marrying Domeric months ago. It still took him a heartbeat or more to puzzle it out, to remember. "Are they well?"

"Hopefully, she is pregnant," was all Lord Bolton said, conveying his own interests. "One Bolton marching on the Wall to defend the north while another rules from Winterfell," Bolton observed, a touch of something lurked behind those pale eyes. The smallest twist of his mouth, "I wonder what your ancestors would say had they been told of such things."

Did we lose the north? Robb suspected, knowing of the bitter and bloody rivalry between his family and the Boltons. He knew differently. He trusted his sister. He trusted his friend. Before he could give his answer, a new voice joined them, it was his uncle.

"Robb," Ser Brynden strided over to Robb, coming up from behind. "Lord Bolton," he said when he was at Robb's side.

Bolton inclined his head to him before turning his gaze back towards Robb. "Until this evening," he excused himself.

"Where have you been?" His uncle waited until the retreating footsteps of Lord Bolton were no more.

"I went to retrieve my letters," he held up his batch of letters, only one had been opened. "Did you just return?"

Brynden nodded, but he was more interested in what Robb had learned from the letters than his own reports.

"I'm betrothed, uncle," Robb said dully. He tried to ignore the lump in his stomach when repeating the news.

"Oh?" Uncle Brynden raised a bushy eyebrow, "And who is she?"

"Ysilla Royce."

"Lord Yohn's daughter?" recognition flashed in his deep blue eyes,

"You know her?" This stranger who's to become my wife.

"Yes," He confirmed, "During my time in the Vale, I saw her a few times."

"What is she like?" His mother left no description of her in her letter. Homely or comely, he knew it did not matter, resigned to his duty to marry her for the good of his family and the Seven Kingdoms.

To his surprise, his uncle seemed caught off guard by the question. "She's pretty," he tried to rally, but there was no confidence in his voice, only uncertainty. "With her ah hair, and eyes," He gave no color for either, "And nose."

Robb cut off his uncle with a laugh, welcoming the mirth that dispelled his gnawing nerves.

His uncle had the good sense to smile. "That terrible?"

"You were drowning, Uncle," Robb grinned. Amused at how well his uncle could expertly scout lands and armies, but ask him after a maiden, and he's flailing.

"And a Tully, no less," Brynden replied dryly.

He was tempted to ask his uncle about his infamous betrothal. The rejection of it. Did you regret it, Uncle? But the moment shattered when his uncle spoke.

"Was there anything else in Cat's letter?"

Robb nodded, taking a second to retrieve it. He skipped what he already knew and then. Oh, he looked up from the letter, still trying to process what he just learned. "Mother's pregnant."

Colmar:

Mercy?

That had not been what he was expecting when the wildling was brought forward to Lord Domeric.

The wildling presented himself proudly before them despite being bound and flanked by two stern looking Bolton men. His posture would have been commended by the stiffest of lords. He clearly saw himself the better of the men who had gathered around him.

When Lord Domeric had been told of the captured wildling, Colmar had been with him. He steeled himself, remembering how he handled the band of wildlings before the Harvest Feast. The wildling had refused to give his name or his purpose. His name would be challenging to guess, his purpose not so much. A scout, Colmar thought it was obvious, to shadow our forces. Lady had been the one to find him. The large direwolf's presence seemed to be the only thing that affected the wildling. But even then it was a brief flicker of fear passing his face before he collected himself, looking more like their overlord instead of their prisoner.

"You will be fed and looked after."

"You'd have me on my knees," The wildling bristled, insulted at the mere suggestion.

"You'd be alive," His face was stone when he looked at the captured wildling. "Once the matter with Mance is sorted out, you'd be free."

Colmar knew the wildling had considered the offer for all of a heartbeat before sneering at it. He suspected Domeric knew as well, but still he continued, with what felt and looked to be a farce. Just as I think I know the cold and distant lord, he thought of his folly, Lord Domeric surprises me.

"What is your answer?" He asked politely.

The wildling spat at Lord Domeric's feet, earning a rippling of anger from the gathered Bolton men, and a vicious snarl from Lady. The only one who didn't react was Lord Domeric. "Very well," he sounded almost bored.

The order made the wildling raise his chin defiantly. "Better to die on my feet than live on my knees."

"Except you won't be on your feet," Lord Domeric pointed out with a grim smile. The two Bolton men forced him to his knees. A block had been fetched and was put in front of the wildling. When Lord Domeric was given his ax, he asked, "Any last words?"

"Mance is coming," the wildling exclaimed, a glint in his eyes, "with the largest army you kneelers have ever seen. He'll take the Wall-"

And then Lord Domeric took his head.

"It's impossible, my lord."

Colmar paused where he stood. He had been summoned by Lord Domeric, but as he neared the pale red tent, he heard hushed voices coming from inside. He easily recognized them, the one who had just spoken was Captain Rylen.

"It is not," that was Lord Domeric's.

"A man of the Watch," murmured Bitter, but Colmar couldn't hear the rest of what he had to say.

"He's sworn no vows," Lord Domeric replied coldly.

The recruits, understanding what they were talking about. Men from White Harbor and Hornwood had joined with their levies on the march north, and with them had come recruits from the Night's Watch. Most had come from the cells of the northern city, or amidst the poor and desperate, Colmar remembered it had been Tarly who had spoken with the Lord of White Harbor to get more recruits and supplies during the Harvest feast at Winterfell. Joining those recruits were a few from the capital, sent to the Wall when the Lannisters still ruled the city. They were not an impressive lot.

Out of the recruits from King's Landing, only two stood out in Colmar's mind. One, because of the manner he insisted he was innocent of his crimes. It wasn't me, he'd say to any who would listen, it was the one armed man. He did it! This claim only earned laughter from his bored audience. The other was a round and proud man, who thought himself a lord, but he quieted when Lord Domeric introduced himself as the good son of Lord Eddard Stark.

He had paled. His jowls twitching, "Janos Slynt served the Iron Throne," he said of himself, "And now you will serve it on the Wall," Lord Domeric had said, as cold as the supposed ice that made up the Wall.

All of them were now put under the command of a wandering crow named Yoren. His group came to Winterfell right before their forces were to march on the Wall. His initial group was filled with more young men, then the new lot, but they still made for a sad sight.

I should move around the edge of the tent, Colmar told himself, knowing he was partially concealed in this spot by the Bolton guards on duty. I need to announce myself, but his feet wouldn't budge. Once I do, they'll stop speaking. In that foolish moment his curiosity overruled his caution.

"Have him watched," Lord Domeric ordered, "Discreetly."

"Yes, m'lord," it was Bitter who replied. "I'll see to the men myself."

"Good," Lord Domeric sounded pleased, "After all there is no harm in watching him, captain."

Cold and vast.

Colmar thought those were the most fitting words to use to describe the north.

He shivered inside his bedroll. He could hear the cold winds howling outside, could see the flecks of snow powdering his tent. After a harsh gust, it was his tent that shivered, but it remained standing. He grabbed his thick winter cloak, a gift from Lady Sansa, tossing it atop his bedroll.

They had been marching for nearly two weeks, but they were still days away from the Wall. In the far distance, Colmar had thought he could see the Wall, winking back at him, but he was not certain. A mirage on the horizon? He knew the Wall was seven hundred feet tall, so he could be seeing it. Unless, the word stayed with him for a beat, We're still too far away. He sighed, cold and vast , he repeated, thinking about his new home.

Thoughts of his home directed him to thoughts of her . He worried it could be months before he saw her again. If it took more than a fortnight to just reach the Wall, they'd have to leave less than a sennight to have a chance of returning to Winterfell inside a moon's turn.

Lord Domeric had sent scouts ahead. Hoping to get an idea of what would be waiting for them as they drew supposedly closer to the Wall. Colmar could not help but remember the wildling's words before he was killed. Speaking of his king's vast army and how it would be waiting for them at the Wall before they arrived. No, he shook the thought away, that will not happen.

Still, Mance's army would be there, regardless of what side of the Wall it was on. He doubted the wildling king would be considerate enough to disperse his army so Colmar could return to his wife. Months, the word settled heavily on his heart. It will be months.

He rolled over onto his side. This is where Jeyne would lay, thinking back to their chambers at Winterfell, thinking back to her.

"I have something for you," she said to him the day he was setting out with Lord Domeric. She was holding out a pair of thick brown gloves for him. "They're for you."

Once more he was amazed at how kind and thoughtful his wife was, and how grateful he was to be able to call Jeyne, wife. "Thank you," he took them from her, noticing a shyness in her countenance. Inspecting them, they looked worn by time and use. "Did you make these?"

"I did," she answered with downcast eyes. "They're my father's. He did not take them with him when we went south-"

"Jeyne," he comforted his wife, she trembled in his grip. He wanted to be able to protect her from this. The past that still haunted her. Her father's death, her capture by rough Lannister soldiers, her brief imprisonment.

"We talked about the gloves," she hiccuped, her face buried in his coat, "He had said that if he needed to bring gloves with him to the capital then winter was surely upon them, and we'd have greater worries then cold fingers."

Her father's death was a raw wound that had trouble healing, but part of him suspected there would always be some scar. A reminder of his wife's trials in the south. In a few weeks, his wife endured countless tragedies that would have broken others, but not his Jeyne, she was strong. He said as much to her, in a soothing voice, telling her "The Mother made you so," because he knew it to be true.

Thinking of the gloves, and of his wife, Colmar reached for where he had pulled them off when he retired to his tent. They were warm and snug, not a perfect fit, but he did not care. He put them on, and sleep soon followed.

The Wall had not fallen like the bold wildling had predicted, but there still had been hundreds of them attacking Castle Black when Lord Domeric and their forces arrived. With no walls south of the Night Watch castle, they were able to fall hard on the wildlings, cutting them down, but not without taking some losses of their own.

Not many, Colmar thought more of the Watch who had been fighting the wildlings before their arrival. He hadn't recognized the names of their losses, the one exception being Janos, he had taken an ax to the face. He wondered if that was who Lord Domeric wanted watched, before dismissing it. If Lord Domeric wanted him watched then wouldn't he have made sure he survived? Colmar didn't let the thoughts settle, knowing it was unwise to try to peek or pry into such things.

Despite their victory, the Watch was still in turmoil. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont had been injured in the fighting, but Qyburn was confident he'd recover. Qyburn had traveled from the Dreadfort with more than a hundred soldiers, and was helping the Watch's wizened maester with the wounded. Lady Sansa's Uncle Benjen Stark was among them, but he too was expected to make a recovery. Their injuries had put the Watch in the tenuous command of Bowen Marsh, the Lord Steward of the Watch.

They had been given rooms in the King's Tower which was where Lord Domeric was currently meeting with the Lord Steward. Marsh's good mood at their arrival had soured when Lord Domeric refused to follow his advice on how to handle the wildling army that remained north of the Wall.

"You must ride out and destroy them," Marsh ordered. His command was expected to be brief, but that did not stop him from making demands. "You've seen them!"

Colmar would not forget the dizzying experience of standing atop the Wall, and then the coil of nausea that clung to him when he looked down to see countless torchlights below them. They rivaled the stars. But in the few days since they arrived, the wildling king hadn't ordered any other attacks on Castle Black.

"I have orders from Lady Sansa of Winterfell-"

"We don't take orders from Winterfell," Marsh interrupted Lord Domeric.

Colmar winced. He knew Lord Domeric well enough to know that was ill done by the steward. He noticed the tautness in his posture, his face going pale with anger. "No," The word cut through the air, "You don't." His hands which had been at his side, were now clasped and behind his back. "Instead you take our supplies, our men, our steel, our foodstuff, and whatever else you can grab." He chuckled, a cold, unsettling sound. "Mance Rayder has sent a message and I will answer it."

A message? Colmar thought of the message that Lord Domeric mentioned. It was a wildling coming to the gates of the Wall carrying a weirwood branch high above his head. He didn't understand the importance of it, but he wasn't the only one. Marsh had dismissed it at once, but not Lord Domeric.

"You will meet with him?"

"Yes."

He felt a cold plummet in his chest, knowing that where Lord Domeric would go, I must follow.

"You trust these wildlings?" Marsh was looking at him like he was mad. "All this because of a branch?"

"Are you not a man of the north?" Lord Domeric asked him, disappointment coloring his tone. "It is a gesture of peace, of goodwill to come and speak," he explained, "a promise to be protected." He turned to Colmar, guessing that this was all new to him. "The south has their banner of peace, do you not?"

"We do," Colmar knew it to be the rainbow flag of the Seven, quickly realizing such a symbol would be completely meaningless to much of the north, especially the wildlings. Understanding must have come to his face, as Lord Domeric gave him a smile and nod before returning his attention to Marsh.

"If you do not wish to be a part of it then so be it," He didn't sound the least bit upset to be meeting with Mance without him, "But I'll ask Sam Tarly to come with me." It wasn't a question.

Marsh recognized it as well, his face twisting, but he nodded. "Very well," he replied, pretending as if it was his decision. "I'll have him meet you at the gate."

The tent for the King-Beyond-the-Wall was far larger than any of the wildling tents around it. It was made from the white pelts of snow bears and were topped with the antlers of a giant elk.

Colmar noticed a look of relief come to Sam's expression when they arrived. Colmar could not blame him, as his black cloak made him an instant enemy to the wildlings who had gathered to see them, hissing and spitting at him as they passed. Their defiance quickly dissipated by a warning growl from Lady, who followed behind them. The direwolf's presence dispersed many of the agitated wildlings, while those that continued to watch, glared from behind their masks or beneath their hoods.

"I appreciate you coming, Tarly." Domeric clapped his friend on the back. "You're one of the few sensible men at the Wall especially with Mormont and Stark injured."

Sam's answer was lost to the winds. Their conversation ended when they neared the tent where they were greeted by two guards. They leaned on tall spears with round leather shields strapped to their arms, when they saw Lady, they ordered the direwolf to stay behind which Domeric accepted.

Colmar was certain he heard the sound of music coming from the tent, hearing its sweet swell of melody over the cold, biting winds. It brought a warm sense of comfort to his bones, to hear something so familiar so far away from his home and comforts. The tent was hot and smoky. Baskets of burning peat stood in all four corners, filling the air with a dim reddish light. More skins carpeted the ground.

A pregnant woman stood over a brazier cooking a brace of hens while a grey-haired man in a tattered cloak of black and red sat cross legged on a pillow, playing a lute and singing. The only other person in the wood was a pretty blonde woman who was glaring at them. She was the one who came forward to greet them, carrying a tray with a small loaf of bread and a jug. "Be welcome," her voice didn't convey the words' meaning nearly as well.

Domeric took the loaf, breaking it into pieces, handing one to Colmar and the other to Sam. His dark eyes never left the wildling woman, when he bit into the bread and then took a sip from the jug. Colmar found the bread surprisingly good, and was pleased to discover it was still warm. When it was his turn to drink from the jug, he nearly coughed up the bread at the sour swill. He forced himself to swallow it, but couldn't hide his grimace at its taste. The wildling woman smiled at this before she retreated to the furthest corner from them.

"That is Val, my sister," the pregnant woman's greeting was warm and friendly, "And I am Dalla."

"Well met, Dalla," Domeric inclined his head to her, before turning his gaze to the man, who continued to strum his lute, but he had stopped singing. Colmar found he missed the man's warm voice and the comfort the song had brought.

Was this their king? He snuck a glance at the man. Was this Mance Rayder? Colmar thought it couldn't be, and he was merely the king's bard. These days marching on the Wall, he thought of the wildling king, and how he would look. He would be tall and bearded, strong and ferocious.

"Dalla, this man before us is Domeric Bolton," he said before they could introduce themselves. "The last I saw you, Bolton, you were playing your harp to your betrothed." He was smiling, before turning to Dalla. "He played the seasons of my love . I have never heard it sound as sweet as it did that day."

"You know me?"

Colmar had never seen Lord Domeric so caught off guard. The surprise in his dark eyes and the change in his expression that showed his discomfort.

"Yes, I do," he answered mildly, "Tell me, can you sing, Bolton?"

"Not well," He frowned, displeased at his predicament.

"Ah," the man replied, but didn't look surprised by the answer. "I recall your betrothed had a pretty voice and would sometimes sing while you played, but never you."

"She does," Domeric confirmed. "And she is my wife now." He was looking at the wildling before them, "And how-" but then something seemed to click in place for him. "You're the bard," he let out a sound that was a mix between a chuckle and a scoff, his hand gesturing to him, "From the king's visit to Winterfell,"

"I was," he smiled and bowed, "But before you I am Mance," He gestured to Dalla, "You've already met Dalla, treat her like you would any queen, she is carrying my child."

"This is my squire, Colmar Frey and this is Sam Tarly of the Night's Watch," Domeric introduced his companions to them.

Colmar managed a nod when he felt the king's eyes flicking to him. He hid his surprise at realizing that the wildling king wasn't at all who he thought he was. They were asked to take seats around the table which they did. Dalla distributed the food, but Val did not join them. He saw a quiet exchange between her and Mance before he sat down, and she slipped out of the tent.

"How is the Old Bear?" Mance asked Sam.

"He was injured," Tarly answered, "But Maester Aemon says he'll live."

Mance looked pleased by that. "Good," he nodded, before asking after other members on the Wall which Sam answered the best he could.

"If you're so worried about the Watch," Domeric cut in, unimpressed, "then perhaps you should not have attacked the Wall."

"I have my own people to look after now, Bolton," Mance replied in a voice that was neither kind nor unkind. "I am their king and I intend to save them."

"That is why we appreciate your invitation," Tarly said before Lord Domeric could respond. Colmar was quietly impressed with him, he was in a tent with the King-Beyond-the-Wall and the future lord of the Dreadfort, but Tarly didn't let that stop him from getting between them. "Though I was unaware of the branch's meaning," he admitted with a shy smile.

"Dalla knew it would get your attention," Mance said proudly.

"That was your idea, my lady?" Domeric asked.

"Are the ladies of the south incapable of such thought or cleverness?" Dalla smiled to show she was only teasing. Mance laughed.

Domeric did not. His expression impassive for a beat before his lips twitched. "They do," He assured her, "especially my wife."

"A wise man to honor one's wife."

"It is why I am here, my lady," Domeric admitted, "She asked me to seek a peaceful solution."

"But you do not believe there can be," Mance sensed his doubt.

"No."

"We are not your enemy, Bolton." Mance stood from his seat. He gave an order, sounding lordlier than Colmar's father ever sounded. Val walked in, pushing back the flaps, but she wasn't alone, a sled was pushed in, surrounded by men.

"What is this?" Domeric stood as well.

Colmar noticed someone was on the sled, bundled by dozens of ropes, that lashed the person from their feet to their chest. A wet slacking sound made Colmar raise his glance back to who was on the sled. Not who, he felt a chill slithering up his spine. But what.

Staring back at him were two bright blue eyes. It struggled in its ropes making the guards tense, one brought their torch to it, but Val stopped them.

"This is our fate," Mance answered soberly, "If we don't join together."

A/N:

The sands are shifting in this AU with so many different ripples shaping the Seven Kingdoms giving Stannis a better and stronger position than his canon self. In my interpretation, I see the Reach fracturing at these changes. I mean Martin has said both in universe and out, that the Tyrells hold over their bannermen can be strenuous at times. So I don't think its some great leap to think some of those families would take advantage of Stannis' growing power to switch sides with a few promises.

I know there's a famous quote in "ACOK" of Stannis being called merciless, but there are examples of him showing mercy. He forgives, but he doesn't forget. He pardoned the stormlords after Renly died. Later on, he would reward the Florents (even though they stayed with Renly until he died) he named Ser Imry Florent, commander of the Royal Fleet. (Whoops!) So that's my flimsy justification of what's going on here with the Rowans and Oakhearts.

I'm still trying/researching to find the right ancient/medieval battle to use to base/inspiration on the upcoming battle between Robb's allied forces and Lord Tyrell's. If you have any suggestions, I'd be pleased to hear them in the comments.

In Westeros, Martin has said that the banner of peace is the rainbow flag of the Seven. As Colmar pointed out in this chapter that would have little meaning to most of the north and the wildlings, so to get around that, I decided to pay tribute to "The Last Kingdom Series" on Netflix which is based on "The Saxon Stories" by Bernard Cornwell. They used a tree branch as a way to convey an interest in peaceful intentions/negotiations. I made it a weirwood branch in this b/c of its significance to the old gods. Hope no one minds.

In the books, Mance meets Dalla after Winterfell, but here I have him meet her before because that works better for this story. Domeric and Mance jam sessions to come? One could hope. If their scene seems familiar, its because I used Jon's meeting with Mance in Storm of Swords as the foundation, borrowing some and changing other parts. Martin's work is the clear superior, but hope you found this passable.

The chapter ends with the reveal of the wight. I originally wrote the wight with way more detail, before changing my mind since it's not the last we've seen of it. I've simplified a lot of plots by bringing actual proof of the wights with Mance's army. Just another shortcut I'm taking for this story.

Thanks for the support,

-Spectre4hire