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The wights were oddly silent and calm as they were chained to the trees, the remaining pieces of Wall ice strapped to their chests. Quiet enough to hear the river flowing by behind, in fact. It was a sign that they were nearing the end of their usefulness. Only two remained now, the others released from their magical reanimation by rot, both young men that had been in their prime when killed and enslaved to the White Walkers. The tree gave them good shade against the beaming late-summer sun.
As he looped the chains around the wights and tree one last time, Michael realised didn't understand what the breaking point was for the creatures. Some wights seemed to have greater resilience than others, and it didn't have anything to do with any physical characteristics of the victims. The only clue was that all wights dropped dead again at a certain point of rotting through, though what that point was seemed to vary.
I should worry less about this, Michael thought, annoyed by his attention to detail, It's not dead men I need to worry about at the moment. He turned around and looked across the Ruby Ford.
The Trident was a god damn massive river. It wasn't exactly the St. Lawrence, but it was a fair comparison to the Fraser in British Columbia. It was pretty surprising that a ford could exist on such a large river and so close to the sea that you could smell the salt on the air. But it managed by being very wide. Crossing it meant wading for a kilometre, waist-deep at the middle through silty and muddy water.
Michael and the others had taken a boat, of which there were many. To the west, the river was deeper and faster. To the east, it was slower but even more deep, and flanked by mud banks that would suck a person down if they weren't careful.
It's no wonder the last army to cross the ford in the face of an enemy lost, Michael said to himself. Jon Stark had been very helpful in telling that tale; his father was on the victorious side, the battle the crowning moment of a war started because the previous Targaryen dynasty had a king that liked to burn people alive and a heir-prince that liked to kidnap sixteen year old noble girls.
Now, Michael was going to make it even harder to win a battle by crossing the river. In the distance, he could see the construction underway. Boats, uprooted fences, pieces of abandoned houses, newly felled trees; part of a growing defensive line studded with requisitioned wagons.
"Is that really going to hold back the kneeler riders?" Ygritte asked, before she bit into an apple liberated from the tree.
Michael looked back at her. She had stripped off her fur coat to reveal a grey silk shirt instead of her underskins, a looted item from one of the Lannister knights along with long black leather boots. The shirt was too big for her, so she wore a thin belt around her waist to keep it on her. Her hair was under control too, combed, with some long braids from around the ear hanging onto her chest. Little specks of light where the daylight broke through the leaves above were all over her body and face.
Michael felt a hunger from something other than his stomach. Easy tiger.
"On its own, no, it won't hold them back," he answered, "But I figure horses are trained to respect fences, and that's more or less what we're building. They're not going to charge a fence, and certainly not a wagon. Horses don't do that kind of thing. Besides, the wagon idea happened on our world." And thankfully I paid attention in those classes on development of early infantry tactics.
Ygritte nodded. She didn't really have the context on how Westerosi knights raised their horses, and neither did Michael, but even the Free Folk used corrals.
"Why did you put the wights here anyway?"
Full of questions today, aren't you? Michael thought, You must be nervous. "Doubt we'll get a parley before fighting this time," he replied, "But I want the Lannisters to understand the wights exist."
"Do you think they'll care?"
"Probably not."
Ygritte shook her head. "When the Thenns came out of the north to tell us the White Walkers had returned, we believed them."
"Then you're smarter than the kneelers."
Ygritte was not cheered by that. "Can we go back now?" she asked, "Don't like being here without my bow." She had run after him and jumped in the boat without knowing what he was actually doing.
Michael smiled and curled his arm around her shoulder. "Let's go."
Ygritte curled her own arm around his waist, and together they wandered the short distance back to the boat, where Sayer was overseeing a crew of nervous locals.
The oarsmen were bitching about how long the whole operation was taking, clearly more afraid of Tywin the Terrible than the zombies they had transported across the water. The Private was pretending to listen politely, even Michael could tell that from afar, though his weapon was ready to raise if the men should try to row away prematurely.
Sayer soon cocked his head, something he did when he was listening to the comms intently. He stood up from the boat and gave a wave. What now, Michael thought, not sure if he should disentangle himself from Ygritte.
"Sir, new report from the birds," Sayer called in English, "Looks like we're getting reinforcements from the Starks… and there are Lannister outriders approaching. A couple hundred."
Michael released Ygritte and unslung his rifle instead. "How far?"
"Very close!" Sayer replied.
Michael's jaw set with annoyance. "How'd that happen?" he asked, "Where are the wargs?"
The Private's face flashed a brief curl of anger, until the young man realised who was asking. Something is up with him.
"We don't have enough skinchangers, sir," Sayer said, with deliberated politeness, "They need rest, their animals need time in their own skins to keep their instincts and senses sharp… and the skinchangers can't jump into their animals for so long, else they get depressed or … weird. I set a rotation to check on them every three hours, I didn't think the enemy would move so quickly."
Seeing that Sayer knew more about the subject than he did, Michael suppressed a frown. "Fair points, Private. My fault for not knowing enough about the limits and deployments of the skinchangers in future," he said, before changing back to the Common language of Westeros, "Into the boat."
Ygritte and Sayer did as they were told, climbing over the prow where the ground was only damp. Michael noted Ygritte's haste to jump on board. She's learning more English, he thought, Or at least recognises the word Lannister and the command to get in the boat are a combination that means trouble.
Michael shoved the boat off, going knee deep into the river before he hauled himself over the side. The craft was like a miniature Viking longboat, wide and flat bottomed in the middle, but with tall prows at the back and front. He didn't know why you'd need such a design on the rivers, but it let him stand up on the stern to look back as the boatmen rowed northwards.
It was barely a minute before the Lannister force appeared. First, as a cloud of dust, then as the banners; golden lions on red with black dogs on yellow. The outriders were all wearing the colours of the latter, and led by the largest man that Michael had ever seen.
The leader's proportions relative to the horse he was riding and the men riding alongside him were almost comically strange, though the broadness of his shoulders even in plate armour indicated he was not a man to be screwed around with. His actions backed that up. The force didn't even break pace as it sped by the wights chained to the tree, descended the gentle bank and splashed into the water. This force was coming to storm the boat.
Curious, Michael knew he should open fire at once. It's certainly what he would have normally done. But all his attention was focused on another fact about the situation.
He had seen it before. More than that, more than déjà vu, he had lived it before.
Placing when and how was taking up all his brainpower for the moment, and when it clicked, it hit hard. Michael had seen the exact scene before him in the flames of a campfire, north of the Wall, what must've been two months ago. The same night he had shot down a White Walker and 'stolen' Ygritte. The only detail that was different was he was on a boat. Somehow, he had seen the future.
Son of a bitch… More magic?
Sayer fired a bullet from beside him, the crack from the rifle's muzzle waking Michael up from the trance of incredulity that had gripped him. And with it gone, his instincts and training snapped to order at once.
His own rifle came up, and he began cracking off rounds. There was no feeling in it; just the usual recognition of a clear threat to the mission returned to him. The temptation to shoot the leader was there, but Michael preferred to take that guy alive. He thought he knew who he was.
Between the two of them, Michael and Sayer killed four in as many seconds, maybe five when a hail of arrows peppered the riders. The giant leader raised a massive armoured fist, and the charge ceased.
Ceasing fire, Michael saw why the attack had stopped at once. The horses were now getting into the deeper section at the middle of the river and were slowing down, making them easier targets. But they were still well out of range of any sort of accurate shooting by bowmen from the defensive line. Confused about that, he looked about for the source of the flying arrows.
A number of craft were coming in from the west, down the Trident itself. They were a mixed fleet of the same sort of longboat he himself was riding in and twice as many big canoes that wouldn't have been out of place in a First Nations' museum.
Michael recognised the flags of Mormont and Reed at once, flying from a mast on one of the leading boats. He felt a little tension release from his shoulders; if they were here, it meant Umber and the rest of the Stark lords were coming after all. Now it was a race between Stark and Lannister, the prize being the river itself. And our lives might depend on who gets here first.
The Lannister outriders turned around. Except for their leader. The giant man sat on his horse and watched as the boat pulled further and further away. Michael stood tall on the stern again, arm around the prow, and gave a cheeky wave.
Be seeing you real soon.
"Ser Gregor Clegane, named The Mountain for his size."
The name and sobriquet seemed to curl Dacey Mormont's mouth as she spoke them, like the taste of rotted meat. Lord Reed and Jon Stark both nodded, their faces grim. The subject of the hatred was riding along the south bank of the Trident in the distance, as if pacing. He was so far away that no one might have noticed, except for the bright mustard yellow banner, barding and tabard.
The whole meeting stood atop or around one of the requisitioned grain wagons on the north bank, watching him, trying to figure out what the man would do next.
The air was filled with the sounds of wood being moved and human exertion. To the east and west under a wide blue sky, the construction on the defences continued, and with a great deal more haste from the northerners and locals.
Only the Free Folk didn't know what exactly the issue was, but Michael was sure they'd find out soon enough. Marcach likely already had; his unicorns had dragged twice as many tree trunks in the time since the giant knight had arrived than the time before.
Lady Mormont's confirmation was enough for Michael too. "So, I suppose we were always going to run into him," he smirked, "Flamboyant son of a bitch, isn't he? Charged right at us. Ignored the wights. Forced us to open fire."
"You know who he is?" Jon Stark asked.
Of course, I saw him in the flames north of the Wall, Michael stopped himself saying, Got any idea why I might see that?
"Ser Addam Marbrand has been very helpful," O'Neill said, joining in the smirk.
"You got Marbrand to talk?" Lord Reed asked, "How? He is one of the most loyal banners of Casterly Rock."
Michael winced, not liking the implication that they might have got the information by torture or other nefarious means. The Sergeant wasn't pleased either.
"We couldn't shut him up, in the end," O'Neill said with disapproval, "In our army, we're only supposed to give our name, rank and number when captured. People around here love to yap on about how we're doomed, and who exactly is going to be our doom. The concept of operational security is a joke."
Michael gave him a look. They'll have no idea what operational security means, Sergeant. There was confusion among the northerners. Even Val didn't get it."We just talked to our prisoners. Who they are, where they're from, why they're loyal to the Lannisters, what kind of man Tywin is… Because those details aren't things like how many men Tywin has or how well supplied his army is, and because I asked in a context that didn't seem like an interrogation, our prisoners were happy to talk."
Michael gestured out at the knight across the river. "Ser Gregor came up quite often. We know all about what he did in the last war, and what he's done so far in this one."
"And we don't fucking like it," Zheng added, from her position leaning on one of the wagon wheels facing the river.
"No shit, Private," O'Neill muttered.
Michael scratched his chin. There's only one problem. "One issue is that we shot at the guy," he said, "He'll report back about our weapons. We were careful to not kill anyone in daylight with them before today."
"Yes, sir," O'Neill replied. He hadn't spoken his criticism on that matter yet, but he had just been waiting for the lords to go away to deliver that. Michael could always tell when the guy was doing that, he shifted his weight from side to side more often than usual, like he was waiting to take a piss instead. It was kinda funny.
Lord Reed brought a finger to his mouth and tapped for a moment. "You killed only a few," he said, "I doubt they will think much of it, with twenty thousand at their back."
"Twenty-one thousand," Zheng commented, "We have killed a thousand so far, so they got two thousand more."
"How?" Lady Dacey asked.
"Garrisons," Michael answered, "Looks like we spooked Lord Tywin so badly, he pulled every last soldier out of the castles he had already captured. The skinchangers reported multiple fires in the distance last night; burning keeps. Only Harrenhal and the small castle near the south of the river remain unburned, it seems."
"Darry," Jon Stark said, "Tywin is probably there right now, waiting on the report from Ser Gregor."
"I agree," Michael said, "Ser Gregor is a little busy being dramatic right now, so I think we're safe for today. Tywin will want to see our defences for himself. Tomorrow though, this whole place will be a battlefield or just so much firewood for the Lannisters. Lords Umber and Bolton will be the ones who decide that."
"Which raises a great question," O'Neill said, looming over Lord Reed, "When do the rest of your boys and girls arrive? We need them."
Lady Dacey frowned, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "Lord Umber means to arrive this evening. Lord Bolton thought it more likely that the host will only arrive some time in the mid morning."
Is it too much to ask for good scheduling in this world? Michael wondered, Or is Tywin Lannister the only guy who can get things done here? "Very well. I request you send a rider back north to tell Lord Umber that we will not be able to hold out if he doesn't make it here on time. He knows what that means." No victory over the enemy.
Lady Dacey smiled. "He won't like that. But I'll do as you ask."
Michael picked his rifle off the railing of the wagon, and bowed his head in thanks. "The inn is yours, as last time. Though you'll have to serve yourself, everyone who works in there is digging ramparts out here."
With that, he gave a salute to the two nobles, and jumped off the wagon. O'Neill and Zheng fell in with him, as he walked towards the crawler. Sayer, his women and Ygritte were sitting on top of it, keeping watch. It was disguised as a hut, with wooden poles stacked along its sides vertically. To the sociopath riding on the other bank, it looked like nothing more.
Maybe we should raid his camp tonight, Michael thought to himself, Riddle him with holes as he sleeps. "How good are we on fuel again?" he asked Zheng in pursuit of whether or not it was a good idea.
"We've got about 300% of what's required to get to the God's Eye lake," Zheng replied, "But that's on the Kingsroad. Off-road shit or country lanes aren't going to give us the same fuel efficiency unless we ditch the ammo or if the crawler is damaged tomor…"
"Wait!" cried out a voice.
Michael turned to find Jon and Val running up to join the group, dodging a group of near-naked Free Folk dragging a cart with only one wheel across to the barricade.
"How can I help you Jon Stark?" Michael asked.
"Can we really win?" Val answered, her hand on her dagger, "Or are you just using us?"
Michael saw Zheng and O'Neill glance at each other in his peripheral vision. So, they've heard the story. Or the Sergeant has, at least. "Princess, what do you mean?"
Val threw her long blonde braid behind her and put her hands on her hips, trying to match his height. He had to resist an amusing rumble from his throat.
"Twenty one thousand," she stated, like she was talking to a child, "Jon says they'll be the best of what these Lannisters can bring. Clothed in steel like the men you have killed so far, riding horses of great size. Led by men who make the Weeper and Varamyr look like milk-drinking children. I've seen your weapons, you cannot kill that many. I've seen the Stark warriors on foot, they can't. How can we possibly win? You might have fooled your spearwife and the others, but not me."
So it's Val with the questions, not Jon. Michael felt his subordinates eyes on him. But O'Neill did his duty, supporting the officer-commanding like the very best NCOs always did in the face of such questions by people he couldn't just tell to shut up.
"We've chosen excellent ground," the Sergeant said, "The river will slow their cavalry. The fences and fire will stop it. They'll be forced to dismount. The ramparts and water will make their armour as much of a liability as an advantage. The angle of the defences will allow us to use our weapons to greatly disrupt the enemy, and predict where certain forces will be deployed."
Val's mouth became a thin line. Her mind knew that answer was good in some broad technical sense. "I don't think you will fight," she said, "You will leave us to do that, and you will run for your home. You want to avoid anyone knowing your true nature. It's why you fight always in the dark, only in the dark."
Jon quickly grabbed her hand and whispered to her, ferociously. She had apparently went too far with that remark.
What the hell does that mean? Is she calling us cowards or just image obsessed? Michael looked to the Sergeant and the Corporal. They didn't seem to know what was going on either. Michael felt his blood rise in anger. He knew she wouldn't be fobbed off with some excuse. "Everyone will know our true nature by the end of tomorrow, if Lord Umber shows up."
Jon straightened up. "And what is that?"
"People not to be fucked with," Zheng replied, "Thought you would've figured that out by now."
"Well said, Corporal," Michael said, "I should make you our spokesperson in future."
The Corporal snorted, but not without agreement.
Val scoffed back, rolling her eyes. "You're ferocious in battle, but you're not true killers. You have no stomach for it, else you'd not keep so many kneelers alive. And that is what we will need to win."
"It is an honourable thing, but not wise," Jon added, "Even my father did not leave enemies alive that could not be ransomed. Trusting them not to rebel makes you look soft to us, or mad. To both of our peoples."
Before he could stop it, laughter bubbled out of Michael. The statements were the funniest thing he had heard since arriving. It took a little while to get it under control. "You don't know me, so I'm sorry," he chuckled, "I really shouldn't laugh at you for not knowing."
Val's cool blue eyes narrowed to angry slits. Apology not accepted. I guess I will have to explain. Something about her just demanded an answer be given.
Michael held up his hands. "I'll explain. In our army, I'm the guy with the reputation. In our army, I'm the Mountain."
Jon and Val simply stared back at him. Do they not believe? Maybe that was a bad comparison. I'm not seven foot tall, and I did spare a whole lot of people here.
"Sergeant," Michael said, turning to them, "Bet you heard something about me when I transferred from the First Battalion."
Zheng's head nearly twisted off, it moved so fast to let her glare at the Sergeant. For his part, O'Neill worked his jaw for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. Easy guys, you'll hurt yourselves. "Yes, sir. Though you weren't a murdering, rapist son of a bitch like the Mountain, in the story I heard."
Michael tilted his head, conceding the point. "Okay, fair. That's not my game. But I bet you heard I was a dangerous son of a bitch all the same?"
"Yes. And I can't say our time together has improved the impression, if I may say so, sir."
Michael cocked an eyebrow. That was a little too close to insubordination. "You may not, but I suppose I invited it and we both know you're a dangerous prick yourself. Takes one to know one?" O'Neill raised his chin, halfway to standing to attention and keeping quiet, but smiled nonetheless.
What comment are you keeping to yourself now? Michael thought. He looked back to Val and Jon. "So… when I say 'for the high crime of standing armed between us and home, as well as being an evil shit generally, we intend to stomp Tywin Lannister's dick into the dust'… you should believe me, Val Stark."
Val's eyes widened to a normal from slits, and her hand released from its grip around her dagger. Jon's brow rose into his hairline, and he couldn't seem to hold Michael's gaze, looking at practically anything else.
I guess my little speech worked. But let's be sure. "Satisfied?" Michael asked.
"Aye," Val answered.
"Good, now fuck off," O'Neill said, entirely done with the conversation, "Plenty of wood needs cutting and plenty of dirt needs moving. If you're both not too good for that."
"We're not," Jon answered, "But the defences in our sector are complete. I'd like to rest the men my brother gave me. They fought two days ago, they've worked every waking hour between then and now, and will likely fight again tomorrow."
"Rest them then," Michael said. Jon gave a bow from the waist, and looped his arm into Val's as encouragement to leave. The young wife and husband left without further trouble, though not before Val looked across the river again pointedly. Yeah yeah, I get it, Michael thought.
"You gonna tell me that story about the LT?" Zheng asked the Sergeant, quietly enough to attempt to say it without Michael hearing it. But not quietly enough.
O'Neill cleared his throat. "No," he said carefully, "Don't know if it's true."
"Pussy."
Michael snorted. Of course Zheng would want to know. "It's not as dramatic as some made it out to be," he said over his shoulder, "You know how it is, you do some crazy stuff, things get embellished. I'd love to tell you both, but the whole thing is classified and not just because of what I did. As much as it's a pain in the ass."
Zheng said nothing in reply. She really wanted to know, obviously.
Michael decided it wasn't worth getting further into it, and just marched on by. The defences in this part of the line were almost complete too; large stakes were being added to the fence, three deep. What O'Neill called horsechokers. Ouch.
Movement ahead drew his attention towards the crawler again. Ygritte had spotted him getting closer and stood up. She had taken off her fur trousers, the grey silk shirt long enough to cover her down to the thighs.
Must be too hot, Michael's mind idly thought, categorising her with the other half-naked Free Folk around the place. But then his eyes began tracing her legs to where they met the hem of the shirt, how the large open collar revealed her freckled shoulder, and how much more form fitting it was without the belt keeping the silk from bunching up. She waved, which had very interesting effects.
Michael released a colossal sigh. Fuck the regs.