It was a longer ride north to the Wall than Sansa would have hoped. Every mile, the air grew colder, the summer snows on the ground deeper, with wagons stuck and horses lamed. Still, the army of the North pressed onwards. Sansa could only hope they'd be fast enough.
She had no idea how quickly Stannis had come to the Night's Watch's rescue the last time around. She had no idea how long it had taken him to sail the distance these Northern armies had ridden. Stannis's cavalry had ridden in from the coast; Bran had readied supplies at Winterfell and they'd left in a day.
She glanced over at Bran and caught his eye looking back. It was good, so indescribably good, to no longer be alone, to have one brother back at her side as they rode towards another. But Jon was at the castle under siege, from an army she couldn't predict, and–
Sansa nudged her horse faster. Bran matched her pace, the army following behind him.
And then as they rode north, the rumor of Wildling attacks grew stronger. A farmer had been raided over the hill, Sansa heard. Another had lost some sheep.
And then the Army of the North reached Mole's Town.
Death and destruction lay before them. Wildlings did not kill discriminately. Children lay among the dead, and pregnant women, and–
Bran tugged on the reins of his horse, wheeling it around. "We ride!" he called over the heads of the army, already sounding like a man grown. "Lord Umber – follow behind with the foot. All cavalry – we ride for the Wall with speed! Hyah!"
It was a long and silent ride. Every man urged every ounce of speed that he could from his mount. Sansa was grateful for the dozen men of her guard, and that they all sat aback horses as they rode around her.
"My lady," Derren Botley said, urging his horse nearer Sansa; his mare almost sagged under his size. "You could stay back. Might be better. We can meet up with Umber and the foot soldiers, follow behind at an easier pace–"
Twelve thousand men were riding north, but horses weren't common in the rocky, icy terrain of her homeland. Not even half of the Blackfish's two thousand Tullys were mounted. No, of their twelve thousand men, Bran was now leading… less than one thousand.
Sansa glanced over at her brother as they rode. The Reed siblings rode at his side with few words needing to be passed between them.
Sansa looked back at her guard. "We go where our king goes."
Derren Botley looked like he wanted to protest again for Sansa's safety, but he caught Dacey Mormont's eye, who was scowling fiercely.
Derren touched his forelock. "As you command, my lady."
As he fell back, Dacey rode closer. In a fierce whisper, she said to Sansa, "Supporting our king is all well and good, but my mother warned me about you. If you try to get near the fighting to 'support' the battle, I'll skin you myself."
Sansa raised an eyebrow. From the edge of their party came a low growl. It grew louder as Lady ran closer, easily keeping pace as she slipped between the horses. The wolf loped beside Sansa, her eyes locked on Dacey, her growl fierce.
Dacey swallowed. "You know, skin you politely."
Sansa eyed her. "I'd like to know if I have guards – or jailers."
Dacey huffed. "I doubt Meera and Jojen would have told your brother anything different. But yes, princess. We go where you go."
Sansa looked away, satisfied.
In an even lower voice, one that Sansa wasn't sure that she was supposed to hear, Dacey added, "But don't go anywhere stupid."
...
Night fell as they crossed through the Gift.
"We should rest, my king," Manderly urged Bran, riding at his side. "In the dark, horses will be lamed. The supplies have yet to catch up to us and the foot is far behind. Then, we can take the Wildlings when we're rested, in the morning…"
Sansa had lost sight of the horizon in the twilight. She blinked, sure that her vision was going funny. She could see a spattering of stars emerging overhead, along with the dark silhouettes of trees nearby. But in between, there was… nothing. Just a swath of grey across her eyesight, with bright stars dotting the top of the swath, marking where the sky began.
"Gods," Sansa breathed as she realized. "Those aren't stars. They're fires."
It was the Wall.
She'd seen it before; covered in snow and half frozen, led most of the way there by the battered and broken Theon, the rest of the way by Brienne. She'd felt so young, the last time she'd seen it. Technically, her body now was younger even still. But on the back of her horse, warm in her fur cloak, the breaths of almost a thousand mounted men filling the air beside her, not even the might of the Wall could properly intimidate her.
"How in seven hells do the Wildlings think they can breach that?" a soldier muttered.
"Through a sneak attack," Bran replied, studying the burning fires on the horizon. He avoided looking at Sansa and giving away the source of his information. It was all she had known; Jon had never been loquacious.
And then, carried in the still, silence of the night, they could hear screams.
"Ride!" Bran yelled, his eyes flickering white as his horse surged forward. "For Castle Black! Ride, as if your lives depend on it!"
His cry was carried down the line of their cavalry. Every horse galloped to follow the call of their king.
Sansa galloped behind him, her guards encircling her.
"My lady," Dacey hissed. "There's an attack. You'd–"
"RIDE!" Sansa called, ignoring her guard. Her clear, feminine voice rang out high above the other calls from the men.
But it had been a foolish choice. Men along the ranks turned to her in surprise, suddenly reminded that a lady rode with them. Mutters followed, and glances, and then the Blackfish rode nearer to her in the dark.
"Sansa," her uncle called sharply. "You're unarmed. Stay back and don't make men die to protect you."
She swallowed her curses behind a clenched jaw. No matter her knowledge, her uncle knew war better; she knew he did. Sansa gave a tense nod, letting slack fall on her reins. Other soldiers streamed ahead, taking her spot behind their king.
To be born a man, she cursed again. But even that was unfair. Meera Reed galloped at Bran's side and no one dared complain within his hearing.
And suddenly, Castle Black was upon them. The gates had already been broken down. Fires blazed in the courtyard as axes whirled. The cavalry of the North smashed into their midst. Wildlings fell to Northern spears and swords. Bran loosed arrows from horseback, the shafts whistling as they tore through the air and thunked into their marks. Wildlings died.
Sansa felt exposed in the night as the army surged ahead without her, even as her guards waited out in the dark around her. She tried to peer through the smashed gate and to the fires beyond, but only the madness of battle lay before her. It was almost impossible to tell friend from foe at this distance.
Twelve good fighting men remained behind because of her. And she couldn't even see anything, couldn't do anything, and hadn't Bran said that she mattered? That the only future where Jon left the Wall was the one with her in it?
"To me!" Sansa called to her guards. Before any of them could stop her, she kicked her horse forward and through the gate.
"My lady!" Dacey cried.
But a different Lady was on Sansa's heels, snapping at a Wilding who neared her. Lady reared back to bite again – and Ollie Hallard shoved his spear through the man's neck. Another neared Sansa – and Ollie took that man, too, without his horse breaking stride. She was endlessly glad that the Bolton man had joined her guard.
Sansa took in the battle as quickly as she could. The mounted Northmen had the advantage by far, in numbers, arms, coordination – all of it. They seemed in no danger of losing to the Wildling scouts as they rode through the courtyard of the castle, picking off skirmishes and ending them. She heard screams as a northerner shoved a sword through a Wildling and quickly looked away.
But if the victory was so decisive, then why was she even needed…?
Sansa scanned the courtyard again, knowing she was safe behind her wolf and guards. Where was Jon? He'd survived this fight the last time. But last time Stannis had come, not them, and who knew what else had changed–
And suddenly, Sansa spotted a flash of red hair through the soldiers.
Fear coursed through her. "Stop!" she called. It was lost in the din. "Don't hurt Tormund!"
Her voice barely carried to her own guards, let alone across the yard to where Tormund fought fiercely against two mounted Northmen.
With barely a thought and a, "Hyah!" Sansa urged her mount into the fray.
Behind her, Dacey swore.
"Protect him!" Sansa called to her guards. "Don't let them kill him!"
"Who?" Dacey bit out.
"The red-haired Wilding!"
Dacey did not move from Sansa's side, ignoring her command. Lady lunged forward into the attackers, clearing a path. The direwolf snarled at Night's Watch and Wildlings alike who got in her way, tearing through. Ollie and Derren followed behind the wolf, leading another four of Sansa's guards behind them.
Dacey looked furious, but she and the remaining five guards were too busy scanning for threats to their charge to risk a scolding.
A Night's Watchman raised a sword to Tormund – and Derren, Sansa's bear of a guard, put a fist through the Night's Watchman's face.
"The hell–" another snarled.
But Ollie had already grabbed Tormund, shoving him to the ground. "He's to be taken alive!" Ollie bellowed above the fray. "By order of the princess!"
Another Night's Watch turned. "What bloody fucking princess–?!"
Sansa sat astride her mare, red hair billowing in the wind above her furred cloak as she surveyed the damage. The Northmen were already pulling the courtyard into control. Fires were being doused, men slouching off to the side to stick their heads into water troughs.
This fight was done.
Through a gap in the crowd, Sansa finally spotted him. Jon sat in the dust of the courtyard, a different redheaded Wildling in his arms. As Sansa watched, the woman's hand fell lifelessly from Jon's.
And Sansa knew –
She had protected the wrong Wilding.
Jon cradled the woman's body to him, senseless to the rescuing troops around them, to his sister calling out his name, his brother astride his horse, fist held high as he raised the cheer of victory among the men.
Jon clutched the woman closer to him, his face pressed against hers.
Sansa knew grief. She knew Jon.
And she left him to his.
...
The air was cool and crisp as Sansa stood on the battlements of Castle Black outside her new room. The Wall loomed overhead, tall enough to blot out the dawn into a pale grey. Not an hour before, Umber had arrived with the foot soldiers. The lift to the top of the Wall hadn't stopped supplying it with soldiers since. One hundred thousand Wildlings still waited on the other side. The Blackfish had ridden to the top with the first group of soldiers, not wanting to find out how long the Wildlings would wait.
Sansa wondered what it would be like up there atop the Wall with her uncle, able to see so much of the world at once. And so many of the Wildlings on the other side.
But there were matters to attend to down here, first.
She clutched a steaming mug in each hand as she stepped away from the railing. Ollie Hallard fell into step at her side, his spear in his hand. Sansa eyed him. "The fighting's done," she said.
"Yes, princess." Ollie nodded.
As she walked to the stairs, Ollie again followed doggedly behind.
Sansa turned to him again. "I'm alright. I'm safe, now. Not going to go flinging myself into Wildlings again."
Not even a hint of a smile twitched on his lips at her joke. He stoically took in their surroundings, watching the men of the Watch move across the courtyard. "Yes, princess."
Sansa frowned. "Is Dacey upset that I–?"
Ollie's gaze snapped to her. "No, princess. This is the Night's Watch. And you're… well, you're…" He swallowed. "I told Dacey you'd be annoyed at more than one guard, amid your brother's army and all, and I volunteered."
Sansa's mouth pursed in annoyance. He wasn't wrong – on either count. It would be too easy for her to be cornered here, to be caught alone and vulnerable by men with a death sentence and little regard when faced with the temptation of a princess. She hated that it was true.
But why had he volunteered? Ollie had fought for Roose Bolton before. Dacey had vouched for him, and Lady sniffed him, but…
Ollie grew frantic. "I can get one of the others, if you'd like. Mycah's well-rested, I'll grab him for you–"
"There's no need." Sansa walked down the stairs, trying to reassure the former Bolton man – and herself. "One guard is plenty, as you correctly assumed. This way."
She strode through the courtyard, her breath fogging before her. Men of the Watch did stop to stare as she passed. Some nudged their friends, some nodded deferentially, and others licked their lips. Sansa ignored them all, thankful for her guard walking one step behind her the whole way.
She spotted Umber on the other side of the courtyard, locked in fervent conversation with some of his soldiers.
Sansa approached him. Umber broke off, frowning towards her at the interruption–
Sansa pressed a mug of mulled wine into his hands. She clapped him on the arm, offered a tired smile, and continued on her way.
Umber took a long swallow of the warming liquid, his answering smile full of gratitude. When he resumed conversation with his men, his voice sounded heartier than before.
Sansa smiled as she walked away, one stop left to make. She rapped on the door of the Lord Commander's office, pleased that no one had had to tell her where it was.
"Come in!" Bran called through the door.
Ollie waited outside as Sansa stepped into the office. Bran sat behind the desk with Meera leaning against the wall beside him. Before the desk stood a sneering blonde man whom Sansa could guess from reputation – in her time, he would have been the rival Jon had beaten for command of the Watch.
Sansa handed her final mug across the desk to Bran. He smiled, taking a sip.
"Ser Alliser Thorne, I don't believe you've met my sister," Bran said politely. "Sansa Stark, princess of the North."
Alliser gave the barest of nods towards her; Sansa swallowed her amusement behind a polite smile as she nodded graciously in reply. Meera's lip twitched at his rudeness. Sansa liked her more by the day.
Alliser turned back to Bran. "The Wall's no place for girls. Not on a good day and not with a horde of raping savages bearing down on us."
"I'll keep that in mind," Bran said, giving nothing away.
Alliser leaned over Bran, stabbing a finger down into the desk. "You've got to attack. Now, while they're still waiting for us to make a godsdammned move. We have the men. We can crush them in a well-timed charge."
Bran stared up at him, ignoring the intimidation. "Thank you, Ser Alliser. I'll keep that in mind. That will be all."
Alliser sneered. "You're dismissing me so that you can talk to your girls? While your uncle plans your war for you?"
Behind Bran, a direwolf rose silently to his feet. Summer locked eyes with Alliser, refusing to look away.
The Wall's few hundred defenders had swelled to twelve thousand – purely because of the Starks. The Starks owed no respect to this man who was not in command, especially one who showed the Starks none of the respect they were owed.
Alliser swallowed. He gave a jerk of a bow, as if perhaps finally realizing this. "Your Grace," he said, and strode for the door.
"Oh, Ser Alliser," Sansa called, unable to resist. Her face was schooled into perfect innocence as Alliser stopped, looking back at her. Sansa smiled. "See if Jon wants to speak to us, will you?"
Alliser slammed the door behind him.
Bran finally let a small smile crack his face. "I hear you've claimed a prisoner."
"I have," Sansa said. But when Bran raised his eyebrows, inviting her to tell more, Sansa flicked her gaze to Meera.
Meera caught the glance. She immediately straightened, cracking her spine. "I should go get some rest, anyway. I'll send Jojen down in a bit. Maybe he'll have seen something after his nap."
Sansa was grateful for Meera's understanding.
"How much does she know?" Sansa whispered after the door closed again, coming around the desk and pulling a chair near.
Bran shrugged. "About you? Just that Jojen and I have had trouble seeing clearly. About me? Everything."
Sansa raised an eyebrow, her smile laced with implication.
Bran blushed and looked away. "Well, not.. that. Not…" He cleared his throat, changing topics. "Your prisoner."
"Tormund," Sansa said. "A good man, when I knew him. A friend of Jon's. I wouldn't trust him currently, though. No telling where his loyalties lie."
"Not with us," Bran agreed. "What do you know of Mance Rayder?"
Sansa hesitated. "Not much. I know that Jon–"
The door opened. A dark shape filled the frame, one who cast his eyes around the room without truly seeing.
"I've been summoned?" Jon wearily said.
In an instant, Sansa had crossed the gap to him, flinging her arms around his neck. He embraced her loosely – then a moment later clutched her to him just as tightly.
"I've missed you," Sansa whispered into his shoulder. He wasn't as tall as Robb but Sansa pressed her face into him all the same, drinking in the feeling of truly, finally being home.
For years, Jon had been her only sense of home; his arms felt more reassuring than even her mother's.
But Jon pulled away, with a look of slight confusion at her enthusiasm.
Bran was grinning. "I'd get up, but…"
And Jon broke away to wrap Bran in his arms, lifting him half-out of the chair.
"Gods," Jon whispered as they finally let go. "The Watch asked for aid, but I never expected…" He shook his head, disbelieving. "Arya?" he asked Sansa quickly. "Rickon?" he asked Bran.
"Safe in Dorne and likely quite enjoying herself," Sansa answered.
"Winterfell," Bran replied. "Safe with Mother."
"I'm sorry about…" But Sansa suddenly realized that Jon hadn't ever told her his woman's name. That alone said more than any amount of words ever could. "About her," Sansa concluded.
Jon's face crumpled. He looked away. Silence filled the room for a long moment before he spoke again. "Do you have enough men to hold off Mance Rayder?"
"Uncle Brynden thinks so," Bran replied.
"What do you know of Mance Rayder, Jon?" Sansa asked. "You know him far better than we."
Jon's face was hard. "I know the Wildling army will fall apart without him. He's the only one who's able to unite them. If we can take him out…" He cut off with a shake of his head.
"What if we don't want the Wildling army to fall apart?" Bran asked.
Jon paused. "What?"
Bran studied Jon in return. "You've seen the White Walkers, haven't you?"
Leaning away, Jon took a deep, steadying breath. "I have," he admitted, but it lacked conviction. "And the dead."
"Sam has seen White Walkers," Sansa chimed in, unsure how much of them Jon had yet seen. "He's killed one, hasn't he?"
Jon studied his sister, saying nothing in reply for a long time. "How did you… He told you?"
"No," Sansa replied. "There's a lot that Bran and I have yet to tell you. For now, know that we've both seen the army of the dead."
Jon fell back into a chair, his head in his hands. "Few believe me, even in the Night's Watch. And you two show up out of a vision to save us, from the south, and you already know…?" He shook his head, disbelieving.
"The pack is strongest together," Bran said. "We're not going to let you face any of this alone."
Slowly, Sansa walked towards Jon, as if approaching a wounded animal. She put her hand on his shoulder. Jon put his own hand over hers, squeezing tight.
"Jon," Sansa softly said. "We want you to come home with us."
He jerked away from her. "Seven hells, Sansa. I took an oath. I had to sit here while Father died while Robb– and you think I can just… leave? Just because my sister's asked me nicely?"
"No," Bran said. "Because I'm asking."
Jon watched his brother. "Because you're King in the North?"
"Because you swore your vow to a weirwood tree," Bran replied. "Because I was inside that tree, looking out though its eyes as you swore to it. You swore to me, Jon. And I release you."
Jon whispered, "You're mad."
"Sam swore with you," Bran replied. "I can release him, too, if you'd like."
Jon still stared, still not willing to let himself believe.
"I'll explain everything once we're back in Winterfell, Jon," Sansa said. "For now, know that Tormund is safe."
"Tormund?" Jon frowned.
Sansa frowned in reply. "Isn't he your friend?"
"Yes, but how did you…?" Jon dropped his head into his hands again. "Mad. You're both mad. Claiming to have seen White Walkers south of the Wall, seeing through trees… I can't…" But he couldn't finish that thought, either, and shook his head in dismay.
"Say you're right," Sansa said. "Say Bran and I are both quite mad. The King in the North and his sister, both mad as loons. Which means that if you don't leave with us, there will be no sanity holding us back from leading the Starks and the North wherever we so madly please." Sansa leaned down to smile at Jon. "So, whether you're right, or we are, we need you. Please, Jon. Don't tell us 'no.'"
Raising his head out of his hands, Jon looked between them. "Need me? You've an army at your backs and two kingdoms. What use is one more sword against that?"
"I plan to treat with Mance Rayder," Bran said. "To let him into the North. If he agrees, I'll have a lion at my throat. The Dreadfort could rise against me any day and if I'm handing them an army of Wildlings, none of us will live to see the next summer." Bran's face was serious. "I'm fourteen, Jon. And I'm supposed to be king."
"Thought you were a tree," Jon countered. But suddenly, he was grinning, leaning forward to ruffle Bran's hair as his brother squawked.
"I'll fight for you, Bran – my king," Jon said with gravity. "Do I kneel to swear fealty or–"
"No!" Sansa urgently cut in.
Jon looked at her, confused yet again. Bran also studied her out of the corner of his eye.
"No," she repeated more calmly. "Be done with oaths, Jon. You're our brother. You're not a vassal. Never kneel again – not to anyone."
Jon's eyebrows rose.
"I don't mind if you kneel to me," Bran said cheekily. "Brings you closer to my height."
...
Slowly, the great gate underneath the Wall creaked ever upwards. Sansa's horse shifted restlessly beneath her. Bran rode in front, Jon at one side and Meera at the other. Next to Jon walked Tormund. Jojen Reed, along with Dacey Mormont, Derren Botley, and more guards clustered around Sansa behind them.
At the front of their party, three direwolves paced forward. The horses followed, as they inched their way across the gap of woods and toward the waiting Wildling army.
Satisfaction filled Sansa at the sight of their direwolves. The pack was getting stronger by the day. The Starks had Winterfell, the North, and each other. They were strong and secure, the blood of the First Men pounding through their veins.
"These the bastards that killed Jeor?" Dacey hissed as they neared the Wildling army.
"No," Sansa replied. "Men of the Watch did that. Jon killed every last traitor and avenged Lord Mormont."
Jon cast a bewildered look back at Sansa. She ignored it, knowing now was not the time to explain. Dacey didn't know that Jon himself hadn't passed on the information of his deeds; she gave him a nod filled with gratitude. Jon could do nothing but nod back at Dacey. He turned forward again to escape any questions.
Bran halted halfway across the gap of cleared land before the trees. "Mance Rayder!" he called. His voice cracked.
Laughter echoed from the line of trees.
Bran nudged Jon.
"MANCE!" Jon bellowed.
Tormund turned back to wink at Sansa. "Got a good set of lungs on him for such a little fellow."
Sansa chuckled.
And slowly, a group split off from the Wildling army, moving towards them.
Sansa didn't recognize any of the figures dressed in ill-fitting skins and covered with grime, but Jon leaned towards Bran. "The one to the right in the front, with straight black hair. That's Mance."
Bran gave a stiff nod, his face set.
The Wildlings stopped within speaking distance, a stone's throw away.
One Wildling spat. "The Crows have sent children to treat with us?"
Mance surveyed the group before him, his gaze lingering on Bran, Sansa, and the three direwolves, who hadn't taken their eyes off the party of Wildlings. Mance smiled. "Not children, Ogg. Royalty. King Bran, if I'm not mistaken."
Bran gave a nod. "King Mance. You'll pardon me for remaining mounted."
Mance's eyebrow rose at the use of his title. He looked back over his shoulder at his men, enjoying their chuckles in reply. Mance rested his hand upon the hilt of the knife in his belt. "What have you come for, then? Going to offer us terms before we slaughter you all and take your black castle?"
A wry smile crooked across Bran's face. "No. The full army of the North has reinforced the Night's Watch. The Wall has not fallen even when it was undermanned. It will not fall now that it is beyond full strength. No, Mance. You know why I'm here."
A grim tightness came to Mance's face. "Can't say as I do. If this is your attempt to make us retreat, it's a poor one. We might be unwieldy folk, north of your Wall, but we're tough and true. We'll take our odds against your army."
"I've come to offer you what the Night's Watch can't," Bran replied. "Land in the South."
Mance flinched backwards at the unexpected words. Murmurs started up among Mance's men.
"What trick is this?" Mance said coldly.
"No trick." Bran's horse shifted underneath him and he pulled on the reins to steady him. "Any man who wishes to cross the Wall need only swear to obey Northern law and fight–"
"Your law," Mance said bitterly. "Swear to you. We'll not give up our freedom to flee a fight, just to be sworn into a war later. Not for some southern king and his southern petty feuds."
"Fight the dead," Bran continued. "Fight the White Walkers. Defend our northern border to protect the living. I will not ask you to raise a sword against another living man, no matter his colors."
Frantic whispers sprang up in the Stark party. "Did he say 'dead?'" one guard whispered to another. "What's 'fight the dead?' He can't mean…?"
Mance and the Wildlings stood stunned. "I did not think southerners believed in our tales," Mance finally said.
"Nor did I," Derren Botley, Sansa's guard, muttered.
"You haven't met many of us," Jon replied. "You know I've seen the dead."
Even more whispers started up among the Stark men at that. "Quiet!" Sansa hissed, where Mance wouldn't hear. The guards fell silent.
Mance turned to Jon. "This is where your allegiance truly lies?" He nodded toward Bran.
Jon looked to his brother, his sister. When he looked back at Mance, there was a smile on his face, no matter how small. "It is. With my kin, and with my king."
Mance squinted up at Bran. "You want us to fight your war against the dead for you. For how long? For how many generations will we be enslaved as the new Crows guarding these lands?"
"For this winter," Sansa said. She cut off as Bran looked back at her. After he'd given an encouraging nod, she continued. "This will be the Long Winter. After we defeat the Night King and his army of the dead, you will be free to cross back beyond the Wall, to roam as far north and as freely as you like."
Around her, the Stark party looked stunned. Even Bran tried to hide the shock on his face; apparently he had yet to clearly see the future the Starks had won in Sansa's last life, free of the Night King and his dead. Sansa stared straight at Mance, ignoring them all and their incredulous gapes.
Mance snorted. "He can't be defeated, girl."
Sansa shrugged. "Then stay the one winter. See if we're wrong. I doubt we will be; not if we keep the White Walkers from feasting on your Wildling corpses and swelling their ranks. We'd rather not have to kill you twice."
Mance stared back at her.
"She's barking mad," one of the Wildlings said. "They all are. Bunch of raving idiot children, playing at armies and–"
Summer growled. In an instant, he rose to his feet, prowling towards the bearded archer. Wildlings recoiled, hands grasping for weapons–
Before the man could reach for his bow, Bran's eyes rolled white; Summer turned away, circling back to stand by Bran's horse.
Recognition flooded the Wildling faces. Unlike the Stark party, they were well-familiar with wargs.
"Come to Winterfell as my guest, Mance Rayder," Bran said, once his eyes had cleared. "Stay with us as an allied, refugee king. Leave as proud as you came once we win the fight to defend both our kingdoms. But you, and every man sworn to you, must abide by Northern law – must live and die by it. There will be no raiding, no raping, no murdering. And many more rules besides. If any of your men break Northern law – you and those sworn to you will assist us in exacting the lawful penalty – including execution. I will not have a savage North."
Mance said nothing. Then, suddenly, he strode forward. His Wildlings surged to follow, but he gestured impatiently at them to remain where they were. Next to Bran's horse, Summer growled. Mance ignored the direwolf, striding directly to the other side of Bran's horse. Standing beside it, he offered up a hand. "Well met, King Bran of the Starks. The Free Folk will take your deal. Any who will swear to follow your codes will follow me into the south. We will fight side by side with you against the dead." He glanced at Sansa. With a wry, disbelieving smirk, Mance added, "And reclaim our home once death is defeated and dawn come anew."
A/N: I wrote enough chapters that I will be posting one each Monday for the next three weeks. See you again soon!