The King Beyond the Wall sent word that there would be a gathering of the available chieftains in three days time, to allow a chance for a tribe called 'the Thenns' and other clans from the far north to arrive. Two of the Free Folk armies standing against the Others were to unite.
Finding it strange that one of the tribes would be named and the others would just be tacked on as an afterthought, Michael went to Ygritte and Ryk. "Who are the Thenns?" he asked, "Why would Mance wait for them?"
Ygritte spat a chunk of apple into the fire she and her clan brother were sitting beside. "Fucking Thenns," she said, "They're right evil ones. Not Free Folk. They've got lords, and kneel to their Magnar. Think that he's a god. If he was, more of his people would still have their ears. Including him."
Michael grimaced. "Their ears?"
"The Thenns live furthest north," Ryk replied, "Their valley has many hot springs, but they often hunt and raid elsewhere in the mountains. Their hunters and warriors often lose their ears to frostbite. Including the Magnar of the Thenns."
"Who ever heard of a god losing their ears to the cold?" Ygritte snorted, "We're no gods and we've managed to keep ours."
"We don't live that far north," Ryk countered.
Ygritte shrugged. "Which is another reason we're less fools. And more brave. Thenns never have to fight Crows' steel. Doubt they've even seen the Wall before."
"I've never seen the Wall before," Michael pointed out with amusement.
The Free Folk woman dismissed that with her hand. "Thenns do fight well enough. Only saw them the once, but they all moved in one big clump, shields raised, bows behind. Like a walking village wall. Rattleshirt was the only leader that got away from that fight with more than half his warriors."
"Rallied us all before the Thenns took us," Ryk agreed, "Managed to get back to Mance with word. The next three battles went our way and they agreed to join him."
Michael raised a brow. A faction that uses tactics? "The Thenns fight as one unit?"
The two Free Folk chewed, considering the word Michael had used. Something has been lost in translation. The context was enough of a clue though.
"Aye, they fight as one and don't run as easily," Ryk said, "Only way to beat them was to avoid their spears, wear them down with arrows, javelins, slings. Or have much bigger numbers."
"Which Mance did," Ygritte added.
Everything clicked into place. "So that's why he wants them," Michael said, "They're the only ones with disciplined troops north of the Wall."
Ygritte sniffed, offended that Michael was impressed by such a thing. "They're worse than kneelers. White Walkers hit them first, but still their Magnar wouldn't even talk with Mance until after he beat them the three times. They won't like you, Michael Duquesne. Nor your plans to talk to the Crows."
Feeling the cold creep through him a little, Michael sat down by the fire. Ygritte shuffled on her knees over to him, close enough to lean on him. Ryk watched with knowing eyes, which Michael avoided.
"The reason Mance is bringing them is to show what the Crows will face if they say no," he said, "And the Thenns don't have to like me, no more than the carrot has to like the stick."
Ryk grinned widely. "You're a stick too, Canadian," he said, "A big one. And big sticks often mislike each other."
Figures that they'd understand the carrot and stick idea, Michael thought, throwing a stone into the fire for no reason.
Ygritte snorted again, before a low rumbling giggle came out of her. "As long as the Magnar hasn't lost his big stick to frostbite too." She shook with laughter. Ryk joined there, while Michael watched the pair of them, exasperated.
Cock jokes, he thought, They'll fit right in with O'Neill and Zheng.
"I hope you've still got yours, Michael Duquesne," Ygritte said, coyly.
Michael knew where this was going. "I've still got mine."
"Prove it," Ygritte said, leaning back on her elbows, "Ryk told me you talked to him, you and Zheng. Laws against warriors taking women? You're stranger than the Thenns, and they follow an earless, cockless god."
Michael didn't want to explain. No Free Folk would understand. But he tried anyway, out of a strange defensiveness that seemed to come from nowhere. "Our women choose who they want to be with. People who steal women, touch them without permission, are punished. Or, that's the law anyway."
"Our women choose who they want to be with too," Ygritte insisted, "Many a man who's taken a woman has never woken again. You think you'd still be breathing otherwise, Canadian?"
It isn't so simple. Not everyone is as strong or determined as you.
Michael glanced at her clan brother, who was enjoying just listening to this. "Ryk did tell you that I didn't know what I was doing, right?"
"Aye, but it doesn't matter. I know what you really want. You showed me, right after you took the Crows. You were going to have me right there and then, until your Sergeant showed up. And until you stop pretending like your cock fell off, I'll be here."
Just as expected, there's no chance she'll just drop this. Michael looked up at the foreign sky, in defeat. It was time to propose the compromise.
"What you want would require that you join our … clan. I spoke with the others. They're willing to accept you, if you follow our laws."
Ygritte's little nose twisted a little. "But your laws say you can't have me?"
Michael cleared his throat. "Depends what you mean by that. Sleeping with you? Not while we're in uniform. So probably not until we find out if we can go home. But the law does let it be recognised that we belong to one another. If we find some peaceful place, then we can work out what we're doing."
Ygritte pursed her lips, staring at the flames.
"Do you want to belong to me, Michael Duquesne?" she asked, "If you did, you wouldn't care about this law or that law."
Michael shook his head. "I have to care. Our laws were made for good reasons. We're not supposed to be screwing around when we could be fighting at any moment."
"That's the best time to be screwing around, you can die as quick as the weather turns."
Michael grumbled to himself. I'm not getting through to her, his mind told him, And I won't unless I put this in a way she can relate to. Crudely.
"My people fight like the Thenns. Warriors working close together. You know this, you've seen it yourself, right?"
"Aye," Ygritte confirmed.
"What do you think would happen if the men were told 'yeah, you can go fuck whoever you want'? They'd start fighting each other out of jealousy, or start thinking 'wouldn't it be nice if that guy died so I can have his woman?'. They'd pay more attention to their cocks than about killing the enemy, see?"
Revelation seemed to cross Ygritte's face. "Aye, I can see that. Men do love their cocks. But fighting over women keeps the clan strong too. And fighting like Thenns and kneelers doesn't win a man any woman either."
I won you that way, Michael thought, but did not say. "Fighting over women means fewer living men to fight other people. Fewer men means you're less likely to win a fight. And winning fights also wins you women, according to your logic anyway."
"What about honour?" Ryk asked, "Having your name known by all as a great warrior?"
"There's nothing more honourable than victory," Michael smiled, "As for glory? Plenty of that to go around in war. You can get it just as easily leading as you can from fighting as an individual. We don't hold it very highly ourselves though. Truth is that war is bloody, dirty and mostly evil. We go to war because it's necessary, not because it's glorious."
"You really sound like a kneeler now," Ygritte accused.
"Oh, I'd bet good money that the kneelers think war is glorious," Michael said, "They have lords and knights, after all. Anyway, I'm saying all of this so you know what joining us would mean, and how you'd have to wait to be with me in the way you want."
Michael looked to Ryk. "Offer is open to you as well. The joining our clan part, anyway. You're not my sort where being with me is concerned."
"How disappointing," Ryk replied with much mirth.
Michael appreciated his good humour about the whole thing. It would've been harder if he had been hostile. "You don't have to decide right away," he said, "We've got three days until we meet with Mance and the chieftains. By the time we get back from that, I'd like your answer."
Ygritte sat up again. "And if I say no?"
"Then I'll have to ask you to leave us. If you believe that I stole you under the stars, that this was fate, then you have no choice but to accept our laws. I would not be your lord, you would not have to kneel, but you would swear a sacred oath."
Ygritte kicked the dirt, and rose to her feet, walking off in the direction of the other campfire, where O'Neill, Zheng and Sayer were sitting. The three of them looked up as she approached and spoke, listening with blank faces.
Michael wondered if she would take the offer. "What about you?" he asked Ryk.
"If she agrees, I'll agree," he said, poking at the firewood in the flames, "Been protecting her since she was little."
"From others or herself?"
"Both."
Michael examined Ryk's face again, trying to figure out any similarities between him and Ygritte. He couldn't find one. "Are you her brother?" he asked, "Same mother or father?"
"No… Don't think so anyway," Ryk said, "Same village. We look out for each other in our villages, particularly for the girls. Not all men who steal girls do it for marriage or leave the women alive afterwards. Not all women are spearwives like Ygritte, and even she was too young to be one once."
"No, I didn't think so," Michael agreed. Ryk's stock just went up in his book, and for reasons that seemed bone deep.
There was comfortable silence between them after that.
For the three mornings before the gathering, food was delivered from the main camp to the Giants, with a message that it was to be shared with the Crows and the Canadians. A gesture establishing guest right not only from the giants themselves but from Mance.
Despite the protection this would give, Michael did not like the implication that his group and the Crows had been grouped together in the mind of the King.
Perhaps the single message had simply been more efficient than sending two, one for the Canadians and one for the Night's Watch. But Michael didn't think Mance did anything without a political purpose.
On the afternoon of the second day, the army led by the Thenns began to arrive. Michael and Zheng went to see. Another twenty thousand Free Folk, with at least as many animals along with them; goats, sheep, sled dogs, even some large cows with massive horns. The Free Folk gathered to cheer and watch, or perhaps to steal some food. But the Thenns were ready to protect their group.
The tribe and its allies set up on the north side, where the wights had appeared a few nights before. A phalanx of spearmen, armed and armoured in polished bronze over leather and furs, lined up in between the main camp and their own. Other warriors appeared as well, including bare-footed axemen, savage-looking slingers with their teeth filed to points, and men with small kayaks on their backs doubling as pavise-shields.
A sight that drew any wandering eyes away from Michael and the corporal as they watched from the slope of the Fist, a fact he was very glad for. Mance and a party of leaders including Tormund Giantsbane descended past them on horseback, not noticing the Canadian presence at all, and down towards the new arrivals.
Michael knew the Thenn leaders would be brought back and briefed on what had happened with the Crows, at which point anything could happen. He and Zheng marched back to camp, and prepared for the worst. The crawler was fuelled up and warmed up, the GPMG remounted onto it, the weapons of the Crows placed in an easy to access place so they could be handed back at a moment's notice.
The attack never came. Only another message, confirming the meeting would go ahead. Michael kept everything at a high alert for the rest of the day and all night regardless.
In the morning, Ygritte and Ryk were dispatched half a click out to the Fist with a radio to check things out quietly. They found that some of the tents had been moved, and a firepit was being dug by a trio of 'woods witches'. They were preparing the ground for a sacred sit-down, as O'Neill put it.
Noon approached, the appointed hour of the meeting. The sky was a deep blue and clear of clouds, the sun beamed down, turning the old snow from three nights before to slush. It was warm, even. Enough that arctic camo overclothes were not necessary and even the Michael ordered Qhorin Halfhand and his fireteam into the crawler. They were driving along when Ryk sent word.
"Rattleshirt is back, Michael Duquesne," he said, "He's talking to Mance right now."
Michael felt like slapping himself in the face. He had really hoped his first encounter with that man would have been his last. How did the man get away from the White Walker? he asked himself."Thanks for the warning. Get back to camp. If we don't make it back… good luck. To both of you."
The Halfhand squinted at this, disapproving of something.
"You'll make it back," Ygritte answered, with certainty she didn't really have.
Not about to talk her down from that position, Michael gave the order to drive up to the top of the Fist.
Without an escort of sasquatches to prevent them, the Free Folk and even some Thenns ran to watch the crawler drive by. They crowded the short route between the Giant's camp and the start of the Fist's southern slope, forcing Zheng to slow to prevent hitting anyone.
At first, Michael thought they had come to mob them, to kill the Qhorin Halfhand. But no rain of rocks, arrows and men came. Instead, men and spearwives tried to touch the crawler as it moved, like it was a true test of bravery. Children did the adults one better. They seemed to have come up with a game, trying to see how close they could get to being hit by the vehicle before jumping away.
Zheng eventually sounded the horn, which scared or surprised them all away enough to get back up to speed. At the bottom of the Fist itself, Tormund's spearmen waited and guarded the way in small groups, allowing no one to follow up to the peak. The climb was faster than the travel on the flats below had been.
The gathering of chieftains was just in front of Mance's tent, and the number of them seemed to have doubled since the last time Michael had been up to the peak. They stood in a circle around a large firepit that had been dug low into the snow and dirt below. Ygritte and Ryk had been right about one thing; the fire was tended by what could only be described as witches. Older women, with headdresses of feathers, bones and claws, poking at the wood with long bronze rods.
Zheng did what she had been ordered to do. She pulled the vehicle side-on to the gathering, and stopped just long enough for Michael and Halfhand to dismount, before moving the vehicle on. They had already picked out a nice spot at the highest point of the Fist to park and overwatch the meeting.
The chieftains watched the thing move off and climb the last part of the hill. Just as they should, Michael thought, Look at the magic metal carriage. Don't forget who you're dealing with. He waited where he was, about twenty yards from the firepit, until he was satisfied his team was in position; O'Neill on the GPMG to kill everyone, Sayer with his bolt-action to kill particular assholes, Zheng to watch their back.
"Remember your orders," he radioed to them.
"We will, sir. Get it done," O'Neill replied.
With that, Michael grabbed Halfhand by the back of his cloak and shoved him forwards. The Crow did not resist. This was an agreed upon piece of acting. Together, they moved to join the circle of chieftains.
Most of the now-familiar faces looked to him with something approaching respect, for the show he was putting on if not the man; Mance himself, beautiful Dalla and even more beautiful Val, the jolly Giantsbane, the warg Six-Skins, the ancient Oldfather and the amused Harma Dogshead. Why Harma was called Dogshead was finally revealed; behind her, there was a standard made up of a dead dog's head on a pike. The others had their own banners, mostly made of up different arrangements of bones and furs.
The others present around the fire looked on with anger, fear or something in between.
A thick-set, blonde man with watery eyes could only be the Weeper.
A tall, wiry man with a shaved head and no ears was the Magnar of the Thenn, without a doubt. He was accompanied by another, vaguely similar looking man with a receding hairline.
Last and least, a small man, snarling at Michael wordlessly, his teeth and eyes peering yellow out from underneath a giant's skull doubling as a helmet. He made to step forwards, the bones on his furs rattling, before shooting a look at the witches by the fire and thinking better of it.
"Hold!" shouted the nearest witch in a voice like she smoked forty cigarettes a day, "Who comes before the Firekeepers' Hearth!"
Michael stopped in his tracks, not having expected the question. It was something of a problem, as he didn't want Halfhand to know his real name. He decided that was a reason the Free Folk would accept easily enough.
"I won't say my real name in front of this Crow," he shouted back, gesturing to Halfhand, "But for now, you can call me Ulysses of Ithaca."
The leading witch turned to her sisters, who convened and whispered with each other. Michael looked to Mance, as if to ask what was up. The King merely smiled back, apparently approving of his decision to give the Crow the mushroom treatment; keep them in the dark and feed them shit.
"There is power in a man's true name!" the lead witch proclaimed, "You are wise to keep it from the ears of the Crows. Very well! Ulysses of Ithaca, we welcome you to this meeting of the chiefs of the True North. Take your place with your prisoner."
Michael moved forwards with Halfhand again, and took the empty space nearest to him, between Harma Dogshead and Varamyr Six-Skins. The latter looked at the Crow with hate, touching his dagger. Halfhand moved to the other side, where Harma seemed less hostile. Bad idea, old man, Michael thought, She is probably more deadly than the warg without his animals. She's certainly bigger.
"Qhorin," Mance called out, "It has been a long time."
"Aye, it has," Halfhand replied, "I see you've taken a wife."
"A queen," Mance corrected him.
"As you say," Halfhand conceded, "I did not expect to live to see this."
"You still might not, Crow," declared Val from the side, to the general amusement of the chiefs around the fire.
Calming things down by holding out his hands, Mance moved up to the fire and spoke. "I've brought you here because… Ulysses… has brought us Qhorin Halfhand. He says we should try talking to the Crows before attacking the Wall, that we should capture wights to show them the real enemy. I have claimed to be King Beyond the Wall, and as King, I would hear your thoughts on this."
There was some chatter between chieftains, but Tormund got to the point first.
"Not all the Free Folk have someone to speak for them here. Should we not wait for the gathering to be complete?"
Mance shook his head. "If we are to take the path Ulysses has suggested, we should make haste. If we succeed on walking it, the rest can choose to come along or they can choose not to. Just as they can choose to fight with us or try themselves. If we fail, nothing has changed."
"Any tribe that refuses would be left without protection of numbers," the Weeper growled, "They would be doomed. We should wait for them."
Mance's face soured, as he shot a deadly glare at the dissenter. "If we fight or if we talk our way past the Wall, the Free Folk will move as one and those left behind will die. This is the whole reason I have gathered you. If you feel differently, go charge the Bridge of Skulls and see where it leads you."
"Har!" Tormund laughed, "It will lead him to being eaten and shat out by the seals in the Gorge!"
Weeper stared at Giantsbane. Promising himself he'll kill the man, Michael knew.
The Magnar of the Thenn moved to beside Mance by the fire, sending the witches scattering out of the way as he moved. When he spoke, it was in the Old Tongue. Michael could tell by the inflection somehow, even though every word was translated. "The King is right. Disagree and die. Any tribe who refuses the decision of this gathering, the Thenn will fight." The younger Thenn behind made an approving noise, and thumped his chest.
The others seemed cowed, even the Weeper. All except Rattleshirt, who was distracted with his hatred of all present things Canadian.
So that's what the deal was, Michael thought, The Thenns joined up to become enforcers. The right hand of the King. All the better to replace him or rebel when things are settled.
The Magnar looked to Michael and his prisoner, gesturing to them.
"We Thenns cannot know what talking will do. We do not know Ulysses or the Crows. We do not know the Wall. Fighting could work, if what Mance says is true. Can their word be trusted? This is what we must know before deciding."
Kettle, meet pot, Michael's mind joked, before he replied, whatever magic that was inside him translating to the Old Tongue in turn. "Magnar, that question is the same one the Crows will ask when we offer to talk. The answer is no. You cannot trust the Crows. They cannot trust you."
The Magnar cocked his head. He was not expecting a reply in his own language.
"Then why would we agree to talk?" the Thenn asked.
"Because you don't need trust, at first. Once the Crows learn of the Others, see dead men moving with their own eyes, they will want the same thing you do; to be safe from the Others, to defeat the Others. And after that, both sides will not want to be interfered with. On these things, you can both agree, and all that is left are the details."
"So speaks the Crow lover," Rattleshirt interrupted, in the Common Tongue, "You kill us, like a Crow. You take our women, like a Crow. Now you want us to kneel, like a Crow. You are a craven, kneeling bastard. You have no place among us. I will wear your skin as a cloak by this day's end. So says the Lord o' Bones."
I have to discredit him, Michael knew, He's tapping into old hate to try and do the same to me.
"Last time I saw you, Rattleshirt, you were running away leaking piss, while your warriors fought and died. How is it that you're standing here among chieftains? I killed your warband. The survivors who didn't run with you follow me now. You lead no one. You are no one."
There was a wave smirks around the other chieftains. Word of the man's defeat must have gotten around, and Michael doubted that anyone one liked the guy to begin with.
"Har!" Tormund shouted, "What say you to that, o Lord o' Bones?"
The man exploded with anger, hand going for his sword's hilt as he began shifting on his feet side to side. He glanced at the witches, as if to ask permission to strike, but did not receive it. "I have many more than the ones you slew, kneeler! I have wardogs and wargs! I'll set all of them upon you. I'll take back that betraying bitch you stole, fuck her to death and use her skull as a drinking cup!"
Michael lifted his arms to either side of him. "You're free to try it. I've fought a White Walker and lived to tell the tale. A small man with teeth rotting out of his gums wearing a shirt of bones doesn't scare me."
Rattleshirt drew his sword and began moving around the fire to get at Michael, no longer caring about the witches. They hissed at him in the Old Tongue that he was blaspheming and the gods would punish him, but that did not stop him.
Not about to let himself get chopped up, Michael drew his pistol into both hands from his hip and aimed at the approaching chief. The witches cried out and pointed at the aggressor. Rattleshirt was intercepted by the Magnar of Thenn. Not expecting to be struck from the side, he took a hard blow from the flat of a bronze sword to the side of his head, crumpling to the ground unconscious.
Eyes turned back to Michael.
"Put away that weapon," Mance commanded, "It's over."
"What will you do with him?" Michael replied, not complying with the order.
"Nothing," Mance stated, "If he wishes to feud with you, that is no business of ours, only that he is not allowed to act upon it here, around this fire. Neither are you."
Shoot him while he's down, whispered someone in Michael's head, using his own voice, Rattleshirt will come back to kill you later. You will have to kill all his followers if he lives. Kill him now. Save them.
Michael shook his head. He couldn't do it. The man was defenceless, his sword now plucked away by the Thenn. He holstered his pistol again, feeling it was a massive mistake.
You should've killed him while you had the chance, the voice whispered, before going away.
"Rattleshirt did not speak entirely wrongly," Harma Dogshead weighed in, getting everything back on track as the man was dragged away by Mance's people, "Would kneeling be the price of passing the Wall? To the Crows or to the Starks behind them?" She looked to Qhorin Halfhand for the answer.
The Crow was quick to respond. "I do not know for certain. I cannot speak for the Lord Commander or what he will do when you bring him a wight."
Michael waved his hand in a rolling gesture.
A little help here, your life is on the line, Mr. Crow.
Halfhand got the idea. "But the Night's Watch has land of its own that we could settle you on. At the very least, we would require oaths to follow our laws, to not raid, and to support bringing justice to those who break those oaths. But if the lords further south disapprove, kneeling may be the price of your survival, aye."
There were hisses and grunts of anger at that. But fewer than Michael expected.
"There are many who would kneel," Tormund said, running his fingers through his long grey beard, "Most sincerely, some to deceive the southrons."
"There are just as many who would prefer to die," the Weeper declared, counting himself among them.
"I cannot tell each man or woman what to do if that is the demand," Mance cut in, "And I'll not stop any man or woman from saving their life, or their babes. But we should at least find out what the price would be."
"It might not be all or nothing either," Michael added quickly, "Maybe those who kneel get to go further south, some can take oaths and stay close by to help defend those lands Halfhand has mentioned, and the rest can stay beyond the Wall as scouts until the Others attack. You won't know what is possible until you start talking with the Crows. It could be that everyone gets their way in the end."
"You would make some of us Crows?" Varamyr Six-Skins asked, half spitting the last word in anger. Fearing a repeat of the Rattleshirt incident from the warg, Michael oriented himself to shoot the man if he went for his dagger, as he had threatened before.
"No, we would not make you Crows," Halfhand replied, "My brothers would not stand for it. As I said, we might require oaths, but not our oaths. Most of you are not stupid enough to defy the gods on such things. But if there are others who wish to kneel, they may be sent beyond the lands of the Night's Watch. If the Starks agree."
"And after all of this is over, you can simply go north again if you don't want to kneel," Michael said, "The oaths don't have to hold you forever, you can return things to the way they were before."
The Weeper grit his teeth and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I will never kneel or pretend to kneel."
"No one is saying you should," Mance stated coolly, before addressing the whole circle, "I have heard your words. I would hear one more thing before I make the decision."
The King's eyes came to rest on Michael.
"Ulysses, talking to the Crows is your idea," he said, "If it fails, will you fight for the living? Will you join the attack on the Wall?"
He's been waiting for this the whole time, Michael realised. If he said yes, then maybe the King would sabotage the talks deliberately. If he said no, he'd more or less be siding with the Crows, which he didn't want to do. The latter was the lesser of two evils, in theory, assuming he could get away alive from the Free Folk's camp.
But his conscience rebelled. The damn kids… the little boys and girls stupidly jumping in front of the crawler. If he said no, they'd all die worse ways than an vehicle impact. As would their parents, their grandparents, their culture, their civilisation such as it was. All dead and their meat raised to serve literal demons. It would be standing by as a genocide unfolded.
Michael rubbed his face, knowing what the law said about that. The genocide part anyway.
"If the Lord Commander does not agree to let you through or offer what I feel are reasonable terms after you genuinely try to come to agreement, I have no choice. I have to side with you."
The Halfhand turned to face him. "What do you mean you have no choice?!"
Michael felt anger rise up at his objection.
"I'm not going to stand by while women and children are left to die at the hands of demons because your people can't understand the scale of the threat. The Night's Watch would be responsible for that death if they do not set reasonable terms. Our laws do not permit me to do nothing."
The other chiefs talked to each other quietly, reacting to the declaration. The Crow Ranger scowled but said nothing, moving back to his previous place.
But it was Mance and his 'royal' family who Michael noticed first and foremost. He looks positively triumphant, his Queen is smiling and her sister is frowning. Michael understood at once. The King had gotten what he wanted; a commitment from the strangers with deadly magic to support his cause. Michael felt like he had just walked in on a cartel deal and been asked to sign up. The talks were vulnerable to sabotage by both sides, and he'd just told one of them he'd back their play if things went south.
King Mance held up a hand to silence the chatter. "I've made the decision. We'll see what the Lord Commander says. Ulysses, you and I will discuss what we should offer. Tormund, when the time comes, you'll go to Craster's and onto Castle Black to do the talking. The host stays here until word gets back … or doesn't."
The King paused, looking at each of the chieftains in turn. "If any of you don't like this decision, you are free to leave. But don't expect help from the rest of us ever again. I would have every single one of us through that Wall. If I can do that without fighting, that just leaves more of us to fight the Seven Kingdoms or the dead later."
There was grumbling and insults over that, but no one declared they would be leaving. Though Michael knew the unconscious man on the snow a little ways off probably would once he woke up.
"What about the wight?" he asked, "The Night's Watch aren't going to negotiate if we don't show up with one. They'll see the talks as a trick and nothing else."
Mance frowned, looking up at the blue sky above. "The dead have not been seen for days. Since you fought them off last. The good weather is proof that their masters are far from here. But there is still time, and they have no doubt left watchers."
The King looked to Six-Skins. "Varamyr, use your skins. Bring a wight or two to Craster's. A human one. Don't need to have all their parts."