Mole's Town was well named, Michael decided.
For starters, it was worthy of the title of 'town', by medieval standards at least. Despite being the size of a village in terms of population, it was surrounded by farms for miles. Craftspeople and specialist industry was everywhere. There was a tailor, two carpenter shops, a smithy, a brewer… and a brothel.
It was also very much a 'mole's town'. Most of the village was in fact underground, and like the wormways of Castle Black, expanded beyond the limits of the town's above ground structures. The entrance to the brothel was the size of a shack, but it was a three floor affair when you got underground.
Around the town was a palisade made of stout oak logs from the nearby forest. Its construction had always been part of Michael's plan, commencing the very morning after the place was taken by the unicorn riders. He thought it would take far longer to complete than it did.
The population were told that the Free Folk would soon be passing through the Wall and every single soul pitched in to help. Between their manpower and the strength of unicorns to pull logs, the work was quickly but roughly completed with almost indecent haste. There was even enclosed spaces set aside for the Laughing Tree tribe, the horses and the unicorns.
It was this half-underground village-turned-fort that was to be the place for another great meeting of leaders: Free Folk, Crow and Canadian.
On the morning of the thirteenth day of the eleventh month, Michael walked through the hard mud and sprinkling of snow to the entrance of the palisade that led to the Kingsroad to wait for the Free Folk chieftains to arrive.
He went alone. The others were still asleep and wouldn't be needed for some time, so he decided to let them have the extra hour or so of shut-eye. The town's few streets seemed deserted, until he made his way around the smithy building and into view of the entrance.
There seemed to be an entire impromptu market there, tucked inside the walls of the entranceway that had been designed to trap people storming it. Along one side was a series of tables and carts with goods for sale. Everything from sacks of foodstuffs to tools to sex. On the other side were lots of Free Folk milling about, bidding on things like it was an auction. Between all this and the village was a thin line of armed and armoured Laughing Tree warriors, seemingly under command of Ryk.
What in the name of Trudeau's wig is going on here? Michael thought, marching over.
"Ryk!" he said, in Officer Voice No.1.
The man flinched slightly, before his thin head turned to the source of the noise. He looked considerably less like a fish than usual, as his eyes were half-closed with early morning sleepiness. "Gods! Must y' be so loud," he slurred.
"What the hell is all this?"
"Tradin', what's it look like?"
"Who said anyone could do that here?"
"No one. The women over there set up a fuck-tent to take silver from the folks passing south on the road. It worked, then everyone in town brought their own trade."
"And there's no one stealing?"
"The villagers are armed and there's nowhere to run. Even the women have crossbows."
Fuming, Michael bit his tongue, lips drawn back in anger. "Ryk, are you telling me the Free Folk women coming down from Castle Black are buying sex from the locals?"
The man looked confused for a moment. "No? Well, aye. A few."
"So there are men buying sex here."
"Aye. Boys more than men, most of them."
"I seem to recall agreeing with Mance that there'd be no men south of the Wall. If these guys are old enough to fuck, they're old enough to fight."
Ryk snorted. "Aye, that they are. Though a boy is far more able to fuck when young than he is able to fight men grown. I know, I started early on both!" He chuckled to himself, and opened his mouth to explain further.
Tales of the man's early sexual career were the last thing Michael wanted to hear. The man was barely an adult himself. "Stop right there. I don't care. They went ahead and did this without asking, now I've got a nightmare on my hands."
"How can you have a nightmare on your hands? Dreams aren't pork fat, Michael Duquesne."
Michael felt a deep urge to slap his own face. "The Free Folk outside now know there's food and other valuable things in here. So we'll need to set extra guards. When Taryne finds out, she's going to be pissed."
The woman was to be administrator of the base after Michael and the others went south, and having been kidnapped herself, she wasn't likely to appreciate the situation like a stoic.
At last, Ryk looked genuinely sorrowful for his inaction. "If I'd known it was such a problem…"
Michael sighed. There was no point reprimanding the guy. I need to remember they don't think like I do, he thought, They're not in the Army, not really. He decided to use the problem as an opportunity.
"Whatever. Here's what you're going to do. None of the locals leave this area without being searched. They're going to pay a fifth of whatever gold, silver and copper of what they're carrying when they're done trading, from now on. No thieving from whatever they don't sell though. I'll explain why later. I'm going to wait outside for Mance."
Ryk grunted with displeasure, but agreed to do as he had been ordered, muttering about kneelers and their ways.
Reservations about taxes being too much like kneeling, no doubt, Michael thought to himself, cheered by the thought, Or wondering what the difference between taxes and stealing are. He'd fit in well in Alberta.
With the situation seen to, he walked into the crowd. Or rather, through it. Wearing his CADPAT and armour once again, cleaned of the blood of the Crows, he was instantly recognisable to every Free Folk person present. They parted for him like the Red Sea, saying their greetings. He nodded back.
The so-called 'wildlings' were doing strong trade with the locals. So the raiders aren't hugely representative of the total Free Folk population, Michael pondered, Or at least raiding isn't the only way they acquire things they don't have. What was more surprising was the amount of gold and silver changing hands. The Free Folk didn't have coins, but they did have jewellery of every sort that reminded Michael of old Celtic and Viking works that he had seen in history books.
Near the 'fuck-tent', there was a cacophony of shouts. A small young man of sixteen or so exited, wearing nothing but a patchwork fur coat around his shoulders and a crossbow bolt in his bare arse. He staggered, until some friends about the same age and size came out and carried him, followed by a pair of armed prostitutes that were barely more dressed.
The whole collection seemed to pause on noticing Michael, as he did on noting them. Great, that's the last thing I need. I really should've specified what 'children' meant when I said they could come south.
He pointedly took the rifle hanging off his front in hand, causing the audience's eyes to widen sharply. "Get out and go back to your mothers," he told the young men, "Get that wound looked at."
The boys sent dirty glances back at the women at the tent entrance, but complied. Michael knew what those looks meant. This wasn't over. He turned to the prostitutes.
"Your business today is concluded. Get back to the brothel. The leader of the warriors back there is called Ryk. He'll want a cut of your earnings today. Tell him I said to double the guard."
"By what right do you take what is ours?" one of the prostitutes demanded, "What we have earned with our bodies?" The other shook her head and pulled the first inside the tent again.
"Fair question," Michael muttered, wondering how he'd actually answer for a moment, "It's not like I'm the CRA."
He quickly moved on, finally making it out of the palisade perimeter. The Kingsroad ran directly outside, and it was easy to see how the Molestowners had been able to attract people inside; the little market was directly visible from the highway. If you could call it that. It was little more than a wide dirt path on raised earth about two feet higher than the farmland and woods around it.
The whole road and a great part of the field beyond was packed with people, animals, carts and sleds on the move, all moving south. Every woman appeared to be a spearwife, carrying a variety of weapons of bronze, stone or antler-bone. No shortage of children walked along either, though these were usually on the older side and there seemed to be very few infants. No mystery why that is, Michael thought sadly.
Every person had a spring in their step though. Many raised their hand in greeting to Michael, as if he was an old friend. The Wall being between them and the Others had raised their spirits, he knew, but it was still very strange to have people credit him with their salvation. Though he was not alone in that credit.
A few minutes after he had stopped to wait, Michael heard a great cheer erupt from the north, and following it, a cavalcade of shaggy horses and ponies led by Mance. The King rode quickly, his black-and-red cloak flapping in the wind. Mormont was with him, looking considerably more healthy than before, though his face was grim as ever. The chieftains, the witches from the Fist and some Crows followed behind, Tormund Giantsbane and Jon Stark being the first visible. The Free Folk got off the road to let the riders pass.
"Lord Duquesne," Mance greeted as he arrived, "You weren't waiting too long I hope?"
"Not long, your Majesty," Michael replied, his words polite but his tone dry, "Welcome to Her Majesty's Canadian Forces Base at Molestown."
The King's eyes swept over the palisade wall. "The place is unrecognisable," Mance declared, "You work swiftly."
"Well, we make do with what we have. You wanted us gone from Castle Black, as did Mormont. The Laughing Tree still needs a place to call its own."
The Lord Commander said nothing.
Mance was equally bemused. "You're not sour about my demand still, are you? You got what you wanted. Jon Snow here, Longclaw, the message to Robb Stark seeking peace…"
Michael resisted a scowl. The price of Mance going along with his plan had been steep. He did not want to give up the Valyrian steel sword. He hadn't wanted to give up Jon Stark either. He had even stopped the sending of the message to Jon's brother on the basis that it was a warning that the Wall had fallen.
It was only when Michael pointed out that Eastwatch likely had the time to send a raven that the King relented. Even so, Mance wanted Castle Black put under his direct control, so that if the Others attacked, he could open the gates to everyone who needed to escape. Without the need to wait for Canadian verification of said attack.
On this, Mormont agreed with him; the presence of Michael and the other Canadians was something he wanted rid of. Mormont also extracted a concession to send out riders to warn the villages of the Free Folk presence, which wasn't something Michael really objected to in the first place.
"I'll get over it," Michael replied at last, "For now, you can all dismount and come with me."
The largest underground space in the village was chosen for the war council. It was a winter storm shelter of sorts for those that normally lived in the ramshackle houses above, and contained plenty of furniture for the job. It smelled slightly of mold but it was otherwise clean. There were three fireplaces too, with chimneys cut directly out of the rock.
By the time Michael re-entered it with Sergeant O'Neill, the space was full of Free Folk, a gathering not unlike what he had seen at the Fist of the First Men. The fires were blazing, the air more humid, and the whole space echoed with conversations. There was barely enough space to get into the room from the tunnel. Didn't think there were this many.
"Can't wait to get back to a world with deodorant, sir," O'Neill muttered, "And showers."
Michael smiled. "Right, because we gravel technicians are the dictionary definition of hygiene right now. Or ever. Only people in the Army who keep that fresh are the circus performers at Disneyland on the Rideau."
"I don't think the staff at Defence Headquarters would like you calling them circus performers, sir."
"It's the best description for people who send a light infantry battalion to the NWT for the sake of publicity. Our own world was going to hell already, plenty of guys in need of lead poisoning. It's only pure chance we landed in a place we can make a difference, if only because we need to get home. But if you're so concerned, put it in your report when we get home, and we'll see."
O'Neill gave a single, loud laugh. "Don't tempt me, sir."
Much of the nearby conversation died, the Sergeant's volume having drawn attention. The room got quieter and quieter as Michael navigated through the standing crowd to the circle of tables and chairs at the centre of the space. Soon, it was silent, all eyes watching the latecomers. What, did I insult them by coming last? "Apologies for being late," Michael declared politely as he could, "Don't worry about us. Keep talking."
This did not restart the chatter, and was instead met with general confusion. With the exception of Queen Dalla, who broke out in a smile, and her sister Val, who had a strange contempt in her look. Mance is a lucky man, Michael joked to himself as he finally reached the tables directly opposite the royal party.
All the surviving chiefs from the meeting at the Fist were around the circle, save for Six Skins. Lord Commander Mormont, Jon Stark and a steward of some kind were also given a place, though they were guarded. In front of each chieftain was a weapon, laid flat on the surface of the tables. Michael could see Longclaw in front of Stark.
The witches stood inside the circle of tables, blessing the place with burning wreathes of a pleasant smelling wood, chanting quietly as they moved.
There was no shortage of new faces; pledges from latecomer tribes to the cause of King Mance. Michael had little doubt that all scepticism about his leadership had evaporated, for the moment.
Ygritte was present too, looking as imperious as possible for someone standing barely more than five feet tall. Flanked by Taryne and Ryk, she was sitting as representative of the Laughing Tree tribe. Michael's throat tightened a little at the sight of her. What am I going to do…
According to Ryk, she had been chosen because she was the person among all the Westerosi closest to the Canadians. Closest to Michael specifically. He didn't know if that was a good basis for choosing leaders, but she was at least cooperative and was learning fast. At last, the Free Folk resumed their conversations and Michael began to sit down in the empty seat beside Ygritte, giving her a cheerful nudge that she returned with a grin.
Mance rose to his feet and began to speak.
"Here we are."
He raised both hands to either side of him.
"South of the Wall!"
A cheer went up, followed by the chieftains slamming their hands on the table.
"What feels like a century ago, the threat of the Others became so great that I and others set out to unite our peoples to defeat the Crows and reach this land. Our land!"
Another shout of approval.
"And the gods sent us powerful friends to help us. I have no doubt that we would have conquered the Wall on our own. But the Canadians gave us a better way. We have spent far fewer lives to take it, and have done it sooner than any of us had dared hope. Our ways of hospitality brought us a great boon, and we have much to be thankful for to Michael Duquesne and his fellows."
Tormund jumped up from his seat, half onto the table in front of him, drinking horn in hand. "Hail the Wallbreakers!" he roared at the top of his voice.
"HAIL THE WALLBREAKERS!" the room replied, so loudly that it seemed like the world shook. Michael glanced at O'Neill, not entirely sure if he should respond or how he could.
"Hail Mance, King of Wall and Gift!" Tormund added.
"HAIL MANCE, KING OF WALL AND GIFT!"
Mance smiled at his friend and waved for him to sit down. "Thank you, Tormund," he said, "I can see you've embarrassed our Canadian friends a little."
A round of laughter followed.
"Perhaps they are not used to such praise," Tormund said, pulling his long beard as he resumed his place, "But we Free Folk do not let great deeds go unremarked."
"And I have no intention of stopping you," Michael replied.
"As if you could, har!"
Isn't that the truth. You'd need a straitjacket and ball-gag to stop this guy drinking and shouting.
"We've done something that the Free Folk have never done before," Mance continued, "We have defeated the Night's Watch and made peace with them."
There was loud grumbles of complaint about that.
"No, friends, we can be proud of that. We have made peace on our terms. But now I face the familiar problem of all our kings… Joramun. Gendel and Gorne. The Horned King. Bael the Bard. Raymun Redbeard. They all came south. They were all broken by the armies of the Starks. And those armies are already gathering."
Harma Dogshead stood and pointed directly at Jon. "There's a Stark sitting right there, Mance," she said, "What need do we have of worry over Stark armies when we hold a son? We should trade him for the Gift and have our peace."
Shouts of agreement and disagreement boomed over that. Michael listened. It was as expected. Realists, idealists and sadists, all competing to have their way.
Mance eventually cut through the noise. "The lords will not allow that," he said, "Jon is a bastard and a man of the Night's Watch. Aye, he is a good man and wise beyond his years, his yielding to us showed that."
Jon shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the attention. Is it the bastard part or the compliment he doesn't like? Michael pondered.
"But the lords of the Starklands care not. A Crow bastard's life will not prevent raiding, or soothe the long hatreds we share. The lords will raise their own host if the Starks do not. And I have pledged to our Canadian friends not to use the boy as a hostage."
Harma glanced Michael's way, and he met her gaze, bracing for an argument. But instead of saying anything against freeing Jon, she inclined her head and sat down. Interesting, Michael thought, She doesn't want to speak out against us. We have some real clout here. It was the only reason he could think of that would shut up a chieftain.
"I have gathered you to consider our path," Mance said, "As I have often done. The first thing we must consider is whether or not it is wise to continue sending only women and children south of the Wall."
So that's his game. He wants to change the deal. Michael straightened up in his seat. But why?
"As I said when we agreed on that," he started, "Everyone we get south of the Wall alive is a victory against the Others. Everything I've heard about the Seven Kingdoms tells me that fully grown, armed men of the Free Folk are everything they fear and hate, exceptions though there may be."
Michael paused to let that sink in, but feared he wasn't convincing anyone.
"So we rely on the warriors to keep the dead at bay. We rely on spearwives and a select few tribes to secure the Gift. When all the women, children and herds are through the Wall, the men will come through and defend it. That is the way to keep the most number of people alive."
There was quiet as the chiefs considered this.
"As for what the Starks will do, I can promise you they'll be dealt with. One way or another. And Harma was right about one thing, there is a Stark here."
Michael looked to the young man in question. "Jon, would your brother hunt down 'wildling' women and children who are no threat to him or his war?"
All eyes turned to Jon Stark for the answer. It came at once. "Never. But I cannot speak for his lords. Some have less than honourable reputations."
"His lords do not obey him?" O'Neill asked.
"They might act before he knew," Jon replied, looking to the rest of the circle, "Soon he will go south to the Riverlands. That's a long way from the Gift. He would punish those that mistreat your women, but that would be afterwards. His justice cannot bring back the dead or undo rapes."
"There you have it," Mance declared, "From Eddard Stark's own son. We need to bring a bigger host south of the Wall to defend ourselves. Not from the Starks themselves, but their bannermen."
Michael stood up. "You said the Starks' armies have beaten yours whenever they've met. If you bring your warriors through the Wall and the Starks refuse to talk peace as a result, how do you plan to defeat them while also defending the Wall from the Others? To say nothing of these ironborn and slavers you have mentioned before."
Mance stared, his tongue working in his mouth. He didn't want to be challenged on that. "The host assembled beyond the gates of Castle Black is the largest the Free Folk have ever assembled. But we do not yet possess the arms and armour for a great battle to decide the matter."
The King's gaze broke away from Michael and scanned across the room. "I would use our strengths and what the Canadians have taught us about reconnaissance to confound the Starks and their lords. I would break up our host into many smaller ones but acting as one, and turn the Wolfswood into our fortress and our Kingsroad."
"Our wargs would find the enemy before they could find us. We would lay ambushes, attack with better numbers, and take weapons from the dead. With each victory, we would gain more. Small settlements we would seize, not loot and burn. I'd make the countryside north of Winterfell into such a place that no kneeler could step outside their castles without sprouting an arrow or spear in their bellies."
A cheer went up, from every Free Folk and Thenn throat.
"And then I would gather a true host once more, march to Winterfell, and make peace on our terms, as we have with the Crows."
Processing the King's speech, Michael clutched his chin idly, scratching the beard that had begun to grow there, before catching himself.
Mance's plan was a good one. It played to the advantages the Free Folk had, and took into account the structure of their army and strategy. It was a coin toss if it would work, though maybe fifty-fifty was the best odds the Free Folk had ever had. The odds improved when Canadian arms and expertise were included. But it all felt unnecessary.
Everything fell into place. The plan sounds too good to be true, Michael realised, The chieftains don't want peace or don't believe it can be achieved.
"I will admit, your Majesty, that it is a good plan if things go badly. But in preparing for war with the Starks too early, you might make peace impossible."
"Peace is already impossible," Tormund boomed, his arms crossed, "What of the Umbers? They will march on us whether we bring our men south or not. We have maybe six thousand warriors past the Wall, two at Castle Black and four at Eastwatch. How many will old Crowfood bring? Ten thousand? Fifteen?"
"We have Mors' daughter," Michael replied, "She has seen everything that you have. She will talk to him. And we will bring wights too. Proof of the Others' return. At the very least we can delay his attack until negotiations are concluded."
Tormund's face relaxed, the man seemingly mollified, to Michael's surprise.
Lord Commander stood now, struggling the last few inches but finishing as straight as a bolt. "May I speak?"
Mance flexed his fingers, wondering if he should allow it.
"The Crow caws," Morna said darkly, her white weirwood mask changing the pitch of her voice in a strange way, "He should keep his beak closed."
Darth Vader has spoken, Michael's mind joked.
"A Crow can have a pleasant sound," Mance commented, "But is most often an irritation. We'll find out which sort this Crow is." He gestured to Mormont to speak.
The Lord-Commander inclined his head slightly in thanks. "Lord Duquesne, you speak of peace but have brought about the circumstances for a greater war. I would know your plan to reverse this."
"So you can pass it along to your friends in Winterfell?" Ygritte asked, "You love us no more than Mors Umber, Lord Crow."
"A question rightly asked," Mormont admitted, "And while I love you not, none in Winterfell has ever met a wight. Lord Duquesne sent a message to Robb Stark, informing him that the Wall was taken. That may have already ended your chances of peace. If I know the lords of the North, many will demand your destruction out of fear and pride alone."
Mormont looked to Michael. "Tarly told me what you had him write. Your declaration of peaceful intentions will buy you time. The lords will argue over it. They will argue over the wights and the Others too. But in the end, they will not believe you or not care. The host of the North will march against you and deal with the wights afterwards. So I ask again, what is your plan?"
"To show them a different way," Michael replied, "By bringing conclusive proof of both our peaceful intentions and the existence of the Others. Something they can't argue with."
"Not all of us are so peaceful," Styr interrupted in the Old Tongue.
Michael did not even look at the bald, earless Magnar. "You will be." He left the or else unsaid, but the message was received before he continued answering Mormont. There was no angry rebuke or promise of violence from Styr in reply. Michael had suspected that the Thenns were afraid of him and his team. They had avoided him ever since the battle at Castle Black. Now he knew for sure.
"Mance has been gathering more wights using the wargs. I'll bring them south on our crawler, with Umber's daughter. My thought was to gather all the cavalry we have and move south in a show of force, so the Starks know that they can't just sweep the Free Folk aside… but you say we don't have a lot of time, Mormont?"
The Lord Commander shook his head slowly. "The raven you sent to Winterfell will arrive later today or in the morn tomorrow. My own will arrive soon after. Stark may hide the message they bear for some time, deciding what to do about what has happened. But not for long. The lords will find out."
"How long do we have?" Mance asked.
"Two weeks at the least, if Robb Stark goes straight to his lords with the news," Mormont answered, "Perhaps a moon or two at most. He called the Stark banners some time ago, and if the speed of their gathering is as fast as it was during Robert's rebellion, a force capable of crushing you will be ready in four to six more weeks."
Dalla tilted her head. "Why are you telling us this?"
The Lord Commander sat again slowly, and folded his hands on the table in front of him. "I want you to accept whatever terms that Robb Stark offers. I know you will not like those terms. So you need to know just how close you are to destruction. Mayhaps it will make you more wise in your choices. Though I doubt it."
The chieftains glared, the Queen glared, Val glared… but Mance sat down, contemplative.
The King is too smart to miss a fair warning when he hears it. Michael thought, before he decided to ignore the Lord Commander's comment in favour of a practical approach.
"So we don't have time to gather cavalry and move it through the Wall. And even if we decided today, an army moves slower. Okay then. I will lead a small force to Winterfell. One or two hundred riders on horseback, and the unicorn riders. Not enough to be a serious threat at first sight, that should even help convince Robb Stark that we're not invading."
"What will you do if you run into Umber's host on the way?" Tormund asked, "Or the army of some other lordling kneeler?"
Michael frowned. "Go around it."
"And if you can't?"
"Fight our way through."
Tormund gave a vicious, toothy grimace. "Can I come along?"
"I'll need you here, Giantsbane," Mance stated, "As for Winterfell… What will you say when you get there, Duquesne? We tried talk before with the Crows and they rejected us. We showed every officer of the Watch a wight. It did not matter. Without the threat of war, any negotiation looks doomed to my eye."
Michael thought to answer, but was beaten to the punch.
"My brother is not Ser Alliser," Jon Stark interrupted loudly, "And the North remembers the tales of the Others."
"The Night's Watch was founded to fight them, else why would they build the Wall?" Dalla said, "It did not remember."
"The Watch is as much southern as northern," Jon Stark answered, "Men from all Seven Kingdoms are sent to the Wall to serve in it, often against their will. That they didn't believe wild northern tales or trust you is not proof that my brother will think a wight is mummery."
"Enough," Michael said, "Let me worry about wights and wild northern tales. I'll give Robb Stark the same offer I proposed before. All will take sacred oaths to not fight or raid. The Gift will be yours, Mance. All those that will not kneel can stay there. Anyone who would kneel can go to Stark territory. No one who refuses to do so will be bound by the oath after all this is over and can go north of the Wall again." If there's anything left there to sustain life…
A rumbling chuckle bubbled out of Mance. "Oh Lord Duquesne, you lack imagination. Even if Stark agrees, what price do you imagine his banners will demand for such an agreement? He will almost certainly demand hostages and our weapons, so we may not rise against him for a generation. You do not have the right to decide for all of us if we wish to put the children and kin of every chieftain present here in the hands of those who hate us."
Ah ha, so that's the problem, Michael thought as he examined the King, The chieftains not only don't believe in peace, they are afraid he is turning tyrant or is too deferential to me, and now he's pressuring me to soothe them. The man did not look all that regal, though his queen did. It did not matter, how he rose to become leader of his nation was obvious; he was smarter than almost all of them.
It did put Michael in a bad position though. If I insist on telling them what to do, I'll lose this argument. He sat down with a theatrical sigh, and pulled his pistol from its holster on his leg. Gasps of shock and outrage erupted, the room watching the weapon as it was placed on the table in front of him like all the swords in front of the chiefs.
And now that you have been reminded… "You're correct, I do not have the right to bargain your children across the negotiating table. But luckily, I don't need the right and I don't need to be the one negotiating."
Mance's head turned slightly, his eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure I take your meaning."
Time to play to the crowd like he is. "You've already chosen Val to speak for you with the Starks. I will take her south to negotiate on your behalf. But she doesn't have the right to bargain hostages either. Not even you do, Mance."
"Aye," said the ancient Ygon Oldfather, before a half dozen others joined him with no small amount of enthusiasm.
"Well lucky us, we've gathered almost everyone that Stark would want a hostage from," Michael said, stabbing the table with his forefinger, "Right here, now, this council can decide what terms can be proposed and what won't be. Talk through and take a vote on each item. Whether that's swearing allegiance, hostages, gold and silver, help for Stark's war... Anything a majority of chieftains approve of, Val can make a part of your offer."
The chiefs looked at each other, and consulted their direct neighbours quietly.Silent, Mance leaned back in his chair, sending the wood creaking as he did so.
Three cheers for parliamentary democracy. "I don't need to tell you all the stakes here," Michael continued, gesturing around the circle of tables, "Don't worry about looking strong. I will make sure it looks like you have the advantage without you bringing the whole army any further than the Wall. We need every man on top of the damn thing, not south of it."
"And if Robb Stark or his bannermen refuse good terms?" Val asked, "If they think nothing of a 'wildling' girl sent to speak peace with them?"
Michael already knew what was expected of him in that scenario. He really did not want to do it, but he knew the entire plan would collapse if he didn't at least promise to. "We will do what we did when the Crows refused the same, stand and fight with you. Mance's strategy to fight the Starks is a good one, we can use it."
"So this is your plan," Mance said, "Go south with no real host, taking along Umber's daughter, Jon Snow, my goodsister and a collection of wights... Putting yourself in the gravest danger for the hope that some agreement might be reached?"
He gestured to the chiefs. "All while I would be unable to retaliate with my own army should Stark or his lords break the parley truce and take you as hostages. I cannot allow you to do this. Your presence may be the thing that allows our victory. If you want to negotiate with the Starks, let us do it, together, standing at the head of a great host at the gates of Winterfell."
That's not your plan, Michael thought, That's the chieftains' plan. Mance was skating on thin ice, somehow. The 'what have you done for me lately' effect was in full swing. Or perhaps they just didn't like keeping their men north of the Wall.
"You do not control what we are and are not allowed to do," O'Neill growled from behind Michael, "We swore oaths to Canada and Elizabeth the Second, not the Free Folk and Mance Rayder."
"That sort of thing won't get us anywhere," Michael added quickly, "Especially if whatever political conflict is happening in the south gets resolved. The reality is for either of our plans to succeed, we need to cooperate."
He stood up, picking up his pistol again. Ygritte and Taryne attempted to follow him to their feet, but with a wave he asked them to sit down again. Need someone in the room after I've left it, he thought, Who better than those two?
"I have set the terms for the commitment of Canadian forces to your cause, Mance," he continued, "You should propose terms to offer to Stark. This council should vote on them both. It should happen today, I'll be making preparations to ride south the morning after next. I'm going to leave now to allow you all to talk through this. It's a decision for the Free Folk alone."
Michael took a single step away, but Mance had one last thing to say. "What will you do if we reject your terms? Or this council does not approve ones that you think Stark will accept?"
Ah, he wants to know if we'll fight against him. "For the moment, we would remain at Molestown to figure out a route south for ourselves," Michael replied, "If this council wants a war with the Starks without trying honestly for peace, I can't stop you. It won't be Canada's war."