Alone, Michael lay in the 'summer snow' atop a hill, Sayer's scoped rifle standing on its bipod in front of him. His grey-and-white mottled arctic coat was draped over his body as camouflage. A necessary precaution. There were many potential eyes that could spot him, though the nearest to worry about was still about six hundred metres away.
After dealing with the aftermath of the Battle at the Last Inn, and a few more days travel down the Kingsroad, the joint Canadian-Free Folk force had finally arrived nearby the camp of the army assembling to help the Night's Watch.
The tent city sprawled in front of a massive forest and a fast flowing river. The north-south road ran through it, then over a strong stone bridge. After the bridge, the roadway appeared to widen and stood on an embankment to prevent being flooded out. The whole layout of shelters was surrounded by wooden stakes aimed northwards, freshly cut trees from the look of them.
It's well laid out, Michael thought to himself as he examined what he could see of the base, Organised latrine areas, proper defences against raids, armouries, corrals for mules… Makes Mance's camp look like amateur hour.
But he knew it was nothing they couldn't overcome if required. The bridge over the river was not defended properly. It would be a simple matter to storm that particular section of the camp with the crawler and unicorns, hold until the rest of the mounted force crossed the river, then withdraw across the bridge. Maybe even destroy it with the remaining plastic explosives.
Worst case scenario, Michael reminded himself, Don't be tempted to do it just because it would be easier than talking. After what had happened with Jon Stark's attempt to get Lord Norrey to stand down, he'd almost prefer to go in shooting.
When the young Crow had arrived at the Norrey camp, it turned out the mountain clan chief sworn to the Starks had another Crow with him. Thoren Smallwood, a Ranger of the Night's Watch. A friend of Ser Alliser Thorne according to Jon. In short, a worthless shit.
This Crow had listened to Jon tell the tale of what had happened at Castle Black. He then had convinced Lord Norrey to view the wight in private instead of showing the entire army, and that Jon Snow was a traitor for agreeing to join the mission of peace and for abandoning his post.
And lastly, Mr. Smallwood killed the wight with a fiery torch, something he would not have known to do if it hadn't been for Michael himself. The coup de grace had been so easy, it helped convince Lord Norrey that the 'wildlings' were the bigger threat.
That was why there had been a battle at all, and why Michael couldn't decide whether or not to attack now. Will Mors Umber be equally as stupid after seeing a wight?
Stewing on whether or not to attack or let the plan proceed, Michael didn't notice immediately when someone climbed under his coat with him. It was only when he smelled roast pork and pine that he realised, and found Ygritte shifting on her belly closer to him, fur hood over her head.
"What're you doin' out here on your own?" she asked, "You can look at Umbers from camp." She nodded behind them, to a higher, wooded hill on the lee side of which the rest of the force was encamped.
"Needed a closer look," Michael replied, "The others know I'm down here."
"So you say," Ygritte said with a shrug. She didn't say anything else, but didn't leave either. Not really finding her a nuisance, Michael continued his observation.
He began picking out the banners on display on each part of the camp, based on a list he had as described by Jon Stark out of a great book that had been taken from the library of Castle Black.
The Umbers were the ones camped on either side of the road directly, of course, but there were others. Most of the army by the river was from smaller lordly ridings; the Lakes, the Knotts, the Liddles, the Harclays, the Whitehills. The only other major vassals Michael could see were the Karstarks, their white sun on black very easy to identify even without the scope.
Most importantly, Michael saw very few horses of any real size. They might have no cavalry, he thought, Definitely an advantage to us if so. The temptation to attack rose again. Dealing with locals on deployment was never easy, but the Westerosi seemed particularly difficult. They were aliens, yet strangely close to what had once existed on Earth in a number of places. He exhaled hard, as if expelling pure frustration. It didn't help much.
Without warning, Ygritte tipped his helmet off and pulled it aside. He turned to ask what the hell she was doing, but she quickly threaded her fingers in his hair by his neck. She started playing with it, half massaging and half pulling.
It felt damn relaxing.
"What's wrong, Michael Duquesne?" she asked, "You're going to get to talk to the kneelers again, aren't you? Kneeler talk is like a strong drink to you, keeps you coming back for more." Despite her mocking, she kept running her fingers through his hair.
Michael leaned in, as conspiratorially as can be. Ygritte's fingers stopped moving for a moment. She was misinterpreting his intentions. "Want to know a secret?" he whispered, "I want to ride straight through them, guns blazing. They're middlemen. Just important enough to be able to order men to kill us, but not important enough to understand trying that will doom their own people."
Ygritte brought her hand from Michael's hairline to his cheeks, and squeezed slightly. "Why not ride through then. If that's what you feel you should do. You owe the kneelers nothing. They told you obey or die."
Michael gently pulled her hand from his face, after which it returned to the back of his head and curled through his hair again. Damn it, that's disarming. "I'm not really supposed to go killing people if I can avoid it. Tends to make enemies I don't need."
"But you had us fight the Norreys? Your plan made fools of them."
And they don't need to know that. "I was defending a camp full of women and children, vulnerable people the kneelers hate. Whatever my morals are, letting the inevitable happen to them would've left a bad taste in my mouth."
"Mayhaps you care too much about others."
That'll be the day. Michael thought, returning his eye to the scope. "They were your people, Ygritte. Would you still crawl under my coat and pet me like a dog if I let them be taken by kneelers?"
Ygritte's fingers stopped moving for a moment, but continued as she scooted even closer, half her body resting against Michael's own. "So you let us kill those kneelers so I'd be happy, Michael Duquesne?"
Michael snorted with amusement. Count on this girl to be turned on by that idea. "I'll never tell." Ygritte's hand moved, skirting down his neck, down his side. Towards his belt. He shifted his weight to try and catch her. However he thought about the idea of her in his pants, under a coat in the open snow wasn't how he intended to go about it.
The radio crackled to life in his ear as Michael finally grabbed Ygritte's hand, giving him a crooked grin.
"Jonny boy and Rowan are ready to ride, sir," O'Neill reported, "Are we going ahead with this?"
Michael nudged Ygritte away, in case the Sergeant had eyes on them right now. Guy probably has X-ray vision to see under the coat too. Suddenly the right path seemed easier. He looked at Ygritte, realising her antics had calmed his mind enough to make a decision. "Let them go. That army will see our campfires tonight anyway."
O'Neill gave a single, mirthless chuckle. "Of course they'll see our campfires, we're going to be lighting six of them apiece. All we've been doing since setting camp is cutting up firewood."
"Nothing wrong with a little strategic deception, Sergeant."
"As you say, sir. The ambassadors are on their way."
That's it then, it's done. Michael crawled back a few paces, out of sight of the Umber camp, then pulled his coat on around him.
Pouting a little, Ygritte picked up Sayer's rifle and handed it down, anticipating that his time spying on the kneelers was done. "I don't like you pretending you don't want me, Michael Duquesne."
I don't know what I want, except to get off this rock. "We can't always have what we want, Ygritte," Michael replied, rolling up the survival bag and putting it in its own protective sheath, "Sometimes we need to wait. Sometimes we don't ever get it."
Ygritte's pout intensified, but whatever answer she had to that was interrupted by the thump and sloth of hooves entering snow and hitting the ground.
Around a curve in the Kingsroad, Jon Stark and Rowan rode their mounts, Jon holding an improvised black banner of the Night's Watch and Rowan clutching the reins of another horse, a wight slung across its back. The riders didn't seem to notice they were being watched. Jon's face was particularly stoney as he pushed his animal hard.
"Stark's sullen as usual," Michael remarked, "If he keeps that look on his face, it'll get stuck."
Ygritte eyed him without turning her head. "He's a pretty one. Even when scowling. Not sure any girls would mind."
Michael cocked an eyebrow back at her. Trying to make me jealous? "Am I not pretty?" he joked at her, "Making me feel like an old man over here. And that I am certainly not."
Ygritte's tongue worked in her mouth, like she was searching for the right answer. "Aye, you're a man, Michael Duquesne. Pretty's not the thing to say about that. But Jon Stark's still a boy, fancy sword or no."
Michael frowned, aware that Ygritte would barely be considered an adult herself if she had been born in Canada. Regardless of her life experience. He wasn't exactly long in the tooth either, he was easily the youngest lieutenant in the battalion. Even before being transported to another world, he had seen and done things most young men his age hadn't. Perhaps the three of us have that in common.
"Maybe he is a boy, but Jon's doing a man's work now."
The next morning, the whole Canadian-Free Folk force mounted up and crested the final hill as one unit. O'Neill and Michael rode on top of the crawler, Zheng driving and Sayer inside for support if things went south. The pace was slow, deliberate, so as not to provide an impression that an attack was going to happen, and it stopped as soon as the hill could mask just how few riders there actually were. Not that it made any difference.
The unicorns were now draped front and sides in black chainmail shirts backed by the padded gambesons, roped together crudely but tightly, like a packed clothesline. Their riders had also been up-armoured.
Cataphracts, Sayer called them, after the armoured cavalry of Parthians that had destroyed the Roman army of Crassus two thousand years before. The kid played too many video games. These ones were some strange mix between horses, bulls and rhinos, and Michael glad every morning the creatures and their riders were on his side. Even if they stunk to high hell.
To replace the chainmail now on the beasts, the riders of both horse and unicorn had plentiful coats-of-plate now, taken or surrendered from Norrey men both dead and alive, only keeping chainmail for their arms, legs and necks. All had lances or half-pikes, giving the impression they were all trained heavy and medium cavalry.
The badges of green thistles on yellow on the armour coats had been replaced with the Maple Leaf too, which also flew on a banner alongside those of the Laughing Tree and the Horn of Joramun.
The time of appearing to be separate were over, and the time of a united front had come.
As the line of cavalry stopped, the crawler proceeded halfway down the hill towards the Umber camp with just the leadership, as set out in the terms sent with Rowan. Michael waved a tree branch, a symbol of parley, and then sat directly on the front of the crawler, his legs overhanging and his rifle across his lap.
Below at the riverside, there was utter chaos. Panicky infantry milled about, rushing out of tents with weapons but no armour or running into the woods. For a little while, it looked like a battle might be inevitable as sergeants began shouting to restore order, but a collection of horsemen soon gathered in the Umber part of the camp. Too small to possibly be a defensive response.
Gotcha, Michael thought. He knew for sure now from Iola's scouting with her eagle that the kneeler force didn't have cavalry at all beyond a few bodyguards. The lords are coming. Just as planned.
"Here come the big hats and monocles," O'Neill commented quietly from behind, "You sure this is what we should be doing? The plan isn't exactly American-proof."
"Yes, I am," Michael replied with certainty, and equally as quietly. The others on horseback were close by to one side, and Marcach on his unicorn wasn't far on the other. Thankfully the wights were active again, and their squirming wasn't silent. Maybe they are the Others' CCTV after all.
The Sergeant scratched his chin and glanced back at the undead packages. "Zheng's idea of skipping all this is looking more appealing by the minute, sir."
That makes three of us. "Where's your insistence on the regs now?"
"Gone like a fart in the wind, the second I saw that army, sir. You getting laid doesn't trump the regs, but our lives do. And our lives are what we need to be concerned about now. We have more than enough bullets to break through and escape, if we strike now. As much as I wasn't planning on fighting a whole division."
He's right, but it'll be just as easy to decapitate the force and then breakout. If we need to. Michael exhaled, his breath smoking with the growing cold. Starting a running war to a place that might not even have a way home seemed like a bigger bet on longer odds. "We won't have to fight a whole division, Sergeant," he said, before waving at the machine gun, "Be ready with the pig, just in case."
"Yes, sir."
A large man led the way up towards the crawler on a horse that looked too small for him, followed by Rowan in her furs and Jon in his black cloak, then a collection of other bearded men.
The men all wore their 'sigils' on well-made full breastplates, their eyes peering out of helmets that seemed more advanced than what the Norreys or Crows had been wearing. Like something out of the Renaissance or Thirty Years War.
As the lords got close, their horses shook their heads and refused to get closer. Michael quickly realised the issue; the wind was blowing southbound and the animals smelled the unicorn. They didn't like it. Unable to any closer, the commotion was enough to force the lords back to dismount. Some young pageboys held the reins to keep the mounts from running off.
Michael brought up his rifle to look through his scope, his attention grabbed by one lord in particular: The leader.
The man was as tall and broad as O'Neill, though he was far older, his hair, moustache and bushy beard all white. One of his eyes was missing, replaced by a chunk of obsidian of all things. He wore a polar bear skin over his head, helmet, shoulders and back, and the symbol of the giant was etched into the leather covering of his breastplate. He carried a longsword with two hands, resting on his shoulder but ready to swing.
This is Mors Umber, Michael said to himself, Or I'm the King of Timbuktu. Almost as a battle line of their own, the lords began to walk up like a gang in a western. There were only a half dozen of them, but that somehow made them more menacing. Jon and Rowan's presence was drowned out by them.
Trained-from-birth killers, Michael thought, Two can play that game. "Ygritte, bring Val and Ryk, we'll meet them half way on foot. Let me do the talking," he commanded, climbing down from the crawler, "O'Neill, Zheng, watch for trouble. Sayer, be ready to grab a wight and roll it down to us."
The others dismounted too, though most took their horses along by the rein. Marcach had his massive unicorn lay down so he could climb off of it. The man wanted to join the discussion, it seemed. The great shaggy beast snorted as it thudded onto the snow and scratched its large twisting horn along the ground, as if sharpening it.
The group got together and marched down, Michael in front. When the lords were close enough to speak, he called out and held up a palm. "That's good."
Mors stopped at once. The others lurched to a halt, surprised their apparently leader had obeyed the command. But they haven't seen a rifle work up close.
"Outlander," Mors said in greeting, before his eyes locked with Val's. Neither said anything.
Not my name, mister. "Introductions are in order, I think," Michael replied, gesturing to himself first, "I am Lieutenant Michael Duquesne, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry. And Elector of Calgary," he began, "On behalf of her Majesty's Canadian Forces, I extend greetings."
"A royal guard?" the Karstark lord with the sigil of the white sun asked, seeming to direct his question at Mors.
"A royal officer," Michael corrected, before continuing, "I see you had a good conversation with your daughter and the man in black."
"Aye," Mors said, with the barest glance to Jon, "Lord Eddard's natural son spoke well for you. Not that it matters."
Jon scowled at the man, but he did not notice.
Michael shook his head. "His name is Jon. Now liaison officer to us from the Night's Watch. He's here to speak for them, not us." And for us with his brother.
Mors glanced at the rest of the wildlings.
"Ygritte Redbow and Ryk Longspear of the Laughing Tree tribe," Michael continued with a gesture to the pair. The nickname Ygritte had earned in battle seemed good enough as a surname, and she didn't complain. She just glared.
There was no reaction to that from Mors or the other lords. Just an awkward silence. Jesus, this is like pulling a fingernail. Michael turned to his left. "Marcach, leader of the unicorn riders."
This time, Mors did look properly, the short but stocky 'wildling' giving no indication as to his feelings about that.
The lord gave a harumphing laugh. "Aye, well met. Perhaps you'll steal a grand-niece of mine and take her away on your great beast. Or I'll split its head in two." The sentence ended with a gobbet of spit flying from the man's mouth to the ground.
Michael could've laughed. Just announce you're afraid of our cataphracts, why don't you?
The unicorn rider's eyes narrowed. "Such hospitality for our first time in the South," Marcach replied in the Old Tongue, "Unicorns can't climb the Wall, so we never thought it our concern to raid you. My clan and yours have never crossed lances. Something to keep in your thick head before you offend the gods with such insults at a first meeting."
Mors laughed louder and longer at that. "A wildling is a wildling, Lord Marcach," he replied in the same language, "The gods are on our side where insults and killings are concerned." This seemed to cause confusion among some of the lords. They don't speak the language, Michael realised, Why is that? He quickly gestured to the last person.
Val stepped forward, before Michael could make the introduction himself. "I am Val," she declared.
Mors said nothing in response, but continued his stare. Val looked to her mother, standing beside the man, but Rowan's lips thinned. She didn't know what was going on, what her own father was going to do.
For the love of… Michael thought. "Val Umber, Princess of Wall and Gift." Val made a face, but did not challenge the announcement.
There was some murmurs from the lesser lords, like they hadn't heard that before.
"Doesn't work like that," Rowan complained.
"It does now," Michael insisted. Stop being pedantic and help me out here, lady.
"Says who?"
"Me." And the whole buncha guns I've got with me.
Rowan blinked, but Michael ignored her. "This is a mission of peace. Mance is not invading. He is fleeing. He has the Gift, he doesn't need or want more."
At last, Mors Umber reacted, thumbing to himself. "The Gift is OURS!" he roared, "The Dragons took it from me and mine! If the Watch is defeated, it is ours once more. Not Mance's fief, not the wildlings'."
"The Gift will belong to an Umber in time," Val said, her flash of discontent at those words quickly hidden, "You have been told."
She's playing her part well, Michael thought, Appealing to his pride.
Mors took a breath. "Aye, I've been told, and I would hear it no more," he said, "The thought of my family's name being dragged through mud and shite, because wildlings swearing themselves to my blood kin raid and rape throughout the North…"
"Mance has given commands to prevent that," Val replied smoothly, "Those who disobey will be killed and fed to the weirwoods. Nothing tells men 'obey your oath' like seeing oathbreakers guts' hang from the branches, grandsire."
Fed to the weirwoods? Michael blanched at the thought, Is that why the trees' sap is red?
Mors hissed out a breath. "You are lucky you look like my mother's younger sister in her youth, little Val. And that I remember the woman fondly."
Val cocked an eyebrow. "Why is that?"
"Because it's said my aunt looked like my mother in her youth," Mors growled, "And that thought is the only thing stopping me from strangling you, here and now."
The man was exaggerating, Michael somehow knew. The news of his family among the Free Folk, descendants who had risen to the very top of 'wildling' tribes, had him confused and angry. Rowan understood it was bluster. Others did not.
A dark look flashed over Val's eyes, as Jon Stark stepped around the lord. Before Michael could stop him, the young man drew his magic sword and levelled it towards Mors. "Lady Val is an envoy of peace, Lord Mors. To threaten her with death is to offend the laws of gods and man."
"Jon…" Michael warned. The young man flashed a glare back, like it wasn't anyone's business but his. Michael was glad his wolf wasn't around, but wasn't about to take crap from a teenager, sword or not. He strode over as some of the other lords went for their swords, but Mors held up a hand to stop them all.
"He's a child," the lord thundered, "And Eddard Stark's blood besides. Though I never thought our lord's kin would need their ears cleaned out this badly!"
There was no laughter at that. "That's Valyrian steel, Umber," the Karstark declared.
Mors glared down at Jon. "Gods, it is! Where did you get that, boy?"
How'd he not notice that before? Did Jon not show it at camp?
"A gift from Lord Commander Mormont," Michael interrupted, before grabbing Jon by the scruff of the neck, "Jon, put away the sword and step back. You're threatening an envoy yourself right now, Lord Mors hasn't drawn his own weapon."
"Not that I'd need it, Valyrian steel or no," Mors joked back, such a ridiculous statement that it finally had both the kneeler lords and Val herself smiling, "Mayhaps they'll call me Crowfood for a different reason soon, boy."
With his scowl now doubled in intensity, Jon nonetheless obeyed the order he had been given and sheathed his sword. Though he didn't leave Val's side.
"We're getting distracted," Michael declared, "I'll be blunt. We want to go to Winterfell to make peace. Let's talk about you moving your army out of the way."
"What makes you think we want to talk about that?" the Karstark declared.
What a useless lie, Michael thought, You came up here at the double quick as soon as you saw the unicorn lancers, didn't you?
"Who are you?" Val asked.
The lord grimaced in a parody of a polite smile. "Cregan Karstark. Cousin to Lord Rickard Karstark of Karhold."
"Nobody, then," Val sighed back.
Lord Cregan balled a fist. "Careful, girl. You're pretty, but that won't save you."
Val regarded the man like a coil of dog crap placed on her dinner plate, and his anger withered into hatred at once.
She reached behind her, into a bag, and took out a large yellow cloth. Unfurling it to reveal the green thistles stitched onto it, she threw the banner at Cregan's feet. "Ask House Norrey if I need to be saved," she said, as icy as a White Walker.
The lords all burst out with strings of curses, fists curling around the hilts of swords and fingers pointed. Mors grit his teeth but said nothing, not restraining them but not joining them either.
Does he keep quiet because it's his granddaughter? Or is he impressed? Michael looked to Val and found her giving them all the same glare she had given Cregan Karstark. Just what we need.
"Enough!" Michael interrupted at the top of his voice, "This changes nothing. You were already at war! You have been fighting for generations!"
"Is Lord Norrey still alive?!" a man with a rope knot icon on his cuffs demanded, "Did you help these wildlings?!"
So perhaps we do look different to the Free Folk after all… "I wasn't present at the battle," Michael stated, "My people and I arrived just as it was ending. We didn't kill anyone." Even if I provided the plan that killed every single one of those that died, on both sides…
Val gave a nod. "The battle ended when the Norreys yielded, on good terms suggested by Duquesne. He saved their lives. knew they would never accept being left defenceless. Their lord is marching back home, with the survivors. We didn't take their weapons."
Most of the lords seemed to relax a notch at that, but not fully.
"How kind," the Karstark spat.
"No one is pretending anyone here is a friend," Michael stated, "You don't have to make peace with friends, you make it with enemies. Your two peoples are undoubtedly enemies. But I am not your enemy."
"You stand with our enemies," Cregan said.
Michael ignored him. "Lord Mors, have you received orders to stop us going to Winterfell?"
Mors frowned, scratching at his obsidian eye with a thumb before answering. "No."
"Then you should let us pass," Michael stated. This is above your pay-grade.
"I am Castellan of Last Hearth. I command these lands while my nephew is away."
"You are not Castellan of the all Stark lands though," Jon cut in, "You cannot block envoys to my brother."
Mors shook his head, and gestured over Jon's head to the hill behind. "What sort of envoys have an escort of four hundred knights and riders? To say nothing of the host waiting in the hills!"
The old Mongol campfire trick worked, at least, Michael thought with some degree of satisfaction, Only wish they'd take it seriously as a threat, rather than an invitation to fight.
"If you can call those knights," Cregan added with disgust, "I can smell them from here." Marcach shifted his weight at that statement, clearly wishing he was still atop his unicorn so he could ride down the Karstark.
Easy tiger.
"A strong escort is required," Michael replied, "We're envoys that can be disappeared without anyone on your side caring very much."
"What's to stop you raiding?" Cregan asked.
"My word," Jon stated, "They have not raided, nor do they speak of raiding. Nor would Lord Duquesne stand for it. He proved his honour by saving Lord Norrey."
"Aye, they would like as not keep quiet about that around a man wearing the black."
"If Jon's word as a son of Lord Stark isn't good enough," Michael replied, "We already showed you another reason. The wight."
Cregan shook his head and spat. "Got another diseased wildling to show, have you? The last one did not convince me. All I saw was a smoking corpse."
"Because you were late," the lord with a white mountain on his sigil complained, "It was dead but not dead, I swear on the gods."
Cregan began to complain back, but Mors directed his ire towards his fellow lords, talking too quietly to hear but gesticulating wildly.
"Keep the thing tied up this time," he growled at Jon, once he had finished his words with the Karstark.
The Crow nodded.
What did you do, Jon? Michael paused for a moment. There's division, but is that bad or good for us? He got on his comms. "Sayer, get another wight down here," he said quietly into his radio in English, "Need one for this dog and pony."
"Yessir."
The lords were looking at him like he was mad. "Why are you talking to yourself?" a man with green dots in a U shape on his armour asked.
"Just calling a man to bring down something," Michael replied.
"You barely spoke above a whisper," Cregan stated flatly, before looking to his fellows, "The man is mad."
Michael smiled, and waited. Soon, Sayer appeared from behind the crawler, rolling the wight along with his foot. Cregan and the others' faces grew stormy with confusion.
"And yet, here comes exactly what I asked for," Michael said, milking the mystery for what it's worth, "Something to consider, if I can speak to men so far away without shouting."
The lords remained silent at that, or perhaps did not recognise the full significance. Sayer arrived soon enough, the way the wights were wrapped up made their packages relatively cylindrical.
The Private gave one last shove with his foot to put the thing just in front of Michael, stood to attention like on parade, and gave a top notch salute. "As ordered, sir."
"Thank you, Sayer. Hang around, will you? I'll probably need help to get this thing back inside."
"Yessir."
Unwary of the young newcomer, Mors stepped forward without invitation. Sayer raised his rifle and Michael took his own in hand, giving the lord pause, but Michael quickly realised what the man wanted to do.
"Go ahead, Lord Mors." Sayer relaxed and the lord resumed what he was doing, taking a knee by the package and untying the cords. The outer layers of insulation fell away, revealing a tied body sandwiched between two slabs of ice.
In a minute, the wight was squirming like crazy on the ground in front of both delegations, jaw opening and closing rapidly as the only means by which the thing could hurt anyone.
It had a man in his fifties by Michael's reckoning, but didn't seem to have any wounds at all. That didn't mean the thing wasn't very obviously dead though. Its eyes glowed blue like the rest of its kind, its flesh was pale and darkened with rot in some places. It wasn't even wearing full furs, just skins with a light fur cloak and some kind of moccasins. Dressed for summer beyond the Wall?
"Well Cregan," Mors rumbled at the slack jawed Karstark, "Know of a disease that does this to men?"
The Karstark chewed on air for a moment. "No," he replied, "I don't, Lord Mors. I am no maester, but..."
Mors snorted, whatever triumph he felt at the admission dampened by disgust and fear at what he was seeing at his feet. The wight rolled, attempting to move towards him, but he kicked it back viciously.
An audible crack of a rib breaking sounded, but it did not phase the wriggling dead man.
Michael knew the other lords had noticed that. "This is what we need to show in Winterfell," he said, "Your fellow lords need to know these things are out there, thousands of them, commanded by White Walkers. They don't sleep, they don't feel pain, and they are very hard to kill."
Time for a gamble. "Anyone they kill join them in undeath," he lied smoothly, omitting that it seemed to require a White Walker to do that part.
"The Wall is still there," Mors said with a dismissive wave towards the wight, "What do I have to fear of dead men so long as it stands."
To Michael's great surprise, it was Cregan who countered that. "Lord Mors, these foreigners got through the Wall themselves, and wildlings climbed it to raid every year. If men who get tired and can be killed do so, then why can these things not do so?"
"Wrong question, Karstark," Mors replied, "If they can climb the Wall, they should have tried it already. Yet here we stand, unbothered by wights and walkers."
"How should we know why they haven't?" the green-dotted lord complained.
"It's common sense," countered another, a white mountain on purple decorating his front, "If it's the ancient enemy of the stories, then they'll want to kill us all."
A good point, but this isn't a debate club, Michael thought to himself."They probably do, but their masters are smart. They could know that there are strong armies down here."
"They're old and remember," Val added, "They will kill the Free Folk first to build their army. Then they will come for you."
"Then we will throw them back at the Wall!" Mors declared, "After we've thrown you back!"
Cregan shook his head, his pallor almost as bad as the moving corpse's now. "Mayhaps you don't know this as you have no coast in your fief, but wildlings cross the bays in boats too, Lord Mors. Doesn't take a Grand Maester to work out boats neither! The tales of the Walkers said they were cunning, if I remember the old nursemaids' tales correctly. Cunning enough to use a raft, surely."
There were nods from the other lords. Praise the god of infanteers, they believe!
"You're also a little preoccupied with a war in the South," Michael said, throwing fuel on the fire, "Castle Black got a message from your capital, declaring Lord Eddard Stark a traitor. Seems you've got a war against the living in your own country already. You're also already at war with the Others whether you like it or not. Declare war on the Free Folk, and that's a third war."
"And every one of us you kill will be a soldier for the Others in time," Val said, "The Walkers take their wights to graves and barrows to increase their numbers. A body can be turned into a wight years, decades after its death. Your host will not be enough to guard the Wall properly. You do not have enough warriors."
Cregan and another lord whispered furiously at Mors, but he swatted their comments away with a swing of his ham fist aimed nowhere in particular.
Rowan took her father's arm. "…Father, you need to let the Stark in Winterfell and the other lords decide this."
"Or what?" Mors asked.
"Or a whole lot of people will be dead," Michael replied, taking his rifle in hand, "But you first. Age before beauty."
Mors grinned wildly. "Gods, I really want to know what fighting you would be like," he declared, "Jon Snow's tales of sorcery seem true, and those creatures on the hill… I would test my mettle gladly." He turned to his fellow lords. "And you? Do you think as Cregan does? As my daughter does?"
Michael waited for the penny to drop.
The other lords said nothing, but couldn't meet the man's eyes. It was clear the majority agreed it was a matter for the Starks, above their paygrade really. But who could openly defy the mighty Mors Umber when he said he didn't want to give something to wildlings, of all people.
"How can I allow it?" Mors stated, "I'm sure the lords want no peace. And if they do, your wildling friends will have to kneel, their king or his heir will have to marry Starks. And I am sure Mance Rayder would refuse that offer."
"As am I," Cregan said, "I desire no peace either. The only good wildling is a dead one, Lord Mors. Even your kin."
He glanced at Val, causing her to bristle. Rowan and Jon too.
"But I am sure many assembled in Winterfell do not believe the report from the Wall. I didn't. They must learn there is a new threat. I would have Lord Robb know it. Then he can march up here first and settle matters. The Lannisters will not take Lord Stark's life. He's too valuable."
Michael frowned, getting the impression that Cregan Karstark wasn't the sharpest knife. If you march up north, aren't your allies further south in trouble? Or perhaps you don't care. "Fight us and you'll be starting a war, against your own granddaughters, only for their people to rise again as puppet corpses for ice demons. And you are not Lord of Winterfell, so you'll be doing it all without the rightful authority."
Lord Mors' head dropped, his chin touching the lip of his breastplate. He stayed like that for almost a full minute. Until it shot up again, chin pointed at the sky.
"Gods damn it all! My nephew the Lord of Last Hearth would tan my hide if I didn't let the lords see these things… and I'm past the age of being able to match him blow for blow. I'll let him decide if you're telling the truth."
"A wise decision, my lord," Jon stated.
The big man shook his head. "A wager, Jon Snow," Mors replied, "I have no intention of sending these men behind me home, nor will I leave the lands between here and the Gift without protection. I am sure the lords will not want peace. Your wildling friends will have to kneel, their king's heir will have to marry Starks. A King Beyond the Wall is no man to kneel. I am certain of it."
"That's for us to worry about," Michael replied, "In the mean time, this wight is yours. Show it to every single person in that camp. Show them what is coming."
Mors grunted his acknowledgement of the idea.
Good, you're not entirely an imbecile, Michael thought. "We'll depart today. Would you kindly clear the road and bridge for us, and move your warriors away from both?"
Mors brow knitted briefly together in anger, but he released a colossal sigh. He nodded once and took a long look at Val. When he had seen whatever it was he was looking for, he grabbed the wight by the scruff of the neck as he left, dragging it along. The other lords followed behind like children following a parent. Only Cregan Karstark paused to scan the line of unicorn and horse cavalry for a moment, before picking up the bundle of furs, rope and ice on the ground.
As soon as they were gone, Michael let out his own sigh and got on the radio. "Sergeant, we can stand down," he said, "Get everyone back to camp to pack. We go ASAP."