DALLA
A wind from the east rolled over the fresh snow and through the trees to cut deep. The looming Wall somehow turned the gust in on itself, stronger and colder than any wind of the South ought to be. Little flurries of snow were picked off the ground and swirled, a beautiful sight but one that somehow made it colder.
Steadying her horse for a moment, Dalla bundled Mance's cloak closer to herself, fingers gripping both the black wool and the red silk inside. It still smelled like him, and she never let it out of her sight. She knew it was a weakness, something that other chieftains might scoff at. But she missed him.
Even Mance's letter from Winterfell, written by the Starks' maester and signed by Val, hadn't stopped her wearing the cloak every day. It was more a crown than the ring of antlers he had fashioned for his actual symbol of kingship, she knew. Some of the chieftains resented her for wearing it in Mance's place, a fact she knew would amuse him.
Over the top of the next hill, the camp of the kneelers was encircled by large stakes, and the kneelers themselves were milling about. The tents that had been put up were now fully exposed to the wind, having been safe behind the lee of the hill the night before, when the wind had blown in from the east. The Crows had the good sense to have wind guards made of canvas. The Wull clansmen of the southwest mountains did not, and likely had spent the darkness of the early morning huddled around the campfires, tired and getting snowed on. All to our advantage, Dalla thought, And we outnumber them.
At her back, the warriors of the Thenn and the White Masks were gathering in front of the Nightfort, while the Giants on their mammoths revealed themselves from the nearby forest. The kneelers had few horsemen; they had been lured in and now could be destroyed, if her words did not reach them.
She almost missed the soft padding on the wet snow behind her, until her horse turned its head and snorted. Styr's scarred, earless head bobbed into view alongside his new steel speartip. The man soon came alongside the horse, and gripped the animal by the bit.
"You should not be here alone," Styr said in the Old Tongue.
Dalla leaned over in the saddle to look him in the eye. "Someone has to talk to them," she replied, "Other than the old Lord Crow. Where is he?"
Styr glanced back over his shoulder, before spitting to the side. "Taking his time," he said, "But you do not understand me. You do not speak for the Thenn. Mance can, but he has bested us in battle. You have not."
Far from taking offence, Dalla knew that the Magnar's support relied on Mance being the better man. She straightened up in the saddle again. "I know I am not Mance. You are free to stay and talk. These kneelers should know who they propose to face in battle. Any of the chieftains can come too, should they wish."
Styr smiled widely, revealing yellowed teeth. "Do you intend to tell them this?"
Dalla smiled back. "No. They're the fools if they do not realise it. Though mayhaps you are a fool for thinking you can speak to Andals who only speak the Andal tongue."
The Magnar rumbled out laughter, causing the horse to shake its head in surprise. "You are a wise woman, for your age."
"Queen-like?"
"I know not what a queen is supposed to be like."
"Then watch."
Styr laughed again, before looking behind him once more as the sound of hooves approached. The Halfhand and the Lord Crow were riding up with a bannerman, wights tied up in furs across the rumps of their mounts, the all-black banner streaming above their heads in front of them.
Why bother with a banner if there is nothing on it? Dalla wondered.
"Your Grace," Mormont said as he stopped his horse, before coughing into his glove.
"Dalla," the Halfhand added, with a bow of the head, "Magnar."
"Lord Crow and the Halfhand are late," Styr intoned in the Old Tongue.
Mormont grunted with annoyance, before responding in broken Old Tongue of his own. "Lord Crow would not be tardy if the Magnar of the Thenns had killed Rattleshirt and the Weeper years ago." He touched where the arrow had entered with two fingers over the top of his armour and clothes, wincing at the pressure.
Dalla and Styr shared an amused smirk, before the Magnar replied. "Though he speaks true, Lord Crow is healing well if he can joke while doing so."
"Long may he live," Dalla agreed, "What do you think of our chances here, Mormont?"
Lord Crow nudged his horse forwards a few steps. He examined the forming Shadow Tower-Wull host as it gathered in front of their hill camp, searching for something. If the old kneeler found it, Dalla could not tell. "You have the advantage, your Grace," Mormont said at last, in the Common Tongue this time, "Though victory is far from a certainty."
"My fellow rangers at the Shadow Tower have seen and fought giants before," Halfhand added in Old Tongue, "And if they're smart, they'll wheel against the less experienced White Masks to get them running. Then turn against your Thenns while you're busy with the Wulls, Magnar."
"I know not these Wulls," Styr said, "But they shall soon know the new spears of the Thenn."
Not about to be ignored, Dalla cleared her throat. "That is not what I intend, Magnar," she said sternly, "Nor is it what I asked, Mormont. Will your brothers listen to us? Will the Wulls heed the words of the Stark?"
Mormont frowned. "Ser Denys is a stubborn man. He thinks much of his noble upbringing in the south. He is a good leader, but he is cautious."
"He spent many years beyond the Wall ranging," the Halfhand objected, "That makes many men cautious. It's the Wulls you have to convince, if they will not accept the word of Robb Stark."
Dalla spotted a group of mounted kneelers exit the hill camp at last, led by an old, bald Crow and another man carrying the same black banner that flew above her own head. Just behind was the fattest man she had ever laid her eyes on, carrying a shield coloured blue with brown buckets icons stitched to it. The South truly is rich, she thought. "We shall see soon enough."
The riders dispersed briefly to organise their hosts, the fat man shouting at the Wulls while the bald Crow merely pointed to his lesser brothers. Slowly but surely, the kneelers began to come together for battle, shield next to shield.
Not about to be caught unready, Dalla nodded at Styr as soon as she saw the kneeler warriors begin to draw up in a proper line.
The Magnar took a horn from beneath his white fur cloak to his lips. A loud drone erupted from it, a signal to the warriors of the Free Folk to prepare to fight too. The Thenns quickly formed a tidy shieldwall from the Nightfort itself. The White Masks came together beside them, and the Giants to their left. The blue and white banner with the badge of Jorumun's horn in gold was raised above the White Masks.
The sight stirred Dalla, her heart clenching with some emotion she could not identify. The banner of the Free Folk had been raised once more to battle south of the Wall. Though this time, it was her decision whether battle would happen. Though not hers alone.
The kneeler chiefs quickly regrouped, and came riding to meet her own knot of leaders.
The bald Crow arrived first, the fat Wull chief struggled to keep up, allowing the watchman to make the first greeting.
"Lord-Commander," the Crow said, with a glance to Dalla and Styr, "Greetings from the Shadow Tower and House Wull." The Wull chief finally caught up, and inclined his head respectfully in greeting to Mormont, completely disregarding the presence of anyone else.
Dalla frowned, annoyed she had been ignored. Mormont had said the Shadow Tower's chief was a courteous fellow, raised in the ways of nobility in the Far South.
She quickly guarded against any further expression on her face, and gestured discreetly to Styr to remain calm as well. A good idea, for she found him gripping his spear tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. Lord Crow better do what he said he would now, or there'll most definitely be a battle.
"Ser Denys, Lord Wull," Mormont began, returning the greeting and bow of the head before gesturing to Dalla, "This is her Grace, Dalla, Queen of the Free Folk."
"Queen of the wildlings, you mean," the fat Wull puffed, his breath smoking in the cold air, "For the moment."
Kneelers, Dalla thought to herself, Quick to give insult over titles. Quick to take offence. She knew some statements could not be ignored though.
"Queen upon the Wall and of the Gift," Dalla replied curtly, "My grandfather is Mors Umber, Lord of Last Hearth. Though the only thing that matters is that our host is both larger and swifter than yours, so mind your tongue Lord Wull, or I'll make you a feast for the cave dwellers. They'd love to gobble up such a rich man."
Lord Wull's turned a deep red, the idea of throwing him to the cannibals robbing him of his words.
Styr snorted and spat, looking the fat man over. He asked what had been said, and Dalla told him. The Magnar snorted again. "As if the cave men deserve such a feast."
Ser Denys Mallister was not suffering from the same affliction as the Wull. "Not the first time I've heard that threat from a wildling, little girl, it does not amuse me," he said, before turning to Mormont, "Is it true that she's from Umber stock?"
"Aye," said Mormont, "Her mother has the look of her own mother, as does the sister in softer form. They all have the Umber look across here." He held up two fingers together and waved across his eyes.
The Mallister scowled, but seemed to accept Mormont's word. "You would know," the bald Crow said, "Though that does not aid us in untangling this predicament. Lord Wull has grievances. Word has come to us that a wildling warband broke the Norrey host on the Kingsroad at the Last Inn, and was last seen riding like the seven hells towards Winterfell."
"How can a man of the north sit beside a wildling queen in such a time?" the fat Wull proclaimed, "I have sent my sons to Winterfell to fight the Lannisters and free Lord Stark. But how can Lord Robb lead them to do so? With wildlings in among our homes?"
Mormont looked to Dalla. He was giving her the chance to deliver the news. She smiled at him in thanks, before declaring, "There is no conflict. The Norreys were coming to invade the Gift, which is now our land. The warband that defeated them was on a peace mission, they simply helped the nearby Kingsblood clan defend their families."
The fat Wull scoffed and said something in a tone that made it clear the words were an insult. Dalla clicked her tongue, to get the man's attention again.
"The peace mission was fruitful. Two days ago, a raven arrived from Winterfell. Lord Robb Stark has recognised my husband, Mance Rayder, as King of Wall and Gift. In return, the Free Folk will send men to march with the lords of your realm to free Lord Stark from the Far South. We'll also provide hostages and gold. The pact was sealed with a marriage between my sister and Lord Robb's brother, Jon."
"Impossible," the Wull responded.
"We have proof," Dalla said firmly, "By sacred oath, you and I are now allies, Lord Wull, and it is our right to choose who commands the defence of the Wall. If your banner men attack us, you will be breaking your oath to Winterfell."
The fat Wull expanded every further, before finally exploding. "What lies! I cannot believe…"
"Lord Wull," Mormont interrupted, "I have known you a long time. Would you call me a liar? Would you know me to forge documents or messages to get my way or save my life?"
The fat Wull chewed on air for a moment, before shaking his head slowly. "No, Lord Commander."
Mormont rode forward until he was beside the Wull, and pulled out a series of large raven scrolls. "We received these from Winterfell. As you can see, the seals are genuine. Queen Dalla speaks true, Lord Robb has seen far more sense in peace than war with the wildlings, in light of the joint threat of the Others and the Lannisters."
Lord Wull snatched the messages from Mormont's palm, furiously reading them. Dalla was impressed the man could read at all. The mountain clans of the south did not have the reputation for that ability, not any more than her own people did. And she could tell that every word he read brought him closer to acceptance of how things were.
That just left the bald Crow to deal with.
"Ser Denys, our agreement with the Starks leaves the men of the Shadow Tower without any friends."
"So it seems," the bald Crow replied, "Though that will not sway me."
"And the word of your Lord Commander? Your own ranger? Will you be swayed by that?"
The bald Crow pulled his beard and looked to Mormont. "My Lord Commander is a prisoner, in truth. I am loathe to believe he would be your mouthpiece simply to save his life, but it is a risk I cannot ignore. Qhorin, would you have us lay down our arms?"
The Halfhand shook his head. "Not them down, no. Take them up to fight the real enemy, which certainly isn't Dalla and her people. Not any more." He looked to Mormont for support. Lord Crow said nothing, merely looking up at the Wall in response.
Is he trying to say something by looking there? Annoyed by this, Dalla opened her mouth to speak, but a better idea crossed her mind and closed it again. She instead spoke quietly to Styr for a moment. The Magnar's face tightened, a web of wrinkles spreading as far as the top of his own bald head. He moved behind, to the horse of the man carrying Mance's banner.
"What are you doing?" the fat Wull asked, as his gaze finally moved from the raven scrolls again. The others watched Styr closely, as he retrieved the fur roll. Soon, it was dumped on the ground in between the two groups, and untied. The furs stirred as the wight sensed its legs were no longer restrained, and the thing stood up awkwardly, curling over in order to get the necessary balance with its hands tied behind its back.
The wight had once been a man. His fox fur and elk skin clothes marked him a member of the northern forest tribes, and they were torn to shreds, barely holding together enough to stay on his body. It was impossible to tell what his other features once looked like. His skin was covered in deep wounds and blackened in blotches all over, his hair and beard slick with grey-black grease, and his eyes glowed blue. It twitched and shook, its grey tongue lolling this way and that, as it spun and turned, as if confused about who to attack first.
When the smell of the thing overpowered the cold and hit her nose, Dalla felt nausea creep up her throat, forcing her to hold it down consciously. Gods, where did Sealskinner get this one? Even the kneeler horses neighed and backed off in protest.
"What is that?" the fat Wull asked, reaching for his longsword.
"A wight," said Ser Denys, his teeth bared, "By the Seven, it's a hells-damned wight."
The thing attempted to rush at the bald Crow, but Styr caught its foot with the butt of his spear, sending it sprawling, before he planted his foot on its back to pin it to the ground. Ser Denys' horse reared in protest, but the old man got it under control quickly and held up a hand to his own host to remain calm.
He's no fool, at least, Dalla thought. "The old tales are true," she said, "The Others have come again. They have been digging up old graves and choosing the nomad clans to kill to make more wights. Now they have begun killing the rest of us. That is why Mance was able to unite us, why we have come south, and why there is nothing that will ever convince us to go north while the dead walk."
The fat Wull and the bald Crow exchanged looks. "You came out here to talk," Ser Denys said, "So talk."
Dalla pulled Mance's cloak closer to her. "Lord Wull will leave the Gift entirely. We do not mind him guarding where our land meets his, but he must leave. The Shadow Tower will continue with you as chief, Ser Denys, and you will join your fellow Crows keeping to your oath in defending the Wal, as you have always done. From Free Folk and wights. The only way anyone must come south is through the Nightfort, Castle Black or Eastwatch. This is what we agreed with our allies."
"We defeated the men who came to kill us," Ser Denys said, "The men you sent. What guarantee do I have you won't send men to do the same again, this time from the south? What stops us starving when your warriors take the villages I rely on to feed and clothe my men?"
"Nothing," Dalla said, "It is true that we have not heard from the clans sent to attack you by Westwatch. If they are truly defeated, then you may have the lands they were to be granted. Everything between Sentinel Stand to the sea in the west, and south until the foothills of the clansmountains."
"That is far less land than the Shadow Tower commands presently," Ser Denys complained.
Be glad you can have that much, Dalla wanted to say. But Mance had prepared her for this problem. Mance knew the bald Crow well. Ser Denys Mallister had been the man who convinced the father of her child that life on the Wall was not worth living, after all.
"I cannot offer what I do not have. The clans that would have settled there are dead or very much weakened by their attack on you, and they were misliked by most of us. In truth by giving you the land, it prevents a fight over who among our other tribes should get it instead. But the rest of what you control is to be the new home of tribes that are not so weakened or so hated. I cannot take that from them any more than your king can take a lord's land without cause."
Ser Denys shook his head. "We must talk of your… offer," he said.
Dalla nodded slowly. "I thought you would." She pointed to the wight. "Take that with you. Show your men. They must know."
Dalla awaited the response of the kneelers with Styr and Morna, where the White Masks and the Thenns joined in the battle line. It was hard to tell from a distance, but the opposing warbands of Crows and Wulls seemed to group together in their own formations. There were far more Wulls, but most would be old men and boys. The real warriors had already gone south to join the Starks for battle against their southern enemies.
"Will they accept?" Morna asked, her voice muffled a little by her weirwood mask.
Dalla pursed her lips, thinking about that herself. "They would be fools not to," she said, "But after the Crows told the Canadians to kneel or die, I'll never again question how foolish kneelers can be."
Morna made a noise from her throat. "We should attack," she said, "Kill them all. Say it happened before we received the messages from Winterfell."
"What about Lord Crow and the Halfhand?"
"Kill them too."
Dalla shook her head. "Do you think me soft-headed?" she said, "The Crows are the only ones that can keep the Wall standing. Do you think our people will happily go up there to repair it?"
"The Crow smiths now make steel for us," Styr added, "And the bronzesmiths among the Thenn have begun to learn from them. Don't dare kill them, White Mask, or I'll have your skin as a coat."
Morna hissed curses at the man. Styr was unimpressed, which seemed to make Morna more angry. Not about to let her chieftains get into a fight over the matter, Dalla raised a hand and stepped between them. "Now isn't the time for insults. The kneelers are watching us as much as we are watching them."
With a dismissive wave, Morna left and went over to join her own tribe's battle line, clearly still insulted. Styr just stood, his eyes locked on the kneeler's hill camp. Dalla sighed deeply, wishing Mance would hurry back. Why must I herd these wolves?
A young boy came running from the Nightfort through the rows of men and spearwives, catching blows from the palms of annoyed warriors. Dalla slapped Styr on the shoulder to get his attention, and motioned to the newcomer with her head. Together, they watched the young man as he finally made it, bruised but otherwise unharmed, and panting like a dog.
"What is it, boy?" Styr asked.
"Varamyr," came the answer.
"What of him?"
"He's just come through the tunnel." The boy pointed back at the Nightfort.
Dalla raised her brow, and felt her heart flutter with panic. The warband that Varamyr commanded was the last thing she wanted to march into the situation at the moment. She had just offered away their new lands to the Shadow Tower for peace.
"How many, boy?" she asked
"How many what?" he asked back.
"How many warriors does Six Skins have with him?"
The boy blinked, and looked between Dalla and Styr like he had been asked how the stars were created. "He's alone. Doesn't even have his skins any more."
Styr rubbed his mouth with his hand for a moment. "If the Crows had defeated Varamyr that badly, they would have cawed far louder."
"Something else has happened," Dalla agreed, "I'll go back and see."
"What about the kneelers?"
Dalla mounted her horse again before answering. "If they accept our offer, send their leaders to me. We'll eat with them tonight and see them on their way at first light."
"And if they don't accept?"
"Kill them all."
With that command given to a man who would happily do as he was told for once, Dalla kicked her horse and rode it along the front of the Thenn battle line towards the Wall. As it loomed only a few feet from her, she turned and aimed the horse for the west entrance of the Nightfort.
The few remaining Giants left behind to guard it parted, allowing her entrance. The inside yards of the castle now played host to a full camp of their people. It was overgrown with trees and scattered with stones from the Canadian breach of the tunnel, but that only provided cover from the wind and places to sit.
Baby mammoths, young giants and their mothers sat here and there, watching as Dalla passed by. She made good time with the camp mostly emptied for battle beyond the castle, and soon arrived at the entrance to the tunnel through the Wall. It was daytime and yet the thing seemed to breath in the light around it. The dark stone reminded her of dragonglass in that way. No one was crossing through it; the way to the Nightfort on the northern side of the Wall was very wild, it was easier to use the paths to Castle Black.
Dalla found Varamyr with Lord Commander Mormont and the Halfhand of all people. The warg was leaning against the nearest tree to the tunnel mouth, with the Crows standing to either side of him, examining his body. To her surprise, the Halfhand was even offering a bowl of stew. She dismounted quickly and approached, and the surprises continued in a more unpleasant way.
The skinchanger's skins were indeed missing. Not a sign of the powerful snowbear, the wolves, the eagle or the shadowcat could be found.
Varamyr was also weaker and sicker than Dalla had ever seen him. He was always a small man, and not given to overpowering anyone with his own hands, but he was as gaunt as a starved wight and about as pale. Frost clung to the hair of his furs.
Dalla was forced to slow as she noticed these things, though the crunch of her steps on the snow drew the attention of the Crows. "Shall he die?"
"He's near death," Mormont said, "But he should recover."
Dalla wondered if it would be better if he didn't. Varamyr would almost certainly be a challenge to Mance's rule, and his agreement with the Starks. "Good," she said, leaving the decision to kill the man later to Mance when he returned, "Has he spoken?"
"Of course I've spoken," Varamyr rasped in complaint, "I'm not dead yet, girl."
Anger rising from her lungs, Dalla's hesitation to approach died and she soon stood over the skinchanger, hand resting on her dagger. Varamyr looked up at her, waiting for whatever she had come to do, though he sucked in the steaming stew spooned to him by the Halfhand eagerly.
"Speak," Dalla said, "You've said something to these Crows, or else they'd be opening your stomach, not filling it."
Varamyr took another spoonful of stew before answering. "I've seen her. The Corpse Queen."
Dalla nearly asked him to repeat himself. The Corpse Queen? "The woman who made the Night's King declare war on both the Free Folk and the Watch?"
"The one who disappeared when we retook this castle from him," Mormont said, "Maester Aemon has been speaking to me of the old stories, and the Tarly boy has been finding more of them in the library."
Varamyr nodded as he chewed. "We were coming here after the Crows of the Shadow Tower knocked us back. Most of us were still alive then. White Walkers caught up to us. No wights, just walkers."
There was silence, as Dalla and the Crows considered what that could mean. The White Walkers were never alone. They always had undead to throw at the living.
"They approached from the rear. We had dragonglass. I had that thing. It really works, the Walkers die when cut by it. Tell everyone." He pointed at a wooden club with dragonglass shards poking out of all sides of it.
"I managed to kill enough of them with my skins and my obsidian, and rallied the warriors to kill the last of them. Then she appeared, as beautiful as the tales, shining blue eyes, shining long hair, skin as white as snow. Along with seven more walkers. Those fucking ice arrows started flying then, and a blizzard closed in. Our warbands died quickly. My skins died, except my snowbear. She carried me away from the killing. Thought she would chase and kill me. I was half right."
"What do you mean?" Dalla asked.
Varamyr coughed and gestured for more stew. It was given to him. "The Corpse Queen had no intention of killing me, once my warband was dead. She followed me for all this time. She whispered on the wind, promising me glory and power. Every time I refused, a blizzard came."
Dalla shuddered. What does the Corpse Queen want with Varamyr? "You refused?"
Holding his sides, Varamyr laughed, spitting a little of the stew out. "I know the tales of the Night's King as well as anyone. I'll not be slave to any one, especially not a murderous barren woman. And what would be my reward for that? To live in a world of the dead? No sane man would accept."
"There have been unusual blizzards just north of the Wall," Halfhand asked, "Were they her doing?"
"Did she follow you here, Six Skins?" Mormont added, "Can we expect an attack?"
Varamyr laughed again. "Don't have Six Skins any more. Even my bear died from the last blizzard. But the answer is yes, Crow. She was near when I got to the ruined gate. Those Canadians did not lie. I saw what they did to the metal."
Terror gripped Dalla's heart. She and both Crows bolted quickly to where they could see down the tunnel to the other side, drawing their weapons. Dalla thought she saw a fluttering of cloth or hair move just out of sight as she finally got a look, but it was fleeting. A trick caused by her own fear. The only thing they could see on the other side was the dark shapes of trees and falling snow.
Varamyr laughed at them from afar, eating the stew himself now. "She can't get in here, you fools. Do none of you know the old stories? The Corpse Queen cannot pass the Wall or the Gorge, unless invited. That was the mistake of the Night's King, and why she is so lovely to the eye."
Dalla didn't know why, but she believed that. She scowled back, and wondered how Varamyr knew the tales himself. "Tell us that before!"
"Almost shit yourself, did you?"
"I'll shit you right up myself, Varamyr." Dalla shook the sword menacingly.
He continued laughing. "Your sword means nothing. After running from the High Priestess of the Others for this long, all that I've lost, everything you and the Crows do to threaten me is like a child cursing me. There's no mortal man alive that could scare me now. Not even the Canadian sorcery was as mighty."
I was right, he's going to be an irritation. Dalla made for the warg, wanting to slap him across the face with the flat of his sword, punishment for his slights. A group of riders appeared from the camp area, stopped her from reaching him in time. It was Ser Denys and the fat Wull, along with Morna White Mask and an escort of Thenns.
There'll be peace, for now, Dalla thought with elation, her rage at being exposed to utter terror melting away, The Crows and kneelers accepted the offer. She looked to Varamyr. And maybe he'll quieten when he realises the man that beat him back across the Bridge of Skulls is here as an ally.
"Ser Denys," Dalla called, "If you're here, that means we have an agreement."
The bald Crow grit his teeth, and gripped the silver eagle clasp on his cloak. "We do."
The admission was honest, Dalla thought, even if it was not pleasing to him.
"There's something you need to hear," Mormont added, as the men began to dismount, "Have you met Varamyr Six Skins before?"
Ser Denys froze mid-step, his lips curling back with anger. Before he could say something he would regret or simply run Varamyr through, Dalla flourished her own sword and sheathed it again. It had the intended effect of being a reminder that everyone there was now allied, or at least acted as enough of a threat for the bald Crow to restrain himself.
"We have met," Ser Denys said, "In battle."
Varamyr made no reply. Dalla felt better at once.