The ravens flapped off from the top of the rookery into the first cloudy day the campaign south of the Neck began, giving a caw caw caw sound as they left.

Some flew south, taking messages to the Lannisters in King's Landing and Harrenhal, carrying a repetition that Canada was not at war with them but that they should leave the exclusion zone.

Some flew west, to try and find out the fate of Robb Stark either in Seagard or Riverrun.

Some flapped north, to Winterfell and Castle Black, carrying news of the operation's progress to the rest of the Laughing Tree tribe and news of the part the Free Folk played in the victory at the Ruby Ford.

Michael brought his cup of coffee to his lips and drank deeply, pondering if he'd ever see a reply to any of them. "I'm surprised you have ravens for places as far away as the Wall," he said to the maester as the last bird departed.

Maester Carden stepped back from the crenellations, covering a yawn with the back of his hand. He looks like hell. The middle-aged man had large bags under his eyes, and patchy stubble on his face. "Darry is one of the message posts of the King's Road, Lord Duquesne, and thus it has ravens for every keep along the length of the road. From Storm's End to the Wall."

There are such keeps on the other roads too. If a raven feels it cannot make it the whole way, it is trained to stop at one so the message can be transferred to another bird trained to go the same direction."

Makes sense, Michael thought, If you rule a continental empire, you need a reliable way to get messages to the furthest reaches.

The maester led the descent back indoors. Michael was glad the business outside was concluded. The sky was growing an increasingly angry and dark grey. The heat and humidity of the previous day remained, but the air smelled like something was burning slightly. "How are our patients?" he asked.

"Doing very well," Carden replied, "Your skill in practical means of keeping men alive after being wounded is superlative, my lord."

My lord this, my lord that… "Not my skill," Michael admitted as he finally ducked indoors and they both began down a gentle spiral staircase to the ravens' room, "It's training we're all given, plus some understanding of science." And watching too many movies.

Carden paused and looked at him. "Such knowledge is not commonplace among warriors here," he said, "Nor is sprinkling Valyrian words into the Common Tongue to fill its gaps. Science indeed, Lord Duquesne. You Canadians are full of surprises. Warriors, keen linguists and literate in the ways of healing. Truly mysterious."

"Keep on wondering," Michael said into his cup, finishing his coffee.

The maester moved on, and they reached the bird-shit scented home of the ravens. Michael's nose wrinkled, and regretted he had no coffee to cover the stench.

Racks of cages stood in rows on two of the four walls, while supplies filled shelves on the other two. The maester deposited a sack on a chair as Michael read the names of the places they were trained to go. Riverlands, Crownlands, the Vale…

"Lord Tywin fears you, which is a feat in itself," Carden continued, "And rightly so it seems, considering the rank and martial skill of the prisoners you brought along. I would be interested to hear how exactly you felled the Mountain, as would be a great many others I suspect."

Michael's mind flashed to Ser Gregor's mad charge, how he wouldn't go down. Perhaps I should've ended him there and then. "I'm not in the habit of telling war stories," he lied, "Speaking of the Mountain, how is he?"

"The amputation of his shattered leg was properly conducted," Carden replied, "You even kept a fold of skin to cover the exposed inside of what remained. He will not be able to walk for some time regardless, even with a crutch. His other leg is also wounded, albeit far less seriously."

"We have wagons, we can move him."

"It would have been better to kill him. You are lucky I did not give all my infection remedies to Lord Lannister, else his mad dog would be in a great deal of trouble, along with some of your other prisoners and your own warriors."

We don't have that many other prisoners, Michael frowned. Barely a dozen knights and riders had been pulled from the carnage that lived through the night. He found that they couldn't build enough pyres to burn all the dead. The river ended up taking most of them when the waters rose, relieved as they were of their possessions, weapons and clothing.

"We did warn them."

"I know, I read your declaration," Carden smiled, "Strange that you have not demanded that we rivermen should get out of your way, my lord… Or your Stark friends."

"Get in our way and watch how quickly that changes," Michael smiled back, though his heart wasn't in it.

The maester held up his hands in protest, his grey robes' large sleeves falling to his elbows and revealing thin hairy arms. "I am only remarking that you have been a good friend to us rivermen at such short acquaintance. That too is mysterious."

Allies of convenience, not friends. Michael scowled at the man, getting the impression he was fishing for information in general. His buddies in that big tower of theirs will want to know everything about us. Before he could respond however, Zheng appeared from the stairway leading to the great hall of the castle.

"Sir, the Greatjon is here," she reported in English, "And he has some new asshole with him who's complaining a lot."

Michael sighed. "A Frey?" he asked. He still hadn't met any of the much-reviled Freys. They had refused to help fortify the line at the Ruby Ford and skulked about the village around the crossroads instead, and their part of the battle was at the opposite end to his own.

"Na, some other prick, got a fish on his jacket."

Michael cocked an eyebrow. A Tully? "Let's go see them, Corporal."

The Greatjon was standing beneath the gatehouse arch that cut through the curtain wall, his own riders sitting in their saddles behind him. His big arms were crossed in front of him, and he was fully armoured save for his head.

With him was an average-for-kneelers sized man who looked positively tiny compared to the Starklander lord. He was in his twenties amd wearing what probably passed for good riding clothes in reds and blacks, with a wide brimmed black hat tucked tightly over brown hair.

In front of the pair was O'Neill, standing a head taller than the unknown noble, his hands wrapped around the grips of his rifle. With him were three or four armed Free Folk, the ones assigned to guard duty on the gate. They had put their hooded fur coats back on in anticipation of bad weather.

As Michael got closer, he could hear the berating voice of the young man complete an argument aimed at O'Neill.

"Who do you think you are?! This is Lord Darry's castle, not yours!"

The Sergeant did not answer.

Here we go. Michael jogged the last bit of distance. He noticed the man's shield-shaped white badge, its icon a jumping red fish and surrounded by a gold line. Not a Tully, Michael decided as he reached the argument. Zheng appeared at the other side of O'Neill, before her eyes locked on the fuming newcomer.

"Lord Duquesne," the Greatjon rumbled, inclining his head an inch in greeting.

Surprised by the respect despite himself, Michael snapped off a salute in return. "Lord Umber," he said, "Who is this?"

"Lord Myles of House Mooton, heir to Maidenpool," the young man replied for himself, straightening his back to try and get another inch of height out of it. He was well built, which wasn't very surprising for a noble.

Michael wasn't intimidated in the slightest. "Sergeant, what is the problem here?"

O'Neill clicked his tongue a few times, not moving his gaze from Lord Myles.

"Lord Umber rode up here and said hello with all respect, dismounted to come in. This one rides on past him, nearly runs his horse into the guards here. I notice that, send Zheng up to fetch you and run over here to try and calm things down. He says the castle is under his control now and we wildlings are to leave at once. That's it, sir."

Thunder rolled, and the sound of rain hitting the leaves began growing louder and louder. Damn it. "He appears to be the offended one," Michael said, "What did you say exactly, Sergeant?"

His hands flapping once in objection, O'Neill turned to Michael. "Hello, welcome to Canadian Forces Base Darry. How can I help you?"

"That's all?"

"That's all, sir."

Lord Myles pointed his finger into Michael's chest. "This is not your 'base'," he said, "This castle belongs to our cousin, Lord Darry."

"Lord Raymun Darry is dead." Michael turned to find Maester Carden behind him, apparently having followed from the rookery.

The maester continued. "Lord Lyman Darry is not yet nine years old, and is in hiding with the host of the Lords Piper and Vance. I doubt he would object to the use of his castle by the men who defeated Tywin Lannister and who hold Ser Gregor Clegane prisoner."

"It is not appropriate for wildlings to occupy a holdfast of the Riverlands," Lord Myles complained, "And it is not for a maester to say otherwise."

Enough of this shit. Michael thought. Maidenpool was one of the places he had sent a warning before. "Lord Myles, you are in violation of the declared exclusion zone. Withdraw at once."

The man did not withdraw. He stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it. But he was wrenched back by the shoulder, the Greatjon's massive paw firmly gripping it.

"Release me, Lord Umber!" Lord Myles complained, trying to shake free and failing.

The Greatjon threw the man up against the archway and point a thick finger at him.

"I'm saving your life!" he boomed, "You weren't at the Ford. You didn't see what these men can do, or what that woman can do. They are our allies, and you won't insult or threaten them in my presence. Else I'll pack you home to your craven father, your five hundred men with you!"

Lord Myles grumbled, but slid his sword back into its scabbard. "This isn't over," he said, face as sour as someone who had eaten wasabi by mistake.

"We're shaking in our boots," O'Neill snorted, "Fuck off before I dance on your face and feed you that sword an inch at a time."

The young noble stormed off, jumping into his saddle with surprising agility and riding off. A number of the riders waiting beyond the gate broke from the ranks and joined him. Free Folk have a PR problem, Michael thought grimly, And now a Mooton problem

"What an arse," the Greatjon said with a toothy grin, "You won't need to worry about him. Southerners. So many arselings if a man is being truthful. Fewer these days, though, on account of Lord Lannister."

Michael rubbed the bridge of his nose and exhaled. "What do you want, Lord Umber?"

The man slapped his huge hands together, making a sound almost as loud as the next rumble of thunder a few seconds afterwards. "I'm here to collect the prisoners."

O'Neill and Michael exchanged looks. "We're not giving you our prisoners."

Lord Umber stroked his beard. "We've heard you've been handing over captured prisoners to village headmen for trial, all the way down the King's Road. We'd like Marbrand, the Mountain and the Imp, either to put on trial or to hold as hostage against the possibility of Lord Eddard being killed."

Knowing handing over high profile prisoners was quite a different thing to hand over nobodies to the locals, Michael knew he couldn't avoid this. "I'll hand them over after we visit the Isle of Faces."

Lord Umber shook his head. "We want them now. By the time you go to the Isle, we'll be halfway to King's Landing!"

Michael put his hands on his hips, wondering how best to phrase his next words. He had no intention of giving up his leverage over the nobles before he was sure he was going home."We can't just hand them over to you. We don't hold men as hostages as a matter of law. And unlike the men we handed over before, the only thing they've done to your people or the Riverlands is fight against you in a war. As far as we know, at least. That's not a reason to give them to you for trial under our laws."

Zheng cleared her throat. "Sir, we could at least give them the Mountain? I'm sure there are plenty of witnesses around to what he did."

Michael pursed his lips. Not a bad idea. He looked to O'Neill for his opinion. The Sergeant was quick to give it.

"Ser Gregor might be the most famous of the prisoners, sir, but Jon says he's one of the lowest ranked and the most hated. He's least likely to be missed. Might be good politics as well as being legal."

Time to throw a dog a bone, then. Michael opened his palms. "Okay, Lord Umber. You win. You can have Ser Gregor Clegane if you're going to put him on trial. I'll need your word of honour that you will not do anything else with him, and that you will return him to me if anyone else tries to order you to." By which time I could be home drinking beer. "Will that satisfy you?"

The Greatjon gave a great huff, but agreed. "Aye. Lord Robb will almost certainly want to negotiate with you for the others, you should be prepared for that"

At which point hopefully we'll be long gone and it'll be Val he can negotiate with. "Follow me, Lord Umber. O'Neill, Zheng, keep a watch for that idiot Mooton or whatever his name is. His little army too. ROE is the same on them as the Lannisters if they do show up looking for a fight."

"Yes, sir."

The dungeon of Darry Castle was a separate building cut directly into the ground within the walls. Above was the guards' barracks. Below was a basement level with slit windows that looked into the courtyard.

The only ways in and out were a wooden stair-ladder in a side room of the barracks and sewerage pipes from each cell to the slope outside the walls. It was roomy both above and below ground, but then, it was a King's Road castle and probably had a lot of anti-banditry duties to accommodate.

Michael led Lord Umber and Maester Carden inside the barracks, finding it full of men and spearwives avoiding the rain. Naturally, it smelled like wet people drying off usually did, though most of them had washed as well as they could without much soap.

The majority were laying in the bunks in various states of dress, talking to each other. Coats of plate, polearms, bows and sheaves of arrows were hung on the posts of every bed, the head of every chair and on top of every table. They're taking good care of their steel.

Michael quickly spotted Longspear Ryk and his friends dicing between two sets of beds and went over. They were playing with the carved knucklebones of sheep for silver 'stags' and copper 'stars'. The exact value of the coins Michael had only the barest idea about, courtesy of dealing with the bargemen way up north on Long Lake.

"Duquesne!" Ryk smiled in greeting from his cross-legged position, "Care to join us? The Gods have granted me great luck today." He clacked the dice in his hands together, as if the sound would be further temptation.

Finding he would prefer that, Michael nonetheless had to decline. Easy money when you know probabilities. "Tonight at dinner," he said, "I promise. We need to see the prisoners."

Ryk's eyes narrowed, and it wasn't hard to figure out why. Lord Umber had stepped into the building. Many conversations went quiet. "Aye, I can see that," he said, "Looks like my luck has stolen my horse and rode away… Need to find the keys again." He threw one last roll of the dice and his head slumped as he lost more money. Getting up, the others jeered at him for his loss. "Wait by the door, I'll come back in a few minutes. Need to piss too."

Michael watched him wander off down the other end of the barracks, as the talking and joking around began picking up again. No immediate battle with the Umber in the room… that's progress. He returned to Lord Umber and Maester Carden at the door, a few feet from the other room with the way down to the basement.

"It'll be a few moments. In the mean time… how many did you lose at the Ford, Lord Umber?"

The Greatjon's jaw worked itself from side to side for a moment. "Four thousand dead and wounded. Mostly dead. We could've used your help once the lions started running, they turned around and bloodied our noses for a bit."

Michael shook his head. "It was impossible. My force was exhausted. We had thankfully few dead, but the castle here is filled with our wounded. And we had corpses in our way. We counted more than four thousand, and their horses too."

The Greatjon bared his teeth. "Aye, and no way to burn them. I saw you try to gather the wood from across the river, but the tide carried the bodies off. The southrons are in luck that the Walkers never make it this far south."

"The Wall does seem like a big obstacle," Michael allowed, "To say nothing of the men and women behind it."

The Greatjon's grimace turned into a smile, and he slapped Michael on the back of the shoulder. "So, will you be moving ahead of us again? Plenty more Lannisters to be had at Harrenhal. This time I'd have you Canadians right beside me as we storm the gaps in those gods-damned walls. I still don't understand how you killed their knights, I'd like to see for myself!"

As if I'd fight all your battles for you. Not wanting to offend the man, Michael chose his words carefully. "The Lannister army in Harrenhal isn't likely to block our way. And we won't be riding ahead of you this time. The wounded require a few more days to heal. I don't intend to lose a single one to their injuries if I can help it." Plus I need some time to get the lay of the land and the lake.

Maester Carden made an appreciative noise. "My lord, if I may say, that is an enlightened point of view."

Lord Umber gave a dismissive wave. "Enlightened! Ha! You took this castle well enough. You didn't leave it be."

"We found Darry as the Lannisters were finishing evacuating it," Michael frowned, "We didn't take it by force. It was abandoned quickly. The enemy didn't even bother taking the food stores."

"The gods be praised," Carden commented. Michael thoroughly agreed.

The Greatjon grumbled, but any further complaint was interrupted by the return of Ryk. He produced a large brass key and slotted it into an equally large lock on the side door. He used both hands to turn it using the huge bow. The door made many metallic noises and finally swept open inwards, revealing the stairs cut into the rock.

Lord Umber burst forward, half-running down the stairs. Michael, Ryk and Carden followed more slowly. The basement was just a long corridor with cells branching off both ways. Each was barred with thick wooden doors, a movable slat on each of them letting guards look inside.

Umber immediately went to the first closed cell he could find and opened the slat, though he had to crouch slightly to look through it.

"Greetings!" said a voice from within, "Lord Umber I presume?"

"The Imp," the Greatjon said, looking back at Michael and the others, "Who is the boy with him?"

"Why this is Podrick Payne!" Tyrion Lannister answered, "How could you not have heard of my valiant squire?"

I hadn't heard of any of you only a few months ago. Michael joined Lord Umber and looked inside. Tyrion had turned to the wall and was preparing to use the sewer hole, while his squire lay on his stone bed. Both were clean but dishevelled, Tyrion in his red clothes and Payne in his white and purple, both still possessing their riding boots.

"We found the squire later, leg trapped under his horse," Michael explained, "The little guy said Payne was from some important family. His cousin is the royal executioner in King's Landing or something like that. Don't suppose you know if that's true?"

"Aye, it's true his cousin is royal executioner," the Greatjon said, "But to call his family important... They're a minor house. I'd ask for him too, bit I doubt the boy has so such as thought of a crime, never mind tried his hand at committing one."

Tyrion laughed, the stone causing the sound to echo through and down the corridor. "If you wanted someone who could commit a crime, you should not have shot my good friend Bronn in the head."

It took a moment for Michael to realise who he was talking about. The knifeman. He leaned in to the open slat. "He made the mistake of trying to take a hostage. I'm sure Jon Stark is as pleased as punch that I shot your friend. And given his actions, I've lost no sleep over it."

Tyrion gave a laugh once more, though it was less genuine that before. He finished pissing and did up his trousers again. "Jon Stark, what a thing to hear… Last I checked, only a king could legitimise a bastard. The King is my nephew Joffrey, who is not likely to have granted such a decree. And Robb Stark is not a king either. So while I sympathise with the bastard boy I rode with to the Wall, his name is Jon Snow, not Jon Stark."

This nonsense again. Anger growing, Michael ran his tongue along his teeth, wondering if he could get away with going in and punching the little shit in the nose. Probably not. "First Ser Alliser Thorne, then some northern lords, now you… Jon's name is whatever the hell he wants it to be. And your Westerosi obsession with names and who your daddy was pisses me off. So be quiet about it."

"And we'll see how long the Stark of Winterfell remains without a crown, Imp," the Greatjon added, pointing a finger in the door, "After these past months, no sane man of the North would ever swear to King's Landing again. We'll storm your southron Red Keep, crown Eddard Stark our king, and return home, never to come south again."

Is that the plan? Michael thought to himself, surprised to hear it, Don't they need help against the Walkers?

Tyrion turned around from the wall, mismatched eyes peering up at Michael and Lord Umber, his face devoid of emotion. "Duly noted, my lords."

The Greatjon snarled and pushed away from the door. "The dwarf is not why I'm here. Take me to the Mountain."

Longspear Ryk shrugged and wandered down the corridor, waving to follow him. They all passed by the cell of Ser Addam Marbrand. The knight was sleeping, curled up under a fur blanket so that only his red hair could be seen. He had taken the news of the battle hard, and hadn't spoken to anyone since.

Michael could sympathise a little. He wouldn't know what to think if aliens showed up, captured him and defeated his own army in detail.

Ryk gestured to the next cell, and the Greatjon stepped forward, pulling open the viewing slat so hard that Michael thought he might tear it off. "What's wooden fences doing in there?" the man demanded.

Maester Carden went to the door, half blocking it. "I had them put in so he could pull himself to the privy hole. No matter what the man has done, he shouldn't wallow in his own shit. Cholera is not a death to wish on anyone."

Lord Umber glared down at the healer, evidently disagreeing with his assertion.

"It's too dangerous to have someone help him," Michael added quickly, "Ser Gregor tried to kill one of his guards on the way here. Luckily a unicorn was nearby and tore him from his cart to protect the guard. Took three more men to stop the animal from stomping him to death."

The Greatjon looked back in. "He's lost a leg," he said, like he had only just noticed.

"Shot off by Sayer," Michael explained. Though he took his damn time doing it.

The Greatjon chuckled to himself. "That boy is goin' to be famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms one day, mark me."

Michael grinned. "Don't tell him that, he's already shacked up with a skinchanger and a spearwife. Don't think we need to add southern maidens to the list."

"Ha! True. How quickly can you hand him over?"

"Bring up a cart from the road, get some men down here to put him in the damn thing. You can have him whenever you like…"

A loud, shrill whistle rang down the corridor.

"Thank you Podrick," said a quiet voice, followed by the same in a much higher volume, "I wouldn't hand over Ser Gregor so easily, my dear captors!"

Michael resisted a groan. What's his game now?

"It's not for you to decide, Imp!" the Greatjon replied.

"I am Lord of Casterly Rock by every law of succession," Tyrion said, "Ser Gregor is my bannerman. It is perfectly within my right to speak about him!"

The Greatjon and Michael both looked to Ryk.

"He doesn't know?" Michael asked the Free Folk warrior.

Ryk tilted his head a little, looking particularly fish-like in doing it. "Know what?"

Sighing, Michael gestured for Lord Umber and Carden to stay put before he made his way back down to the cell of the 'Imp'.

Tyrion Lannister was standing with his hands behind his back in the exact centre of the room, chin up. His squire stood behind and to the side, trying to stop himself fidgeting as he copied his superior's pose.

Is that their idea of an imperious stance? "Your father is alive, Lord Tyrion," Michael said, "He went south before dawn, ahead of what is left of his army. So you're not Lord of Casterly Rock just yet."

The 'Imp' tilted his head. "Regardless, I still have the right as heir," Tyrion replied at once, "And I would inform you that you are making a mistake in simply handing over Ser Gregor Clegane to be murdered by the riverlords."

Has an answer for everything, this one, Michael thought."He'd be put on trial."

"Hardly a fair trial."

"There'll be enough witnesses to try him for the coming of winter and the sun setting every night. Never mind murder, rape and pillage. Everyone we captured before him warned us that he'd be the one sent to kill us horribly."

Tyrion smiled. "A man's reputation isn't evidence. Besides, there is a better reason for you to keep Ser Gregor. The riverlords are not the only claimants on his life. The Dornish would pay handsomely for the chance to take him back to Sunspear. And Prince Doran would be greatly offended if no regard was given to their claim."

Michael felt the urge to put his face into both hands and shout at the world, but managed to keep it to a frustrated hiss. Can't step on a blade of grass without offending some noble or Prince. Unfortunately, given all that had been said about the Mountain, he believed the idea that he had committed crimes against others. "Let me guess, he killed one of them."

Tyrion's arms appeared from behind his back again and crossed themselves in front of him. "He raped and killed Elia Martell, who was married to Rhaegar Targaryen, as well as her son and daughter. Allegedly. The Dornish have never forgiven him, nor my father, who some say commanded it to happen. They want their revenge and they don't want you to rob them of it."

Shit. The little man is right, Jon did mention something like that when he recapped the last war for us. Michael recognised the Targaryen name once more as the former royal dynastic one. "Why do you care if I offend the Dornish?"

Tyrion shrugged and smiled. "I don't. I simply want to delay Ser Gregor's death. Perhaps my father will buy us all back. He could shower you with more gold than you could possibly imagine, did you know that? Richest man in Westeros."

The man hopped up onto his stone bed and sat. "Most powerful man too. Even lordship over the North wouldn't be out of the question, were you to switch sides. With your wildlings and your weapons, you might even be able to keep it."

If the Lannisters are willing to pay, and the Dornish are willing to pay…? Michael almost slapped his own face, feeling like an idiot. The Northmen will sell the guy to the Dornish, and the riverlords will know the guy is getting punished anyway.

"A Lannister always pays his debts?" he said, recalling what Robb Stark had said about the family once, "We're not interested, but you're going to get your way regardless."

Tyrion cocked his head, struggling to keep triumph off his face and out of his voice. "Oh? Is that so?"

Michael nodded back. "If you're willing to pay for him, and both the Riverlands and Dornish want him so badly, then he's too valuable to release. Not for nothing, anyway." With that said, he left and walked back to Ser Gregor's cell.

"Change of plans," Michael said to Lord Umber, "We're keeping him for now."

"What?!" the Greatjon roared.

"I've just been informed that the Dornish also want Ser Gregor for trial," Michael explained coolly, "Lord Tyrion reminded me of what I had already been told; how your last war down here ended. Do you deny it?"

The large man's face curled with annoyance. "What did that Imp tell you?"

Michael rested his hands on the butt of the rifle hanging from his chest. "Nothing I didn't already know, really. I had forgotten that among the things I heard Ser Gregor had done was killing a Dornish princess. All Lord Tyrion did was tell me the obvious; the Dornish want him for that crime. Do you deny it?"

"No, I do not," the Greatjon grumbled.

"Then I need to consult with my government about how to handle the situation." And if we're stuck here, Ser Gregor can be a nice cash cow for us.

The Greatjon's face turned red and he balled his fists, seemingly ready for a true argument over this. But his eyes flicked downwards to the rifle hanging off the front of Michael's armour. His face returned to a normal hue and his hands relaxed. He realised who and what he was talking to. "Going back on your word is not the act of a friend."

Michael raised his eyebrows. "Attempting to relieve us of a valuable prisoner without telling us he's valuable is not the act of a friend. Nor is possibly putting us in a diplomatic dispute with yet another one of the kingdoms."

"You handed over Lannister bannermen before, and asked nothing."

"This isn't just any Lannister man."

The Greatjon ran his beard through his finger and thumb for a few seconds before continuing. "I am not happy, Lord Duquesne. I was hoping to make a gift of this man to Lord Robb, to solidify our alliance with the riverlords. Friends would give him over. We could present him to them together."

And how long would that goodwill last when we refuse marriage alliances? "And if it were up to me, I would," Michael lied, "But it isn't. All of us have our masters, Lord Umber, and mine don't want me to make more enemies than I have to. I already have a lot to explain to my government, I don't want to add questions about why the Dornish hate us to the list."

The Greatjon fumed, took another glance as Michael's weapons, and strode off back towards the exit. That was close.

Lord Umber had ridden off quietly and empty-handed.

Michael was certain the noble wouldn't have done any such thing before the battle at the ford. It was quite obvious from the way 'the Greatjon' had acted that a lot had changed as a result of what he had commanded in the fighting. The C4 and whale oil had been heard loud and clear in more ways than one.

All in all, it added up to yet more pages in his report.

Michael spent the rest of the day working on the documentation of their journey, turning notes, video and testimony from those under his command into something coherent; the whole story of what had happened. He knew that showing up back on Earth would likely cause the brass and politicians in Ottawa to ask many questions, questions he preferred to answer in writing.

The task was a complete pain in the ass, and he didn't get it done before sundown. Everything that had happened was complicated; the Night's Watch's demand to submit, the war against them, the Stark-Wildling conflict and how it was resolved, the march south, the discovery of war crimes committed by the Lannisters, the declaration of the exclusion zone, the battles at Castle Black and the Ruby Ford, as well as the smaller ones at half a hundred other places.

Michael was glad of his decision to stay in Darry for a few days more, it meant more time to fix the damn thing. Eventually, the smell of cooking meat wafting through the doors of the crawler got to him and he joined the troops for dinner.

The vehicle had been driven into the hall itself and parked along a wall, so Zheng could work on a little maintenance for it out of the rain.

The rest of the space was filled with Free Folk, sitting on chairs and tables, chowing down on horse meat from the night before and freshly hunted game from the area around the castle. Stews bubbled and spits turned over every one of the eight hearths in the room.

Rest and Recreation was the order of the day.

Michael watched them all as he ate with Zheng and O'Neill, diced with Ryk and Ygritte, joked around with Sayer about his two women, drank with Marcach and Jon… A thought grew ever larger, the longer the night went on.

I'm actually going to miss these people when we're gone.

Even if they all wanted and could come to Canada, it wouldn't be the same. Michael had no idea what the government would do with them. Ideally they'd just be put on some land in the NWT and left alone, but he doubted any government was capable of that. He had even less confidence he'd be there to help them through the harder early years; he still had time left on his contract.

I need to start having conversations with them about this. The thought of that was more of an dreadful prospect than writing the report. So he got deeper into the wine they had found, and so did everyone else. O'Neill sang Here's Health to the Company and The Star of the County Down. Ygritte began The Last of the Giants and the whole room erupted to join in, Zheng tried to play some lute-like instrument and managed to do it by the end.

It felt like a pall had been lifted from them all. Home was closer, the blood of the battle was behind them.

Eventually Michael decided he had drank enough and announced he was going to sleep. There were groans and calls to stay, but he waved them off. Sleeping in the crawler seemed like a bad idea, so he moved for the way to the bedrooms. Before he turned, he spotted Ygritte standing up as quickly as she could.

But it was Val who intercepted him before he could escape. She stepped in front of him just before the doorway, forcing him to a halt. "Duquesne, wait," she said, "We must speak."

God she is beautiful, Michael thought, before his rational brain caught up, I must be smashed right now. "Must we?" he asked, feigning a yawn, "It can wait until morning."

"It can't," Val insisted, "I was wrong about you, I insulted you, and the gods would not forgive me if I did not admit it."

What? Michael rubbed his mouth, Is she drunk too? "Sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Val glared. "At the river, I thought you were going to abandon us. I was wrong."

Either too drunk or too glad to have that business over with, Michael shook his head. "Don't worry about it. You were scared. You should have been, those knights were all killers trained from birth. Better fed, better equipped, better trained than you and your warriors…"

"I'm with child," Val interrupted.

Not having expected that sentence, a chuckle burst from Michael's lips. So that's why she was scared. He controlled himself down to a smile. "Sorry, the way you said that, made it sound like it was mine."

Val glared with no appreciation for the misunderstanding, and he relented. "I apologise. Congratulations. Does Jon know?"

Her glare intensified. "Of course, I would not tell you before him."

"Fair. Is that why he's drinking like a fish and laughing like an idiot?"

As if to demonstrate, Jon and Zheng began a wild laugh that filled the hall. Something clever and interesting had happened. The Corporal needs to lay off the drink now too, I think.

"Yes," Val answered honestly, her glare dissipating "And for other reasons that are not for your ears."

Ah the family secrets have begun already. Michael offered his hand. "Well Val Stark née Umber, I forgive you your sins, Amen. Good night." After all, I told you I was a killer and proved it the very next day, and here you are apologising to me. Seeing is believing.

Val's eyebrows did a little dance at his phrasing for a bit, and she clasped his arm rather than shaking his hand. "Good night, Michael Duquesne." She left him at the door and moved off towards Jon, hurrying.

Michael looked on as she went. An arranged marriage that went well, he mused, Who would have thought? That she was beautiful and he was young enough to be malleable probably helped, his inebriated brain supplied.

He ascended the stairs to the lord's room and found it almost as much of a party as the room below. Smelling like woodsmoke and booze, ineach of the little spaces divided out by wooden dividers, the wounded were eating and drinking too. Their acquaintances, friends and lovers around them encouraging them on. They saluted Michael with their drinking cups and horns as he peeked into each area, looking for a free bed.

There's got to be a damn feather bed here, he complained to himself, This is supposed to be a noble's castle!

Continuing down the thin space between the 'rooms', Michael's search almost had him run headlong into Maester Carden carrying a pale of water from one to another. Some splashed out and onto his shins.

"Sorry," Michael said, feigning a yawn to cover slurring his words, "Just looking for a bed… What are you doing with that water?"

Maester Carden looked at him like a drunk who had just stumbled into him in the street, which was far closer to the truth than Michael liked to consider. "Helping these poor sots to not kill themselves. Their friends simply appeared from below and I've been trying to stop them reopening every wound they have!"

Feeling drawn to the liquid, Michael held a finger up to stop the maester moving before he picked up a cup hanging from the edge of the bucket. A quick drink confirmed it was like drinking the nectar of the gods. I really am drunk. He filled the cup again and saluted Carden with it, who looked on with embarrassing levels of critique.

A woman's cry of pleasure went out from one of the alcoves, followed by a roar of approval nearby ones. Carden rolled his eyes. "I kept the lord's bed chamber clean and free for your use, Lord Duquesne. It's at the end. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to make sure that isn't who I think it is." The man rushed off, spilling more water.

For some reason it was funny as hell, and Michael laughed to himself before beginning his march to the bedroom. He reached the wooden barrier to the final space and pushed his way inside, finding a large four-post bed with a fluffy looking mattress, various tables and cabinets, and a comfortable padded chair in front of a hearth with dying embers in it.

Quickly locating the wood pile nearby, Michael grabbed two logs and threw them in. The movement of air sparked the fire back to life and slowly, it crept up the wood. He placed the cup of water down and sighed, getting undressed down to his shirt and shorts.

His wet trousers went onto one corner of the chair to dry, the rest of his uniform and combat webbing on the other. Finally, he sat down in it and put his previously slung rifle across his lap, staring into the growing flames.

Will I see the next part of my future? Michael wondered. The deja vu event on the river when Ser Gregor had come charging across the Trident at him was still sharp in his mind, even after too many drinks. What the hell was that?

The fire provided no answer, nor any prophesies. He kept staring.

The wooden divider to the space scraped across the floor twice.

Michael turned his head to find Ygritte sauntering over, long braids hanging onto the front of her long grey silk shirt and over her necklace made of spent bullet brass. Her boots and trousers were already gone. Her face looked exactly like it did when she was aiming an arrow at someone.

The Situation had arrived.

Well well. Let the games begin.

"Have you told you that that necklace is the most post-apocalyptic thing I've seen on this world yet?" Michael joked, turning back to the fire, "Mad Max would appreciate it."

"Aye, two times," Ygritte replied, "And I still don't know what you're blabbin' about." She arrived beside the chair and ran her fingers through his hair. Every other hair on his body seemed to stand on end at her touch. Damn it, that's not fair play, he thought, even as he leaned into the caress.

"Decided to come see how I was doing? How'd you get away without O'Neill seeing you follow me?"

Ygritte guffawed. "He's deep in his cups and has a woman on his mind. He'll not be coming up the stairs tonight, unless it's to take her."

Michael wondered who the woman she was talking about was. Well, good luck to the Sergeant. "Is that so."

She pointed a finger at him. "Aye, 'tis… Do you always get down to your underclothes and sit in front of fires?"

"Only when I'm deep in my cups."

Ygritte hmmed to herself. She leaned down, stared with her blue eyes into his own for a moment, and moved down further. She began kissing him on the neck, up to his jaw and down to his collar. Pleasure bolted from where her lips touched, his body responding. His breath catching in his throat, Michael gently took her by the shoulder and pulled her away. Her face was angry when it reappeared before him.

"You'll not deny me, Michael Duquesne."

"I don't want to. You did all that I asked, and we wouldn't be here if you hadn't. But you need all the facts."

Ygritte's face relaxed. "I know what I want to know. And you know nothing." She leaned in again, and picked the rifle off his lap. She placed it on the ground beside the chair and straddled him, the shirt barely covering her below the waist. Holding one side of his neck with her hand, she moved to kiss the other again, smelling like pine, lavender and red wine.

She prepared for this, he realised. Michael found his own hands settling on her waist, even as he tried to articulate the problem with her doing what she was doing. Against the backdrop of the fire, she was just this shadowy outline. Except for her hair, that was just ropes and threads of fire.

His mind urged him to find out what it all felt like. Why am I stopping myself again?

"We don't know if you can come with us. We don't know what our leaders will do with you if you can come with us. My home is a place so strange to you, you might never fit in."

"Good thing I won't be alone then," Ygritte replied, punctuating her words with swirls of her tongue against his skin, "You'll be with me. And the rest that come with."

"They might keep us apart."

"Let them try," she growled into his neck.

"I would have to continue as a soldier. They could send me to some foreign land on the other side of the world to fight people you have no grudge with."

"I'll follow you," came the almost petulant reply.

Absurd. Michael felt his chest expand and contract as he took a large breath. It would have been exasperation, but his mind was growing hazy. Alcohol and the primal urges were taking over. Need to try one last time.

Before he could, Ygritte arched her back and sat up. She tucked one arm inside her shirt and pulled it off over her head, complete with the necklace. The cloth and brass landed on the stone floor with a soft clink.

Michael could see all of her now.

Thin muscled legs and light red hair between them. Pale skin that seemed to glow a little now that the cloth covering it was gone. Wide hips sloping up to a thin waist. Round breasts that had filled out after weeks of proper food, tipped with pink. A small ring of light sunburn around her collar. Freckled shoulders, arms that stood to either side of his own face, framing the picture. Hair that flowed down in braids and knots down her back, wild as she was.

Heat seemed to pour off of her, more warming than the fire behind.

Michael found his tongue numbed. He couldn't summon a word.

"There's the face I've looked for," Ygritte whispered, "That, right there." Her fingers ran across his cheek, and she kissed his lips.

Michael's discipline collapsed at once. He reached and stood back up, lifting her with one arm as he stood. She fell against him and curled her arms around his neck, body brushing off of his. He held her closer still, wanting more.

He took her directly to the bed, laid her on top of it and struggled for a moment as she played around by not releasing him. Grinning at each other, Michael finished stripping off.

Now she could see all of him.

"I couldn't resist," he admitted.