THE QUEEN UPON THE WALL
The Thenns gathered atop the hill on the slope in front of the Last Inn, their shields polished bronze bright and the black of their Crow-steel speartips and scales drinking in the light. Their shieldwall reflected the sun back south in a warm glow. In the forest upon the other hills to one side, archers and spearwives stood behind every tree. In the marshy ground to the other, giants and mammoths.
Dalla looked to each of the them, knowing it was the best that the Free Folk could muster. With her at the bottom of the hill near the border were the chieftains of every living clan that followed Mance, save for Tormund who had remained behind at Castle Black to keep the peace. Even Varamyr was there, weak but atop a bear whose skin he had stolen from the forests near See-Eff-Bee Molestown.
There were over fifty of the chieftains, and their families were there too. Exchanging what could be their final kisses and embraces. A pang of guilt raked Dalla as she thought about what was going to happen, and she quickly turned her eyes towards another group.
Atop their own horses were the commanders of the Night's Watch with Chief of the Wulls; Mormont of Castle Black, Mallister of the Shadow Tower and the now scar-faced Pyke of Eastwatch, all four as glum as can be having been commanded to keep their mouths shut.
A horn sounded to the south, announcing the close arrival of what Dalla had refused to watch as it came on. The Stark host approached in battle array, having difficulty with the ground. They were almost all on foot, as the skinchangers had said.
Dalla could see the Giant on red and the Grey Direwolf in the centre coming up the Kingsroad, the white sun of the Karstarks approaching on the hills' side, and another mass of men trudging through the bog led by a pale banner with a red man on it.
Bolton, Dalla realised, But I thought he was dead? She had been keeping up with news from the south. The Canadians had sent regular updates. Lord Bolton had died at the Bloody Ford. So who was commanding the Bolton warriors? Her fingers played with the edge of Mance's cloak around her, fiddling with where the black wood met the red silk beneath…
The kneelers were getting close. Any more so and they'd be in range of bows. Let us not tempt the gods with that, she decided. "Styr," she said.
The bald Magnar of the Thenns standing nearby knew what to do. From under a canvas, he pulled the Horn of Joramun, made from a pale mammoth tusk and ringed with strange dark steel, the same horn stitched in gold thread on Mance's own banner of blue-white-blue as it flew over her head from a long spear. Two more Thenns manhandled it upright with their chieftain, and he inhaled deeply as he put it to his lips.
The drone of the horn thundered southwards, the sound echoing off the hills. It seemed to go bone-deep, not merely hitting the ears, but shaking the ground beneath.
Truly an instrument for a King, she thought, Little wonder men thought it could bring down the Wall.
Dalla shifted in her saddle, getting comfortable again. The horn had made her feel a deep unease for a moment. By the grace of the Gods, it did the same to the kneelers. The advance of the host in front of her stopped, the distance short of what most men could shoot with a bow. She could make out the heads of the warriors turning this way and that, looking to their leaders for answers.
Good.
"Let's greet them," Dalla declared to Styr and Morna, the chieftains closest to her. Without waiting for a response, she nudged her own horse southward at a walking pace. The Magnar and the White Mask indeed followed as she had desired, but soon she found the sounds behind her too loud for their fur boots to be alone. She looked behind and found the Crows, the Wull and even Varamyr had moved to join her atop his bear.
Scowling to herself, she clutched the reins harder and kept riding.
Ahead, the kneeler lords were gathering on the road.
Dalla could see the large form of Mors Umber, known to her not only through the tales of raiders returned from the south but also due to her mother riding beside him. It was almost comical to see them side by side, her grandfather almost too large for his horse. But they looked alike, from the brow to the tip of their noses. It was only the massive jaw that set their faces apart, and the missing eye.
I wonder do I have the same look.
The Karstark was much as described too; grey eyes, brown hair. Younger than expected, but then this was not the Lord Karstark, but merely a 'castellan', a protector of the castle. The same thing that Mors Umber was to his own nephew.
The man riding with the Stark banner wore a different banner of many wolf heads, white whiskers and a large chin poked out behind the straps holding his helmet on. Dalla knew not who it was, but he plainly commanded the others, if not as a king but as a war chief commands allied warbands to face a larger threat. Our differences are not so great as the Gorge, then.
But it was the man just behind this chief, wearing black with the Bolton icon on his breast, that drew her eyes away from her kin. Dalla thought he looked sickly despite his youth, with blotchy skin and slightly swollen lips, until he smiled like a wight who finally found prey. His own eyes were grey too like a Stark's, but this was no Stark.
Who is this that speaks for Lord Bolton? No raiders had ever met the Dreadfort's master and lived to tell the tale, though he did not often ride to fight them himself. They rarely made it beyond the lands of the Karstark and the Umber anyway.
The two parties came to a halt just where the first standing stone announced the Gift began and the Starklands ended, each on their own side of the border.
Mors Umber's single eye searched Dalla up and down, as her mother crossed back over and came alongside, leaning over in the saddle to embrace her. What is he looking for?
"Dalla, my daughter," Rowan Umber sighed, "It is good to see you my child."
"I thought I might not see you again," Dalla admitted freely, releasing her mother and raising her voice, "Grandfather. I would embrace you too. You are kin, after all."
The reminder sent the other lords looking to Mors. The man pulled his scraggy white beard once, and exhaled hard through his nose, the cold showing the breath. "Until you have fulfilled your part in the treaty, you and I are no kin," he declared harshly. His lords gave slight nods, save for the Bolton. But Mors quickly softened his tone. "But should you do your part… I would be glad to embrace you as kin and ally."
Dalla's mother rumbled out a laugh. "He cannot decide to hate us or love us," Rowan explained quietly, "That his blood'll inherit a kingdom, and that he has such beautiful granddaughters, he likes. That we're wildlings, he likes not."
Then let us do what was agreed. "Who speaks for Winterfell?" Dalla asked, "We bring your guests, we bring the warning of wights bound and tied for showing to others, and the gift of treasure."
"I speak for Winterfell, your Grace," said the white-whiskered man under the direwolf banner, "I am Ser Rodrik Cassel, castellan of that seat and of the North itself. I am here to receive the hostages and treasure, but I expected your king to be here, Queen Dalla."
Not a word of disrespect, Dalla thought. This man guarded his feelings better than most. No wonder the Stark left him to lead. "My king is looking at the new land," she replied, "Claims have been made to it. He would know it, to prevent dispute."
The man in black licked his large lips until they were wet, and put his hands on his many blades. The motion couldn't help but take Dalla's attention, disgust rising in her throat. She tried to keep it down, but not well enough. He noticed.
"Ramsay Bolton, my lady," he said, "Such a pleasure to meet you."
The Karstark snorted loudly. "Ramsay Snow, you mean. You're no trueborn Bolton." The other lords smirked, evidently agreeing.
The man in black's bright grey eyes went dead for a moment, his fingers curling around a curved blade that was more usually seen to carve hide off of elk and deer. But no violence resulted. Nor words of rebuke.
Dangerous, Dalla thought, He is controlling himself just as much as Cassel… but he doesn't want to. "Well met," she said quickly, and returned her attention to the Winterfell man before Ramsay Snow could continue, "As I said, the guests and gold are ready. So're the skinchangers and the Laughing Tree. Varamyr will lead them, the one on the bear."
"That's Varamyr?" Mors Umber growled, before calling to the man, "You're a smaller man than your reputation, raper!"
"Then come fight me!" Varamyr snarled back, "You'll find this bear's claws plucking out your only eye. They'll call you Bearfood after mine has shat you out."
Dalla wanted to order the Thenns to kill the man for even speaking. Varamyr had no right. "Peace!" she warned both kneeler and Free Folk, "Think of what your southron Lannisters will think of fighting bears with the minds of men, grandfather. And Varamyr, think of the skins and booty you shall take from their lands."
She could almost feel the hatred between both parties release, directed against their new common foe instead. Greed for loot and revenge, so easy.
Cassel gave a nod. "Then let the hostages and skinchangers come forth, and I shall escort them to Winterfell myself."
"Your guests have guests," the Karstark interrupted, pointing at the families.
"Their mothers will not leave them," Dalla said, "So they shall go to Winterfell too. They are armed, but shall grant their spears and axes to you, Lord Cassel, when they arrive."
"Ser Rodrik," the Karstark corrected, "The man is a knight, and not a lord in his own right."
Mors Umber glared at the younger man. "He is castellan of the North, acting on the order of the Stark in Winterfell. None of us here are lords in our own right." The Karstark withered in his saddle, though not without a defiant turn of his head away from his fellow.
Gods these kneelers are exhausting.
Mors continued. "Spearwives in Winterfell," he said, "That idea does not please me. Do you have enough guards, Ser Rodrik?"
"More than enough," Cassel replied sharply, tugging his whiskers "They'll be disarmed, and all places they could obtain a weapon protected. I have a thought or two in my head, Lord Mors, if you'll kindly permit me to use them."
Dalla's grandfather shrugged his large shoulders. "Then I'll not object to more hostages."
And should you use the women or children as hostages, they'll use your little Starklings as one. Dalla didn't like sending the women south in this way, but it was the only way the chieftains would agree to send their sons and daughters south.
"I object," the Karstark disagreed, "I demand the word of your King that these are not assassins."
"Such a word would be useless," Morna White Mask chuckled, "You could not know if Mance was lying."
"And who are you to object?" Rowan added.
Dalla grimaced. The hatred was returning, and too easily. Keeping this peace will be hard work, oaths or no oaths.
"I am the one who tells the Karstark banners remaining in the North who to kill," the Karstark man replied, as if he had prepared that answer before, "And these men beside me cannot command me to do otherwise without leave from Winterfell."
Dalla frowned. The other kneelers were saying nothing. The Karstark wishes to delay us. Why? "Is that true?" she asked her grandfather.
Mors Umber grimaced. "Aye, 'tis true. Or enough so to let him do what he says."
"We have been commanded to allow no one through until the hostages are safely in Winterfell," Ser Rodrik agreed, "It is not unreasonable to ask for your King's word. We do know it is the only word your people will follow."
"We shall wait for your King to appear in person," the Karstark said, "The threat of the Others is very real, I have seen the wight you sent before, but we cannot take the chance of treachery within the walls of Winterfell. Your people are a threat even now, your Grace."
"You wish to speak to our king," Morna declared, her head turned to the side, "So you shall."
As did all others, Dalla quickly looked in the direction Morna was gazing. From around the hill to the west, a trio of unicorns rode into view, the beasts loping gallop taking their riders to the truce quickly. One held up a broken branch, a sign that they came in peace. Another held a lance with the white-blue-white banner of the Free Folk, though without the golden horn. And the last wore the furs and leather of the unicorn riding tribe, but his raven-winged helmet could not be mistaken.
Mance. Dalla's heart soared. He's made it back, and not a scratch on him.
The King of the Wall and Gift's beast thumped by the rest, spooking many of the horses. Ramsay Snow's almost threw him as it reared up, and the man's mask slipped once more for a brief moment in a flash of anger, curling his mouth. You cannot hurt me now.
Mance stopped in front of her as he took off his helmet with a single hand. "Your Majesty," he greeted her, using the Canadian words in jest. His way of communicating that all was well, or better than well. "I am glad to see my cloak has kept you warm enough in my absence."
Ah, so he wishes to warm me up? One thing at a time. "Your Majesty," she replied back in equally good cheer, "Our new allies wish your word that the mothers of the guests they are to host at Winterfell shall not murder the Starks in their beds."
Mance pulled on one of the horns of his saddle, causing the unicorn beneath him to turn. "Oh?"
It was only then that Dalla noticed her grandfather looked like all of his blood would burst out of his head, so red was his face. Gods, he'll die unless that stops. "You!" he roared, "You were with the Canadians, with Val! I'd recognise that helm anywhere. You went to Winterfell!"
Mance gave a mocking bow. "Aye, I took Lord Stark's bread and salt," he said cheerily in reply, "And 'twas not the first time either, goodfather."
Mors' mouth opened and closed like a fish breathing, unable to speak. The motion made Rowan cackle with delight, and Dalla herself was relieved to see that seemed to calm her grandfather enough for a normal colour to return to his face.
The white-whiskered Cassel leaned forward in his saddle. "The feast for King Robert," he said to Mance, "I searched you for weapons! You were a minstrel?"
Even Ramsay Snow's eyes widened on hearing that. And rightly so, kneelers. Such a feat is worthy of a great man. It was the reason Dalla allowed herself to be stolen.
Mance laughed. "The bard. But it matters little now. I went to see the character of the king of the South. I was disappointed in him, but I met Dalla on the way home. The gods blessed me for my efforts. It's not every day a man meets a woman well-fitted to the role of Queen."
Dalla felt a strength she had scarce noticed missing return to her. Everything shall be well.
"So you're a sneak-thief and a liar," the Karstark scoffed, "A dark day indeed that we are forced to take the word of such a man. Others or no, war with you would seem almost preferable, King Mance."
Dalla's eyes narrowed, her moment soured. "Ah, but it would not be war with us alone, Lord Karstark," she said, "You're forgetting the Canadians. By now, Lord Duquesne has informed your Starks of our pact; they will retaliate against any breach of faith by the likes of you."
Karstark shut his mouth with a satisfying snap, and Dalla had thought him beaten, but the Cassel nudged his horse forward once more. "Aye, Lieutenant Duquesne did inform us of your pact," he said, "But he also said the Canadians intend to leave Westeros. By now, they have done so. Last word was that they had made it to the Isle of Faces, and their road home."
Dalla grit her teeth. She had been hoping the kneelers in Winterfell had not been informed of that.
Mance did not seem bothered by this, playing with his reins idly. "Good that you'd not miss the tidings of them sweeping aside the Lannisters like dust before the broom," he said in mockery, "But I have still more tidings; they have not left. More have come. There are now hundreds of Canadians in Westeros, and they are bound to us as we are bound to them. By sacred oath."
The lords-castellan looked at each other, not wanting to believe it but doing so despite themselves. The Canadians really are god-sent, Dalla thought with amusement, How they make kneelers squirm.
"How d'you know such a thing?" Mors Umber grumbled, "I've not heard of a king of the wildlings with a maester and ravens."
"And yet we do have them, Grandfather," Dalla replied, "Maester Aemon has been very helpful."
"It was another man of the Night's Watch who told me," Mance said, "Called himself the Three-Eyed Crow."
As murmurs filled the air, Dalla grimaced and looked to her king with shock. The Three-Eyed Crow was an old tale, a legend of a man bonded to all creatures north of the Wall, a skinchanger powerful enough to enter the minds of other men. She liked not that yet another such legend might be true.
As the Starklanders considered the matter, Mance turned his unicorn once more and rode around, joining the other chieftains behind Dalla. His face became steely, his eyes sharp. "So, my lords, shall you declare war on a hundred thousand warriors of the Free Folk to the north, the Canadians to the south, to say nothing of Lannisters and White Walkers?"
The assembled lordlings wore blank faces. They knew what war meant.
"Or will you let mothers go with their children?" Dalla added in support, "The gods will not thank you for separating them."
The castellans ground their teeth, even her grandfather. But Ser Rodrik Cassel showed his mettle once more. "We shall allow it," he said, "It is not for us to start a war when our lord has made peace."
"Wisely said," Mance laughed, aiming a pointed gaze back at his own chieftains for a moment, "Our warriors shall follow soon after, to follow your reinforcements down the Kingsroad or by ship from Eastwatch. I hear more kings are crowning themselves. You will have need of spears."
"There has been a change of plans," Cassel said, "For those men coming by road, they will march as far as Cerwyn, and then go to Torrhen's Square. Ships will take your people from there onto Seagard. Lady Dustin will not have so many wildlings on her land, treaty or no, and going by ship shall cut two weeks off of the journey to the places of war."
Dalla shifted in her saddle, uneasy to hear that news. The sea is perilous, full of raiders and storms.
"Sooner is better," Mance agreed before she could object, "I trust the Laughing Tree and the skinchangers going with you will not be obstructed."
"There are not so many of them," Ser Rodrik stated, "They can be properly escorted without risk."
"Then our business is concluded," Mance said.
Cassel bowed his head and turned his horse, leading the kneelers under their banners away south once more. Mors lingered for a moment, granting Dalla a small nod of his own that made her smile. So I am kin after all.
The smile died when she saw that Ramsay Snow had remained behind too, licking his lips as he smiled at her. Dalla felt her tongue swell with a strange disgust and fear. There was something about the man that was unnatural.
"Those who are going to Winterfell, forward!" Mance shouted.
His words forced her to look away from the Bolton, and when she looked back, he was already riding away to join her grandfather.
A ragged procession began walking down the Kingsroad, the chieftains parting to allow their kin through after a last embrace. The women and children went with small carts and dogs a plenty, well prepared for the journey.
To the side, the Laughing Tree tribe that had not gone with the Canadians appeared from the forest, now that the kneelers had gone. Taryne and Karla led them out, pulling along long-haired ponies burdened with many fur packs. Nearby, the skinchangers milled about around Varamyr, discussing whether or not the kneelers would carry off the hostages. Both sights caused a fear to creep up through Dalla.
"Mance, what if they're attacked," she said, turning to her husband, "The kneelers are like as not to try. The ones that don't want peace."
He frowned and put his winged helm back on his head. "Aye, it's almost certain," he replied quietly to her, "These castellans do not see the future as clearly as their lords, the same way raiding warbands don't see it as their chiefs do. They see us as savages to be killed… all except your lord grandfather, that is."
"So they will attack," Dalla said.
"Some," Mance allowed, "One, at least. That man who stared at you… Ramsay Snow. It's whispered in his father's lands that he hunts young girls through the woods. Rapes, kills and skins them, sometimes not in that order. And his family has been rival to the Starks of Winterfell for thousands of years."
So not so dangerous after all. Dalla snorted. "And to think the lordly ones claim their lands are more peaceful," she said, "The Weeper has done worse. Among others. And there are tribes among us with hate just as old as these Boltons have for the Starks."
"To be sure," Mance agreed, "But Ramsay now has his father's bannermen, and they could attack. We must rely on Ser Rodrik and his escort of Starkmen, and hope that an attack on his lord's own castellan would give him pause."
Having no hope of that at all, Dalla shook her head. "We must do more than that," she said, "The gods are not that kind."
Mance winced. "Perhaps… but what?"
Dalla didn't have an immediate answer, and turned her head away from her husband, watching the first of the Laughing Tree begin south, passing the skinchangers and giving Varamyr's bear much room. And the gods gave her the answer.
"We find someone worse than Ramsay Snow," Dalla smirked, before pulling her horse away. Mance had just enough time to cock an eyebrow before she rode away. She quickly came up on where Varamyr was, her approach catching his attention from atop the bear.
"Your Majesty," he grunted to her surprise, "What d'you want?
Is he grateful I didn't have him thrown to the Wulls at the Nightfort? Dalla waited until Mance caught up, so he too could hear what she had to say.
"Well, what is it?" Varamyr continued impatiently, "Soon I'll be away from your grasp, free to do as I please."
Dalla smiled at him. "Someone is going to try to kill you."