The leaders of the Night's Watch slowly but methodically made their way to see the captured wight. Always in a certain pattern; two warriors, two support personnel. A transparent attempt to protect the non-combatants.
Michael was sure the outward reason was to prevent him from taking more hostages, but Mormont's reaction to the wight had been genuine shock and terror. Maybe he's more afraid of the wight than me.
Regardless, it was an opportunity too good to pass up. Michael's phone had a damn good camera. As the wight provided a great distraction, he discreetly took pictures of every single one of the spectators while they were busy dropping jaws and drawing swords. Special attention was paid to the top military personnel.
Two familiar figures came first; the knights whom the Lord Commander had rode out with. Ser Alliser Thorne and Ser Jaremy Rykker, the small and sinewy 'master-at-arms' in his fifties and the sardonic noble-looking 'acting First Ranger' respectively.
They were the first two to approach and the only two to introduce themselves.
Rykker with his name, all polite but eyes taking in the details of armour and weaponry. Thorne by spitting on the ground at Michael's feet, declaring name and title, and telling him to remember both, because they belonged to the man who would kill him and his wildling friends. Michael would remember him for another reason entirely.
They escorted a guy who was a candidate for a heart attack or serious skin condition, given how red he was in the cold, and some sort of priest who smelled strongly of alcohol.
The wight made all of them lose the colour in their faces, even the red-faced one.
Another five groups came through without much to notice. A one-armed man here, a warrior worth noting there. The more interesting thing was that the number of them was far fewer than Michael had thought. They have very few military officers at all.
Michael again put this down to the Night's Watch being spread out in garrisons across the full length of the Wall, but something felt off about the hypothesis. 'Lord-Commander' seemed too grand a title for such a decentralised system. No one had been introduced as the local sub-commander. I'm missing something that might be important, Michael thought to himself, Maybe Mance will know.
The seventh and last group defied all expectations. The Lord Commander and Jon Stark made their reappearance, but this time on the front bench of a cart. Two more men in black cloaks were in the back, it turned out.
One of the cart's passengers was the oldest man Michael had ever seen, on either world. Wrinkled, bald, his eyes sunk back into his skull and obviously not working any more, the man wore a chain with wide links in a large variety of metals. The neck they were supported by barely seemed strong enough to hold the weight.
The other was a young man that seemed to be the same age as Jon Stark, though there the similarities ended. He was heavy set to a degree Michael didn't think possible from someone in a medieval society. His fingers, which were fidgeting and drawing attention to themselves, were freshly stained with ink. Literate and fat. Definitely a noble, Michael noted, But what on Earth is he doing at the Wall? Did he join to become an administrator?
The last group dismounted the cart close by the fire, which by now was running low on wood. The heavy guy helped the old man along as he walked with a black cane, and towards the wight. Michael didn't like where the scenario was going. Old man, lived long beyond what his circumstances should allow, marching headlong at a mortal threat to society?
"Wow, wow, hold on a minute," he said, stepping in front of the pair, "Where do you think you're going?"
"To see the wight," the Lord-Commander replied gruffly, like it was his right.
"More precisely, to have it described to me," the old man added, his voice far softer, "Samwell and Jon are both astute boys, soon to be men of the Night's Watch. Lord Commander Mormont is an honest and honourable leader. Between them, I will be able to understand just what it is they are seeing."
Michael wondered about the old man. What was a blind man's position in an active military organisation? Some sort of advisor? "And why is it important that you understand in particular? Who are you?"
"The boy you have not met before is Samwell Tarly," the old man replied, "He will record these events for posterity in my words. I am Aemon Targaryen, maester to the Night's Watch." The Tarly kid produced a sort of small writing tablet from under his cloak, as if to show it as proof.
Michael frowned. The word 'maester' hadn't translated. Does the concept simply not exist back home? Is that how you actually say it or is the magic compensating by making it sound close to 'master' in some way?
Wondering about it, he almost let slip his real name out of sheer politeness and distraction, but caught himself just in time. "Ulysses of Ithaca. I'm sorry, but what is a maester? That's not a word I'm familiar with."
The old man's brow knit, deepening its many furrows. The Lord-Commander looked on with scepticism too. Jon Stark on the other hand didn't seem all that surprised. But it was not any of them who spoke up.
"H-how do you speak the Common tongue but not know what the maesters are?" said Tarly, "All of the books on the language are written by the maesters."
"I didn't learn your language from a book," Michael replied honestly, "I can't read or write in letters from the countries near here to begin with." Though maybe I should put Zheng on thinking about how we can learn to quickly, he thought to himself, The magic must be able to help somehow.
"Maesters are an order of scholars, messengers and healers," Jon Stark explained, again like he was reciting something he learned in school, "They assist lords in ruling, tend to the sick, record events, care for and dispatch the ravens that carry messages between different parts of the realm, and investigate the world's mysteries."
Ravens? Michael wondered, Like carrier pigeons? They're supposed to be pretty smart. He was impressed that such a thing had been thought of. Communications in Westeros must be far quicker than in medieval Europe.
"May I ask where you are from, Lord Ulysses?" Maester Aemon inquired, "Your accent is unidentifiable, yet you speak the Common Tongue with great precision for someone from so far away that the Maesters of the Citadel are unknown."
Michael straightened up to his full height. "That's not information I am willing to give at this time. You came here to see… to have the wight described. Get on with it."
"Ulysses is not your real name, is it?" Jon Stark blurted out, "How can we trust a man who won't tell us his name?"
The Lord Commander's straight line of a mouth cracked a slight smile of approval at the question. Clearly being groomed for some sort of position.
"Enlightened self-interest," Michael stated, stepping aside to let Samwell Tarly and Maester Aemon have the access they wanted to the wight, "Neither of us want to end up like the young lady on the floor, do we?"
"Indeed not," the Maester agreed, "I can smell and hear her already. Most definitely dead, and from the wheezing… she has a wound to the upper torso, deep, into the lungs, does she not Samwell?"
Michael knew people who lost certain senses often gained stronger perceptions in their remaining ones, but that was quite a diagnosis.
Tarly looked like he was turning green, but bit down his nausea to do his duty. Not what I would've expected from a spoiled noble, Michael noted. The heavy young man handed off the writing tablet to Jon Stark and took up a stick from the much reduced pile of firewood. With a very shaky hold on it, he lifted the remaining furs protecting the wight's modesty.
Michael wanted to stop him. He wanted the dead girl to have some dignity in death, even if it was necessary to show her off, but Tarly's distaste for what he was doing was written all over his face. The girl had been pretty once, and Tarly's expression told that he shared Michael's sadness that she had been killed so young.
"A large bite or claw wound to the upper left side of her body, maester," Tarly said, "Also, her eyes are glowing blue."
Michael curled his lips, the stare of the White Walker he had shot coming to him at once. "All their eyes glow blue. Matches their puppet masters, though the White Walker's ones were brighter." He searched for a comparison they'd understand. "Like torches compared with candles."
"This is consistent with the tales of such creatures," Aemon sniffed, "Is there anything else you can tell us, Lord Ulysses?"
Michael considered withholding information on the wights too. But he didn't know if he'd live long enough to pass it on otherwise. An open hand with intel about the Others seemed like one way to build trust when he had no intention of revealing anything more about himself if he could help it.
And there were observations that had been brewing in his mind since that first night in front of the Laughing Tree.
"I think White Walkers control the minds of the wights," he said, "Those that are raised by a Walker are slaved to that particular walker. Commands seem to be given instantly without words. The Walker might even be able to see and hear through the wights, if they still have eyes and ears to hear with. I'm not sure if the Walkers have to be close to do that."
The Crows' faces instantly became stony. Raising the dead and puppeting them in such a way was no mean feat, even to Michael. Lord Commander Mormont grimaced, looking down at the wight.
"You mean they could be watching us right now?" he asked, "Listening to us speak?"
Michael turned his hands from side to side. "Could be, I'm guessing based on behaviour I've seen," he stated, "The wights seem far more … directed when a White Walker is near. Sometimes they're just sent out without any master to cause chaos or attack large population centres. But it's a disadvantage too. If you hurt the Walker, all the wights it raised feel that pain as if they were still alive. They drop to the ground, and flail about like a fish out of water."
"Not all of our number believe the Walkers are real, even now," the Lord Commander frowned, "I don't suppose you have one of those tied up somewhere?"
Michael shook his head. "I doubt rope or chains would hold them," he said, "Those things are magic. They'd freeze whatever was holding them until it cracked."
"Nonetheless, you have discovered a key to defeating them," the maester noted, "If there are weapons that can harm the White Walkers, save your own."
Michael rubbed the back of his neck. He didn't want to admit their weapons were limited in ammunition, but he didn't want to talk them up beyond their capabilities either. "Our weapons hurt the Walkers and cut through wights like a hot knife through butter. But there are not many of them."
"And even his weapons cannot be shot forever," the Lord Commander observed to the maester, before looking to Michael again, "Unless I am mistaken and your armaments are magical in nature too, they must shoot shoot some manner of object. Such things must be limited in number."
Michael frowned. Just by standing there, he was giving away intelligence on his team's capabilities. I made the right move leaving the others back at Gilly's hall with the crawler.
"We've got more than enough of ammunition to deal with you," he replied cheerily, "Don't forget that when we sit down tomorrow. The White Walkers don't stay down when we shoot them, but you would."
The Lord Commander looked back blankly with doubt. Real or feigned? Michael couldn't tell.
"There must be other weapons," Jon Stark insisted, "How else did the First Men defeat them? Push them back and buy time to build the Wall?"
"You're not wrong," Michael answered, "Any sort of fire works against the wights, though it takes a few seconds. It hurts but doesn't kill the Walkers too. The Free Folk say obsidian is lethal to both the Walkers and the wights. I haven't seen that work in-person yet, but I don't see how anyone could have survived here if it was untrue."
"Then we are in luck," Aemon pronounced, "There is abundant obsidian in the Seven Kingdoms, at Dragonstone and other places. Nor is it considered valuable. Our own coffers could secure enough to arm many of our brothers."
"It's something at least," Mormont agreed, "Though obsidian is brittle and not commonly worked by smiths. It is a great pity that steel is not effective."
"Not unless you want to hack up dead bodies that are trying to kill you," Michael said, "Wights can't get up and kill you if they have no heads, legs or arms. There is a rumour of magic swords made of 'smokey' metal that is just as good as dragonglass, but I don't recognise that description."
The four men all looked at each other. The Lord-Commander even seemed distraught briefly. "I recognise it," he said, "I've seen such a blade before."
"So have I," Jon added, "My father's sword is like that."
"My father's sword too," Tarly said.
"And I have seen many such blades over the years," Aemon said, finishing the round up.
Michael crossed his arms. "Is there a woman in a pond, distributing magic swords to young noblemen or something?" Jon Stark grinned at that, the absurdity of it being just as funny as the reference to King Arthur and Monty Python. Michael was pleased to entertain, if only to ingratiate himself a little.
"Not quite," Mormont replied, "The rumour refers to Valyrian steel swords, blades forged with the magicks of Old Valyria. There are not many blades or even much of the metal left."
"Fewer and less every year," Aemon stated, "The secret to forging it was lost, though there are smiths that can rework it. I have a Valyrian steel link, myself."
The maester's slightly shaking hands moved to his chain, which had many more links than Michael had initially thought. They jangled and jingled, until at last, a dark metal ring was held up, bright-as-silver waves weaving through it.
Looks familiar, Michael noted, But where have I seen something like that before? "Well, we're just assuming the rumour is true. And without someone to make the steel, your troops have to use dragonglass and fire then."
Aemon gave a long, deliberate nod. "With your permission, we would like to conduct a series of tests on the wight," he said, "It shall not take long."
Michael saw no harm. Perhaps they'd discover something. "As long as you don't kill it and you share what you discover, go right ahead."
The next morning, the two armies again reassembled at the north and south sides of the Nine Weirwoods. Michael kept near the re-lit campfire in the centre of the space between them, waiting with Sayer for the leaders of both to arrive. Piles of furs had been laid out over some low logs for those talking, a piece of comfort deliberately chosen by him to make it more difficult for the parties to get up and attack each other over this insult or that.
He also knew that wouldn't stop either side trying to provoke the other.
The Crows arrived first. Instead of the Lord Commander, his plus two and Jon Stark, nearly double that number showed up. It was Mormont, Stark, Thorne, Rykker, Tarly with a little writing table and parchment, the red-faced man, and 'Maester' Aemon.
Michael and Sayer watched them approach and said nothing about it. Just coming to talk was good enough.
"Lord Commander," Michael said in greeting.
"Lord Ulysses," Mormont replied, "No wight today?"
Not until I'm sure it isn't an undead surveillance camera. "No. Take a seat. All of you."
The Men of the Night's Watch were not too good for furs, and took their places. The ones that were supposed to be there, anyway. The add-ons simply stood behind, so Michael and Sayer stayed standing too.
All continued waiting in increasingly uncomfortable silence for the Free Folk. They were late. The first of their own battery of insults against the Crows, Michael knew. The next arrived when they did.
Tormund Giantsbane pulled Qhorin Halfhand along, the Crow Ranger gagged to shut him up. Varamyr Six-Skins followed behind, walking on his own two feet for once. Not good signs from either man. Gagging Halfhand was an obvious insult, but Six Skins not having a single animal with him meant that they were hidden somewhere nearby, ready to attack.
Michael waved them to sit opposite the Crows, which they did, without greeting. They had already seen him at camp an hour before, for a little chat about not screwing the summit up by opening their mouths. Mance had given the word that Michael was to do the negotiating and their role was to listen. All the better to hang me with my own words.
"Remove Halfhand's gag," he ordered.
Tormund frowned, but shrugged and untied the strips of leather holding the large ball of cloth in the Crow's mouth. Halfhand coughed deeply as the gag was pulled out. Sayer offered him a drink from his canteen, which the Crow accepted, drinking deeply.
"Thank you," he said, as he handed the flask back, "I don't know where Giantsbane got that cloth. I am sure I do not want to know."
"Har!" laughed the man in question.
"This is Tormund Giantsbane?" Ser Alliser asked, contempt dripping from every syllable.
"And the other is Varamyr Six-Skins," Halfhand replied, "Men we have hunted for years, at our doorstep."
"But not within reach," Six Skins stated.
"We'll see," Ser Alliser said with an ugly smirk.
Michael sighed, already exhausted by the experience. "As you can see, Lord Commander, your man is unharmed," he said, turning to Mormont, "Feel free to ask about the others."
Mormont kept his face a mask. "Qhorin. Make your report. What happened out there?"
Halfhand rubbed his hands in front of him, as close to the fire as possible. "I rode out of the Shadow Tower a month ago as instructed, with a double-strength ranging party. Looking for Benjen. No one in the south-western villages had seen him, so we moved further north. We discovered Lord Ulysses and his people on the western ranger-road leading to the Fist of the First Men. They looked to be setting an ambush for someone, most likely us."
"You never did tell me how you detected us," Michael interrupted.
"Scout on a higher hill nearby," Halfhand answered, to the Lieutenant's surprise, "With a small Myrish spyglass. One of the men you killed used to be a sailor, see."
As I thought, Michael said to himself.
"Continue," grumbled Ser Rykker, "I wish to hear it all."
Halfhand gave him a glare before Michael could. "I knew the place well. So, I gave the order to go around their ambush, to catch them unawares. But it took most of the remaining daylight to move around unseen. By the time we were ready, they were preparing to leave. Their two wildling guides had went off for a piss, right beside where we were hiding. One of them was about to spot us, so we commenced the attack."
"Long story short, they lost," Michael interrupted again, "Half the Rangers died in combat. The rest were captured. Not a single one of us died. I'm afraid full descriptions of our weapons, tactics and other capabilities will have to wait until a time all of the people at this fire are allies."
"And what will you do if he speaks about such matters in front of us?" the Lord Commander asked, "Will you kill to protect your secrets?"
Michael felt a great desire to put his face in his hands. "No, I'll just smack him on the head and gag him again," he replied flatly, "Qhorin Halfhand. Can you confirm that those of you we captured have not been badly hurt and that your personal property has not been taken, other than your weapons? Including that of the dead?"
Halfhand said nothing for a moment. "I can," he said, "Though you seem to be fond of using our horses as your own mounts."
I wouldn't use the word fond, Michael thought, My rear still hurts from the long journey on their backs. "They'll be returned, if we make peace, along with your swords."
Ser Alliser spat into the fire, over the top of the maester's shoulder. "How gracious of you, Lord Ulysses."
Michael smiled back at him with false innocence. "I have my moments," he said, before returning to the topic, "Lord Commander, we've established that your remaining men are alive, well and retain all the dignity that can be expected. Would you agree?"
Mormont's mouth moved like he was chewing a particularly tough bit of meat for a moment. "I disagree on the last matter," he said, "I would point out that they remain hostages. Which is beneath their dignity. They serve the realm, they gave up their lives to do so. Release them."
Michael shook his head. "They are prisoners of war," he said, "No sane leader would release prisoners for nothing. If you want them back, end the war. Make an agreement. Otherwise, they'll remain prisoners."
"Your threat to kill them if we attacked was dishonourable," Ser Rykker said, "And I see you continue your dishonour…"
"The threat was from the Free Folk, not me," Michael pointed out, "A promise from Mance. The peaceful talking idea, that was mine. I may have called this parley, but don't mistake me for one of the Free Folk."
"They're your prisoners," the Lord Commander said, pointing at Michael, "If they are killed by the 'Free Folk', you are responsible."
"I agree, which is another reason why I am negotiating. But you have a legitimate grievance, because we did plan on taking your men prisoner in the ambush. So, if you hear me out today, and I'll release the youngest back to you again, alive and unharmed." The one least likely to know anything because he's barely a Crow. Every night, the older men teach him survival skills.
The Lord Commander narrowed his eyes. "Very well, Ulysses. Make your proposals. But if you break that promise, I'll order an immediate attack."
At last, progress, Michael thought with relief. "The problem is that as many people north of the Wall need to be south of it before the White Walkers begin a large attack on the Free Folk. That will require a political settlement."
He held up his hand balled into a fist and put out his thumb. "One, some are willing to kneel, to accept your laws entirely and become vassals of your lords. Their property will not be touched."
"Cowards," Six Skins muttered.
Michael ignored him, and released his forefinger to join the thumb. "Two, some will swear sacred oaths on these weirwoods to defend the Wall and maintain the peace, though they will not join the Night's Watch. Their property won't be touched either."
Another finger. "Three, those that wish neither to kneel or swear an oath, but do not oppose us, we can use as scouts out here. Their families can be kept in strong positions to be built near the Wall, and they'll require supplies. In the event of a major attack by the Others, they'll be let through the Wall."
Michael held up all his fingers. "Four and Five. Those Free Folk who oppose the plan will be dealt with, and Mance will count on your assistance in doing so."
He put down his hand again. "These are our propositions."
The Lord Commander ran his fingers through his bushy beard, considering this.
"And if I refuse them?"
Michael made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "The Free Folk will be made into wights that will attack the Wall, or they'll attack the Wall themselves to avoid that fate."
"So it would seem," the Lord Commander agreed, "But what about you, Lord Ulysses? What will you do?"
Thank you, Nuremburg Trials, Michael thought. "My country's laws are clear," he said, "I'm not permitted to stand by while an entire people are annihilated. If you refuse, I have no choice but to assist the Free Folk."
"We may not need his help," Tormund added, with a nasty grin, "I see very few Crows behind you, Lord Commander. And Mance has many more than us."
Mormont was not impressed by the threat. "I do not have the authority to unleash the whole wildling population on the Seven Kingdoms. My own home has been attacked by them repeatedly in the past, and not so long ago as to forget or forgive."
Michael held up a hand to stop him. "My country's laws wouldn't allow me to tolerate the Free Folk taking people, property or the lives of civilians either," he said, "Anyone who breaks their word and commits a crime, I would be compelled to arrest and hand them over to you or the lords."
Tormund pulled his beard. "You didn't tell us that before."
"You didn't ask," Michael replied, "But like I told you before. Taking other people's property will just cause conflict we can't afford with White Walkers coming to kill us all."
Mormont baulked."At the very least, I would require permission to agree to your terms from the Starks of Winterfell."
Where the hell is Winterfell? Michael wondered.
"And my father will not give permission," Jon Stark added, "Not without seeing a wight with his own eyes. His lords wouldn't allow it."
Michael clenched his fist, hidden behind the side of the rifle hanging off his front. They do not seem to be treating this as urgently as it should. "Not good enough," he said, "Every day that passes, more Free Folk gather and the army of wights gets bigger too. If you didn't have the authority, then it would be royal troops or Stark troops guarding the gates of the Wall."
"The Night's Watch relies on the realm for supplies," Maester Aemon replied, "The King or the Lord of Winterfell may not command us, but they can show their displeasure at our actions with great ease."
"They're Crows, Ulysses," Tormund complained, "They can't scratch their arse without their lord's word."
Mormont leaned forward onto his knees. "And you can't scratch your arse without someone trying to stick a spear up it, Giantsbane," he said, "The support of the King and the Starks and the realm makes us stronger, not weaker."
Michael cut in to prevent the beards going off further on a tangent. "Let's be clear. There's no chance of us getting past the Wall until we transport a wight south of it, Lord Eddard Stark sees it, consults his lords and makes a decision. Is that correct?"
"More wights would be better," Mormont replied, "We can send them to the lords directly. Those nearest the Wall will be far more receptive to your plan if they have seen the threat for themselves."
"More wights aren't going to be a problem, trust me," Michael said, "How long would the whole process take?"
The Lord Commander shifted his weight on the furs underneath him, glancing at Jon Stark briefly. "Six months at least," he said.
Michael's brow raised. "Where does Lord Stark live? The Moon?" he asked, "Is Winterfell that far away?"
Mormont moved uncomfortably in his place. "Lord Stark is not presently in Winterfell," he stated, "He is serving as Hand of the King in the capital, many hundreds of leagues to the south."
Michael felt a lurch in his gut. Thousands of clicks, if a league is the same as one back home. When were they planning on telling me this? "Let's put aside the fact I have no idea if a wight could survive warmer climes… Is there someone else we can ask? Does Lord Stark have a regent that's closer?"
"My brother, Lord Robb Stark," Jon Stark began.
"Half-brother," Ser Alliser interrupted, "Don't forget yourself in the presence of your betters, boy."
Jon Stark shot a look of pure hatred at the 'knight', which seemed to amuse him. "Does the truth offend you, bastard?" Ser Alliser asked.
Where the hell does this guy think he is? The local bar?
"Kindly be quiet," Michael said in rebuke, "We aren't here to discuss the subject of Jon Stark's parents. If you can't restrain yourself, leave. Adults are speaking."
"Snow," Ser Alliser growled back, "His name is Snow." The knight's fingers wrapped around his sword's grip, ready to draw it out from its scabbard.
Michael took his rifle in hand and flicked the safety off. "Snow is what I'll bury you under if you intend to try that blade on me. Walk away. You're not longer welcome."
Halfhand stood. "I would do as he says, Ser Alliser," he said, "That rifle he holds is not to be trifled with. Cuts through armour like it was parchment." Ser Alliser did not heed the Ranger's advice. He didn't even seem to hear it.
"Kill him and be done with it," Six Skins said to Michael, his voice rising slightly with excitement, "Show the Crows what they face."
No, I won't kill a man for arrogance and stupidity, Michael thought, But if he draws that sword and takes a single step in my direction…
"Enough," the Lord Commander said in a commanding tone, "Ser Alliser. Leave."
The knight took his fingers off his sword, and swept his cloak around himself as he turned around. Ser Alliser Thorne left at once. Without a word of complaint or insult to anyone. Like it had all not mattered.
Maybe it doesn't matter, Michael wondered, At the end of the day, Alliser Thorne looked like he was always going to be a voice against us. Jon Stark is still a bastard in a society that seems to hate illegitimate children. My own insistence on treating him otherwise is just as stubborn.
Still, Michael was relieved by the sudden willing departure of the overzealous knight. He flicked his weapon's safety back on and let it hang by its sling again. "Jon Stark, you have a brother who is your father's regent? Why can't we just send the wight to him and have him make the decision?"
Jon Stark flinched, woken from deep thought. He answered cogently. "My brother would not take a decision on his own. He would send a raven to our father at once. I do not know if Father would believe my brother's word without seeing the wight himself. The lords should act on my brother's command, as they swore to do."
"But this is not an ordinary matter," Mormont added, "There will be great unrest among the lords if word of your proposals spreads before the wights are delivered."
Michael did not believe they were telling the whole truth. There was some piece of the puzzle he was missing. "Then we'll capture more as you suggested," he said, "Varamyr, can you do that quickly?"
Six Skins inclined his head. "A matter of weeks," he said.
"So the lords won't be a problem unless they're insane," Michael insisted.
"You have already seen what pride can do to a man's reason," Mormont stated, "I brought Ser Alliser here so you would understand the attitudes you would face south of the Wall. Your proposals will simply not work. The lords will accept those who bend the knee, unarmed women and children most like. But unless they take the vows of the Night's Watch, the lords will never accept armed wildlings south of the wall."
"Some of the Free Folk would kneel," Tormund said, "But very few would join you Crows. Your rules are strange to us."
"I hear you don't even take women," Six Skins added mockingly, "Do they cut your parts when you join?" Tormund let out a laugh himself at that.
Ser Rykker made some sort of remark about Six Skins being unable to take women without warging that Michael only half heard. The two chieftain's words had set off all the other Crows, save for the Maester and his assistant. They all gripped their weapons, though none had the impatience to draw and start swinging.
Frustration creeping in again, Michael leaned his head back, exhaling through his teeth. What he saw in the sky made him ignore the loud argument around him.
There was an eagle circling overhead.
Anywhere else, he would've regarded it as a curiosity. Not here. Not on Westeros. "Six Skins!" he shouted at the top of his voice. The argument stopped at once. "Is that one of yours?!" He pointed straight at the eagle.
The warg and everyone else looked up, squinting against the brightening daylight. A nasty grimace appeared on his face in a moment. "No, it's not mine!" Six Skins declared, "And another owns it."
From the top of the Wall, a horn droned out a call, and then another. Michael turned to the Crows. "What the hell is that?"
"Wildlings," Mormont said, "More wildlings are coming."
Jon Stark drew his blade and stepped in front of his Lord Commander. "Is this your plan? Draw us out and ambush us?!"
Not about to let himself get cut down in the confusion, Michael brought up his rifle, aiming it at the ground by the teenager's feet. Easy, kid, easy…
Mormont put his hand on Stark's shoulder. "Look at their faces," he said, "They don't know anything about this. We need to…"
The Lord Commander didn't finish his sentence. An arrow thrummed through the air and into his side. A warcry came from the west, figures moving out of the forest. Free Folk warriors, covered in torn off foliage held to their bodies with fishing nets. A thousand at least. The arrows began flying at the Crow's battle line, and a smaller force emerged into the clearing of the Nine Weirwoods.
Michael saw the man directing them for only a split second, and cursed his life choices. Rattleshirt.