The camp around Gilly's Hall had grown considerably since the last time Michael had laid eyes on it. Everywhere south of the stream that rounded the hill it stood on was a sea of tents, but it was not the same sight as could be seen at the Fist of the First Men. Once you got past the outer layer of the tents, their placement got more and more regular until there were actual blocks of them.
Mance's plan to bring the Free Folk that had acknowledged him as King to the place was proceeding well, but there was no sight or clue of the man himself. No royal tent crown with antlers, no Thenns, no sign of the lovely Queen and her even more lovely sister.
The only obvious sign of any sovereign entity visible was the Maple Leaf flag, flying straight to the West in the easterly wind. Which if the strict organisation of the camp was any indication, meant one thing; soldiers of the Canadian Armed Forces, all two of them, now controlled the area. They had a radio check a day before, but a lot could have happened in a day.
As much as it was a source of relief for Michael and Sayer to see their flag still flew and their fellow soldiers must therefore be alive, the Free Folk and remaining Crow prisoners were less impressed. The column halted by the outer firepits, watching and being watched by families coming out of their tents.
Tormund's eyes narrowed with suspicion as he rode alongside Michael, reins of both their horses in hand. "What's gone on here?" he wondered aloud.
"Peace, order and good government," Michael replied with amusement.
"Peace? Har!" Tormund erupted, "Only way this could've happened is with many an arse stinging from the toe of many a boot!"
"So you're familiar with the process," Michael noted aloud, "So much for Free Folk freedom."
"Even we have laws, Canadian," Tormund replied with a dismissive wave of a large hand and a pull of his long grey beard, "We just don't embarrass ourselves kneeling and scraping for lords that can take the food out of our mouths, the women from under our furs and tell us whether or not we can have a sword or axe."
Michael held up his hands. "If you insist."
Tormund grinned. "I do."
"Hey, is that Six Skins over there?" Sayer called from behind.
Michael turned in the saddle to find the Private pointing off to the woods nearby, where there was a cluster of tents that wasn't cohering to the general grid pattern, not even slightly. The Private was right in his assessment; Six Skins was there, dwarfed by his polar bear companion behind, approaching at a casual pace. His face was blank with surprise.
"You survived?" the warg chieftain asked.
"We did," Michael confirmed.
"Not with your help, Varamyr," Tormund growled, "You ran, like a kneeler pup to the woods."
The warg's blank expression darkened as his attention turned to his fellow Free Folk. "Rattleshirt and the Weeper brought their entire warbands," Six Skins intoned, "And their attack made being there no good. We had broken a truce under the gaze of the weirwoods. Or so it'd appear. The gods do not look favourably on such acts."
"The gods don't look favourably on cowards either," Tormund replied, "They'll find some way to…"
"Enough," Michael interrupted, seeing no good in the argument, "It doesn't matter. The Crows made their offer. I'll bring it to Mance."
"For what good it will do," Tormund complained.
"What offer?" Six Skins asked.
"You'd know if you hadn't pissed your skins and ran," Tormund replied quickly, looking forwards now to the trail rather than at the warg, "You'll hear it with the rest of the chiefs."
"Tell me now, Giantsbane. The camp should know."
"Fuck off."
"You'll regret this."
"Run to the gods, tell them I've been unkindly. Maybe they'll pop a tit out of a weirwood for you to suckle on."
With that, Six Skins sent a glare at the man, before glancing at Michael. There was a moment of calculation before he walked off. Wasn't sure attacking while we're here would win him Tormund's head on a plate, Michael realised, hoping this wasn't the beginning of a feud he would have to get involved in.
With that over with, they proceeded to ride slowly to the hall. The palisade around it had more of the character of a wall, and there was a second spiked fence that enclosed a certain portion of the camp too. That seemed strange even to Michael. O'Neill has been busy and he didn't tell me at the check-in, he thought, But why?
The man himself appeared at the gate to the original compound, Zheng and Ygritte in tow, all armed.
"Sergeant," Michael said in greeting.
"Lieutenant," O'Neill replied, with a surprising amount of reluctance.
Michael tilted his head in question, to which the Sergeant simply mouthed 'Later'.
Then his eyes met with Ygritte's, and he saw the relief and happiness in them. He didn't know whether or not to be warmed or scared by it. But he smiled down from his mount at her, deciding to take what positives he could. Tormund's cheeriness on the journey back had improved his mood, but the pall of the crappy offer the Crows had given hung over his days. As did the shadow of the war that was coming when the Free Folk rejected it.
The welcoming committee parted to let the horses pass by, and the whole column went to the stables to tie them up. After all were dismounted, Tormund and the others accepted pieces of carrot from a strangely friendly Gilly, who had been in the garden nearby, before the chieftain smacked his lips and approached.
"What do you want done with the Crows?" Tormund asked quietly, "Still don't understand why you brought them instead of hanging them from the trees."
Michael's mouth thinned, not sure he should try to explain the law that prevented him from doing that. "I have a plan for them," he replied, "Keep them prisoner for me, would you? Mance will like the idea, trust me."
Tormund nodded, scratching at his beard. "Be sure to tell me," he said, "I'm always fond of a bit of cunning."
"I promise," Michael said, holding up his hand. Tormund eyed the hand with confusion, before wandering off, barking orders at his men to get the Crows back to his tribe's section of the camp.
He got out of the way of more of Craster's ex-wives as they moved the horses into the stalls, dodging a black-and-white baby goat as it bounced around the whole commotion curiously.
Ygritte was the first to intercept him. She ran straight to him, past a slower moving O'Neill. Her punch to Michael's arm was enthusiastic and painful, causing him to rub it as while she started in on him.
"You were away longer than you said!"
"Yeah, Crows took their time answering us."
"Didn't even consider taking me?"
"Didn't want the Crows' ears to fall off when your insults hit them."
Ygritte made an amused noise from her throat. "So they agreed?"
Michael frowned and shook his head. "No, they made us and the Free Folk offers," he said, "And threatened us both with war if we did not agree."
Brows knitting together, Ygritte looked this way and that, to be sure no one else was listening."Did you take what they offered?" she asked, "Was it better than what they offered Mance? Should we get ready to run?"
Michael let out a breath, time away not stopping his continued exasperation that she thought of herself as his wife, or near-enough. "Actually, Mance's offer was better," he said, "I'll tell the whole story inside. Come on."
Ygritte's worried look disappeared, and she dug at his arm again with her fist, before moving out of the way to let a bemused O'Neill and Zheng have access to their commanding officer.
"Didn't think to interrupt her?" Michael asked in English.
"We don't interrupt officers," Zheng shrugged back.
Not sensing any disapproval with Ygritte, Michael found himself confused at the Corporal, but put it down to knowing the spearwife a little better in his absence and turned to the Sergeant. "No joy," he said simply, "But our hands have been freed."
O'Neill's gait straightened slightly. "In what respect, sir?"
"I'll tell you."
The Canadians gathered around the firepit to swap reports , away from Craster's ex-wives. Ryk was recalled from his patrol to join in, while two of the hall's inhabitants dressed in Ygritte's furs and carried her bow to give the impression that there was still a guard on the compound.
Michael made his report first, announcing off the top that the Crows had effectively offered the chance to submit or be considered an enemy. Which was no choice at all, with all of his subordinates and their new friends in total agreement about it. The Brotherhood of the Night's Watch had, for all intents and purposes, formally declared war on Canada via declaring war against its soldiers.
The details of how that scenario came to be were a little more tricky.
It took Michael and Sayer some time to fully explain the events in front of the Wall, the images and video helping with clarity but extending the time required. O'Neill and Zheng listened and watched carefully, not commenting, to both the story and the files.
Ygritte and Ryk were a little too caught up with wonder at the technology, but wisely decided against initiating a bombardment of questions about it. Their only outburst was on hearing of Rattleshirt and the Weeper's betrayal, swearing they'd hunt down any survivors and hang them from weirwoods.
Only the Corporal revealed any feelings about the actual matter at hand, her face decidedly etched in anger, muttering about how everyone was determined to get in the way.
The Sergeant was unreadable. Not because he wore no emotion openly, but because it was a complete jumbled mess as far as Michael could tell. Wavering between number of positions, as he thought over what had happened. What are you thinking?
Michael waited until after all events were related to ask. "O'Neill, what's your assessment?"
The man said nothing for a moment, staring into the flames and poking at them with a stick, as if the answers would be given over. Maybe they could be, Michael's mind proposed, Remember Singh and Arran's pyre? He crushed the notion as absurd, and waited.
"Permission to speak freely, sir," O'Neill said at last.
Despite himself, Michael didn't like that request. Or the tone it was delivered in. Not defiant, but disapproving. But there was no way out of it. He needed to know what the Sergeant was thinking. "Granted."
"You made a serious unforced error, sir," O'Neill continued, "When the Lord Commander introduced the Stark kid as a bastard, you should've shut up."
Not having expected that to be the main point of contention between them, Michael leaned back off his knees and straightened up. The report had only mentioned that incident in passing. "I'm not sure I understand, Sergeant."
O'Neill frowned, like Michael should have known better. "They come from a medieval society, sir. Which means they're big on land and inheritance, more likely than not. That's serious business, especially where I'm from, and Jesus do people fight over it. Acknowledging a bastard by his father's surname would be something like declaring you'd like to see him control his father's land, I'd say. Only difference is that here they'll use a sword to fight instead of a solicitor."
Michael bit his tongue. Admittedly, he did not know anything about how medieval societies or inheritance worked. His interest in history was purely military, and largely skipped over medieval stuff. Something to regret, he thought. "How could that happen? I'm a random foreigner to these people, my opinion on it is worthless. And his brother is already lord."
O'Neill sighed loudly. "Makes it worse, sir. You challenged their culture, sir, in a way that's probably not in keeping with the best practice of our own army. I'm sure they were surprised and insulted, all of them, even if only this Ser Alliser character was the only baluba big enough to mouth off about it."
Baluba? Michael wondered, What?
"Who cares what some prick of a lord or knight thinks of it," Ygritte intervened, shrugging. Noises of agreement sounded from Ryk, and they looked like jumping in with their own comments. Michael guessed exactly what was going to happen next.
"Shut your hole, Private," O'Neill said, addressing Ygritte, "I listened to you when you wanted me to, now it's your turn to listen. And the pair of you, keep your noses out of it. This is a conversation between myself and our commanding officer. Not an open forum for complaints about nobles we're at war with anyways."
Ygritte puffed up with anger, but glanced at Michael for confirmation that she should shut up. Wanting to get to the bottom of the Sergeant's argument, he gave a small nod. She deflated again but continued to fume, but neither she nor Ryk said nothing. How O'Neill had achieved that level of obedience from them, Michael didn't even want to know.
"I think I get your objection, Sergeant," Michael said, "You're saying that if I didn't say anything about it, we might have had a more favourable outcome."
O'Neill grimaced, then shook his head. "No, sir. I think the Crows were already going to say no, given what I've found out when you were away. It's the father and brother I'm worried about, the lords. Word gets back that you're running around calling the illegitimate child by the father's name, and we might be fucked where your plan of talking peace with the lords is concerned."
Michael nodded. Now he understood a little better. "And I thought I was getting on his good side. Jon Stark was the most important person at that meeting, as far as I could tell, and the Lord Commander brought up his parentage like it was relevant. The kid's face could be put in the dictionary under the word shame, Sergeant. So I told them it was irrelevant as far as I was concerned, nothing more."
The Sergeant rubbed his face. "Whether it's relevant or not is none of our business, sir," he said, "As soldiers, we're to respect the local customs, and you should've known better. Our priority is survival, not helping these people to a better place. Same way we didn't go around ripping the chadarees off women in Afghanistan, or stop the men buggering small boys."
Yikes.
Michael bristled. That comparison was not only wrong to his mind, but insulting. "Sergeant, that is not the same thing. I did not interfere or disrespect their customs. I made our customs clear to them. It is the equivalent of informing the Afghans that women in our country don't have to wear veils, not tearing them off. And we are not just here as soldiers. We have our own values."
The Sergeant was unphased. "Except you were wr… incorrect on both counts, sir," he said, "We don't give the father's name to every child, and for all we know, merely calling a lord's illegitimate child by his name is an indicator of political and military support. With respect, sir, bottom line is you should've been more careful."
You didn't see the kid's face, Michael wanted to say, but didn't. That was an inadequate answer.
The Sergeant continued. "I don't blame you, sir. You're a good man as far as I can tell, I'm sure it got to you. And we all found it hard to bite our tongues when we saw savage shit going down in Kandahar. Without higher command authority to restrain us, maybe we would've said or done something ourselves. Before your time, I know, but there would've been no excuse for it, because it was a threat to the mission."
Michael still disagreed.
"Number one. Every father in Canada has responsibilities towards his child, every child has certain inheritance rights they can apply in a court, and every child can change their name to their father's one without having to ask permission. I was incorrect with the exact details, maybe, but not in the spirit intended."
The Sergeant tilted his head, either conceding or not willing to argue the point. Probably the latter, Michael knew, but he pressed on.
"Number two, respecting a culture does not mean bending to that culture. In Afghanistan, we told regularly the Afghans that our way was better. Our government encouraged and funded getting women educated, and into jobs. We encouraged democracy over tribal leaders or clerics ruling by force. And used our military to defend those endeavours, to hunt those that opposed it. You didn't all grow beards and wear the local garb for deployment either."
"We absolutely should've grown beards and worn the local kit," O'Neill asserted, "Kept our ourselves to ourselves on the women thing too. It all would've increased our likelihood of success. Not by much, but still."
Michael winced, finding that a repulsive argument in itself… and knowing the man had just stepped on a landmine.
"Bullshit," Zheng responded coldly, "Only way you conquer Afghanistan is by killing all the men, marrying the women and becoming Afghani yourself. Or arming the women and let them kill the men, which never would've been allowed to happen. So, it was pointless."
Not impressed with the 'knowledge' of someone who hadn't been in that country, or with the pseudo-feminist rhetoric, the Sergeant opened his mouth to reprimand her, but Michael interrupted.
"I know she wasn't there and neither was I. We've gotten off point here. Number three, as to the threat to the mission, we will not be giving up our values simply to get home. As the officer here, I refuse to allow it."
Realising what defiance of that refusal would mean, O'Neill looked on grimly. There would be no happy ending following disobedience, even if they got home.
"That's not what I'm saying we do, sir," he said, just barely stopping himself doing so through his teeth, "We have to realise that we are massively outnumbered. Swaggering about like we've got the full might of NATO behind us didn't work even when that was true. Doing it here, that'll get us killed. We don't give up our values, grand. We don't go talking about them either, sir."
Zheng cleared her throat politely. "On this, I agree with the Sergeant, sir," she said, "I don't think there's a way back home. That means we'll need some strategy to deal with the locals.Rù xiāng suí sú. When in Rome, do as the Romans do."
Michael was surprised to hear that from the Corporal, if only because it seemed unusually ill-thought for her. "Looking to get the princess treatment, Corporal? Are you going to offer yourself in marriage to some noble for our benefit? Or let yourself be stolen to build ties with a Free Folk clan? Because those would appear to be the values the Sergeant is proposing we say and do nothing about."
Zheng's eyes and brow became positively thunderous, giving away that she hadn't thought of that. "Over my dead body. Sir."
Michael sighed. "That's what I thought," he said softly.
"Wasn't quite what I had in mind," O'Neill muttered loudly.
"So you agree, there's a line to be drawn," Michael countered, "Hiding our values will just make things difficult to refuse when there's an insistence that we do something. Though all of this is irrelevant to what happened at those negotiations. I said what I said because a kid was being shamed in front of me for no good reason. I concede, Sergeant, that I should've been more careful. But I do not concede that I broke regs or disrespected the locals by telling them bastards and other such things aren't anything we care about much."
The Sergeant frowned and returned to staring at the flames. He knew the final word when it came down from an officer, even if he disagreed with it. Michael felt sorry it had become an issue and regretted his statement to the kid for that reason alone, though he wasn't sure he would've acted differently with hindsight.
"Can I say something?" Sayer spoke out of the blue, not waiting for permission, "I think you're all right, a little bit. I think we can't give up who we are. We can't pretend we're home either. We can't allow ourselves to be pushed around. We don't have the capability to push what we believe, if we even believe the same things. We're stuck, because we don't have the strength."
The problem in a nutshell.
"And because we don't have the legitimacy," Michael added, "Four of us plus two helpers isn't exactly intimidating or an indicator that we're anyone worth talking to. Only thing we have are bullets, which will run out eventually." Hopefully not too soon. We have a ton and a half of them, after all.
"That's the easy thing to fix," Zheng said flatly, "There's an army outside waiting for us to command, if we want it. And if it's legitimacy we need, it shouldn't be too hard to pretend to be nobles. Considering we're better educated, healthier and deadlier."
Ryk let out a single laugh, and Zheng winked at him, patting the side of her carbine for illustration. Might have a problem there, Michael thought idly. The Sergeant's head tilted back, which Michael found strange, causing Ygritte to give a sort of sniffling chuckle.
"Didn't want the news to be delivered like that, did ya?" the spearwife said, "Now we'll see if I was right or you were, O'Neill." The Sergeant shifted his weight uncomfortably, but said nothing. Zheng raised her canteen flash to her mouth and kept it there, drinking very slowly.
Not liking where this was going, Michael narrowed his eyes. "Someone tell me what is going on. Now."
To his credit, O'Neill obeyed the order. But what he said was not what Michael wanted to hear.
The Free Folk milled about, as word spread that 'Duquesne had returned'. Their moment of truth had arrived, Michael could tell, and so had one of his.
In one respect, he couldn't help but feel that hundreds of Free Folk determining to join themselves to the Canadian cause was his fault. Ygritte and Ryk hadn't seemed like a precedent for such a gathering, but in retrospect he should've seen it coming. The Free Folk respected strength, and were drawn to it. That they were fighting for their very existence had amplified this.
O'Neill's description of the events that followed the original two women's defection from their clan was deliberately succinct.
The number of defectors had grown, led mostly by women in similar circumstances; those who had been kidnapped from south of the Wall. But also coming along were a large number of warriors from north of it. They had pitched their tents on the lee of the hill, putting the CFB between them and the rest of the Free Folk.
Men from the clans they had defected from soon gathered to take them back. O'Neill, seeing an imminent threat to civilian life, dispersed the hostile gathering with three warning bursts from the machine gun.
Seeing no other option to prevent continuing hostilities, O'Neill immediately imposed order upon the camp, using a mix of threats and diplomacy. With no strong chieftains present to oppose him at the time, the camp obeyed. The men who couldn't live with that kept their heads down, and joined Six Skins' tribe when he returned from Castle Black.
Only thirteen bullets had been expended in the whole incident, but Michael was sure more would be required, and soon. Despite the fact that defections to stronger clans and women leaving in favour of stronger men were entirely traditional acts in Free Folk culture, he knew there wasn't an armed man alive in the True North who would take those things laying down.
Then there was the damage to readiness and mobility.
Squeezing the bridge of his nose with increasing frustration, Michael looked on as whole families began turning out to meet him, kept at bay temporarily by Zheng, Ygritte, Ryk and Sayer.
Only O'Neill remained behind, his jaw set and chin up, awaiting the inevitable. The man didn't like being reprimanded by someone he regarded as a head-in-the-clouds college kid, Michael could tell, but he could and would take it.
Perhaps head-up-his-ass college kid is more accurate a description of me. "Sergeant," Michael began, "I think if this proves anything, it's that you and I have more in common than we thought."
"Sir?" O'Neill asked uncertainly.
"We both can't help ourselves where doing what we think is right is concerned."
The Sergeant recoiled at that. "Orders to interdict imminent threats to civilians still stand, sir. I wouldn't have done anything otherwise. My priority is getting home, being killed by a mob pissed off that their women left them would be a shit way to die. 'What's right' didn't enter into it."
Michael folded his arms. "I don't believe you, Sergeant. Because all this is a threat to the mission that makes my slip of the tongue look small, even if we assume your point about inheritance is correct."
O'Neill exhaled deeply, restraining a less generous response before giving a more measured one. "Not necessarily. We need food, local weapons and training to go with them, and public support so we look like people to talk to. Nobles or whatever else. We also need people watching our back up here. Six just isn't enough, given how valuable the things we have are."
"All reasonable points," Michael said, "Except my solution was to pack wights in iceboxes, tie them to the top of our crawler, blow through the Wall and drive to Winterfell to throw the walking dead in the faces of the lords down there. That would've provided all the legitimacy we needed to restart peace talks, or at least get permission to go south to the Isle of Faces."
Michael turned towards the Sergeant. "A plan now made impossible by the fact we now have orders of magnitude more people than we can transport quickly."
The Sergeant had the good grace to wince. "I do remember the conversation, sir," he said, "But events grew outside my control. I had to act to restore order, or this place would've gone straight to hell."
"I know," Michael sighed, "But you're not wrong that our orders made this more or less inevitable. And I could not talk about not abandoning our values, then turn around and do something different to what you have here."
The Sergeant gave a nod, relaxing at the admission. No doubt he thought I was a damn hypocrite, Michael thought to himself.
"What now, sir?" O'Neill said, "Your plan is shot. We need a new one."
"Not necessarily," Michael replied, "Those warriors want to be part of the deal we gave Ygritte and Ryk? Sure, no problem. But they'll follow our rules."
The Sergeant got the idea immediately, and lightened up. Just in time. "You're betting most of them will leave when they hear what those rules actually are."
Michael gave an exaggerated shrug. "Well, they're free to leave if they don't like it. They're Free Folk. Without the warriors' agreement to take the oath, we can't protect the non-combatants, so they'll stay with Gilly."
"Clever, sir."
"If only I was this clever all the time."
"Ygritte won't like it."
"Ygritte already knows our ways are different. She'll be more pissed off with the warriors for being thickheaded than she will with me for applying the same oath to them."
O'Neill's throat made a strangled noise. "We'll see, sir. Heads up, we've got company."
Two women were approaching, Ygritte and Ryk having let them through. Both were older than he was, and they were dressed in grey-white furs over brown animal skins sewed up. The clothes were made a little better than most Free Folk grab, or so Michael thought. Their hoods were up against a strong wind, but strands of black hair peeked out.
"Are you the Ell-Tee?" the elder of the two asked.
Her voice was slightly different somehow. Michael couldn't put his finger on why.
"Lieutenant Michael Duquesne. Third Battalion, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry."
The women came to a stop a few paces away, the one that had asked the question seeming to process the answer. Michael wondered if the name of regiment translated very well. The magic had limitations.
"I am Taryne. This is Karla," the elder woman said, "You lead Ygritte's tribe?"
"No, my people are allied to Ygritte's tribe," Michael replied, "As long as she and Ryk stick to their oath."
"So we can join them," Taryne said, as if Michael's answer had said exactly that.
Michael scratched his chin. "No skin off my back."
"Wha?" the one called Karla burst out.
That phrase doesn't exist here, in this context anyway. "Ah, just means I don't mind. Join Ygritte, don't. Not my business. But the second you people do steal, or rape, or kill, and the tribe does nothing about it? We're no longer friends."
Taryne's eyes flashed with anger. "You mistake us for our kidnappers. Like a Crow."
"Oh no, O'Neill informed me of your story. And I'm sorry for what happened to you. But it isn't just you and your children who want to join, is it?"
Michael saw he didn't need to clarify his words. Both Taryne and Karla understood the implication; Both the men you brought and your sons follow Free Folk ways, not southern ones.
"They will all swear the oath," Taryne said, "Those that will not have not come. The rest have already been helping your sergeant."
Michael turned to O'Neill for confirmation. An answer was immediately forthcoming.
"My suggestions have been acted upon by the men of this camp, sir. But I did not issue orders as such. In fact, the ladies here were the only ones present when I talked about things that needed doing. I did not ask or demand they pass anything along. If anyone is giving orders, it is them."
Michael almost laughed. The man had prepared for this problem coming back to him, like any good NCO should. "You thought through that answer beforehand, I see."
"Doesn't make it untrue, sir."
"I suppose it doesn't, Sergeant."
Micheal turned back to the not-Free-Folk women. "Ygritte told you what the oath is?"
"Yes," Taryne replied.
"What did tell you about the orders we've given her and Ryk?"
It was Karla who answered. "Follow your commands. No killing unless you say so or defending ourselves. No stealing. No taking women."
"No mouthing off either," O'Neill added.
Michael nodded. "And this group you've brought together. They know about these orders?"
"They know," Taryne said, "And they've followed them since gathering."
Michael again looked to the Sergeant.
"No idea, sir," O'Neill replied, "Haven't seen anything, no one has come to me about thefts or murders. But maybe they keep that sorta thing quiet, pretend to be all civilised?"
"Maybe they do," Michael agreed.
Taryne bristled. "There have been no murders within our camp. Thefts have been dealt with."
Michael wondered just exactly dealt with meant in that context. "And we have no way of knowing," he said, "You have to understand. One beautiful day, I'll go home. If I agree to this alliance, anything that you and your men do, I'll be held accountable for by my country and its laws. For every theft, rape and murder that was within my power to prevent."
He could already imagine the headlines. 'Misconduct in a New World'. 'CAF backs criminals, kidnaps women'. It wouldn't matter if it was true, the court of public opinion would force the hand of the top brass.
"I can't promise some of the men won't do as they please," Taryne said, "But the others will punish those that commit such crimes as oathbreakers."
Looking over at the gathered hundreds that waited whispering and pacing, Michael clicked his tongue. "I don't think they understand just how hard it is going to be. Time to tell them, I think."
Without waiting for a response, Michael left the two women behind and walked towards the crowd. O'Neill quickly fell in beside him, and together, they drew level with the others. For a moment, he examined the assembly of people. They looked like Free Folk, all in furs and skins. They smelled like Free Folk too; wood smoke, animal fat and pine.
Michael's confidence that his plan would work grew, though a voice in his head still reminded him not to judge a book by its cover. He went and stood by Ygritte, putting a hand on her shoulder as a signal that he was there as much on her behalf as his own. She put her own hand on top of his, which hadn't been his intention, but did nothing about it. It helped the signal, after all. A dispute over the regs in front of everyone wouldn't.
"I am Michael Duquesne," he declared, "I lead the mighty and powerful forces of Canada here in the True North."
Zheng guffawed, but the sarcasm was lost on the locals. Instead, all whispering and movement ceased, except for kids moving under legs and men standing on their toes to gawp and listen. Michael waited until he had everyone's ear before continuing.
"I've been informed that you want to join Ygritte and Ryk as our allies. And that you know what that means."
He cleared his throat, before quoting what 'Karla' had said were the terms Ygritte had described.
"Follow my advice. No killing unless I say so or you're defending yourselves. No stealing. No taking women, unless they want to be taken. And I will ask them if they did."
There was a general lack of surprise, and a few bobs of the head of acknowledgement. So the women weren't lying about that, at least, Michael thought, But let's see if they mean it.
"If you join Ygritte and Ryk, these laws will apply south of the Wall too," he continued, "Even if we're at war with the southern lords, I'll expect you to keep your oath to obey. Which means no looting, no raiding villages, no taking the kneelers' daughters!"
To Michael's surprise, very few seemed to grumble at this. And he noticed a pattern in those that did, however; young men, too young to have wives and children. Young as Sayer and Ygritte, or younger. No doubt, they dreamed of kidnapping a southern girl or two, looting a village, and starting their adult lives that way. It wasn't much towards sparking off objections to joining the Canadian cause, but it was a start.
"It is also my intention to try to speak to the lords of the south, to bring wights as proof the Others have returned and to get as many of you through the Wall as I can peacefully. Some of the clans and tribes might not like you doing that. Some might even compare me to a kneeler lord or say that you're kneeling simply for speaking peace. Which means you may have to fight Free Folk, and not just the ones you don't like."
There were more rumblings of discontent after that, as Michael knew there would be. There was no way that they all regarded every single individual north of the Wall with contempt, except for those women that had been taken more recently. And all could imagine there was a good chance they'd find some of those they knew as friendly or kind on the other side of the argument where restraint on thieving or murder was concerned.
"Life will not be easy either," he continued, "It will be hard work and hard fighting. Mance will undoubtedly expect us to be at the front of any attack on the Wall. And in order to fight the Crows and kneelers, you will need to do and learn things you never thought you'd need before. They might seem stupid or mad or too much like how the kneelers live and fight to you, but you will need to do them. You must obey."
Only silence met that statement. Worse, Michael didn't understand why. The faces in front of him were unreadable. Perhaps that's not a big deal considering the army of dead men causing all sorts of problems for them eating, sleeping and having families, he realised, Time to wash this up.
"That is why I will give you one chance," Michael shouted, "If you think, if you even suspect you won't be able to follow these laws, the commands given to you by those that will be your leaders, or the advice from myself or Sergeant O'Neill… I must insist you leave now. If you stay, if you join Ygritte and Ryk and then break the oath, you will be dealt with as… an enemy combatant."
'Enemy combatant', a nice, ambiguous statement from a Canadian point of view, Michael thought, pleased he had come up with it on the fly, But more likely to mean 'instant death' from the local point of view. All prisoners of war start off as enemy combatants, after all. Bonus was that all seemed to understand the concept.
"Choose now!" O'Neill pitched in, "Stay to take the oath, or fuck off and pack your things if you can't and won't!"
A great roar of mumbling and a flurry of movement started. People began to move off, back towards the tents. Mostly young men again, but some families too.
Michael had to suppress a grin, as the groundswell grew against the idea. Too much trouble, he heard from one quarter. Too much like kneeling, from another. It looked like the announcement had worked; those of fighting age and condition would leave, most of them men who wanted the spoils of war, and the remaining could be safely settled with Gilly.
Or so he thought until the noticed some of the women looking past him. As he looked to see who they were looking at, Taryne stepped ahead a pace. With a wave of her arm, things began to slow down.
Older women dragged the young men back, often by their ears. Their mothers Michael presumed. Younger women and girls delayed the families about to depart, talking rapidly with lots of gesticulation and putting themselves in the way. A coordinated action, if ever he saw one. But his heart nearly leaped out of his throat when Ygritte raised her voice.
"That's right! Run away! We don't need craven men! We don't need men who won't fight anyone who gets in the way!"
This wasn't just insults to people betraying the cause. It was shaming them. She's in on it, Michael understood, She planned this with Taryne.
"Aye, you'll have to do things you don't want to do," she continued, "But that's better than being a wight! Or starvin' to death because the ground froze and all the animals have swam 'round the Wall!" The exodus of people from the crowd back to the tents ground to a halt, as every person stopped to listen again.
"I've been with these Canadians for near-on two moons now. They know how to fight like nothin' else. They fight White Walkers and Crows and raiders who've climbed the Wall two dozen times. And they win."
Only because we've got guns, Michael thought darkly, Only for a little while.
"If you want to win, you join us," Ygritte concluded, "I'd put the Free Folk up against any southern army. They'll fall to us! But how many are left after'll depend on not being stupid as rocks. And that matters, because winter is coming. We've all seen it. Take the oath, join us, and we'll keep as many people breathin' as we can to fight the Others."
As pitches go, it was as good as it gets. Feeling like cold water had just been poured down his back, Michael watched as the crowd coalesced once more, only a handful withdrawing to camp in order to pack up. His little scheme was dead.
Ygritte turned on her heel and looked up at him, poking a finger against his chest armour. "There's your army, Michael Duquesne," she said, "Now you can say whatever you want to the kneelers and their lords. Bastards or no."
So that's why she did it. Michael hadn't really thought the cause of kidnapped southerners to be in line with Ygritte's ideas about the world, but strengthening her clan was as Free Folk a motivation as was possible to have. And lying about it was as Free Folk a tactic you could get too.
Might as well use it, now it's inevitable. "Doesn't really work that way," he sighed, "But it's a start, I guess."
Ygritte's expression softened, and she punched him in the arm again before looking at O'Neill. "Told you he'd listen to me."
The Sergeant was unamused. "It's more that they listened to you," he said, "And that's my fault for not telling you to zip it before."
Not caring a bit for that, Ygritte walked off towards the assembled crowd, to talk to some of the women that had organised the pushback. Clan mothers, Michael's mind said, They're organising things now. There was something familiar about that, but he couldn't place it.
Ryk gave a hearty chuckle from the side. "You should have known by now, Canadian. Ygritte chases everything she wants without rest, and says whatever she wants."
"Well, no one is top of their game at the moment," Zheng agreed, leaving unkind comments about the competence of her superiors out. She didn't need to speak them, her tone was enough. And she wasn't wrong anyway.
"You'd need a gag," Sayer remarked, "Should've used duct tape."
O'Neill wagged a pointing finger, indicating that he thought that was a good idea and would remember it in future. Don't tempt fate, Michael thought, Knowing my luck, Ygritte would be into getting tied up with duct tape and the gods have some sort of festival this week where tying a girl up is a declaration of intent to have a litter of kids.
"So you'll take us," Taryne asked, clutching Karla's hand to her side.
Michael nodded. "I'll require the information you said you had. About Lord Umber's daughter, though come to think of it, I'd like to know everything you know about the south."
"I was young, but I'll tell you what I remember," Taryne agreed, "What about my clan sisters and brothers?"
By way of reply, Michael turned to the Sergeant. "O'Neill, bring these people to the weirwood to take the oath. Hear them say it in batches, including the kids. Bring Sayer to record it all."
"Sir?" O'Neill asked, "Is this really a good idea?"
"It's a terrible idea," Michael replied, "It's just better than looking like we drove these people away. And I'm not talking about the optics of it back home. Or, not only that anyway."
"You're afraid what the other tribes and clans will think," Taryne guessed.
Smart woman. "Yeah, especially now that Tormund and Six Skins are back too," Michael agreed, "Tormund will expect us to respect the right of people wanting to join our clan and would think it strange if we didn't allow it. Six Skins seems the type to exploit the anger of the men that the women ran away from, he'd exploit the whole situation as a weakness."
"And Mance?" Sayer asked, "What's he going to think of this?"
A good question. "I don't know," Michael replied, "But I suspect he'll be happy regardless. He'll care more about the declaration of war than us gathering a clan."
Now that the decision had been taken and oaths would be administered, there was only one thing left to do; impose the promised discipline.
Hearing about it was one thing. Experiencing it was another. It would be weeks before Mance showed up, plenty of time to get the hurt of a true military life settling in and before the real benefits could be seen.
With luck, there would be plenty of 'warriors' leaving. And if they didn't, that meant they were committed, which wasn't bad thing either. Win-win.
"Sergeant, once the warriors and spearwives have signed up, break them in."
O'Neill's lips spread into a shit-eating grin that Michael himself would've struggled to match. He understands what I'm doing.
"Yes, sir!" came the enthusiastic reply.