The 'wormway' vaults of Castle Black were winding, connecting to others at random intervals in a way clearly designed to prevent intruders from finding where they wanted to go. A passage to the barracks here, others to the various towers there, even the one to the armoury which Ser Rykker had used as a feint. Others were storerooms, mostly for vast amounts of grain and other foodstuffs, judging by the stacks of barrels and bags. The air was dry and cool, as the tunnels were carved into the rock, not just the soil.
The meat is probably in the Wall somewhere, Michael thought, his stomach complaining for food. Tarly and Stark were ahead, wary enough of the pistol in his hand to keep looking back at him.
"What do you want with us?" Jon Stark asked for the second time. Evidently, 'you will find out' hadn't been a sufficient answer.
Exhaling a breath through his teeth, Michael realised he may be scaring the crap out of them. Good thing the wolf is locked up.
"Since you can't make up your mind about the damn sword," he began, "You're going to assist your maester with certain tasks for us in the library. Ones that require the ability to read and write in your languages. A skill that very few people here seem to have. I figure you can handle it." And young enough not to be impossible to convince to help.
Stark seemed to accept that, his eyes shifting in thought.
On the other hand, Tarly's face returned to a healthy colour, rather than a walking dead man. Bad joke, Michael. The boy had been in the building designated as a hospital, the 'Shield Hall', still following the order he had given two days earlier to help the wounded.
By now, those that could be saved and those that were doomed were known. Their fellow Crows couldn't do much more, nor the 'woods witches' that did the healing work of the Free Folk.
"You never did say," Tarly said, thinking aloud.
"Say what?" Michael asked. The boy half-jumped out of his skin, realising he had gave voice to his wondering.
"J-just how you speak our language without being able to read it at all. Did you have someone from Westeros to teach you, but they couldn't read? A sailor, perhaps? Or a slave?"
"Don't strain yourself. You'll find out how we speak your language down here too."
The library itself was in perhaps the largest single vault, a long tunnel running a considerable distance, with a higher roof than others. Stacks, boxes and shelves of books and scrolls were packed into every place they could be. It smelled odd, not like the milled paper and glue Michael expected of a library. There were more natural scents in the air. Well, they do use animal skins, he thought to himself, trying to ignore it.
Sat around a long table with two camp lights on it, the Sergeant, Corporal and Private appeared relaxed, if not busy. A metal brazier on a tripod provided heat and more illumination, a small pile of wood nearby to feed it. The musty scent of the books gave way to a pleasant smoky pine one.
The group was joined by the ancient Maester Targaryen, ancient, grey-robed, multi-metal chain around his neck, as well as Taryne of the Laughing Tree, still dressed in the deerskins and furs she had worn at Gilly's Hall.
The latter was the only trusted 'Free Folk' person who could read the script of Common Tongue as opposed to the runes of the Old Tongue. Unfortunately, her grasp of the written language turned out to have limitations on account of her isolation north of the Wall, and O'Neill had radioed up a request for help. Tarly was the first person to come to Michael's mind. Jon Stark had been hanging around with him and was just the bonus.
In between the group on the table was a small pile of paper notes, all curled as they had been rolled up; all the raven messages that could be found in the Lord Commander's 'solar', his quarters and those of Ser Alliser Thorne. For a place that was allegedly so isolated, the Wall got a lot of mail.
"What are those lanterns?" Tarly asked quickly, advancing towards the camp lights. His question alerted the others, and all three of Michael's fellow Canadians stood up and saluted. Michael saluted back and gestured for them to sit again. Keeping up appearances for the Crows, he mused.
Tarly went over and picked up the first camp light, turning it around in his hands. "No flame? How?" he asked, incredulous.
Michael detected a quid-pro-quo to be had. "Electrical lights. Same thing as lightning, just not as powerful or dangerous. I'd be happy to explain the principles after we're done." Not that I'm an expert.
Tarly nodded, which made his face jiggle in an unflattering way, and placed the camp light down again like it was made of fine china. Michael gestured for him to sit.
"Is this what we'll be reading for you?" Jon Stark asked warily, picking up a random message from the piles, "Raven scrolls?"
"That's your job, assisting Taryne," Michael confirmed, gesturing towards the rather busy woman, "Tarly will be doing a little research for us instead."
The Maester gave a wheezing laugh. "A harder task, if truth be told."
"It doesn't matter, I like reading," Tarly chirped, leaning forward onto the table and brimming with optimism out of nowhere, "What do you want me to look into, my lord?"
"Politics, history, geography," Zheng listed off flatly from her seat, before her voice took on a much darker tone, "Magic."
Tarly's brow knitted deeply. Jon Stark's idle browsing of the messages ceased abruptly. Yeah, that's the reaction I'd expect of rational people, Michael thought, We're in the right place.
The Sergeant cleared his throat to clear the air. "To be a bit more precise on that last point: Everything you have on the Isle of Faces, magic of the Old Gods, the nature of the Others… and anything you might be able to find about people travelling to other worlds. Myths, legends, historical accounts, anything."
The implication was obvious, but unavoidable. All necessary to make sure Mance wasn't a liar or simply culturally inclined to accept such stories. The Free Folk accepted the existence of magic as a matter of course.
Tarly's knitted brow was joined by a gaping mouth. "Uhhh?"
Stark threw down the message he had been holding. "Other worlds?" he asked, "Who are you?"
"Who us?" O'Neill replied with false indignity, hand to his chest, "We're the Mickey Mouse Brigade. We kill you with a wink and a smile." He proceeded to give Taryne a wicked wink and smile, which sent her shaking with quiet laughter.
Michael looked at O'Neill with disapproval. As if things weren't complicated enough without references no one would possibly get.
"No need to confuse things, Sergeant."
"Ah sure, he's going to be confused either way."
Jon Stark shook his head. "Are you incapable of being honest?"
O'Neill shrugged. "It's more that you are extremely unlikely to believe us. I'm sure you can guess why."
Jon looked between the Maester and Tarly, as if checking to see if he wasn't the only one hearing it. "Are you seriously suggesting that you are from another world?"
"Pretty much," Sayer replied with a shrug, "And we're trying to get home. But even though we use magic all the time, we don't understand it or how to use it."
"What magic do you use?" Stark asked, "You appear as men to me, not sorcerous beings."
"Men eh?," Zheng replied, her eyes watching the kid over the top of a random tome, "You may need your eyes checked, little boy." Jon Stark bristled, but also blushed furiously. Michael and all the others grinned widely. Well, now we all know Jon Stark's type: Short and feisty.
"Language, Jon Snow," Maester Aemon stated as a matter-of-fact, "Whether or not they are from a land very far away or from another world, do you not think it queer they speak the Common Tongue so properly? Yet we have never heard of their people?"
Jon recovered from his furious blush. "Which people would that be?" he asked in reply, "Ithacans? Canadians? Perhaps they are neither. They won't even tell us their real names."
Michael sighed and sat down. The time was always going to come, he thought, I suppose we have been impolite for long enough.
"I am Michael. The big guy is JP or Padraig. The guy wearing the red hood is Louis. And the not-man with the book is Leanne. We're from Canada. The Free Folk lady reading the messages is Taryne. She's from Last Hearth. Nice to meet you."
Michael offered his hand. The young Stark scanned the room and then looked at the hand with an unidentifiable emotion, but took it regardless.
A firm shake later, and Jon sat down himself. "Last Hearth?" he asked Taryne.
"I was taken young," she replied, to the horror of Stark.
"Have you not other names, Michael?" the Maester asked out of the blue, "Names of your houses or families?"
Michael glanced at Taryne in thanks. She had warned a question like this would come. To be common is to be nothing, she said. They will try to see if you are nobles. "Our other names and titles can wait," he said, "Given that I'm the one that won a total victory and not the Night's Watch, we'll be entertaining my wishes tonight."
He looked at Stark. "Your brother or father is sending an army up here, for sure. Every time a King Beyond the Wall has gotten south of it, the Starks send an army."
"Every time," Taryne agreed, "And the only time they seem to care overmuch. People being taken from their homes by raiders doesn't even warrant a raven."
Though he felt such criticism of the Starks was valid, Michael waved that off. It was a distraction. "Now, we need to know when that army is coming north, what way they'll come and how many are coming to play. And you need to tell us. Because we both know what is coming south. Nothing, I repeat, nothing can be allowed to get in the way of moving the Free Folk out of danger."
Jon Stark looked away, his face a picture of turmoil.
"Mance is gathering more wights," Michael continued, "We will have the evidence we need to change minds about fighting a war with the Free Folk. We hope so, anyway. But any deal we might make with your father and brother will depend on the strength of our forces."
Michael leaned back onto the table. "Your choice, Jon Stark. The fate of hundreds of thousands of people is in your hands." Nothing like a guilt trip.
Not waiting for Stark to make an immediate reply, he turned around to the table and asked Zheng for her report. Her task had been to find maps of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms, and it appeared she had been successful. She began lifting several leather cylinders onto the table and uncorking them to access the contents. O'Neill pulled Tarly out of his seat to go gather the books needed.
As a large map of the Seven Kingdoms was unfurled on the table, Michael noted with no small degree of satisfaction that Jon Stark had resumed his browsing of the raven messages. Either he is thinking about helping or he wants intel, but in both scenarios, he'll provide us with what we need provide.
"Sayer, watch the guy," Michael commanded in English, "Keep it low-key. He's reading those messages, watch his face and alert me if he pay attention to a scroll."
"Yessir," the Private replied with a smile, picking up another one of the map scrolls to pretend to look over.
"Is that your true language?" Maester Aemon asked, "It has a strange cadence, as if more than one tongue were mixed together. Though that is not unlike how you mix the Common and High Valyrian tongues when speaking with us."
"It's one of two official languages," Michael replied, "One of the tongues we speak in the Army, among government and for trade. But our people speak more than two hundred languages, as their ancestors are from every corner of our world."
The Maester smiled widely, revealing strangely healthy teeth. "How wonderful!" he said, "I should have liked to visit such a place."
"I'm sure we can accommodate you," Michael said back honestly, before turning to the table. He paid close attention to the large map for the first time.
Westeros was a long continent sprawling out north to south, with nine administrative divisions, each clearly marked with a coat of arms. The large parchment was oriented the wrong way, showing the continent south to north from his perspective. Strange, he thought, If you squint, the continent looks like Britain below with an upside down Ireland on top.
"Where would the Isle of Faces be?" he asked, "In a lake somewhere, right?"
"In the 'God's Eye' lake, yes sir," Zheng replied, pointing with one of her little fingers, "The one here which looks like a space rock hit. It's the only one that matches the description the Free Folk have given us." She indicated a place in the south-central region, inside the zone marked with a fish of some kind but near one marked with some sort of three headed dragon.
"Not great," Michael decided aloud, tracing the potential route, "We pass by what is probably Winterfell given the wolf symbol here. Then through a bottleneck on this isthmus here that's protected by a castle and a swamp. There's a large river in the way, and the lake itself has this even bigger castle on its north."
"Not a short distance to drive," Zheng noted, "And doubt the road is Highway 1 either."
"Yeah. Your job will be to work out how far we can get on our fuel, Corporal. Roughly. At the very least, I'd like to get to our destination and be north of that isthmus again before we have to hump it or ride horses the rest of the way." Or damned unicorns.
"I'll see it, sir." Zheng took out a clear plastic ruler from a pocket to begin measuring distances. Or guesstimating them at least.
"Sir," Sayer warned, "Look at Stark."
Michael turned his chair around, and found the young man shaking slightly in his own, eyes wide open. A message scroll was in Stark's hand, the paper unrolled. Hanging from a string attached to the rough paper was chunk of red wax with a stag stamped into it. What's going on?
"When did this message from King's Landing arrive?" Jon Stark asked the Maester.
"Eighth day of the eleventh moon," Aemon replied, "Two days ago, on a large raven direct from the capital. A rare thing. Even more unusual that the wax was red and not black-and-yellow, though the Baratheon stag was upon it."
"Did you know what it said?" the young man said getting out of his seat, his voice rising in volume, "Did you know and say nothing?!"
Aemon Targaryen licked his lips, unperturbed by the outburst. "No. Royal messages to the Lord Commander are to be delivered directly into his hands. Ser Alliser read it as Acting Lord Commander, and seemed greatly pleased by it. But he did not tell of its import."
"That's where I found it," Zheng chipped in, "In a chest of his belongings, on its own. It's the only message with that stag on the wax."
Royal messages, Michael thought with irritation, Don't tell me they're mobilising the whole state in response to our incursion?
Jon made to leave, but Michael grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled him back. "What does the message say, Jon?"
The young man grimaced, bitterness making him unable to meet Michael's eyes.
"The King is dead," he said, "My father has been arrested for treason, for trying to overthrow the rightful heir. A lie. The new king demands all lords proclaim their allegiance. But I know my brother. He will never do it. It's war."
Michael felt like lightning had gone through him, feeling the opportunity for peace slipping away. The brother will mobilise his armies. If he's going to war in the south, he won't tolerate a threat in his rear to the north. Time is running out.
But there was also opportunity, Michael knew. Dealing with the Watch cleanly, for one. He pulled Jon back into his chair for a chat. "And what were you going to do? Run to the stables, take a horse south and break your dear old dad out of prison? Aren't you a man of the Night's Watch? Mance did tell us what that means. But he also said something along the lines of 'There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath.'"
"Old words," the maester said, lost in memory.
Jon turned his head, tears coming. "I do not know what I was going to do. Robb will be marching, I should be with him… but the dead are coming."
"And your watch is not yet over," Maester Aemon said, "Though only you can decide your fate. You may love your family, Jon Snow, but love is the bane of honour, the death of duty."
The young man slumped, supporting himself on the table.
This is a bit too much for a teenager. Seeing there would be no more fleeing, Michael released his grip on the guy and sat down on the table. "I don't see any reason why your duty should clash with the love of your family in this case," he said, "We still need to reach agreement with Mormont. He won't agree to do anything unless you get that damn sword."
"I'm not sure he should," Jon interrupted, "Mance and his people are wildlings. The stories told about them can't all be lies. And you…"
"We're alien and deadly, I know," Michael finished for him, "But we're also strangers in this place. We'll need a credible witness to what has happened, a guide to the customs, and someone that local leaders can recognise to speak on our behalf. This someone would have to come south with us."
Those words seem to lift weight off the young man's back. "Me?"
"Who better than the brother of the lord to convince him we're not all a bunch of bloodthirsty maniacs. And that the 'army' the King Beyond the Wall has is mostly non-combatants, women and children."
The young man wavered. "I won't be your hostage."
"Your safety would be absolutely guaranteed, even if you are still a prisoner of war. When and if you go free is my decision."
"You want me to take Longclaw back and swear an oath of my own to defend the wildlings. Like Mance does."
"And tell us how many troops your brother has already dispatched to deal with us. We can't really talk peace if he's attacking the Free Folk's women and children, can we? We haven't moved more troops south yet." Unless you count spearwives and the rest of the Laughing Tree tribe, but I doubt the lords of Westeros do.
"We're looking to stop a massacre," Zheng said, "Mance has already agreed to keep everyone in the Gift. All your brother has to do to keep the peace is patrol the border."
Jon Stark said nothing for some time, enough that O'Neill returned with Tarly carrying a stack of tomes each. The Sergeant gave a thumbs up, to indicate that they had found the books. A questioning look around the table followed. Michael held up a hand to forestall any intervention.
"I cannot betray my family or the Watch," he said, "I cannot aid you."
Michael could see the terms set out by Mance weren't going to swing it. Even though the threat to drag Jon Stark in front of his brother trussed up was a possibility, that would be fundamentally unwise diplomacy. Time to change the deal. Better to ask forgiveness than permission. And if Mance doesn't like it, well, that's what rifles are for.
Throwing up his hands in defeat theatrically, Michael slid down from the table into his chair again. "Okay, clearly you're a hard sell," he said, "You don't want to betray your brothers, real or adopted. You know what? I get that. It's a reasonable and honourable position."
Jon Stark looked relieved, thinking the badgering was over. Think again.
"So here's what I'm going to do," Michael continued, "The Night's Watch don't interfere with politics, I know. But I feel there's a loophole there. If you come with us as a liaison officer, you may be put in danger. It's only right you be able to defend yourself in those situations, right?"
The young man cocked an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I understand liaison officer fully," Jon said, "But if you mean I come with you to speak for the Watch, I agree. I would be allowed to defend myself."
Michael smiled. Gotcha. He leaned on his elbow over and traced a finger down the Kingsroad once more, to the God's Eye. "Our destination is the Isle of Faces," he said, "Would I be right in saying that going there means wandering into the area of war operations? Against these what? Baratheons was it?"
"And Lannisters," Jon corrected, holding up the raven scroll, "The message says the Queen-Regent rules in King's Landing. She is a Lannister by birth."
Michael waved his hand. "Whatever, whoever. You come with us, I think it's inevitable we'll end up fighting them. Armies don't let unknown armed parties wander across the A.O. unmolested. They'll try and stop us."
"I don't think they'll negotiate either," Zheng agreed, "Simply asking them for passage isn't going to work And if I know politicians, I doubt even showing them wights will make much difference. The threat is too distant for the moment."
"Even if they do believe us or care, it'll take time we don't have," Michael nodded, "Point is; what you want is to fight for your brother's cause without breaking your oath. This is a way you can do that."
"That is not in the spirit of the oath," Maester Aemon said, "We defend the realms of men. We do not fight their wars."
"One man cannot fight a war," O'Neill scoffed, "And everyone has the right to reasonable self defence. If his position in our ranks is that of a diplomat and it's part of a treaty obligation, then it's all above board."
"Mayhaps," Aemon said inconclusively, "Who can say? There is no authority which governs these things, other than the Lord Commander. Though it may be the opinion of his brothers of the Watch which matters most."
"What do you think, Jon?" Sayer asked, "Is that something you could live with?"
"I could," Jon said easily, "But you are not only asking that of me, are you?"
Progress. Michael clapped his hands once in celebration. "You're speaking about your family. You don't want to fight them or betray them in any way. Forget the oath that Mance wants you to say. I'll convince him to give up the sword. Valyrian steel or not, a peace agreement with your brother is worth far more."
"I won't be held for ransom to that end," Jon said, "As much as I wish to fight for my brother and defend my father's right."
"And you won't be," Michael said, "I'll swear an oath to that effect. You'll swear not to fight us or the wildlings. That's how we'll do it."
A ghost of a smile passed over the Stark's face for a moment, before dying.
"I won't tell you what size a force my brother is sending. I won't betray my family like that either."
Michael clenched his jaw. So close. "As an officer, I have to balance my own military objectives with a long list of standing orders and laws. Many of which weren't written for this situation. I'm not permitted to stand by while thousands are murdered for the 'crime' of wanting to stay alive. Those that cause such situations deserve what they get."
Jon Stark flushed with anger, though kept his face impassive in an impressive feat of self-control. Protective of his family and honour, like Mance said he would be.
Michael could see he had went a little bit too far. "But I am not allowed to wage a war of aggression either," he said, "So I won't just go slaughter your brother's soldiers. The line between peace and war is needle thin here. Knowing how many people are committed to attacking us will help us prepare a defence that doesn't require bloodshed. And I'd prefer to use my weapons on the dead men and ice demons. They make for more fun targets."
"I won't tell you," Jon insisted defiantly, "It won't help peace, it won't help the Watch. You can find out from these scrolls anyway. It would not only be betrayal for me to tell you, it would be stupid."
Realising he was simply antagonising the young man by asking, Michael gave up. Stark wasn't going to crack. If anything, it looked the whole affair was going to stop him going south at all.
And if Jon wouldn't give up the intel, other measures were needed. "Maester, do you have writing materials for a raven message?" Michael asked.
The maester did not baulk at the request. He answered by way of rummaging in his robes, producing a roll of paper the same size as the others. An inkwell and a pen made out of a feather came out next.
"Grab those please?" Michael commanded Tarly. He was obeyed.
"You want to send word to my brother?" Jon Stark asked.
"I do. We're pretty sure you didn't get any message off to him before we took the castle. We had your rookery watched for birds. None flew out before we took it, and we've permitted no one to send one since."
A sour look on Jon Stark's face and the maester's quiet confirmed the assumption that no birds had flown as correct. That doesn't mean Eastwatch didn't get a raven off, Michael reminded himself.
"Tarly, I'll speak, you write," he said. The boy began to put aside his books and loaded the pen up with ink.
"Taryne, watch what he writes," O'Neill added, "Let's not play any games with this."
Tarly glanced at the Sergeant's rifle and gulped, to the latter's amusement. O'Neill wouldn't hurt him, of course, but he would lie about that until 'the cows came home'.
Michael started his dictation.
"To Lord Robb Stark, on behalf of the Canadian Forces in Westeros." He paused to think where exactly to take things, as Tarly began scratching the words onto the paper in tiny lettering. Tell the truth on intent, Michael concluded, Bluff on our available intel and military strength.
"By now, you are aware of our existence, along with the army of the King-Beyond-the-Wall before the gates of Castle Black, and the war initiated by Ser Alliser Thorne on behalf of the Night's Watch against us."
Tarly continued writing. Taryne continued reading. Michael looked to her for confirmation. She gave the nod. The boy wasn't making anything up. Soon, Zheng scooted her seat over to read too. Or watch. Michael doubted she could understand.
"I write to inform you that the war is over. Canada and her allies stand victorious. This past week, we breached the Wall at the Nightfort, and have seized all remaining Watch castles."
"B-but you haven't done that," Tarly asserted bravely, "We know you've taken Eastwatch and, well, here. But we've had no word from the Shadow To…"
"I asked you to write what I said, not evaluate it," Michael interrupted, "And by the time this message reaches Winterfell, we'll have the Shadow Tower. We know that castle has the most experienced rangers. Which is why Mance sent the ice river clans, the cave dwellers and Six Skins' tribe to take it."
And to thin out the numbers of those cannibals, making Six Skins look bad as a bonus, Michael's mind reminded him, There's no guarantee at all they'll be enough to get the job done.
Tarly got the hint to leave it be and asked for the last section to be repeated, which Michael obliged him on. For a moment, only the crackle of wood in the brazier and scratching of feather on paper could be heard. It was strangely soothing. It was almost regretful when the sound stopped and Michael had to continue dictation.
What questions might be asked, he wondered, other than if Jon was still alive and well. I need to inform them of developments to an extent to cause them to want to negotiate.
"All surviving Night's Watch personnel are prisoners of war. They are being treated with dignity, by my order, and remain under their own command. Your brother Jon lives and is healthy. Lord Commander Mormont will send his own message in due course."
Heavily censored of course, Michael thought, But at least they'll know the Crows are not all dead.
"As of the ninth day of the eleventh moon, the Free Folk have been permitted to move south of the Wall. They are under orders of their King and agreement with Canada to go no further than the Gift."
Might as well confirm the scale of the threat…
"Our war was with the Night's Watch, as they stood between us and safety from the most deadly threat imaginable: the Others. No doubt reports of them and the dead men marching under their command have also reached you. Continued conflict between us could mean death for all concerned."
Need some information, Michael thought. "Where's the nearest Stark castle to here?" he asked, not directing the question to the table rather than to anyone in particular.
"Last Hearth," the maester answered, "Seat of the Umbers."
Taryne raised her head from the messages in front of her at once, and Zheng accidentally dropped the leather cylinder she was holding. Umber, Michael thought, That's a familiar name. A family famous for their hatred of wildlings… Now if I was Robb Stark, who would I send to fight them?
It was time for the bluff.
"We are aware that you have begun to raise a force at Last Hearth to defend or retake the Wall numbering in the tens of thousands."
Jon Stark shot to his feet. "That's a lie," he declared, "You have no notion how many men-at-arms are being sent."
He didn't deny it was coming from Last Hearth, Michael noted with bemusement. "That may be. But it's logical. Mance has tens of thousands of warriors. Your brother would be foolish to send only a small force to face them."
"He will not think you made an assumption, he will think you knew."
"Good, it means he'll think we found the message. Or someone told us."
Jon blinked, then narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
Michael pointed at him. "So you are relieved of any obligation to tell me. And so in the event of a peace agreement, you can fight alongside us against your brother's enemies. Valyrian sword in hand, doing your duty to both family and the oath of the Crows."
"Fighting the Lannisters is not defending the realms of men," Maester Aemon said with annoyance.
Political stupidity of this sort ought to be a crime, Michael thought darkly, Or is it simply ideology? Aemon Targaryen is too old to be this naive and the Crows are no pacifists.
"Do you believe that leaving a civil war to boil over is wise right now? As dead men marching around under the command of ice demons? There is no guarantee the sight of a wight will stop the fighting, which means it might have to be ended the old-fashioned way."
"I think one man cannot fight a war," the maester replied, throwing O'Neill's words back in Michael's face, "You can do what you need to without any man of the Night's Watch. Or this particular man."
Jon clenched his fist by his side. He was swaying fully toward "If I agree to go with them, maybe Robb will make peace with the wildlings. That can only be good for the defence of the Wall."
The Maester smiled. "Now you begin to understand how you should think about your duty. The Long Night approaches, and the realm will need to be united. Be careful you do not prolong the war among the living, when bending the knee might save both your father and the realm. Remember your ancestor, Torrhen Stark, who swore to the Targaryens and their dragons, saving the North and thus the Watch."
I thought the royals were Baratheons, Michael pondered, Is the Maester a royal? And dragons? Please God, no. No damn dragons. Ice demons are enough.
"The Lannisters are not the Targaryens," Jon asserted, "The dragons are gone."
Thank you, god of infanteers everywhere, Michael prayed.
"Robb will never bend the knee," Jon continued, "And the northern lords would never allow it. No army has ever marched from the south to conquer the North and succeeded. But if we have to fight in the south and north at the same time, our strength will be wasted. Winter is coming."
Aemon inclined his head with a heavy breath. "Then make your choice."
Jon looked to Michael. "I will come with you, if the Lord Commander allows."
"Thank Christ," O'Neill proclaimed, "About time."
A sentiment Michael could get behind fully. "Tarly," he started, "We'll continue."
"Our purpose in writing this message to you is to avoid war by a negotiated settlement. We shall depart Castle Black at the earliest opportunity and make directly for Winterfell under a banner of parley. Free Folk representatives will accompany us. Your own brother to represent the Night's Watch."
Michael frowned, not sure how he should sign the letter off. "Put whatever is the norm for ending such a message, Tarly. I'm not sure what the etiquette is."
"Your name and titles," Maester Aemon replied.
Back to this again, Michael thought.
"Time for the big lie," Zheng said in English, smirking.
"Strictly speaking, we're not going to lie," Michael replied, again in English, "We're just going to be strategic with the truth."
Zheng laughed heartily at that. She had always liked the idea of pulling the wool over the eyes of the Westerosi. The discussion about how to appear noble to the Westerosi had been a fun one for her. She had even chosen a 'sigil' and sketched it, a Chinese dragon holding the maple leaf.
Michael wasn't finding the coming execution of the plan fun at all. Pretending to be noble was probably a death penalty offence, he figured. He couldn't see them escaping reprimand when they got back to Canada either. But it wasn't something they'd be thrown in prison for or a matter that would see them raked over the coals by journalists. Even O'Neill agreed to the plan.
Ah well, it's not like they can call up Ottawa and ask someone. He cleared his throat and willed the translation magic back on. "Very well. We'll give my name and titles."
"And those are?" the maester asked, craning his neck as if to hear better.
"Michael Duquesne. Elector of Calgary. Lieutenant, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry."