Michael's skin felt like it was on fire, the flames licking up from where he was inside Ygritte. The heat rolled up between them, across his belly and chest, reflected from hers. He couldn't hear anything but his own heart pumping, but he knew neither of them were quiet. He felt the touch of each of her breaths on his neck, and the rumble from her throat on his lips.

They moved together, the rhythm coming from nowhere, like they had done this a thousand times before; a competition to see who could be the first to join fully with the other. Without warning, Ygritte stopped and shuddered. She grabbed Michael by the back, locking him in place with her arms, pressing her entire front against him. That put him over the edge.

Ygritte shuddered again at the feeling of his finishing, her breathing caught in the moment. When both of them had finished their shocks of pleasure, she released him and lay back on the furs. Her breasts heaved up and down as she sucked in air to recover. Michael could see nothing else for what felt like an age. Her hair and arms splayed out on them in crimson and milk-white over the browns and greys of the fur behind. But her legs remained wrapped around his hips, tight.

Michael's senses began returning to him, slowly but surely. He became aware again of how hard he had been inhaling and exhaling by the small pain in his throat. The air smelled of sex, and began to cool the fluids all over his body, colder where it was wettest. The vague sounds of camp outside returned. Detail of the tepee tent returned to his sight. Finally, his brain began ticking away again.

Been a while since I felt like this, he thought, though he couldn't recall exactly when. Michael tried to withdraw a little, but Ygritte grinned and kept around him, grinning wildly with her white, crooked teeth shining. Only when he put his hands on her legs as if to pry them she did relent. There was another roll of pleasure as he removed himself, tempting him to drive forward again to catch it. But he knew they didn't have all the time in the world.

Soon, Michael was laying down beside her, both of them sticky with sweat and the rest.

"Gods," Ygritte sighed as she moved to rest her head on his chest, "I can move everything below my waist…. But I can't feel anything right. Like they belong to a stranger."

Michael felt a laugh bubble out of him, finding himself too much in need of the oxygen to complete it. He reached for his water flask and drank before answering. "That might be the best thing someone has ever said about me, Ygritte."

"I can do better than that…," she said as she nuzzled his chest, "You're the first man I haven't had to teach like he's a child playing with his cock. Not the first time you've been with a woman, nor the second neither."

Well, that's true. Michael thought as he picked up one of her braids. There were little purple amethysts woven into it, glinting in the light of the solitary candle within the tent. "Does that make you jealous?" he asked, "That you're not my first."

Ygritte snorted loudly. "You're not mine either, doesn't seem to bother you none," she declared, "Men are apt to take as many women as they can steal. You're mine now, that's what matters to the gods. They'll help me keep you, and thread other women with my arrows if they think to come between us."

That I can believe. "How ferocious," Michael whispered back in mockery.

The spearwife reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, and Michael felt sleep tugging at his eyelids. "Will the O'Neill complain and scowl like an old crone?"she asked, "Like he did the first time you stole me?"

The thought sent a small curl of doubt through Michael, pushing sleep further away, though the uncomfortable feeling of it disappeared as Ygritte's hand kept moving. "O'Neill and Sayer are still scouting, I sent them to look for boats," he replied, "And I didn't exactly mean to steal you. Not that I'm sad about it."

"What you mean t' do is nothing," Ygritte said with a yawn, "Matters not. What you end up doing does."

Intent is half the crime, my dear. "It does matter," Michael objected gently, "But if I didn't want this to happen, I would've sent you away. Though if I had done so, we would never have had Free Folk marching with us."

Yawning yet again, Ygritte returned to the furs and closed her big blue eyes. "You better see to make sure those kneelers aren't about to attack," she said quietly, "That castle's even bigger than Winterfell, and there's darkness there. Ryk told me the Umber didn't like us keeping our prisoners."

Michael couldn't help but agree. Harrenhal was a twisted, blackened ruin; proof that dragons had existed and hard evidence of their power. The power to weld a continent of differing nations together that was now gone. What a time to be alive that must have been? he thought, To see your nation conquered by dragonriders.

Stark and Umber banners now flew from the place, it had been abandoned by the Lannisters without a fight, but the Greatjon had not visited since the Laughing Tree had encamped nearby. Maybe he isn't as honourable as we thought, Michael pondered, Or maybe I insulted him more deeply than I have assumed. Feudal lords had long since grated on his nerves. The Greatjon had been one of the more tolerable ones, if only because his reactions could be expected. Sulking was not among them.

I'll send Jon and Val to see what the problem is. "I think I will get out there," Michael agreed, "To wash and keep watch." He pulled his clothes and equipment from where they were stashed.

"Good," Ygritte said with satisfaction.

Michael cocked an eyebrow at her. "You're not joining me?"

The spearwife smiled warmly, though she was clearly on the edge of sleep. "I'm going to stay here and dream of your magic Canadian tongue," she said, "Then I'll wake and prepare my moon tea. Unlike the Princess, I'm not so mad as to make a child when there are kneelers to fight."

Lump rising to his throat, Michael felt a swirl of emotions about the idea of having children with Ygritte. I could be leaving behind someone I really do not want to. He quickly clamped down on the feeling and asserted rationality once more. "Val having children is the point of her marriage to Jon," he said as he pulled on his trousers, "That's how the kneelers make alliances."

Ygritte let out a soft snort. "The kneelers keep their women away from the fight. Val would rather geld Jon than be kept in a castle, like any woman of the Free Folk would. I'll not let you ride into battle without me. And men are cruel to babes that belong to their enemies in this world, Michael Duquesne. To mothers too."

Sudden anger crashed through Michael's skull. We'll see who is cruel to babies on my watch, he promised himself, his gaze swinging to his rifle for a moment. He wanted to reply, but Ygritte had gathered furs about her and was snoring lightly on her side. Content as could be.

His anger melted away. Her persistence paid off.

He half-dressed, picked up his weapons, helmet and combat webbing, and went outside. The camp was bustling. Pike drills were happening in the central space, preparations for a lunchtime meal being made close by. The air had the scent of moss and trees on it. The day was beginning to warm up, the sun rising higher into the bright sky. Below it, stretching out from the shore where the camp stood, the God's Eye was a pleasant blue-green.

And it was God damned massive.

So large that the Isle of Faces couldn't been seen in the distance. So large that it had waves and tides. So large that when O'Neill had been sent to find boats, he replied "Don't you mean ships?"

Michael wandered down to the shoreline, finding a number of off-duty Free Folk there, doing the same thing he planned to do. He sat down on a large volcanic rock he had identified earlier, and set down his things.

"Never easy," he muttered, before taking off his clothes to bathe.

O'Neill's voice crackled in the radio speaker, the distance just barely in range.

"We've found the Isle, sir. There's a hill behind a large forest off the King's Road. Overlooks the lake and gives just enough height to see the top of the island.. On the map, the piece of land sticking out of the north-east corner, to your south-east. But there are no boats, ships, canoes or rafts, sir. Not on the east side of the lake for miles."

He coughed for a moment.

"I sent riders along the shore to see if anything is hidden under the trees, but they didn't find anything either."

The council of the Laughing Tree made noises under their breath. It was obvious to Michael that they were as eager as any one of the Canadian group to see what was on the supposedly-magical island. Ygritte, Marcach, Ryk, and Iola sat in a semi-circle on fur bundles around a fire near the crawler. Jon and Val stood, almost arm-in-arm, just returned from Harrenhal. Ghost was there too, laying down and yawning to reveal his massive wolf fangs.

Zheng was silouetted against the darkening orange sky. On top of the vehicle, ready to operate the machinegun, with a good view of both the road approaches and the lake surface. She was listening in via her own headset, the signal relayed from the crawler's own. "The Lannisters," she stated, through her teeth by the tone.

"Yes, Corporal," Michael answered, "Even when they're running away from us, they're annoying shits."

"We could loop back west, see if there are any there," O'Neill said, wind audible over the comms.

Jon took a step closer to the fire, a frown on his face. "I asked about boats with Lord Umber. According to the servants left behind at Harrenhal, Lord Tywin ordered the collection of all boats and barges some days ago. Most of the host left southwards on the Kingsroad, but a thousand or so went by water."

Michael saw the logic. "To King's Landing, I'd guess," he said, "If I was Lord Lannister, I'd exploit river transport to the capital to get there quickly with fresh troops. He'll lose the city if it isn't reinforced. And if that's inevitable, he'll want to get his King out."

Jon nodded. "Lord Umber agrees with you. Word came that my brother has taken Riverrun, and he will rally the host at Harrenhal to march on the Red Keep." His grey eyes seemed to sharpen after he had spoken. He must want to join his brother?

Michael nodded with approval. "Getting there quickly before they can prepare for a siege," he guessed, "Smart. I guess I should wish you the best of luck. One way or another, you'll be able to follow Lord Robb to the fight, if that's what you're worried about?"

"It was," Jon confirmed, before bowing his head, "Thank you, Lord Duquesne."

Michael shrugged. "We won't need a liaison officer much longer. And you've been pretty tolerant of our… differences."

Jon clenched his fist to his chest. "You shall have one as long as you require."

Michael shook his head, breathing out a laugh. "Don't make promises you can't keep." We could be here longer than we thought, after all.

"Tell them the other tidings," Val said to Jon quickly.

Michael glanced up at Zheng, who was scowling downwards at him from her perch. The unspoken question between them was 'Should we dare to find out more?' They were so close to their potential way home, but that potential had a good chance of being a false.

"The southrons have begun fighting each other," Jon declared, "Lord Stannis has declared himself king… He is King Robert's brother, uncle to Joffrey. And there is another, younger brother; Renly. The lords wonder what he will do when he hears of this."

"My cousin believes the younger brother will fight too," Val added, "For whom, we know not."

Michael rubbed his face. This makes things even more complicated. "So there's a full blown civil war now," he said, "With multiple factions no less. How common."

"There is nothing civil about it," Jon replied, "Nor anything common. The Iron Throne seems a prize to many now. With Lord Tywin's host smashed, his sons captive and the Crownlands of uncertain loyalty, the wolves will circle and strike."

Michael pointed at Jon's side, where his direwolf was half-snoozing on its side, red eyes heavy-lidded but watching proceedings. "You and your brother among them," he smirked.

"Aye," Jon stated plainly, "Though I know not my brother's mind on the matter of the throne. I suppose it shall depend on my father."

"It's not a good thing," Iola stated, "The Others are coming. The Free Folk may not hold the Wall alone, though its magicks will resist for a time."

Hopefully it won't be our problem. "We'll see," he said, "For now, I think we need to move further south. Sergeant, we'll join you at the hill tomorrow or the day after, depending on how quickly we can move. I'll contact you at 0600."

"Got it. Get here quickly, sir. I know we had to save fuel but… Horse riding doesn't agree with me as a gravel technician, nor does the saddle agree with my arse. "

"Nor mine," Michael agreed, remembering how much he ached after riding to the gates of Castle Black.

Zheng moved in Michael's peripheral vision, turning her back to him and aiming the machinegun out over the lake. "Sir, we've got a canoe over here," she said, "Must've stuck near the shore, didn't see it until it came around the bend."

"I saw no canoe from above," Iola reported.

Ygritte snatched up her bow and was the first to run around the crawler. Michael followed next, with the rest of the circle hot on his tail. The dark had already closed in, the sun disappearing below the horizon. By the time they all reached the shore, the small craft was approaching. There were three figures in it.

Ygritte drew her bow to shoot.

"No," Michael said, "Wait." He flipped down his night vision.

The figures were hooded, their faces covered with light scarves. But their weapons were clearly visible, resting over the edges of the boat while they moved it forward with wide paddles.

Tridents. "Lord Reed!" Michael called out. Ygritte finally lowered her weapon.

"Lord Duquesne!" came the shout in return. The canoe finally bumped into the shore and the three inside clambered out, leaving their three-pronged spears behind. Howland Reed's scraggly beard revealed itself as he pulled down his scarf and offered his hand.

"What are you doing here?" Michael asked, taking the hand and shaking, "Shouldn't you be waiting for Lord Robb?"

"You're going to the Isle of Faces," Lord Reed replied, "I have been there. I can take all four of you."

Zheng's chuckle echoed out over the water. "Hey Swamp Thing, we're taking more than just ourselves."

"And we're not leaving our weapons and equipment behind," Michael added quickly, "We're not giving the Seven Kingdoms the ideas and tools to create carnage."

Lord Reed's lips thinned. "The… inhabitants may not be amenable to the presence of so many."

"We'll be polite," Michael stated, "But we are going home, Lord Reed. We're bringing as many of the Free Folk with us as want to come. But we do not want a confrontation if we can avoid it. We could certainly use your help, if you'll offer it."

Lord Reed's brows twitched for a moment. Is that confusion? Or anger? "You are a strange man, Lord Duquesne. Threats in one fist, an open palm of friendship in the other."

"I'm a soldier," Michael said, "That's the whole job, offering that choice to whoever my government orders me to."

"And I'm sure the intelligent ones always choose the palm of friendship," said another man. He dropped his hood and pulled down his scarf. It was Maester Carden.

"You decided to tag along?" Michael asked.

"I decided you are of immense interest to the Citadel," Carden replied, "And it is my duty to record as much about you as I can."

"We shouldn't let him," Zheng stated from above, in English, "We don't know his loyalties."

Michael tilted his head, not really wanting to admit that. "Lord Reed, if you know the inhabitants, you might stop trouble before it starts. I'd like to ask you to do that for us."

The crannog lord inclined his head. "Very well," he said, "I will help you, if only to prevent your own folly. It is possible your actions at the Ruby Ford have turned the war. That at least is worth the effort."

It didn't take long to reach O'Neill and Sayer, but organising the column to march did. The number of wounded was still substantial, though they had taken time to heal at Darry. They needed to be transported delicately, as did the prisoners.

On arriving at the forested headland O'Neill had went to, Michael had the column round the base of the hill to the lakeshore, and ordered the Sergeant's group down off of it to join the new camp. Zheng pulled the crawler right to the high tide line, the tracks churning up the dark sand.

The riderless, unsaddled unicorns strolled by and into the water, in the way they liked to do with hotspring pools beyond the Wall. It seemed very shallow, the waves only lapping up to the beasts' knees. They wandered out a fair distance. Maybe that's why it's not the centre of trade, Michael mused about the lake, It's too shallow for ships?

Stepping up out of the crawler's roof was unpleasant, there were many little insects floating in the air. He waved his hand in front of his face, swatting the things away repeatedly until the murmuration of the flies was disrupted enough to disperse.

"Get some fires going!" Michael shouted back to Ygritte, "Get the Skinchangers to set a watch! And keep the prisoners laying down!" Not that the Mountain can get up.

It was unnecessary, the spearwife and others already clearing the nearby treeline of kindling and a large pile of logs being stacked on the sand.

"We're not newborn babes, Michael Duquesne!" Ygritte shouted back, a little annoyed.

Satisfied the flies would go away, Michael looked for the Isle. It was difficult in the sun of the late day, but he could see a small triangular shape on the surface of the water from the top of the roof.

"At last," he thought aloud.

Zheng made a ruckus as she pulled herself up onto the crawler roof. "Where, sir?" she asked, head swinging this way and that. He pointed off to the southwest, and the Corporal squinted at it. "Not very big."

"Far away," Michael corrected, "It's just the top of it. This lake looks as wide as Ontario, maybe closer to Athabasca, though it's probably not as long. Which means the island is pretty damn big too, if its proportions are the same as the map."

Zheng spat over the side, muttering about insects. "So we need to sail across something like the Strait of Georgia and we don't have any boats."

"It's going to be a problem," O'Neill said from nowhere.

Michael turned to find him hobbling up, his shadow long as the fires behind him began to be built up. His arrival seemed to be accompanied by the smell of woodsmoke, like he had personally lit the fires.

Sayer and his two girls were in tow. The Private and the one called Grette wore grins that said they had been mocking the Sergeant more than a little, though Iola was not so. The Sergeant scowled back at them. Sayer stood straight at once, his grin wiped clean by military discipline.

O'Neill returned his attention to Michael. "Between that and the earthquakes, we're more stuck here than we were behind the Wall. We can't just blow up the lake to get through it."

Michael and Zheng exchanged glances. "What earthquake?"

"The earthquake last night," Sayer responded, "You didn't feel it?"

"No," Zheng stated, "I slept like a baby last night. And earthquakes usually wake me up back home." The Vancouverite has spoken.

The Sergeant scratched his nose idly. "Must've been a small one close by then," he said, "But it looked like the whole lake was churning last night. Bubbling."

"Contact!" Zheng shouted, "Coming over the water!"

Michael turned, expecting to see boats and canoes. His eyes widened when instead he saw cavalry in the distance. There had to be two hundred riders, moving up ten at a time at a quick trot, like they were marching up the Trans-Canada Highway and not a lake. How in the hell are they walking across the water? "Sergeant! Battle line, now!" he commanded.

The unicorns quickly began withdrawing at a gallop, spooked by the approach of the unknown riders. The Sergeant gave them one look, unable to see past them, and knew.

"Yes, sir!" O'Neill replied, before beginning to move and bark orders at the camp, his hobble completely forgotten.

The task of setting up tents and stoking fires was abandoned at once, and weapons taken up. Marcach's people began corralling the unicorns together so they wouldn't run away, but Michael could see they weren't going to be mounted up any time soon.

He turned the machinegun towards the lake. These are the inhabitants of the Isle or I'm a clown. "Sayer, get Lord Reed!"

The Private ran as the pikes and crossbows moved into position to either side of the crawler. Ygritte climbed up on top of the crawler and onto the back unit, her hand already bloody from the weirwood sap of her magic bow. Shit, she'll shoot before we can talk.

"Hold fire until I give the command!" Michael shouted, "Do not shoot until I say so!" There was no acknowledgement of the order.

The riders drew closer. The men were ordinary enough, wearing chainmail and dark cloaks, almost like the Night's Watch. They had antlers on their helmets.

But Michael's jaw nearly dropped when he finally saw what they were riding; large elks, with antlers to match their riders. The animals even had high saddles, like something you'd see on a camel's back. They had spears to match the height, so they could reach down to stab.

"We need to start shooting now, sir," Zheng said beside him in English, "Those things look just as big as war horses, and we don't have mud and forest to slow them down this time."

Michael knew she was right. If they're riding elk, they're probably wargs. Where the hell is Howland Reed? "Sergeant, lower pikes and nock arrows."

"Copy," came the reply, followed by, "Nock! Charge pikes!"

"HUZZAH! HUZZAH! HUZZAH!" the pike wielders roared, bringing the points of their weapos to aim over the sand. The crossbowmen and archers put bolts and arrows to their strings. The riders did not care. They kept approaching.

Someone climbed through the crawler. First, Sayer appeared through the cabin and onto the crawler roof. After him, another figure opened the door below and stepped in front of the crawler, holding up his hand. "Wait!" It was Lord Reed.

Where the hell have you been? Michael pointed over the machinegun at the elk-riders. "They're getting ready to charge!"

"I don't understand!" Lord Reed said, "They've never done such a thing before!" With that, he rushed out into the water, splashing up to his shins.

"Jesus Christ," O'Neill muttered over the comms, "The man is going to get himself trampled."

"Should we go get him?" Sayer asked.

"Fuck no," Zheng replied, speaking for the group.

Michael said nothing. He just kept watching over the barrel of his weapon, ready to give the riders every bullet in the belt. The crannogman never sunk deeper than his thighs into the dark water.

The riders neared him and came slowly to a stop, maybe two hundred yards from shore. Michael's trigger finger itched to begin hosing them down, but resisted. Reed was speaking to them, his hands moving quickly. Come on, little guy.

One of the elk-riders broke forwards and his mount began moving towards the battle line, at a serene pace. Lord Reed stayed behind with the rest. Michael wondered why, and came up short. Using him as an intermediary was the logical choice, if the elk-riders wanted to talk. Not a good sign.

The man was tall, which combined with the height of his saddle put him almost at the same level as Michael standing in the crawler's gun position. His dark cloak and clothes turned out to be a dark green. His spear was made of weirwood, and it glowed orange where the sun touched its white wood. His elk's antlers were truly massive, and sharp as speartips. Rider and mount approached. His face turned out to be quite gaunt, like he didn't eat enough.

Well that's damn ominous. "Close enough," Michael called out, half-expecting the rider to disobey.

The elk stopped, and turned sideways a little to allow the rider to see better instead of cluttering up his view with antler. "You wish to come to the Isle?" the rider said, in what sounded like a rough Riverlander accent to Michael's ear, "Do you seek our destruction like the Andals of old?"

Why would they think that? "If you've spoken with Lord Reed," Michael replied, "Then you know we do not."

"What he has said of you and what we have seen of you differ greatly," the rider stated, "We watched since you breached the great barrier against the Others. We watched your great battle with the Westermen. You kill as easily as breathing."

That's true, Michael thought. "We kill to defend ourselves," Zheng cut-in, "We got into fights only when people decided they didn't like that idea."

The rider shook his head. "How can we trust you when you travel with one of those that slaughtered our own?"

"We have not slaughtered anyone of your people," Michael said, "Unless you count Lannister knights trying to kill us as your people? That was unavoidable."

"We do not, and it was," the rider replied, "I refer to a more ancient slaughter. One we have never forgotten. Nor forgiven."

"Well, we're not all that ancient," O'Neill said from below, among the pikes.

"There is one among you of the blood that spilled ours," the rider insisted, and pointed his spear.

Straight at Sayer.

It felt like the whole battle line turned to look at him. The Private's weapon lowered and he looked around, meeting the gazes. "I have no idea what he is talking about," he promised.

"Nations among our people fled the evils of man and magic, eight thousand years ago," the rider said, "They went to your world, hoping to find it free of either. And there, your people killed them."

Sayer's eyes narrowed. "Sounds like you invaded," he began.

The elk-rider bristled, and the elk turned to leave. Shit.

"Enough," Michael interrupted, "Private Sayer isn't responsible for what happened eight thousand years ago."

The rider stopped his mount moving. "His blood is," he said, "The Gods have long memories."

This son of a bitch.

"Private Sayer has killed no one except at my command," Michael said, "Give us your help and we'll leave this world behind us. You won't have to see Sayer ever again. All we want is to go home."

The rider paused, then gave a crooked smile. "Indeed? Is that what you want?"

"Yes," Zheng hissed, "Do we have to drill it into your head?"

The rider turned his elk, still wearing the smile, and rode away without another word.

"Where's he going?" Sayer asked.

No idea. "Prepare to receive the charge," Michael ordered, "I don't think we convinced him."

The rider joined the others. He seemed to speak with those he was leading first, and then to Lord Reed. It was not a long conversation. The crannogman came walking back after only about a minute. He sloshed onto shore, his boots squelching before he took them off.

They must not want to attack if he's taking off his shoes. Michael slid off the crawler to join him, quickly joined by O'Neill and Ygritte.

"They will help you," Lord Reed said, "Though I do not know why."

"Are these the green men?" Ygritte asked.

Reed nodded. "Aye." The spearwife seemed to goggle for a moment.

Michael bit his lip. This stinks of an ambush. "You've met them before. Are they the sort to kill someone after inviting them home?"

"No, absolutely not. But that does not mean their intentions for you are good. They became quite gleeful when their leader spoke to them."

Michael looked over at the waiting elk-riders. "What did they say?"

"I know not," Reed replied, "They spoke to each other in the True Tongue, the language of the children of the forest."

Ygritte shifted her weight, side to side. "I don't like it. What do we do?"

We can't turn back now. "We have no choice," Michael said, "We follow them to the Isle."

He turned back. "Sergeant! We're breaking camp!"