NOVEL NEXT Chapter 88: Interlude: Mance.
"I don't like this, Mance," said Harma the Dogshead. The leader of his vanguard looked at him, and Mance regarded her with an air of cool nonchalance.
"I don't like it either, but you saw that army with your own eyes. That is not a battle we can win. At least not well enough to survive the true war."
"Already weak at the knees, Harma?" said the Lord of Bones, who sat by his other side.
She leaned on the table, scoffing at him, "How well do you think that rattleshirt of yours will handle a steel halberd? Or a crossbow bolt for that matter?"
"We've got the numbers," he said. The bone armor that gave him his name crackled as he leaned forward and smiled, "Let the kneelers try and fight without their leaders. See how fast they kneel to us."
"Enough," said Mance, his voice clear within the confines of the tent. Both of them simmered down, though they didn't even deign to look at him. The Free Folk loved their pride like a treasured steel axe; it was the last thing they'd ever part with.
Styr, Magnar of the Thenn, roused himself from the bear pelt we wore like a second skin, bronze scale armor glinting softly by the early morning's light piercing the tent. "Let's hear what they have to say," he said, cunning eyes missing nothing.
The last member of their council chose that moment flick the tent flap. "Big plume of snow from the south. They're coming," said Tormund Giantsbane as he walked around the empty seats towards their side of the table. "Getting out the finery, eh Mance?" he said as he knocked on the wooden table.
"And what would you know of finery, Thunderfist?" said Mance.
His laughter was fit to shake a mountain, and he sat with aplomb by Harma's side. "Fair enough, but she won't be impressed. I reckon she shits around better than this," he said, tugging one of the elk hides on the ground.
Mance grunted a smile at that, though his belly felt rotten. They'd set out for this parley on neutral ground, Mance's own guards few in number as a show of trust. A handful of Free Folk were also inside the tent, standing behind his own council; confidants or lieutenants of what the southrons would've called his vassals, though the term would've meant little to all but the Thenns. Bronze armored captains, scar-covered hunt leaders, and village matriarchs half blind from age but filled with wisdom. Mance was not unaware of the ways of the South, and knew how to project a strong front of his own. He didn't doubt the southron contingent would be just as numerous, though probably a lot more polished.
Tis' a sad day when all the Free Folk have left is mummery, he thought as he gazed back at them, putting up grim faces and stern postures. To voice that aloud would've seen the tent descend into fratricide in an instant, though all knew this for truth.
He let out silent huff, steam drifting up through the hole at the top of the tent and joining the rest of the sharp morning breeze. He was about to gamble absolutely everything on this, and not exactly by choice. The sight of over thirty thousand armored pikes on the Wall had been enough to send a fifth of his host scrambling back north, and only unleashing the Thenns on the most hysterical offenders had prevented his host from evaporating like so much piss on the snow. Now Magnar Styr had almost as much of a say as all the others sitting on this table combined, excluding Mance himself. For now.
All he had truly left were these negotiations, trying to seem stronger than what he was.
I've dealt with worse hands. The thought had turned distressingly familiar since he'd amassed a host of Free Folk unseen in living memory, but he feared his luck was finally at its end.
And now comes the royal party, he thought as he heard a commotion outside. The rumors he'd gathered during his brief visit to Winterfell had been contradictory. If this southron queen were an overconfident brat -fit to give them lenient terms despite her incredibly strong position- such leadership would see them all dead come the true war. On the other hand, the kind of Queen they'd need to win said war would likely see the Free Folk so diminished and humiliated at this parley that a battle would turn inevitable and they would all be dead come next light. All without the Others lifting an arm.
In a word, Mance and his people were fucked either way. The rest was a matter of degrees.
The guards outside the tent erupted in murmurs, soon giving way to shouts of surprise as a long powerful howl overpowered the wind. A surprise attack? He'd deterred his own but never even thought the southrons would do the opposite, such was their advantage. Mance flinched as if struck by an arrow, something large churning against snow as a low running growl reverberated against his chest.
"Mance?" said Tormund, standing up as those inside the tent grew restless.
The tent flap flew open and a direwolf the size of a horse trotted over the elk hide, leaving muddy paw prints all over it before coming to a stop in front of the table. Mance was not the only one standing up, though his hand did not fly to his pommel as most others' did. "Stay your hand, Giantsbane!" he shouted, mind racing as he beheld the frightful beast with sharp looking fur. It has to be warged, there's no other way.
Tormund held back his long axe by a hair, growling back at the beast in its own tongue as Harma hefted her spear and the rest readied for battle. Amber eyes stared back unimpressed, bits of frost and dew clinging to its rich fur; an ethereal mantle that worked to give the direwolf a fierce but regal presence. Mance realized there was someone riding astride it.
"Hail, Free Folk," said the woman in chainmail and snowfox furs. A crown of sapphires mirrored her gaze, though they lacked the grey edge that hugged the inside of her eyes like a gathering storm. "What news from the marching dead?" she asked as the storm focused on Mance, voice ringing within the tent.
Mance's silver tongue did fly then, the King stunned as bard's instincts thrummed. "They move like mist down the Haunted Forest; scouts and raiders clearing a path for the might gathering up further north." Mance licked his lips, a drily surreal tang to them. This was not the way this was supposed to go. "The dead prepare for war."
The rider took a deep breath, furs and mail expanding lightly before she dipped her head at him, "Then I, Sansa Baratheon nee Stark, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and heiress of the Magnars of Winter, call upon the ancient pacts witnessed before Stone and Tree."
Magnar Styr whispered in the Old Tongue, hands shaking for the first time since Mance knew him. Could this be a trap? Why? For what? She knows, he realized. She knows.
"We've a war to win and your force is on the wrong side of the Wall, King Mance." She gave him a wolfish smile as knights armored in silver and maidens wrapped in furs entered the tent and clustered around her, lords of the North and senior members of the Night's Watch taking their respective seats at the table. Already gazes were locked, centuries of bad blood itching for a fight as an old man festooned with chains whispered up at the Leader of the South.
Queen Sansa Baratheon nee Stark seemed confident as she dismounted, her direwolf sitting back on its haunches as she passed a hand under its jaw, the dew sticking to her fingers. "I think it's high time we rectified that."
"I think so as well, Queen Sansa," said Mance, taking his own seat with all the apparent confidence of the Fat King at his feast.
And thus, the parley began.
-: PD :-