Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners. I'm just playing with them.
Betad by Priapus, Beans
The Unbound
Chapter 31: Vows
– Orys Baratheon –
As the servants help me prepare for the upcoming ceremony, I find myself oddly… nervous. It's silly, considering everything, but I'm going to be a married man in a matter of hours. Again, it's silly to get nervous about marrying Margaery when I've already bedded her, shared a divine blessing, and, realistically, we're basically already married, as this is the sixth day of the ceremony. The final actual day, as the Stranger isn't worshipped the same way.
Bathed, shaved (what little stubble I had, as my father's genes are failing me. Where's my beard, damn it?) and changed, I listen as Mother explains what is planned for today. Arianne made herself scarce, though with her new 'alliance' with Margaery, she's promised to be at the ceremony itself.
"Compose yourself, Orys," Mother scolds lightly, seeming amused by my nerves. "You are the King of the Seven Kingdoms, you can't be seen being nervous at the idea of marrying a woman you've already bedded."
"I know," I say with a tired sigh, before I do as she suggested and compose myself. This is the biggest day of the Grand Wedding, and everyone who matters is going to be there. Which means all my subjects are going to be watching for any slip-up, any chink in my armour. As much as my reputation has cemented me as the King in their minds, power attracts jealousy and fear.
"My boy, about to become a man," Mother teases, giving me a once over.
"I think that moment has come and passed at this point," I counter easily. I've taken lives, ordered the near-genocide of the Ironborn's culture, bedded women and made pacts with Gods.
"Perhaps, but let me have this all the same. Joffrey won't when it comes time for his marriage to Sansa, and Tommen is determined to follow his faith and won't be marrying," Mother points out. "I'm proud of you, Orys. We are proud of you. Your father can hardly shut up about you, when he's not swearing bloody vengeance on the Boltons, at least."
"Ugh, I don't want to think about the North, or the Vale, or whatever other issue is going to erupt before I get a moment's rest. Not today. The troubles of the Seven Kingdoms can wait until the morning," I reply, shaking my head. "I'm ready."
Taking a moment to try and straighten my hair, Mother smiles at me before she leads the way as we head to the Grand Sept. The Royal Sept would have worked, but when everything is so overdone, it would feel lesser to use the smaller Royal Sept for the final ceremony. Plus, it has more room for the large crowds.
The new Order of septas are going to be using their new gifts to heal the smallfolk today. The Order of the Mother's Handmaidens are available for any and all, with no costs or questions. Later, I (and Margaery, but they don't know that yet) will be healing the worst cases that require my higher power, but the goal is to spread word of the Mother's Handmaidens far and wide, from Highborn to Smallfolk.
My arrival at the Grand Sept causes a stir, with countless well-wishers wanting to congratulate me. Or, more specifically, they want me to remember that they were there for my wedding. Many have already given me gifts but with the Red Keep so busy few have had a chance to speak with me in person. Still, it's an easy chance to garner some goodwill as I make sure to thank those who never got to give me their gifts in person for whatever they gifted Margaery and I. Even I find it hard to keep it all clear in my head, having to remember who gave what, so I don't cause insult by thanking the wrong house for the wrong gift.
As much as I love my father, I can't deny that inheriting a kingdom he neglected so heavily is not an easy task. There are few houses he didn't cause insult to and the highborn of Westeros are the types to hold grudges over the actions of people long dead, let alone what my father did in the past few years. Any house I can appease is one that is less of a problem down the line. It's doubly true for any Vale house, given the fact that I'm going to have to deal with their liege lords soon. Well, if you can call 'Sweetrobin' a liege lord when all reports say he's a child who still suckles from his mother's teat. Not exactly a leader to respect, but he's the (possible) son of a leader they did respect and that remains an issue.
"Your Grace, you honour us with your presence," the High Septon greets enthusiastically. I don't need a divine gift to see his pleasure at having members of every house that matters in Westeros in his Sept. "May the Gods smile upon you on this blessed day."
"Thank you, High Septon. You have my gratitude for hosting this… momentous event," I reply easily, a calm smile on my face. "And for permitting Tommen's presence. I understand that he has been a frequent visitor of late?"
"It's no trouble at all, Your Grace. Prince Tommen is a wise and well-educated boy, it has been a pleasure to help answer his questions and debate with him," the High Septon reassures me. "You'll find the Sept well and truly prepared, even for such a grand event. The servants have been working day and night to get everything ready, and the Chalice of the Mother's Mercy has been moved into position."
"I did see some of Ser Bonifer's Holy Hundred. I'm glad to see they've adapted to their new duties," I comment. Bonifer is a zealot, and being tasked with the defence of such a holy artefact has done much to give him purpose. His band of warriors aren't exactly legendary when it comes to their actual talent, but they are all as faithful, and it makes them reliable when it comes to defending the Grand Sept from anyone who would wish to claim the Chalice for themselves. Several people have already been captured trying to take the water from it.
We've also seen an emergence of conmen trying to sell water with various forms of dyes in it as blessed water. Garlan has been putting a stop to that, as it is not just diluting the power of the Chalice, but it is genuinely dangerous, as they're putting just about anything in the water to make it look sparkly or gold, without a care for whether it is safe to drink. Even Stannis has admitted that Garlan is a fine commander of the City Watch. It was meant to be a temporary position but I've heard that he's planning to move his family to King's Landing after the wedding, both to keep close to his sister and to continue in his new position.
Garlan the Gallant has become a very popular figure amongst the smallfolk, the incorruptible, gentle knight that is stamping out corruption and brutality. He's a good match with Stannis, as while my uncle is as incorruptible and steadfast, he is not a people person and having Garlan to be the face of the operation is going very well.
If Stannis is my iron fist, Garlan is the velvet glove around him. Those who find themselves facing down the Krakenbane are beyond the point where manners are needed. Just last wishes.
As I speak with the High Septon, I head inside. Margaery isn't here yet but that's because her father will be bringing her to me at the start of the ceremony. Given that we aren't doing a bedding, it's important to do the rest of the ceremony as properly as possible to prevent anyone claiming that it was somehow not legitimate. It wouldn't hold weight, given that the High Septon and the Crown are involved, but that won't stop some whiners from trying. As I said, people will be looking for any weakness, any flaw they can use against a couple that seem untouchable by other means. Logic won't stop them, so why give them any ammunition?
I'll not arm my enemies.
Speaking of enemies, I spot Asha Greyjoy in the crowds, wearing a proper westerosi dress and everything. She looks incredibly uncomfortable, clearly preferring leathers to silks, and even as blunt as she is, she can't miss the distrust she's faced with, but her presence here tells me she has taken the bait. She wants to win the Lordsmoot and retake Pyke for House Greyjoy, but for that, she needs me to permit her to go home; she needs me to want her to win, and that means showing that she can play the game my way.
So, here she is, paying her respects at the wedding of the man who dismantled her culture and had so many of her people killed or cloaked in black. She'd rather run me through, steal a ship and sail to Essos, but instead she's stuck playing a game she sees as pathetic. There's no Iron Price here; she can't just take what she wants by force, so here she is acting like a soft greenlander lady. Dibella whispers in my ear, pointing out that she'd be happier if I abused my position over her to take her into the back, flipped that dress over her ass and pounded her Ironborn cunt.
Which makes me all the more satisfied to leave her playing a game she's ill-suited for. It'll do good to show her how out of her depth and league she is here. I'll leave her to flounder before I throw her a lifeline. If she's smart and can put her wounded pride aside, she'll turn it into the leash around her neck and become my pet Ironborn. If she's stupid, it will be her noose instead.
"Orys!" Arya calls, getting my attention. She's all dressed up for this, in a nice blue dress that she clearly isn't comfortable moving around in. I can't help but laugh that she brought Nymeria with her, causing several of the highborn to give her space, but I just pat the direwolf on the head. It's no threat to me. "Sorry, 'Your Grace'," Arya corrects as she pulls a face.
"It remains Orys to my friends, Arya. I must admit to being surprised that you're here. Sansa, I expected, but you?" I ask playfully.
"Mother insisted," Arya admits. "Plus, Myrcella, Jeyne and Shireen are all here, so it's not a complete waste."
There are several gasps at her words. The greatest event that the Kingdoms have seen in living memory, and Arya is treating it like a chore. I see Lady Stark's face blanch at her daughter's words while Sansa sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose.
"Gods forbid we waste a day of your precious time, Lady Arya," I agree seriously, giving her a grin. "I'll try to keep things short, just for you."
Arya snorts at that, going to respond before Sansa kicks the back of her leg and interrupts her.
"Congratulations on your wedding, Your Grace," Catelyn speaks up, hoping to stop Arya from making any more of a scene. She's a little too stuck on her daughters being proper, because any other lady would be thrilled to have one of their daughters on such good terms with the King. Sure, Arya got some deep frowns for her attitude but they faded to curiosity at my response. Arya went from 'a disrespectful Northern girl' to 'a personal friend of the King and Princess Myrcella' in their minds. With Sansa marrying into the House Baratheon, I imagine that some will make offers for Arya, hoping to forge bonds with the Crown through her. The fact that I permitted her to bring a direwolf to the ceremony should show how much I trust her.
Nymeria just huffs, and my connection to Hircine tells me that she's annoyed at all the scents. Too many highborn ladies wearing strong perfumes for her strong nose. I'm having the same problem, to be honest. Margaery noticed that strong scents put me off and changed her perfume for a gentler one, but some of these women smell like they bathed in it.
"My thanks, Lady Stark. I must confess to being rather excited. This marriage has been planned for years; it almost beggars belief that it is finally here. Especially after such an eventful week," I say cheerfully. "I see my father didn't waste any time in grabbing Lord Stark as a drinking partner."
"Lord Robert has been… surprisingly restrained," Catelyn responds. She's not wrong; he doesn't seem drunk yet. "But yes, they have used Eddard's presence in King's Landing and Robert's new freedom to catch up on the many years they've spent apart. "
"I apologise for his exuberance. His mood has been much lighter without a crown weighing it down," I say with a chuckle.
"Given how quickly he's had the Stormlands respond to our crisis, I can forgive his boyish enthusiasm over being reunited with his brother in all but blood," Catelyn responds with a wry smile. "But this is no place for such dire conversations, and we will not hoard your time when it is in such high demand."
Giving her a smile, I ruffle Nymeria's fur with one hand and Arya's hair with the other, dodging her batting hand as she scowls and tries to fix it.
"Orys!" Father says, spotting me and rising. He really does seem to be better without the crown, and I swear he's already begun losing weight from his training sessions. I've put on more muscle thanks to Barristan's brutal regimen but it seems I'm not the only Baratheon who is honing their body of late. He's still fat, to be blunt, but not as bad as he was before. "Ready to be a husband?"
"About as ready as I was to be King," I admit with a chuckle. "But as with the crown, I can't say I'm not looking forward to it."
"Ah, you already have the hard parts down, Orys the Very Blessed," Father laughs boisterously, slapping me on the back as I snort. "Margaery is a good woman, and you're a fine man. Better than I ever was, and I somehow managed to handle it."
"That's because mother was handling you," I point out with a laugh.
"True enough," Father admits shamelessly. "But you have this. You're a better King than I was, you'll be a better husband and father too."
"Perhaps, but you're still the better warrior," I counter, getting a laugh from him.
"Damn right, I am. Something the Boltons and those mad fuckers in the Vale are going to learn soon. Between my hammer and your bow, we'll have those cunts begging to bend the knee," Father boasts.
"After taking Winterfell, the only time the Boltons will be bending the knee will be to bare their necks for the headman's axe," I respond darkly, getting a bloodthirsty smile from him. "But today isn't the place for such talk. I have some final preparations before the ceremony. Try to leave some wine for the rest of us."
"Ha! I'm on a bloody diet. Told the maesters to work out how to get me back into shape, and they told me to limit my drinking if I want to regain some of my old strength and body. Miserable cunts, but they're right," Father admits. "So I'll be drinking juice, like a child. Three goblets a day, they said. And I've already had one."
"Your restraint is a thing of legend," I reply, deadpan. His restraint is the reason he's in this mess to begin with. Still, I'm genuinely impressed with his resolve because I can't see any outside influence, divine or otherwise. This isn't the Warrior pushing him, but something he's decided for himself. He wants to be useful to me, as a Father and a Lord Paramount but he knows he's no leader, can't play the game well and has one true skill. Killing.
He's shaking off the rust so he can bring the hammer down on my enemies. It's the most fatherly thing he's ever done.
"Your Grace, you are needed," one of the Sept's servants says, getting my attention. And so it begins.
– Later –
Standing at the altar, I listen to the singing of the septas as I await Margaery's arrival. To my side, my parents, Tommen, Myrcella and Mya are lined up. It has not been missed that Joffrey isn't here, but he's still in trouble for attacking Sansa and has been left out entirely. Mother's plan is working well because the Stormlander lords haven't missed how friendly Sansa is both with my father and with me, while Joffrey himself is nowhere to be seen. Bella isn't here because she's one of Margaery's handmaidens, so she's with her goodsister-to-be.
On the other side, House Tyrell is lined up. Alerie and Olenna, with Willas, Garlan and Loras waiting for their sister's arrival.
As the song comes to a crescendo, the doors open, and I feel my breath hitch at the sight of Margaery as Mace leads her down the aisle. She's always beautiful, of course, but the pure white silk dress she's wrapped in today only enhances her incredible looks, a maiden's cloak with the House Tyrell colours draped behind her as she gives me a warm smile. Bella and Missandei walk behind her, but I barely notice them.
As they reach the bottom of the altar, Mace carefully removes the cloak from her shoulders before taking her hand and leading her up to me. Taking the offered hand, I replace her cloak with one of the House Baratheon colours, thanking Lord Tyrell as he takes his place beside his wife.
We don't say anything, not yet, as the High Septon speaks the oaths, prayers and vows. In truth, his voice fades as I maintain eye contact with Margaery through it all. As the time for the exchanging of the rings, Bella pulls out one box that has my ring and passes it to Margaery, while Tommen pulls out the second and passes it to me. I've seen them both, of course, given that I made them, but Margaery can't hide her gasp at the sight of her own ring, something I kept secret from her despite her playful pestering about it. I hear the murmurs as we both make sure the crowds get a good look at the Blessed Steel rings, white and gold as they gleam in the light. It isn't missed that each is probably worth as much as some estates as I gently place her ring on her finger.
"With this kiss," I start. "I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife," I say, placing a hand on her cheek as she repeats them back to me (only with lord and husband, obviously), moving in to capture her lips.
I make a note to whack Arya over the head later for the wolf-whistle, but for the moment I focus entirely on Margaery. I don't deepen it (too much) because there is a level of propriety that is expected no matter how degenerate the realm is convinced my bedroom situation is, but instead I call upon the Mother.
Lady Mara, please bless this matrimony.
The gasps only intensify as a golden light shines down on us both, swirling around us in a light show that puts to shame the fireworks of Yi Ti, the energy circling us before it rushes into our bodies and infuses us both. Breaking the kiss, I smile as I look into Margaery's golden gaze.
"In the name of the Seven, and with the blessings of Lady Mara, the Divine Mother, I declare King Orys Baratheon and Queen Margaery Baratheon to be of one flesh, one heart and one soul, now and forever," the High Septon announces to the cheers of the crowds. "May their lives, and rule, be long and fruitful."
"There's just one thing missing," I declare, almost playfully, as I turn to Myrcella. She perks up, reaching behind her to pull out a second, larger box that I tasked her with guarding for me. Moving forward, she offers it as I open it up and reach into it, gently lifting the prize. "A queen needs a crown."
I'm pleased to have genuinely caught her off guard with this one, measuring her head without making it obvious was not an easy task. The crown is a perfect match for mine, smaller but no less grand, softer with the imagery of roses worked into the metal. Lifting it, I lower it into place with a satisfied smile. It came out as well as I hoped.
As the more formal part of the ceremony ends, even Olenna can't look displeased as the realm gets the Tyrell Queen they've wanted for so long. Her brothers beam, Mace looks like he's about to pass out from sheer pride, and Alerie is focused on the golden glow in Margaery's eyes. It isn't permanent, but it will return when she uses her newfound healing powers. I'm glad, her brown eyes are one of my favourite parts of her that I can see when her dress is still on.
As the well-wishers and ass-kissers swarm us, I keep Margaery's hand in mine. For the rest of the day, she's never more than a few feet from me, even as we begin the healing part of the day. Hoster Tully managed to make it in time, the decrepit old man struggling to walk before Margaery and I work our magic- blessings on him. He's still ancient, looking more like a wrinkled old maester than a Lord Paramount, but he can move unaided for the first time in years. He's diplomatic enough not bring up his treasonous daughter during such a day, but instead acknowledges that House Tully owes the crown a debt.
One thing I had the organisers arrange was for crippled veterans of Robert's Rebellion to be brought before me. When you make your living with a sword, a crippling wound can be the end of your livelihood, and many have no other profession to fall back to. I wish I could say that I'm doing this out of respect or kindness, but in truth, it's so I can get these old grizzled warriors to train my armies while also making the banners of the realm more loyal to me.
The crown has little in the way of forces, as our armies are the armies of our Lords Paramount, which means most of them are more loyal to their lords than to a King they've never seen. I find this unacceptable, so I want to make it clear that I respect those who fought for my Kingdom and will take care of them should they be crippled serving me.
I have no true martial feats to my name beyond a single tourney where I didn't even fight in the melee. The Ironborn rebellion was fought in my name, but I sat on the throne, nice and safe, while people fought and died for me under my Uncle. It's part of why I have to go North myself. The Seven Kingdoms are a martially-inclined people, and no matter how good a ruler I am, a King that cannot fight will be seen as weak. Anything I can do to make the soldiers of my realm respect me more is going to help with that.
Ironically, my own games have worked against me. Because I've claimed that healing is a gift from the Mother, something that is mostly done by septas, it's started to be seen as a feminine art. It's ridiculous, but it is reality. I do not want to be seen as a 'feminine' king, or have any rumours spread that make me look soft or girly. If it wasn't too subtle for him, I'd almost think that Joffrey was to blame for this. It sounds like something he'd say out of jealousy that I have a power that he doesn't.
The day flies by, in truth. This was necessary to establish Margaery as equally blessed, to ensure that our entire rule is seen as blessed by the Seven, but I can't deny that a certain impatience set in fast, and as we head back for the Red Keep, Margaery gives me a knowing smile.
We barely reach the royal suite before my hands are on her, giving an order for the place to be secured and for no-one to bother us unless the kingdom is burning down around us. By the time we're into the entrance of the suite, Margaery's no doubt extremely expensive silk dress is discarded and tossed aside like a used rag, my own clothes coming off with equal speed as Margaery removes my top. It knocks my crown off in the process, the royal treasure clattering to the ground without either of us caring to stop to pick it up. Margaery's crown, a thing of beauty that I put hours upon hours of work into, is tossed onto a chair with equal disregard as I lift her and carry her to the bedroom as she giggles.
I see Missandei picking up the crowns and placing them on the pedestal meant for mine as I carry Margaery away, while Bella gathers the discarded clothes with amusement. We aren't doing a bedding ceremony, but having them be outside works in a similar way. Right now, I don't care about that as I throw the nude Margaery onto the bed with a hungry smile.
"Well, husband? You've been so patient, but it's time to claim your wife," Margaery purrs, spreading her legs wide to expose her tiny, pink slit. My trousers and undergarments fall so fast you'd think Lady Nocturnal herself stole them from me as I move onto the bed, taking her leg and kissing my way down it as she giggles.
Latching my mouth onto her already wet womanhood, I focus on pleasuring her for the moment, making sure she's well and truly prepared because once I start, I'm not stopping until she's pregnant. Tonight, Margaery is getting bred. Her gasps turn to moans as I flick my tongue, guided by Dibella's honeyed words, and her first climax comes quickly. She's as eager as I am, watching me taste her essence before I continue my journey north, up her stomach and to her breasts. She might not have the size of Arianne, but by the Gods are her tits perfect. As I move up, she pulls my head to hers and kisses me roughly, uncaring of the taste on my lips, whispering for me to do it.
I need no further encouragement as I press my cock against her dripping slit and thrust forward, marvelling at how easily she accepts me despite my size. After Arianne and Moonshadow, I know just how… abnormal it is to be able to take me so easily, even with preparation. With anyone else, I have to be somewhat cautious to not harm my partner, but here and now? I hold nothing back, gripping her legs and lifting them so her knees are beside her chest as I start to thrust, picking up speed until I am pounding my wife with reckless abandon.
She tries to participate, but with Mephala and Dibella guiding my… strikes, even Margaery can do naught but hang on for dear life as I take her like a man possessed. Oddly enough, even Hircine's blessing is working its magic now, eager to see me breed my mate. Or maybe he wants me to get this over with so I can go North. Either way, my stamina only becomes more enhanced as I listen to the sweet song of her moans and pleas for more.
I don't know how long I spend on this first round, only that Margaery's words have become a slurred mess by the time I finally reach my climax, her cunt squeezing down on me, trying to milk my cock for every last drop and that's exactly what she gets as I thrust into her and my seed shoots forth. With Hircine, Mara, Dibella and Mephala, there's no doubt in my mind that this single shot is enough to hit the mark I'm aiming for, our bodies glowing golden for a moment.
But nobody can say that I am not a diligent King, and I think another fifty or so should suffice.
Just to make sure.
— Bonus Scene — Ygritte
Unlike the kneelers south of the wall, the Free Folk had always known the horrors that could be found in the True North. While the kneelers hid behind their wall, pretending the horrors weren't real, the Free Folk had to live their day-to-day lives, dealing with the worst that the north had to offer.
With winter fast approaching, they were already preparing for a deadly cold that would thin their numbers and wipe out entire tribes, but it seemed the True North wasn't willing to wait that long.
Wielding her bow, she put arrow after arrow into the approaching dead, shambling corpses that had once been members of their own tribes. She watched as a spearwife she'd once known took an arrow to the rotting face, the shaft embedded in the socket of her missing eye, only to keep shambling forward.
The dead were not fast. They weren't even particularly strong. Only an idiot would actually get caught by one in an open fight, the slow, stumbling bodies escapable with a brisk walk half the time. What they were was durable. Untiring, undying. If you didn't burn the corpse once you downed it, or dismembered its limbs, it would rise again. They'd learnt that the hard way, leaving the dead piled up while they'd tried to recover from one of the earliest attacks, only for the corpse pile to begin moving as night fell.
No, they were not a danger because of their speed or strength. They were a danger because they never stopped. You could run for hours, while they shambled after you, but every time you stopped to rest, to eat, to sleep, they'd get closer. You could think you had lost one hours ago, only to wake up to its groaning as it moved toward your camp with unerring determination.
Tormund lunged forward with a shout, bringing his axes down on the dead spearwife as he cut her limb from limb. He was already bloodied, but thankfully seemingly not bitten. That had been another unpleasant discovery. What seemed a fleshwound, a simple bite, was a fatal curse. Once this battle was over, they'd have to check everyone for bites and if they found any?
A mercy killing was all they could offer. To dismember the man before he became a monster.
Her arrows ran out long before the dead did, but knowing what a single bite could do left her unwilling to enter the fray. It stung her pride, but what good was pride in this nightmare? Each fight, the dead only increased in numbers while they dwindled.
"Do you still think we can win this, Giantsbane?" Mance asked when the fighting ended. Or paused, at least. They'd be back; they always were. Tormund grunted, letting out a scoff as he wiped his axe on a tree, spitting on one of the corpses before he swung his axe and cut off its head, then each of its limbs. With no easy source of fire, this was the best way to make sure that when they came back, they were as weak as possible.
"Oh, aye, we're fucked if we stay here. But how do you think your plan is going to work, oh King Beyond the Wall?" Tormund asked in his usual mocking way. "Dearest Crows, I know we've hated each other since the wall was put up and that I'm a filthy traitor who went wild, but can you pretty please let us through the Wall! We promise to keep the raping and the pillaging to a minimum."
Mance rolled his eyes, focusing on dismembering the dead as he ordered the warriors who fought on the frontlines to be checked for bites. As a fight broke out over one of them being found bitten, refusing to die quietly, she drew one of her recovered arrows and put it through the man's heart as he went for his axe. This wasn't the first time she'd done it, wouldn't be the last. Too many were convinced that they'd be fine, unwilling to accept they were already the walking dead.
"He's not wrong, Mance. The Night's Watch will never let us pass without a fight, and look at us. We don't have the force to assail the wall. It'd be a massacre," Dalla pointed out. Maybe they had those kinds of numbers before this, but after so many raids, they had no chance of fighting the Crows.
"What other choice do we have? Half our number are already amongst the dead that assail us each night. We go south, or we join them," Mance declared. He was truly stressed to speak to his pregnant wife so, and her face showed that she knew it. Val, Dalla's sister, scowled at his tone but didn't bite back. Mance was usually better with words, loving the sound of his own voice, but what good were words in such chaos?
"So you'd have us kneel to save our necks?" Val asked, the simple word 'kneel' spreading through them to shouts and curses from the others. No true Free Folk would kneel to southerners, even if it was a matter of life and death.
"No. We do not kneel," Mance replied instantly, knowing that any other answer would likely see him dead. "But we must go south all the same. The nights are getting longer, colder and more dangerous with each passing day."
And that, none of them could disagree with.