Jon Snow, the black-and-silver hilt of Longclaw gripped in his right hand, moved through the training yard of Castle Black with a newfound weight in his step. The wet snow crunched beneath his boots as he circled a group of shivering recruits.
"Raise your shields!" Jon barked, his voice echoing off the massive, weeping wall of ice.
Satin, the boy from Oldtown with the face of a doll and the hands of a thief, struggled to hoist the heavy oak-and-iron shield. "It's too heavy, My Lord. My arm feels like lead after an hour of this."
"It's heavy because it has to be stronger than the man trying to kill you," Jon replied. He stepped forward, his right leg bracing as he launched a controlled, horizontal strike. The steel of his training sword clattered against Satin's shield.
Satin grunted but held his ground, attempting a clumsy counter-thrust. Jon parried it effortlessly, his movements fluid. "Better. Use your weight, Satin. Don't just push with your shoulder, drive from your heels. If you don't keep that wood between you and the enemy, I'll use your head as a bell for the morning watch."
Satin lowered his shield, his eyes wide as he looked past Jon. "Behind you, Commander."
Jon Snow turned. A sea of black cloaks and steel surcoats was approaching. Some of the men were smiling, others looked solemn, but as they reached him, they began to drop to one knee.
There were his closest friends: Pyp, Grenn, and Samwell Tarly, who had miraculously returned with a Wildling woman and a baby just days ago. There was the iron-willed blacksmith Donal Noye and Othell Yarwyck.
"Lord Snow," Bowen Marsh said, his pomegranate-colored face twitching with a forced smile. "The count is finished. By the law of the Night's Watch and the witness of Maester Aemon... you are the 998th Lord Commander."
Jon felt a jolt of pure, cold shock. Just weeks ago, he was a prisoner of the Thenns. Now, he was the master of the Wall. He looked up toward the balcony of the King's Tower. Eddard Karstark stood there, his black woolen cloak swaying in the wind, a faint, knowing smirk on his face.
"See?" the look seemed to say. "I told you I'd give you the job."
The passage at the base of the Wall was a tunnel of ancient stone and unnatural cold. It was wide enough for a mammoth to pass through, its ceiling arched with massive granite blocks that were currently weeping thin streams of icy water. Under the flicker of torches, the walls shimmered with a jagged, crystalline brilliance.
The Karstark "Winter Guards" occupied the center of the tunnel. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind massive tower shields, their spears forming a lethal thicket. Every murder hole in the ceiling and every arrow slit in the side-chambers was packed with Karstark and Mallister crossbowmen.
Eddard sat on a simple pine stool at a small table covered in a black cloth. A brazier of glowing coals sat beside him, warming a pot of Arbor Gold wine that smelled of summer and cloves. He didn't look like a lord at war; he looked like a man waiting for a business partner.
Opposite him, separated by a massive, thumb-thick iron grate that hummed with the cold, stood the leadership of the Free Folk.
Jon Snow, standing beside Eddard as the newly minted Lord Commander, pointed them out in a low whisper.
"The man in the red-silk-stitched cloak is Mance Rayder. He was a Crow once, the best of us."
"The woman with the dog-head banner is Harma Doghead. She hates us more than she loves breathing."
"The giant is Mag the Mighty. He speaks only the Old Tongue, but his mammoths speak for him."
"The short one with the wolves is Varamyr Sixskins. He is a skinchanger, Ned. Be careful with him."
"And you know Styr," Jon finished, nodding toward the Magnar of Thenn, who stood at the back, leaning on the gilded axe Eddard had gifted him.
Mance Rayder stepped to the iron bars. He wore a heavy leather tunic and a helmet adorned with raven feathers. He didn't look like a king; he looked like a survivor. He looked at Jon Snow, his grayish-white eyes narrowing with a bitter, simmering hatred.
"So the chameleon returns to his cage," Mance said, his voice a low, melodic rasp. "I should have listened to the Magnar. I should have let the eagles have your eyes, Snow."
"Enough," Eddard said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. He poured a silver goblet of warm wine and slid it through a gap in the bars. "The pot shouldn't call the kettle black, Rayder. You're a traitor who fled the Watch. Jon is a Lord Commander who saved his brothers. If you want to talk about honor, we'll be here all night and your people will still be freezing on the other side of this ice."
Mance accepted the wine. He took a long, appreciative sip, the warmth bringing a flicker of life to his pale face. "Styr told me you were a man of strange power, Karstark. He said you broke his steel with a whisper."
"I'm a man of results," Eddard replied. "My King, Robb Stark, sent me to drive you back into the blizzards. He wants your heads on the gates. But I've seen the dead walking through the eyes of my birds. I know what you're running from."
"You know nothing," Mance countered, handing the cup back. "I have a hundred thousand people behind me. I can send ten thousand to Eastwatch on rafts. I can send ten thousand to the Shadow Tower. I was a Crow for twenty years; I know every crack in this Wall. We will pass, Karstark. One way or another."
Eddard refilled the cup and handed it to Tormund Giantsbane, who was watching the wine with the hunger of a wolf.
"Who can't boast, Mance?" Eddard said with a laugh. "I have three thousand elite veterans holding this Wall. I've rebuilt the trebuchets at Castle Black. Every time one of your mammoths takes a step, I can drop a three-hundred-pound rock on its head. As for the Shadow Tower? I've sent a thousand men there. You'll be landing your rafts in a forest of Karstark pikes."
Mance didn't answer. He signaled to Mag the Mighty. The giant reached behind him and pulled out a massive, black-and-brown horn. It was eight feet long, inlaid with runes of the First Men that seemed to glow with a faint, sickly light in the torchfire.
"The Horn of Winter," Mance said softly. "The Horn of Joramun. One blast, and the Wall wakes up. Another, and it falls."
Jon Snow went pale. He looked at the horn, then at Eddard.
Eddard didn't even flinch. He leaned back on his stool, swirling his wine. "Suppose it's real. Suppose you blow it and the Wall collapses into a pile of slush. What then? You're still a hundred thousand unarmored refugees standing in front of my heavy cavalry. I'll ride you down in the ruins. And then, once you're all dead, the Others will have a hundred thousand fresh wights to march on my home. Is that your plan, King? To build an army for the White Walkers?"
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the giant.
Mance Rayder looked at the wine pot, then at the iron-willed young man before him. He saw the Karstark soldiers, men in double-layered plate and mail, well-fed, disciplined, and utterly unafraid. He realized then that he wasn't looking at a "Crow." He was looking at a conqueror.
"What do you want?" Mance whispered.
"Submission," Eddard replied. "But not the kind the Southerners demand. I don't need you to kneel to a throne you've never seen. I need you to fight the enemy that's chasing you."
Eddard leaned forward. "Here are my terms. I will open the gates. Every woman, child, and old man will be settled in the Gift. They will till the land, they will pay a tax in grain, and they will be protected by the North. In return, every warrior among you, giants included takes an oath to the Lord Commander. You will garrison the sixteen abandoned castles of the Wall. You will be the first line of defense against the cold."
Tormund Giantsbane let out a bark of laughter. "You want us to be Crows? I'd rather eat my own boots!"
"Not Crows," Eddard corrected. "Vassals. You keep your customs. You keep your leaders. But you follow the North's laws. No raiding. No kidnapping. You kill a Northman, you hang."
"And for the warriors who want more than just a stone room on the Wall?" Eddard's eyes flashed. "I have a special task. There is a fortress to the east called the Dreadfort. It belongs to a man named Roose Bolton, the man who tried to betray the North. If your elite raiders can take that castle, it belongs to the Free Folk. You'll have a seat of power in the North, a place where your people can grow strong."
Mance Rayder's eyes lit up. A fortress. A real home, south of the Wall, with land and legitimacy. It was a dream he had never dared to speak aloud.
"The Dreadfort is a tomb," Mance said. "It hasn't fallen in five thousand years."
"It's never faced a hundred giants and the Winter Wizard at once," Eddard countered. "Do we have a deal, Mance? Or do you want to see if that horn actually works before my archers turn you into a pincushion?"
Mance looked at his leaders. Tormund nodded slowly. Styr gripped his gilded axe. Even Varamyr Sixskins seemed intrigued by the prospect of a warm castle.
"We have a deal," Mance said, reaching his hand through the grate.
Eddard took it. The iron of his gauntlet met the calloused skin of the King-Beyond-the-Wall.
[System Notification: Main Quest Updated: The Wildling Integration.]
[Reputation with Free Folk: +200 (Wary Ally).]
[Strategic Objective: Siege of the Dreadfort initiated.]
[Soul Power Gained: 400 SP.]
"Lord Commander," Eddard said, turning to Jon Snow. "Open the gates. We have a lot of guests coming for dinner."
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
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