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Greatjon stepped forward first. "They gather at Hardhome, at the Skirling Pass, along the Milkwater. Tens of thousands."
"More," Thorne corrected. "Our rangers estimate they are nearing one hundred thousand."
Even knowing it, hearing it aloud sent a chill through the room. "One hundred thousand," Jon repeated. He knew in his last lives that is what they had, but knowing they were going to face that had him on edge.
Even he needed Stannis to rescue him and the Night Watch in his first life before they got overrun. And his second…well with no aid the Night Watch was doomed.
"Aye," Greatjon said grimly. "And more trickle in daily."
"We have held before," Thorne said stiffly. "The Wall has never fallen."
Jon's eyes sharpened. "The Wall has never faced this."
Thorne bristled. "You forget yourself."
"No," Jon said quietly. "I remember too well. We all know the histories. The Kings-beyond-the-wall that are named long ago only raise a couple thousands. Raymun Redbeard who my grandfather's grandfather had faced only had 30,000 made up of tribes with their women and children."
Jon stepped toward the table. "They are not gathering for conquest. This is something more."
"They are savages," Thorne shot back. "Raiders. Thieves. What more is there?"
"They are afraid," Aemon said softly.
The room stilled. Grejon looked to the old maester. "Explain."
Aemon folded his thin hands. "Ravens from Eastwatch speak of villages beyond the Frostfangs found abandoned. No bodies. No signs of battle."
Greatjon frowned. "Wildlings move camps all the time."
"Yes," Aemon agreed. "But not entire peoples. Not every tribe at once."
Sam swallowed. "We've found… things," he said. He withdrew a bundle wrapped in cloth. Slowly, carefully, he unwrapped it. A blackened hand. Shriveled. Frozen in a claw-like grasp.
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Thorne stiffened. "I told you to burn it," he snapped.
Before Sam could say something, the hand twitched then it stood up right as if it had a mind of its own. Greatjon could only look in awe and horror as he peered closer at it. "What in the gods name is that?"
Then the hand jumped right at him before Sam could hold it back. It crawled up the giant man's beard and up his face trying to claw his eyes out. Jon had to admit it was sort of a funny sight watching a man as large as Greatjon jump around because of a dead hand.
He acted quickly, grabbing hold of the hand and stabbing it with his dagger. Even in that state it tried to move about but now it was like an insect trapped in amber.
It took a while for Greatjon to catch his breath and he asked. "What in seven hells is that?" Looking at the offending appendage.
Jon's voice grew colder. "The true enemy."
Greatjon looked at it and then Jon was surprised when he heard from Thorne, "That is ghost stories."
Jon's temper snapped. He slammed his fist onto the table. The maps rattled. "Are your eyes blind?" Silence fell like a blade. "Clearly these dead things are chasing the wildlings. Hunting them. Driving them south to us."
"And you would let them through?" Thorne scuffed like it was the most insane thing. "Into our lands?"
"Yes, that is exactly what I wish to do." The word landed heavy.
Greatjon stepped forward. "Have you lost your wits, boy."
"No," Jon stated.
"My own sister was taken by those animals," Greatjon growled. "They raid. They steal. They kill."
"I know what they are," Jon replied. "However they are in the end men like us. Of flesh and blood."
Thorne's lip curled. "They are nothing more than animals pure and simple. If you don't realize that then you are a bigger fool then I thought."
"No you are the fool," Jon shot back. "They are desperate," he continued. "If we do nothing, they will attack. One hundred thousand bodies against the wall."
"The Wall will hold as it always has," Greatjon insisted.
"Against ladders?" Jon demanded. "Against sheer numbers? Against men with nothing left to lose?"
"They or we will die," Thorne stated.
"Oh yes that is true," Jon agreed. "And when we all die…" He let the thought hang.
Aemon finished it softly. "They rise."
The room went still. Thorne's face paled despite himself. Jon met his eyes. "You think one hundred thousand living wildlings are dangerous?" he asked quietly. "Imagine one hundred thousand dead ones."
Even the Greatjon did not laugh. "We cannot hold that," Jon continued. "Not the Watch. Not all of us northmen. Not anyone."
Thorne recovered first. "So your solution is to open the gates?"
"My solution," Jon said evenly, "is to parley."
Greatjon barked a harsh laugh. "With their King-beyond-the-Wall?"
"Yes."
Thorne shook his head. "The Watch has never—"
"The Watch has never faced this," Jon cut in again. He drew a slow breath. He did not want to play this card but he saw he wasn't winning any allies. "My brother has granted me authority to act in the North's name."
Thorne's eyes narrowed. "The Night's Watch answers to no king."
"Do not forget this wall you stand on was built by a Stark. The Land below the wall belongs to Starks. What we do is up to us."
Greatjon leaned forward. "If the wildlings cross in blood, the North burns."
"They settle in the Gift. Under watch. Under oath. I will see to that," Jon promised. He knew the North could request any favor from the new King since they had effectively won him his throne. And the return of the gift taken away by Jaehaerys and Alysanne would be prize enough.
"Wildlings swear no oaths," Thorne sneered. "They will never bow to anyone. The pride themselves on that."
"They will," Jon said. "If the alternative is extinction."
Greatjon folded his arms. "You gamble much."
"I do," Jon admitted. "Because there is no other choice."
Aemon smiled faintly. "There it is," the old maester whispered. "The heart of it."
Jon looked at him. The old man was truly wise. He was the only one that saw the true state of the matter.
"Darkness gathers. We must not stand divided."
Thorne paced. "This is folly."
"This is survival," Jon said. He straightened fully. "The decision is made."
Thorne stopped. "You presume much."
Jon met his gaze without flinching. "I presume that the living matter more than pride or old feuds."
The silence stretched long. Finally, Greatjon grunted. "You're stubborn as your father."
Jon did not respond. The big lord looked away first. "If this fails," Greatjon said, "it's on your head."
Jon nodded. "I know."
Thorne's voice came low and sharp. "If they betray us—"
"They will not," Jon said firmly.
"You cannot know that."
"No," Jon admitted. "But our interests align. If we fall they fall to the dead."
"That is another matter," the old targeryan maester spoke. "No one in the seven kingdom would believe you about the return of the Great Enemy. A hand could just be passed off as a parlor trick."
"That is also what I wish to resolve beyond the wall," Jon said. "I will bring proof for everyone!"
Jon turned to Thorne, "for now send Ranger to the King-beyond-the-Wall," he said. "We request parley."
-
The wind beyond the Wall had teeth. It howled down from the Frostfangs and swept across the vast wildling encampment like a living thing, snapping hides, bending crude spear-racks, carrying with it the mingled smells of smoke, sweat, and desperation.
Jon Snow rode at the head of a small escort beneath a banner of truce; black and white crossed over grey. Behind him came a dozen sworn brothers in black, his stark men-at-arms and crannogmen led by Howland.
And beyond them, a sea of humanity. They were everywhere. Tents of stitched skins. Wagons ringed in defensive circles. Mammoths looming like shaggy hills. Children clinging to mothers. Warriors with painted faces and scarred arms watching with naked suspicion.
Jon felt the weight of it press against his ribs. If they stormed the Wall, blood would drown the Gift. If they died… He did not allow his thoughts to finish.
At the center of the encampment stood a rough wooden platform built from felled pine trunks. Around it waited the leaders of the Free Folk.
And at their heart stood a man with dark hair touched by frost, wearing a black cloak clasped with a simple bronze brooch. Mance Rayder. The King-beyond-the-Wall. His eyes met Jon's as he approached. No smile. No hostility either. Only calculation.
"So Lord Stark sends his half bastard brother." A faint ripple of amusement passed through some of the gathered chiefs.
"And I am to parley with an old crow turned wilding," Jon shot back.
Around Mance stood the rest.
Tormund Giantsbane, red beard braided with bone charms, leaning on his axe.
The Weeper, pale-eyed and twitching, his followers clustered close like wolves scenting blood.
Harma Dogshead, tall and rawboned, fingers tapping impatiently on the hilt of her blade.
The Lord of Bones, Rattleshirt, armor clattering softly as he shifted.
Varamyr Sixskins, gaunt and watchful, eyes too sharp for comfort.
The Thenn Magnar, armored in bronze, face carved from stone.
And dozens more lesser chieftains behind them. All watching. All judging.
Mance spread his hands. "You asked for parley," he said. "So speak."
Jon removed his gloves slowly. "I will not waste words," he began. "You gather here because something drives you." Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
The Weeper spat into the snow. "We gather because we choose to," he snapped.
"No," Jon replied calmly. "You gather because you run."
Silence fell heavy. Mance's eyes narrowed slightly. "Careful," he warned.
Jon stepped forward onto the platform so that all could see him. "I know what hunts you."
That drew attention. Even Varamyr's expression shifted. "You lie," Harma said.
"We know the dead have risen and the Great Enemy stirs once more to destroy humanity," Jon stated. "The end is nigh!"
The Thenn Magnar spoke in his deep, measured tone. "Yes, the White shadows."
Harma's fingers tightened on her sword. "The old tales come alive."
Mance held up a hand for silence. 'What do you want, Stark."
"He obviously want us to turn back? Die in the snow?" The Weeper sneered.
"No." Jon's voice rang clear. "I offer you passage."
The crowd exploded in noise. Shock. Disbelief. Hope.
The Lord of Bones laughed harshly. He already knew the cost. "You think we kneel to your southern kings?"
"I think you would wish to live," Jon countered.
Mance's gaze sharpened. "What strings are attached."
Jon met his eyes directly. "You pass through the Wall peacefully. No raiding. No burning. No taking of women or children."
A growl rippled through the gathered warriors.
"You settle the Gift," Jon continued. "Land long abandoned."
The Thenn Magnar exchanged looks with his captains.
Harma spat again. "And we bow?"
"You swear peace," Jon said. "You come to our aid when called upon and pay your taxes."
"Farm! What greater insult is there in sowing!" The Weeper barked a harsh laugh.
"There is no share I will pay for some lord who hasn't tilted the fields with me," Rattleshirt snorted.
"I am not telling you to give everything up. This is a give and take relationship. The liege lord which is us, House Stark provides land to farm and graze your livestock upon and in return you pay your share to us," Jon sighed as he begin explaining the basics.
"Also the liege provided protection and in return it is your duty to raise your weapons when called upon."
"This is Southern nonsense," Harma said, looking as if ready to take her spearwomen away right then and there.
"You keep your chiefs. Your customs. Your names." Jon said to ease some worries.
Mance studied him. "And if we refuse?"
Jon's voice hardened. "Then you attack." The silence was immediate. "And you die," he finished quietly.
A ripple of fury surged. Jon let them shout and rage before he spoke once again. "Listen! The crows have backing from the North now. Worse for you King Stannis now sits on the Iron Throne who we helped get the crown."
Jon looked directly at Mance as he knew the man knew about southern politics and how vast the kingdoms below the wall were. "He will provide more men to cut you down short. I offer the only path forward. Protection on the other side of the wall."
Harma's eyes flicked toward the Wall's distant line.
"Yes," Jon said, "it will be a very costly if not down right impossible affair to take the wall."
The Weeper's face twisted. "Better to die free than kneel!"
"And when you rise again?" Jon demanded. "Not free. Not breathing. Just… weapons." That gave even the Weeper pause.
Varamyr's voice slid through the quiet. "The dead grow." A murmur of fear spread.
Mance's jaw tightened. "You would open the gates?" he asked carefully.
"Yes."
"You have that power?"
"I do," Jon nodded his head but knew there would be hell to pay with the other northern lords.
The words hung heavy in the frigid air. For a long moment, Mance said nothing.
Then he turned to his gathered chiefs. "Speak," he commanded.
Harma Dogshead went first. "I will not kneel," she said flatly. "My people die with blades in hand if need be."
The Weeper nodded savagely. "We attack the wall." Several clans voiced agreement.
The Thenn Magnar remained silent. Varamyr watched the other with a shake of his head. Tormund scratched his beard. "I've no wish to feed the crows," he muttered. "Or the cold ones."
Mance turned to him. "You would cross?"
"Aye," Tormund said bluntly. "If the gate opens."
The Lord of Bones hissed. "Traitor."
Tormund grinned. "I wish to keep my people alive." Laughter, nervous and strained broke out among some of the clans.
Mance raised his hands again. "How many stand with peace?" he demanded.
Slowly, hands rose. Tormund's. The Thenn Magnar's and Varamyr. Plus Several valley clans. A number of mammoth riders. Nearly half.
"How many stand against?" Harma lifted her sword. The Weeper did the same. The Lord of Bones. Several hard-eyed mountain tribes. Roughly the other half. The divide was clean.
Mance closed his eyes briefly. "So be it." He turned to his people. "You have chosen me as your king so I will split my family in two for you all. My wife and child will go with those who chose peace and I will stand with those who chose war."
A murmur rippled. Jon felt the weight of what was coming settle fully onto his shoulders. Half would live. Half would die. "Those who choose peace will gather at the eastern approach and will be let in once this affair is done with."
Jon's gaze went to Harma, the Weeper and others. "You do as you will."
Harma bared her teeth. "We will."
The Weeper laughed thinly. "Blood in the snow," he whispered.
As Jon mounted his horse, he glanced back once. Mance still stood watching. It will be war and he need to prepare.