Eddard IV

When morning came, the snow melted faster than Eddard would've believed, leaving a black morass of slush and sinkholes like to strip off a man's boots or lame a horse.

We've won, he realized, somehow. The cold and dark had been driven away, if only for a night. Pile upon pile of blackened, charred dead men remained, with no life left in them, or whatever cursed power drove them on. Their eyes were dull and dead, with not a mote of icy blue to be seen.

His daughter's tale could hardly be believed. Arya was covered in mud and blood and looked as wild as her wolf. Even so, other men, men he trusted, swore to the truth of it. Ser Domeric's sortie had caught the Others, or at least a few of them. Gods be good, his baby girl killed one herself with that black blade she'd drawn from the lake back at Whitetree.

Not all went well, of course. The fight at the water source had been a perilously close thing, and that awful bear with flesh and fur sloughed off could've reaped a terrible toll if Ser Domeric hadn't seen it off. He'd lost his own lord father as well, Eddard understood. That wound...he'd never seen the like. Lord Roose's breastplate was not dented, nor rent jaggedly, but opened up clean like a razor through cheesecloth. That was good steel! What manner of weapon could accomplish such a thing?

They stripped off the ruined armor and laid the lord of the Dreadfort upon a pyre of oiled logs. Ser Domeric covered him with a pink silk banner before setting it alight himself. The bones they'd carry back, but they couldn't take a chance with corpses, any corpses.

"Would you have my homage now, my lord?" Ser Domeric asked softly, sounding very much like his father. What cheer was in the knight had vanished when he became a lord, as was usual in Ned's experience. They did it quietly. Lord Stark allowed Ser Domeric to kneel and say the words, confirming him as lord of the Dreadfort and all its incomes. One by one, each of Eddard's lords bannermen approached, offering grave condolences in hushed tones. The respect was plain to see. The officers of the Watch did likewise.

Lord Commander Mormont was the last. "He was a friend of the Watch," he said, and that was all that needed saying.

"We know how to fight them now," Lord Bolton said, watching the Dreadfort banner draped over his father curl up and blacken. "They are so cold, ordinary steel becomes brittle and shatters. I saw it with my warhammer, and other men with their swords. Their pale blades cut through our own armor like nothing, but we are not defenseless. Valyrian steel can slay them, as I proved, and Arya. Brad killed one with a glass dagger. Those were a gift from the gods that your daughter's wolf found."

"We must have more," the Old Bear said simply.

"Dragonglass, the smallfolk call it," said Ned, suddenly remembering a lesson from the maester at the Eyrie in his boyhood. "But the maesters call it obsidian."

Lord Domeric's eyes opened slightly in recognition. "Obsidian, I see. We'll find more, much more." He nodded firmly, speaking more to himself than to them. "Smash and burn the levies, Valyrian steel or obsidian to kill the lords. Yes." The man looked up, spotting his squires. "Come along, Arya, Brad; we need to maintain our gear. This won't be the last battle."

Eddard's daughter and the Frey boy fell in behind their master with instant obedience. For a time, nobody said anything.

"It was Bolton's plan that won the day, or night, rather," Mormont said over the roaring fire. "Those redoubts broke up the army of the dead, channeled them into burn zones, and gave us a fighting chance. As for our supplies, nine parts out of ten he paid for with his own coin. If it were only the men of the Night's Watch upon the Fist, we surely would've been overcome."

"Lord Domeric is a proven battlefield commander," Ned said in agreement. "King Stannis trusts him with good reason."

"The king must be told," the Old Bear rumbled with gravity. "The realm must be told. We know what we're up against now, facing the true enemy. So many queer things make sense at last. The Watch guards the realms of men, my lord. The wildlings are men, ultimately, not so different from you or I. Our ancestors did not raise the Wall to keep them out."

The Long Night come again, that was what they were facing. Ned wondered what Mance Rayder might say if he came to parley, what he might want. Ned wondered if sending his children south with their mother was the right course after all. Even Jon was in Dorne, ironic, considering where he'd been born. "These are queer days, Lord Commander," was all Ned could think to say. He'd seen dead men walk. What was there to say after that?

"I wonder," Mormont ruminated, "what it would be like to keep company with the heroes of old, the legends." The flayed man was still visible on the burning banner. They watched it burn a while longer.

***

The good weather held; if anything, it got hotter after the battle. Mud baked and dried until it cracked beneath their boots. When the moon turned, Lord Karstark returned with Mance Rayder and his court, such as it was. They met on neutral ground, a grove of weirwoods hard by the east bank of the Milkwater.

Mormont and the King-beyond-the-Wall shared a hard look, but no more. "My lords, I welcome you to my realm," Rayder said genially. He took off his winged helm and dismounted from his horse with a flourish. The man marked them, every one, greeting his bannermen by name without needing to be introduced. "Lord Stark needs no introduction. I see Umber here, and Karstark my guide, Glover, Hornwood, and Cerwyn." Those eyes of his twinkled with merriment. "And would that be Domeric Scalp-Taker? Tales are told of you, even out here, you know."

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Bolton seemed taken aback. "They are?"

Mance smiled. "They are. Such names you have, Ser Domeric. Scalp-Taker, red hand, red sword, ironbreaker, lionslayer, Domeric the pious, Domeric Godplanter. You have many a style, my lord."

Lord Domeric smiled back. "Just Bolton is fine."

The wildling king inclined his head deferentially. "As you will. I understand there was a battle."

"There was," Lord Stark confirmed. "We chose our ground well, the Fist of the First Men. It was Lord Bolton's plan that won the day. We defeated the army of the dead."

"An army of the dead," Rayder corrected. "Wights can be seen off by men bearing torches, unless they come in great numbers, but they will always be back. You cannot fight the dead, my lords, not forever."

"The dead are just meat shields," Lord Domeric spoke up. Everyone looked at him, wondering at the queer turn of phrase. Mance Rayder especially seemed confused. "Something for the true foe to hide behind," he explained. "It is the power of the Others we contend with." The lord produced a dagger, holding it up for the great men among the wildlings to see. "They can be killed, but not with ordinary steel. This here, this very dagger of dragonglass, was used by my own squire to slay one."

The King-beyond-the-Wall leaned forward in interest, studying the shiny black knife. "Such weapons were carried by the Children of the Forest of old, or so the songs say."

"Then the children were wise." Ser Domeric drew his sword, making the bearded man at Mance's side flinch back and reach for his axe. "Peace," said Bolton. "This meeting is for showing and telling. Here you see my sword of red steel, Valyrian steel. With this, I slew three of the Others. They bled blue blood before they dissolved into mist. You know what that means, don't you?"

No wildling nor lord of the North nor black brother of the Watch had an answer for him.

Domeric Bolton, no, Domeric Scalp-Taker, smiled viciously. "If it bleeds, we can kill it!" Unbidden, a cheer went up among the men assembled. For a moment, even Ned was swept away. This man charged downhill over close-packed wights into a black wood, just for the promise of crossing swords with the Others. Many a man followed, even his own daughter.

Arya, oh Arya! You live a life Lyanna could only dream of! The girl was growing into her long face at last, and the first promise that she would mature into a true beauty could be seen. She cheered as lustily as the rest who followed the Scalp-Taker.

When the cheering faded, the silence of the wood returned. Mance studied Lord Domeric for a short space. "You speak the truth. If that is so, what would you have of me and mine?"

"Join us, of course." Mormont and Greatjon Umber gasped, but Bolton surged onward. "We keep the same gods, and the same blood flows in our veins, the blood of the First Men. Our war is not with each other. Our war is with them, the cold and the dead, but this is not good ground, I think."

Well, Lord Domeric was a fine judge of ground to fight on. "Then where, my lord?" Ned asked.

"We must take you and your folk south, safe on the other side of the wall. Here, you are vulnerable, and the Others would take you one by one, building a new army of the dead to send against everything with warm blood in its veins."

There were shouts of disbelief and dismay, but others heeded Bolton. The truth of what he said could not be denied. Of the wights that assailed them at the Fist, most had been wildlings in life.

"How?" Rayder demanded.

Bolton held out a hand. "Arya, fetch me a pointy stick, if you would." The girl hastened to obey. When she returned, the Scalp-Taker started drawing a map upon the ground from memory. "Here is the Wall. You can see Last Hearth and the Last River there. Karhold is to the east. A bit further down is the Weeping Water, where my lands are, in chief. Beyond that is the Hornwood, and beyond that White Harbor. Turn around and go up the White Knife; you're in Winterfell." He made an "x" mark in the dirt. "South again is Torrhen's Square, and beyond Barrowton, my aunt's lands. Go west, and you're in the Rills, which belong to my grandfather."

Lord Umber, who had more trouble with the wildlings than most, growled his displeasure. "I think we know our own lands quite well, thank you!"

"Then think on this, my lord. Much of our land is empty. The North is vast. Nearly every living man beyond the Wall follows Mance Rayder. Imagine if you parceled them out, if you will. Five thousand here, ten thousand there, and so on. Mine own lands could take ten thousand, easily. If any lord would not have them, let him refuse, but for my part I would allow a portion of the wildlings to live in the shadow of the Dreadfort, provided they keep the peace." He turned a harsh glance in the general direction of Mance Rayder. "That means no thievery, raping, or murder. Or else."

The King-beyond-the-Wall was not cowed. "Or else what?"

"Or else your scalps will hang from the limbs of the heart tree in the Dreadfort's godswood, as so many have before you." His ghost-grey eyes looked almost completely white, the eyes of a predator, a killer. "With the Wall between us and the Others, we can find a source of obsidian and prepare. These we fought recently were but the first outstretched finger of their power. Who knows how many reside in the Land of Always Winter? Only together can we hope to fend them off."

Some lords grumbled, and the men of the Night's Watch scowled, but one by one, they agreed to settle a certain number of wildlings in their own lands, even the Greatjon. Eddard prayed for a mild autumn and one last harvest or two. This unseasonable warmth was a hopeful sign.