A Golden Path: First Steps 1.2 (ch. 2) (Patreon)

“I mislike this,” Mance Rayder muttered, his breath coming out as a cloud of fog. The snows had receded, making it possible to travel beyond the Wall, but the cutting chill in the air was still there. He leaned against the cold stone of Castle Black, dressed in the dark cloth of the closest thing he ever had to a family. He was raised by the Watch, saved as a babe, and when he became a man he swore the oath.

Which always made it odd to him when he saw men wearing colors other than black.

“Aye, so you’ve said already,” Qhorin Halfhand, as he had lost half a hand fighting wildlings a few years prior, replied gruffly. “You don’t have to convince me of this folly. And you get to just ride with us with your mouth shut. I doubt Lord Stark would grant me the same privilege.” As he spoke, he inclined his head to the approaching party. Castle Black lacked walls, beyond the massive one that faced the true north. Instead, it was a collection of buildings and towers, one of which gave them a decent view of the dozen men riding towards them.

“An inspection of the Wall,” Mance muttered with a scoff and a shake of his head, though he knew one was likely in order. Three of nineteen castles were manned -- six hundred men in Castle Black, four hundred men at Eastwatch, and another four hundred men at Shadowtower. Less than fifteen hundred men. “The Lord Commander is going to go through with this?”

“Of course he will. Lord Commander Qorgyle is starving for supplies and men, and we sure as fuck won’t be getting them from the Crown. He won’t just turn a blind eye, he’ll pluck ‘em out of his head, and ours too if he feels the need,” Qhorin grunted and Mance sighed. “Starks have always been good to the Watch. I won’t begrudge them this much.”

With that, Qhorin clapped Mance on the shoulder with his half hand before leading them both down the stairs. As soon as they received the raven, announcing that the heir to the North was heading up to the Wall with a small group of guards, most watchmen knew what was coming. The Rangers first and foremost, especially when Qhorin had come back to them after a winter ended with a long tale to share. Since then, they were getting ready to indulge the nobility.

As they reached the end of the stairs, the Stark party arrived, carrying their House’s direwolf banner that flapped in the wind. The heir was a man in his late teens, maybe early twenties -- handsome and strong, with his expression one of focus. Mance always found himself curious about nobility. More often than not, the Wall only saw the dregs of them, though there were the occasional few that volunteered. And the Watch only had great things to say about the Starks, to the point you’d think spring followed them around and the sun shone out their arse.

But, the man on a large black horse just seemed like a man. No greater or worse than any other. Maybe these kings would be a different breed of men? The old maester didn’t think so, and he was as learned a man as any Mance had ever known.

“Welcome to Castle Black, Lord Stark,” Lord Commander Qorgyle greeted the party. He was an old man, Mance knew. His hair as white as snow and his face etched with winkles. His death would come soon, and Mance found that he hated the thought.

“My thanks for having us. We don’t seek to disrupt your doings or interfere. I’m here to see with my own eyes what you need and make sure that you get it,” Brandon Stark said, his tone affable. Friendly but regal. And Mance fought the urge to snort. Aye, that would do it. If the Stark was as good as his word, and all Mance heard painted that to be the case, then he could name himself King-Beyond-The-Wall, and no one would so much as utter a word of it.

“The honor is ours, milord,” The Lord Commander said as Brandon got off his horse, joined by a few others.

“This is my companion, Martyn Cassel,” Brandon introduced Martyn. “He is my father’s master-at-arms and guard.” The man was an older one, old enough to be the Stark’s father. Large shoulders, thick arms, and a beard with traces of white in it. He gazed out at everyone with open suspicion, and that was fair enough. Half the Watch was made up by murderers, the other half rapers, with a few thieves and disgraced nobles sprinkled about.

With the introductions out of the way, Mance watched as the Lord Commander ushered them all into his office where they could have a private conversation. “Who do you think gets saddled with going beyond the Wall to deliver their message?”

“Knowing your luck, you will. Knowing my luck, me too,” Qhorin answered with an amused snort. The two of them separated, both having things to take care of before they ventured beyond the Wall into wildling territory.

And, to Brandon Stark's credit, he spent a week at the Wall before he acted on his real intentions. He spoke at length with the Lord Commander, the Builders, the Stewards, and Rangers. He even spoke to the old maester Aemon. He supped with the men, and what Mance saw of him was a friendly fellow. The kind of man that others were drawn towards. It helped that he was taking the Watch seriously.

Then, a week later, Mance found himself summoned to the Lord Commander's office alongside Qhorin. There, Mance found Brandon Stark, and Mance knew it was finally time. “Lord Stark -- this is Qhorin and Mance, two of our finest rangers.”

Brandon inclined his head to them, though his gaze was on Qhorin. “Well met, both of you. I've already heard a great deal about you both and all of it good. The Lord Commander tells me you spent a winter with these… Fremen,” Brandon prompted and Qhorin nodded.

“I did, milord. I was part of a ranging with five others -- we had heard whispers about a new tribe. While their histories are hardly as storied as the Starks, some of the tribes in the North are every bit as ancient as your house.” Qhorin started, reciting a story that he had been forced to tell a dozen times. Brandon frowned but said nothing, simply nodding for him to continue. “Most tribes are large families, though some in certain areas fall under the banner of a powerful warlord in control of a region. First, we heard that families were moving north to the Frostfangs.”

“And that is worth investigating?” Brandon questioned, sounding genuinely curious.

Mance fought to repress a snort but answered for Qhorin. “The Frostfangs are as deadly as the bite of a direwolf. All the land beyond the Wall is harsh, but the Frostfangs… the only place where death is more certain is the Lands of Always Winter.” Brandon seemed to chew on that for a moment before nodding, a frown starting to curl at his lips.

“As my friend said -- it was worth noting, but not worth a true investigation. However, it was little more than a year later, and we heard of a war between these Fremen and the Thegns -- a tribe far to the north. Of all the wildlings, they're the ones most like us. They fight with discipline, wear bronze armor, and fight with bronze weapons. By all accounts, the Thegns were thrashed soundly and defeated by a man calling himself Muad'Dib.” Brandon leaned forward, his interest in the tale growing. “The Thegns boast a tribe of five thousand, milord. So, hearing that, we decided it was worth a ranging on the cusp of winter.”

There was a bitter edge to Qhorin’s voice. “We set out, spent the better part of a month just reaching the mountain range,” Qhorin closed his eyes for a moment before he shook his head. “One moment we're trudging along, and the next Callum has an arrow in his throat. Wilhelm and I drew our blades, but by that time we already walked head first into an ambush.”

“The Fremen?” Brandon prompted, but Qhorin shook his head.

“Worse. Ice River Clan,” he answered and Mance fought a shiver. “The wildlings… most of them are just men. You have your honorable men, and you have dishonorable cunts… the Ice River Clans have never been south of the Wall, but they're what mothers tell their children about to scare them into behaving. Cannibals, kinslayers, sisters and motherfuckers… they're not men at all.” Qhorin spat, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Willhelm took a spear to the gut, and I was about to slit my own throat. The River Clans prefer to extend their meals, you see. Taking bits over time so they always have fresh meat.”

Brandon wasn't a man that cowered easily, Mance saw. Lesser boys paled and shivered when they realized that the tales about wildlings, at least some of them, were true. Brandon looked as if he were about to grab his sword and march beyond the Wall by himself, just to correct the mistake that were the Ice River Clans.

Qhorin continued, “The Fremen saved me. They were hunting the fuckers -- Ice River Clans always go on a final hunt before winter begins for fresh meat, and it seems like they found themselves hunted instead. There were a dozen of the River Clan, and before I even realized what was happening, six of them were dead. An arrow to the eye each. I only saw one Fremen that day… but he was fierce. Fought without fear of death, wielding two daggers, and killed another six men like he was carving a bloody cake. I passed out then, and when I woke up, I was bound and gagged. Figured I was going to my death, but I never managed to escape before I arrived at their Sieche, as they called it.”

There was a hungry glint that appeared in the Stark’s gray eyes, “You've been to their home?”

“Aye. It's deep in the Frostfangs, though I couldn't for the life of me tell you where. They have a natural spring, and there's a network of tunnels. I don't know how big, or how many people live there. I was blindfolded the entire time, and they pretty much tossed me in a cell for two years.” Qhorin shrugged, not quite apologetically.

There was a creak of wood as Brandon leaned back in his seat, “You don't sound like you begrudge them for it.”

“Worse ways to spend winter. Especially for a man of the Watch in the hands of wildlings. Figured the most I could hope for was a slow death. Instead, they fed me twice a day and when winter ended, they sent me on my way.” Qhorin answered, and Mance knew that wasn't entirely true. He didn't know what the truth was exactly, but Qhorin was his friend and had a hand in raising him, so he knew that his friend always left something out of the story when he told it.

Brandon nodded, scratching at his short beard, accepting the answer for what it was. “This Muad'Dib came to Winterfell, posing as a man of the Watch. He came bearing fine goods with the claim that his tribe created them. Did you see anything that hinted to the truth?” Seems like they were finally getting to the heart of the matter.

Qhorin shook his head, “I didn't see much, milord. I heard things, though. Children curious to see a crow, saying things they shouldn't. I learned some things from the lass that brought me my meals too,” He answered, scratching at his cheek. “I know they have a suit that lets them hunt in the height of winter beyond the Wall, because they always had meat. They have an odd contraption made of wheels that makes a noise at certain times of the day. I also know they smith with steel.” Then he pursed his lips.

“They speak of Muad'Dib almost reverently, but they wouldn't tell me much about him. They're protective of him. Loyal too,” Qhorin then frowned. “I also know that he takes children from defeated tribes, boys and girls as young as five and as old as ten. One of the boys let something slip -- he called himself Fedaykin. Or that he would one day become one. Muad'Dib seems to be training them personally… I convinced two of them to do a spar, milord.”

“And?” Brandon prompted, sounding faintly uncertain.

“If they were any higher than my waist, they'd probably kill me in a fair fight. And I'm one of the deadliest men in the Night’s Watch, halfhand or not,” Qhorin admitted. “They were fast, coordinated, and they didn’t hesitate to attack or defend. When they become men grown, they're going to be a terror in a fight. They'll cut through the Watch like a scythe through wheat, milord.”

There was a long stretch of silence at the declaration. Mance hadn't seen it himself, but he trusted Qhorin’s word.

Then Brandon spoke, “Then I have good news. I’m not here to make an enemy of this Muad'Dib. He came to my father to trade… and with the aid of the Night’s Watch, I shall seek to make a deal with him.” Dressed it up nicer than it was, but Mance figured that was part of being a noble.

Lord Commander Qorgyle nodded, “It’s shameful to admit, but we do have men that trade with the wildlings -- furs, and the like. I know some of them. I can reposition them, send them over to Shadowtower, and they’ll help smuggle the wildling goods into the North. It’ll be an old hat for some of them that were sent here for smuggling.” Brandon nodded, unsurprised by the news, nor their willingness to aid him in the endeavor.

“For a price, I imagine. That’s fine. They’ll get their due, as will the Night’s Watch,” Brandon promised. “Now it’s just a matter of getting ahold of the-”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. The Lord Commander glanced at Brandon, who nodded, before he called out, “Enter!”

Samson, a steward that had been caught raping a barmaid, stepped into the office. “My lords, there… there’s a wildling outside of the gate. She says she’s here t-to escort Lord Stark to the godswood,” he stuttered ever so slightly at the intense looked that flashed over Brandon’s face. A mix between surprised, displeasure, and curiosity.

“Muad'Dib wants me to come to him?” Brandon asked, sounding almost curious. Mance just felt relieved. He expected that he and Qhorin were going to be sent out to the Frostfangs to fetch the Fremen. A wolfish smile found its way onto his face, “Why not? I’ve always wanted to go beyond the Wall. Who knows when I’ll get another chance?”

Lord Commander Qorgyle’s face twisted like he had taken a sip of fermented goat’s milk, “My lord, I must protest this- they’re wildlings.” He didn’t speak of fear for fear of Brandon himself, but for Lord Rickard’s wrath if they managed to let his heir die.

Brandon shook his head, “They won’t gain anything if this is a trap, beyond the ire of the North. Muad'Dib said he wanted to foster relations and he’s willing to meet before the Old Gods. I’ll believe him,” he said, and the Lord Commander paled.

“And if you’re wrong?” He desperately tried, but everyone in the room saw that the young lord’s mind was made up.

He confirmed as much when he threw his head back and laughed, “I imagine I’ll do a lot of screaming as I die!” He said with the confidence of a man convinced he wouldn’t die. And one ignorant of what his death would mean for others. Mance decided then that he didn’t particularly like the young lord, though that was mostly because of the heart attack he seemed bent on giving the Lord Commander. “I’ll gather my companions and set out.”

With that, he left the room and Lord Commander Qorgyle looked at them both desperately. “Protect him. I’m sorry, but we can’t afford to let him die from his own foolishness!”

Mance nodded easily, “Aye. We’ll make sure the lordling gets back alive. Though can’t promise it'll be in one piece,” he said, flashing a smile when the Lord Commander glowered at him. Qhorin slapped him on the shoulder, offering a curt nod, and they left before they could drive him into an early grave. They were already prepared for a journey, so they ended up taking out some supplies from their packs before they headed down to the gate where Brandon and his companions were.

Brandon didn’t seem surprised to see them either, “The Lord Commander sent you just in case?” He questioned, and Mance glanced at the sword at his belt. Fine steel that was, complete with a snarling wolf pommel.

“Aye, just in case,” Qhorin agreed. “The weirwood tree is half a league beyond the Wall. And I wouldn’t bother with horses -- unless they're trained for it… they’ll get spooked and throw you off,” he warned, making Brandon pause.

He nodded, “I’ll take your word for it, ranger.” He agreed easily enough. Seems like he was willing to be smart about being a fool. At least he wasn’t making their job harder.

Mance took a breath as the five of them lined up before the gate that slowly creaked open with a squeal of cold iron. They walked through the tunnel of ice, hearing the gate close behind them. Then, a minute later, the gate before them began to squeal as well as it was lifted up, revealing… a woman. Early twenties, blonde hair, green eyes -- pretty. She wore an odd suit of a whitish gray material that did very little to hide her figure.

Mance felt a stirring the moment he saw her. He had seen women before. His brothers even took him to Moletown so he might know a woman before he took his vows. He swallowed it down, pushing the feeling aside. He was a man of the Night’s Watch. He had been all of his life. And he would be until his dying day, pretty face be damned.

However, Mance wasn’t the only one that the woman stirred a reaction in. Brandon, instantly, seemed interested, “You’re our guide, I take it?”

“Aye. I’ll take you to Muad'Dib. He waits for you at the heart tree,” She answered, her gaze sliding over all of them before lingering on he and Qhorin. Her lips curled ever so slightly, but it wasn't in disgust how most wildlings looked upon Watchmen. She seemed amused and Mance got the feeling he was the butt of a joke.

“Lead the way then, lady…?” Brandon offered, a sly smile tugging up at one corner of his mouth as the wildling turned to start marching towards the weirwood. Instantly, Mance felt uneasy -- it was a very rare wildling that would willingly turn their back to a crow.

The wildling snorted, “Gertrud. You southerners are daft enough to remind a woman that she's a woman?” She didn't bother turning around as they began the trek. There was a path, an ancient one, that led to the weirwood from those that wished to say their vows to the Old Gods, as Mance did.

Brandon’s smirk dropped, while Martyn bristled, “We’re northerners-” He began to spit out, earning an unimpressed glance from Gertrud, but Brandon waved him off.

“We live south of her. Can't say I care for being called a southerner, though,” he admitted. Gertrud shrugged her shoulders, indifferent and uncaring.

“I can call you kneelers, if that helps,” she said in a tone delighted by knowing that it wouldn't. “I never understood that part. Why bow down to some cunt half a world away?”

Mance found himself agreeing with her, however silently. He swore an oath before the gods and gained a family of brothers. Answering to a Lord Stark, a man he had never seen in a castle that he had never seen, always felt…

“You serve Muad'Dib, just as I serve my father and he serves the king. Just with more pomp and pageantry,” Brandon replied and it was obvious enough what he was doing. It was enough to make Mance start to worry -- how do you save a man from himself? “Speaking of which -- have you served him long?”

Gertrud scoffed, “I’ve known him since he was a boy,” she answered with ease. “Watched him grow up from a boy to a man. That’s the difference, between us free folk and you kneelers. I can understand kneeling for someone you know. Someone you see greatness in firsthand. But you lot bow down to a name and a fancy hat. For what?” She asked, her voice less scornful than Mance had heard from some wildlings, but not by much.

The remarks were getting to Martyn, yet Brandon, who they were directed at, was unbothered. It left Martyn to be offended on his behalf at the disrespect… If Brandon noticed Martyn’s growing ire, he ignored it in favor of answering, “We make oaths and we keep them. In return, we're given privileges and rights.”

Gertrud shook her head all the same, “And if the kneeler king decides to go back on those oaths?”

“Then we kill the king,” Brandon replied darkly, an edge entering his voice and Mance regretted hearing that. Gertrud glanced back with a smile at that, genuinely approving and that was a dangerous sign if Mance ever saw one. Martyn favored him a look, but seemed content to say nothing.

The wildling hummed as she led them down the path, and Mance kept an eye on the trees with a hand on his blade. Even as he kept an ear open to the conversation that seemed to become more and more private.

“Suppose we have that in common. You southerners like to act like you're better because you stacked some bricks and you're arse sits in a throne, but at the end of the day, it's all the same. You're the same as any man. Like how I can feel your eyes on my arse,” She remarked, not even glancing back.

Brandon didn't even seem ashamed, “It's a lovely arse. And for my people, you’re dressed… immodestly,” he offered, amused.

“Fancy silk dresses don't last long in the North- the true North,” Gertrud replied drily. “But I'm surprised. I know the crows fuck goats and each other because they swore off women, but I figured a lord would want some gentle lady that smells of flowers, faints at the sight of blood, and weeps at every sad tale.”

A complicated expression passed over Brandon’s face. “In the south, aye. And if my father has his way, I'll be married to some soft lady,” he spat on the ground like he tasted something foul. “I prefer a woman. The kind that'll smack me when I'm being an arse… and one who’ll smack me on the arse when we fuck rather than lay there like a dead fish.” It sounded like he had someone in mind when he spoke.

Gertrud heard it too, coming to a stop before turning around. There was a coy smile tugging at her lips, sauntering up to Brandon and he looked at her with the same longing as a dog to a bone. Martyn, however, tensed, his hand ready to draw steel.

Then she smacked him and the steel leaped from its scabbards.

Gertrud didn't seem alarmed before Brandon held out a hand to ward Martyn off. She stood before him, unrepentant, simply waiting for his reason and Mance felt his breath caught in his throat.

What he didn't expect was for Brandon to laugh, absolutely delighted. He seemed absolutely smitten with her, Mance concluded. “I deserved that one, my lady,” he said, smiling broadly even as his cheek shone a bright red.

“Maybe if you're lucky, I'll smack you on the arse next,” Gertrud teased, walking on as if nothing happened. Not that they had particularly far to go as Mance saw a hint of red that marked the weirwood tree. And, as they neared, Gertrud spoke, “If any of you try to break the peace, I'll cut you cunt to throat and feed your innards to the Old Gods.”

Brandon just grinned as they continued to the grove and there, Mance saw the weirwood tree. The tree was ancient, as old as the wall itself, its large trunk was a pale white, and its many branches were heavy with blood red leaves. A face was carved into the trunk, a face that seemed to be caught in a silent scream as it wept tears of blood. A shiver raced down his spine at the sight, and the silence.

It was always unnaturally silent near a heart tree, as if the animals themselves dared not to breathe in its presence.

However, before the tree, Mance saw a man. More of a boy, really. Small and thin, dark hair pushed out of his face that was growing out of its boyish looks to become a man. He wore the same odd suit that Gertrud wore, but over it was a ragged and frayed linen cloak that was draped over his body, half hiding his hands.

Then the boy moved and Mance instantly felt uneasy. The boy moved as if the ground would never dare to trip him, and even as he held out his hands, showing that he was unarmed, Mance didn’t feel comforted in the slightest. There was absolutely no evidence to support it, but deep in his gut, Mance knew exactly who he stood before -- Muad'Dib.

Muad'Dib wasn’t bothered by their numbers either, though his gaze was focused on Brandon, “Lord Stark.” As he greeted the lord, Gertrud continued on, falling to the side of Muad'Dib with practiced ease, her hand resting on a dagger at her hip as she eyed them as if debating which one to kill first.

Brandon held Muad'Dib’s gaze for a moment, “You have some balls lying to my father like that.” He began, his voice gruff and less than friendly.

Muad'Dib offered a thin smile, “I never lied to your lord father. Not once. I merely claimed to have news from beyond the wall, and I happened to be wearing black.” Mance frowned deeply, understanding what was being implied. Muad'Dib had gotten over the Wall. That made his guts tie themselves into knots -- wildlings being south of the Wall was a failing, but Muad'Dib being south of the Wall… that felt more like a disaster.

A huff escaped Martyn Cassel, a sour expression upon his face, “Your name, then? You introduced yourself as Paul Atreides, a noble scion. You’re telling me that’s not a bold fuckin’ lie?” The older man growled, a hand falling to his sword.

Muad'Dib didn’t seem bothered by the accusation. “Paul Atreides is my name. As is Usul Muad'Dib,” he answered easily, making Brandon frown.

“You’re house words?” He prompted, as if trying to catch Muad'Dib out in a lie. To that, Muad'Dib’s gaze seemed almost sad as he answered.

“Here I Am, Here I Remain,” Muad'Dib answered, sounding wistful. It wasn’t an emotion that Mance expected from the boy. But he was far more interested on how this was supposed to make sense. Gertrud spoke as if Muad'Dib as if he had been a wildling all of his life. “A red hawk on black with a history stretching back ten thousand years…” That got a reaction out of the two lordlings. It got one from Mance and Qhorin as well -- he claimed his family was older than the Wall itself by two thousand years.

The information had but a moment to settle before Brandon spoke, “Yet, you are a wildling beyond the Wall.” Mance looked to Gertrud for a hint, but her expression betrayed nothing. It was almost unnerving how emotionless her face was, listening to them speak… even her body was unnaturally still. He’d think her dead if it wasn’t for her breathing.

“We prefer the term Free Folk, Lord Stark. My tribe in particular is called the Fremen as Qhorin has likely informed you,” Muad'Dib said, his gaze flickering to Mance’s friend for the first time. “It is nice to see you again. I hope you enjoyed your stay. The children miss you,” Muad'Dib said and Mance found himself gripping his blade. He heard what went unsaid as easily as if Muad'Dib had spoken the words out loud.

Muad'Dib knew exactly what had made it to Qhorin’s ears.

Qhorin licked his lips, “I’ve had worse winters.” He allowed, inclining his head to Muad'Dib. With two meals a day, he likely ate better last winter than Mance did at the Wall.

It was then that Brandon crossed his arms over his chest, “I have searched for your house in the records at Winterfell. They made no mention of a House Atreides. Much less one with the history that you claim.”

Muad'Dib nodded, “I did tell your father that I would be shocked if he knew of my House. However, my lord, I doubt that you came all this way to ask me about my family.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. I prefer to know who I’m jumping in bed with beforehand,” Brandon replied curtly. “I barely know a damned thing about you, and what I do know doesn’t make a lick of sense. Are you an exile? Do the wildlings have some ancient empire that they’ve neglected to mention?” He pressed, setting his jaw and Mance saw that he was determined to get at least one straight answer from Muad'Dib.

Muad'Dib seemed to sense this as well because he spoke. “House Atreides was of the Great Houses of the Padishah Empire, who was ruled by the Corrino family for ten thousand years. My family was of status with your own, Lord Stark -- a large fief with numerous vassals sworn to us. Though we were called Dukes in the empire, and we were second only to the Emperor himself,” he spoke and Mance saw Brandon growing tense the more he heard. “At least, we were until we were betrayed. My family- my father proved to be too popular and Emperor Shaddam Corrino the Fourth was a jealous man. Working with my family rivals, House Harkonnen, he arranged for my family to be slaughtered.”

How he spoke of it… you’d think it happened to someone else. He spoke dispassionately, his voice steady. It was an old hurt for him, Mance reasoned, or he was too young to remember what he spoke of. Or, he could just be lying. He rather hoped that he might be, because otherwise that meant that there was some place called the Padishah Empire out there.

He’d have to pester Maester Aemon if they got back to Castle Black. He heard of far off lands, such as Essos, or even more distant lands such as Yi Ti. Could the world be even larger than what he heard? And he had seen only such a small portion of it.

“Do you seek revenge?” Brandon asked and, to that, Muad'Dib smiled. It should be charming, Mance knew. Yet, it turned Mance’s blood to ice.

“What child doesn’t want to avenge his father?” Muad'Dib questioned with a raised eyebrow, “But, given current circumstances, my vengeance shall have to wait.” He replied, offering nothing more. That, more than anything else, convinced Mance that he was dangerous. He knew vengeance. He had seen it in the wildings when the Watch killed their fathers, brothers, and sons. He saw it in the Watch when the wildlings killed a brother. Vengeance was hot and angry and impulsive. Muad’Dib was as cold as winter itself. “Are you satisfied with your answers, Lord Stark?”

He half hoped that Brandon would say no, just so Mance could hear more, but the lord nodded his head. “I’ve heard enough, aye. Though, I feel like I’ve gained more questions than answers -- you are right, I didn’t come all this way to interrogate you. I’ve come to make a deal with your tribe… Lord Atreides,” he said after a pause, nodding at Muad'Dib. Acknowledging him as another noble.

“You speak with the authority of your father?” Muad'Dib questioned and Brandon offered a curt nod.

“My word is his own,” Brandon confirmed. “As such, I have the authority to deny such a trade. I will not lie to you, you possess fine goods and we both know it. Yet, not so fine that I would risk the ire of my bannermen for trinkets and baubles.” Ah, so the haggling had officially begun, has it?

Muad'Dib didn’t so much as blink, perfectly poised and comfortable where he stood. “Then we shall not trade in trinkets nor baubles,” he replied smoothly, making no opening offer.

Brandon scowled ever so slightly before speaking, “The suits that you wear. The one that you left behind does as you said -- we had a stable hand wear it, and he slept in the snow without issue.” Mance glanced at the two of them, noting the odd clothing that they wore. Was that the suit that he mentioned?

“The suits are not easy to create. Think of each as a fine suit of armor, and you will have an idea of the process to make one.” And the cost would be equal. A full suit of fine armor was expensive. The only times he saw any was when lords came to the Wall and he heard the whispers of how those lords bought them for amounts of money that were equal to what a hundred men could earn in a year. “However, I believe that we can create two suits for yourself and Lord Stark by the time of the first shipment, if you would be so kind as to forward your measurements.”

“That can be arranged… at what cost?” Brandon questioned, and Mance noticed that he was too direct. Too… open. He heard haggling on occasion when an odd ship came up from the south for furs, amber, and what have you. He heard it between his brothers as well whenever they got new things such as boots or cloaks. You’d think someone had them at knife point, forcing them to buy something they had no interest in.

“Ten pounds of precious metals -- gold, or silver. Or two hundred pounds of iron, copper, tin, or unripened silver,” Muad'Dib replied and Mance had no idea if that was a fair price. Martyn made a subtle gesture that Brandon caught, who shook his head at the price.

“Eight pounds of precious metals, or one hundred and fifty pounds of common metals,” Brandon countered, his tone serious. Mance got the impression that he was new to haggling, but he was determined to get a good deal. Unfortunately for him, so was Muad'Dib. The two went back and forth a bit before settling on seven pounds of precious metals or two hundred and fifty pounds of common metals. From the sounds of it, it’d still be less costly to buy it with the common ores.

“I also understand that you can make glass. What would it cost to produce a pane of it?” Brandon questioned, and Muad'Dib expected the question.

“For a large pane, such as one to a glasshouse, I would accept five pounds of dragonglass,” Muad'Dib answered and Brandon paused for a moment before nodding in acceptance.

“A full glasshouse would take two hundred panes of glass to build,” he said, not bothering to hide his intentions. “Would you accept a compromise of ores and other goods?” He asked and Muad'Dib nodded easily.

“That is acceptable. It will take some time to fulfill the contract of two hundred panes. A year,” the wildling said, and that didn’t sound like a guess to Mance. “We shall ship them as we make them to stagger the delivery and the cost,” he offered, earning a nod from Brandon. “We have a ship ready to use, but it will be a month before we could create the suits for you. It is ready to be used, however, and it has other things that may be of interest to you or Lord Stark.” There was an offer there and Brandon heard it.

He seemed to ponder it for a moment before speaking, “The blacksails won’t bother your ship, and you’ll send it to the Mountain Clan Liddle, who will expect you. The goods will then be brought to Winterfell under their banner and protection, there we shall pay for the exchange. Your merchants will return, load up on their ship once more, and return beyond the Wall. The first of these exchanges can start next month, when the spring storms settle.”

There was one issue with the plan, Mance decided. “What about the wildlings of the Frozen Shore? There aren’t that many of them, true, but they’re fine enough warriors that don’t tend to welcome outsiders.”

Mance couldn’t say he liked it when Muad'Dib looked at him for the first time. His eyes were dark, but there was something in his eyes that made Mance’s skin crawl. Something dangerous. It was as if Mance was stripped bare before him, and not even his own thoughts were private. And when Muad'Dib spoke, he couldn’t say that it gave him any comfort. “The Free Folk clans of the Frozen Shore have been… subjugated. They now answer to me. Our ships shall pass.”

Qhorin startled at that, “The fuck do you mean, they answer to you?” He blurted, feeling the same spike of panic that Mance felt. There was an estimated of five to ten thousand men along the Frozen Shore. If the defeat of the Thegns was under the same conditions, that was fifteen thousand wildlings that answered to Muad'Dib, a far cry from the believed couple of hundred.

“Your alarm is unnecessary. I have no intention of marching on the Wall, or becoming king beyond it,” Muad'Dib replied blandly.

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all. If Muad'Dib was some wildling off in the Frostfangs with a small tribe, then that wasn’t his problem. He wasn’t any more dangerous than the average wildling and he was a far off problem. Now he learned that he had an army at his back.

“Do I have your word?” Brandon asked while he and Qhorin bristled. Mance bit his lip to swallow some choice words.

“You do,” Muad'Dib replied evenly. “I swear it upon my family name and my father, Leto Atreides.” That wasn’t enough for Mance. He didn’t give a damn who his father was -- this whole deal just became more suspect. It felt like they were going to be giving the wildlings knives and swords that would be turned against his own brothers.

Brandon accepted the answer for what it was. “We’ll test this arrangement for a year, until the glasshouse is completed. If there is any suspicion that you’re uniting the clans…” he trailed off, clenching his jaw and staring hard into Muad'Dib’s eyes. “I’ll kill you myself.”

Muad'Dib didn’t react to the threat, though Gertrud openly glared at Brandon. Muad'Dib held up a hand, forestalling any action before he speaking, “I understand your hesitation. I accept these terms. It has been a pleasure, Lord Stark,” Muad'Dib said, turning around and walking away. Mance watched him go, idly debating if it was worth being damned by the gods to plunge a blade into his back.

Not that he would have a chance, Mance soon learned when he heard the crunching of snow around him. His blade jumped out of its sheath before, much to his horror, a dozen men and women emerged from the snow in a plume of flurries. They must have laid on the ground for hours, long enough that any trace of their arrival was undone with the gentle snow falling. Another three emerged from behind the trees, and Mance saw that they each wielded a weirwood branch bow.

“Hold,” Brandon growled, grabbing Mance by the shoulder when he got ready to defend himself. “They’re not enemies,” he added and, sure enough, the Fremen who all wore the odd suits that Muad'Dib was, were heading to follow their leader away from the heart tree. Any trace of moisture was gone from Mance’s mouth.

They were surrounded. They had been surrounded since the moment they stepped beyond the Wall, and they hadn’t been any the wiser. Their lives had been in Muad'Dib’s hands.

And he let them know it.