Chapter 122 – Each Holding Their Ground, and Negotiation
The war reached a stalemate.
The wildlings' first assault had failed, and their losses were far from light. Their initial momentum had clearly been blunted—but faced with this formidable obstacle, they neither retreated nor sought another route.
Instead, they pitched camp in the forest opposite the Wall, a place known as the White Tree Grove.
It was as if they had sworn not to leave until their objective was achieved.
The Night's Watch and the northern forces, however, showed little concern. Compared to the barren lands beyond the Wall, they suffered no shortage of supplies. If it came down to attrition, the wildlings would be the first to break.
Moreover, the bulk of the North's armies would soon arrive. When that happened, this rabble would find themselves crushed without mercy.
Yet just as the commanders were thinking along those lines, the wildlings made an unexpected move—
They sent envoys, requesting negotiations.
"Negotiation? Ridiculous!"
Inside Castle Black's Shieldhall, brightly lit by torches, the senior officers of the Night's Watch and the leaders of the northern forces debated the matter heatedly.
"So the hard way didn't work, and now they want to try the soft one?" Ser Alliser sneered loudly. "Since when did the world work that way?"
The former master-at-arms had been sent south by the Lord Commander to seek reinforcements and supplies, only to turn back in terror when wildfire erupted in King's Landing. Upon his return to Castle Black, he discovered that his position had been taken by a notorious brute.
Already furious over that humiliation, this news only pushed him further over the edge.
Even though many in the hall had greater standing than he did, his words echoed the general sentiment among the black brothers.
"We don't need to give them the time of day," someone added. "Once Lord Eddard's forces arrive, they'll be begging for mercy."
"They won't wait that long," a sharp-eyed middle-aged officer countered. "Anyone can see this is only temporary. We should be watching Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower closely. The talks may be a feint—meant to lull us into complacency."
"A feint? Don't be absurd. Wildlings don't think like that."
"The wildlings may not," someone said quietly, "but Mance does."
At those words, the Night's Watch commanders hesitated.
Beyond the Wall, their enemy's leader—Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall—had once been one of them. Many here knew him personally, some even counted him as a friend.
Which was precisely why they did not dare underestimate him.
"We can't afford to be careless," another voice said. "We have manpower now. Reinforce the flanks. Mance has always been cunning."
"Most of the Shadow Tower's men went out on patrol with Qhorin Halfhand," someone else added grimly. "There aren't many left to defend it."
As the black brothers spoke, their gazes gradually turned toward the front benches—toward Robb Stark, seated in silence, and the young man beside him.
At present, the reinforcements at the Wall consisted of only two forces: the heir of House Stark, and the five hundred Bolton men assigned to Lord Cranston.
The latter answered only to that young man's orders. The former likewise took no commands from the Watch.
If any new deployments were to be made, the consent of these two was essential.
Robb himself had no objections. After all, he had come north specifically to aid the Night's Watch.
Charles, however, had no intention of agreeing so readily.
"Ignoring them will only make matters worse," he said calmly. "The wildlings are a threat, yes—but compared to the Others, what are they, really?"
As the hall fell quiet, he turned to Robb. "I'm actually quite interested in these negotiations. What do you think?"
"I—"
Before Robb could respond, angry voices erupted among the Night's Watch.
"The Others are enemies—but so are the wildlings!"
"Who knows where those so-called Others even are? The wildlings are right in front of us!"
"Negotiation is out of the question!"
"Ser Alliser is right! Every last wildling deserves to die!"
The reaction from the Night's Watch was fierce.
Charles merely glanced at them, unconcerned.
To him, the Watch's effective fighting strength amounted to fewer than a hundred men—and most of them were green recruits. Their opinions carried little weight in his eyes.
Even if, in a sense, he was overstepping his place.
"Splitting the forces—what a bloody brilliant idea," Sandor Clegane sneered from the corner, his voice dripping with contempt. "If I remember right, there are a few dozen old crows here who can barely lift a sword, hiding in their rooms waiting to die. Why not send them to defend the Shadow Tower? No one else is left anyway. And I don't see the wizard doing what you lot say."
"This isn't your place to speak, you dead dog!" the former master-at-arms snapped, glaring at the new one.
Before the insult could hang in the air, Charles flicked a glance his way.
"And it isn't yours either."
Faced with that youthful expression, the man clenched his jaw—but didn't dare say another word.
The remaining dissenting brothers visibly wilted.
These sentinels at the edge of the world rarely paid attention to affairs beyond the Wall, but even they had heard Charles's name. As for Ser Alliser, fresh from his journey, there was no way he didn't understand exactly who he was dealing with.
His earlier protest had been reflexive. The moment the words left his mouth, he'd regretted them—and now he certainly wasn't foolish enough to step forward again.
He was angry, yes. But he wasn't stupid.
"Do the Others really exist?" Robb asked quickly, trying to ease the tension.
"I've seen them with my own eyes," Charles replied. He then glanced toward Jon Snow, sitting silently on a bench in the corner. "In your traditions, direwolf spirits and the Others are both legends—yet there's a wolf-spirit sitting right beside you now, plain as day."
"What?" Robb exclaimed in shock.
Jon stared at Charles, stunned. He had no idea how this man could possibly know.
"But that isn't the point," Charles continued, ignoring their reactions. Sitting back in his chair, he looked around the hall. "I propose negotiations. Who here objects?"
Many did.
No one spoke.
An unnatural silence fell over the room.
Charles smiled faintly. He didn't mind this kind of cold response.
After all, this was their territory. Simply speaking up as he had already bordered on overreach.
If it weren't necessary, he wouldn't have pushed so bluntly. But as he had said—compared to the true enemy, the wildlings barely mattered.
To be honest, continuing the war would benefit him personally. He could grow stronger through battle, harvesting experience with every kill.
But the enemy wasn't foolish. They wouldn't throw their lives away forever.
If the assault dragged on without results, the wildlings would eventually retreat—or fall into internal conflict. And when that happened, remaining north of the Wall would only feed soldiers to the true enemy.
Better to forgo small gains and prepare for the unknown threat.
Especially after the Three-Eyed Raven's plea.
Yet deep-seated hatred blinded these men. Even Robb hesitated.
Negotiation—what was there to negotiate?
It came down to one question: allow the wildlings through the Wall, or don't.
The wildlings wanted passage south. The Watch refused. There were no other options.
That was why the reaction had been so fierce. Before talks even began, everyone already knew what would be demanded.
Charles couldn't truly empathize with the North's hatred.
For thousands of years, even with the Wall standing, small bands of wildlings had slipped through. They raided, raped, burned—leaving nothing but ashes behind.
So even with the looming threat of the Others, even if his words rang true, resistance was inevitable.
The meeting ended in silence.
The following day brought no resolution either.
But on the third day, the stalemate was finally broken.
"I would never have agreed before—but now…"
Under the tolling bells, a group of rangers returned from beyond the Wall. All of Castle Black gathered as Jeor Mormont, old and disheveled, was helped into the Shieldhall by a fat black-clad man. He slowly took the high seat, coughed weakly, then spoke:
"Agree to their request for negotiations. Bowen—go speak with Mance. Set the terms."
"Lord Commander!"
Someone sprang to their feet in protest, but Mormont silenced them with a raised hand.
Still unwilling to yield, the man tried to speak again—only to be interrupted by an aged ranger who had returned with the commander.
"You haven't seen those monsters," the ranger said hoarsely. "We have. If it weren't for—"
He shook his head, unable to continue.
Three hundred men had ridden out. Barely twenty returned.
At the Fist of the First Men, the dead had risen in waves, slaughtering the Watch. More were lost when chaos broke the ranks.
Had it not been for Samwell Tarly—and for Small Paul, returned from death only to tear a traitor apart—the Lord Commander himself might not have survived.
If Mormont had fallen, the Night's Watch would have been finished.
Faced with the true enemy, what were wildlings, really?
And so, despite lingering objections, the decision was made.
That afternoon, under countless conflicted gazes, Bowen Marsh left Castle Black and met the wildlings beyond bow range to negotiate.
The talks did not go well.
"They'll fight the Others with us," Bowen reported upon returning, "but they refuse to follow our laws."
He paused before adding, "They claim to possess the Horn of Winter. They say it can bring the Wall down—and bury us all. They aren't afraid of threats."
Laughter rippled through the hall.
"A horn that destroys the Wall?"
"Then why haven't they blown it?"
Bowen sighed. "Because only the Wall can stop the Others—and Mance says he's not a fool."
He didn't fully believe it himself. But with someone like Charles present, and the wildlings speaking in earnest, the possibility couldn't be dismissed.
"If they won't obey the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, they cannot be allowed through," Ser Alliser declared, glancing instinctively at Charles.
Charles didn't react.
He wasn't worried.
He didn't know about any Horn of Winter—but when Mormont returned, Charles had seen the fat man who had summoned him twice… and the cracked, worthless horn in his pack.
The Eye of Reality never lied.
So what horn were the wildlings talking about?
Obviously, a bluff.
They couldn't afford to remain locked in stalemate forever.
"And besides," Charles thought calmly, "the opportunity is right here. I don't believe you won't act."
As expected, the very next day, a gaunt wildling was sent to deliver a message.
"We've thought it over," the man shouted inside the hall, unfazed by the hostile stares. "If you want us to follow the laws of the green lands, fine—but we settle it with a contest!"
"A duel?" someone scoffed. "Unless you send a giant, you don't stand a chance."
"A giant could crush you kneelers with one hand," the wildling shot back. "But we hear you have a wizard. Let's compete that way."
"How?" Mormont asked.
"We each choose one man. Behead them. Whoever dies last wins. If we win, we govern ourselves. If you win, you rule us."
Every eye turned to Charles.
He felt a headache coming on.
Did that crow get this idea because he saw me raise the dead?
"Do they have any idea," he muttered internally, "that this looks exactly like what the Others do?"