Eddard waved his hand, and Karas stepped forward to unroll a detailed map of the North across the rough oak table. The parchment was heavy, smelling of old leather and ink, its edges frayed from years of use in the Winterfell war rooms.
"Here," Eddard said, his finger tracing a broad arc south of the Wall. He drew a deliberate circle on the map, encompassing the eastern portion of the Gift between Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and the Last Hearth, bordering Seal Bay. "I need your people divided into two halves. The first half, led by Tormund, will settle here."
He glanced at the Free Folk representatives gathered on the other side of the iron grate. Most were listening with a wary intensity, but Mance Rayder's brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he looked at the demarcated zone.
Eddard offered a thin, unconcerned smile. "Within this area, you may live entirely according to your own customs. No one will force you to kneel to a King you don't recognize. No one will demand a head tax or a tithe of your livestock. Whether you want to farm the old soil, hunt the woods, or fish the freezing waters of the bay, that is your business."
His tone shifted, growing heavier, the "Winter Wizard" replacing the diplomat. "But you remain within the circle. You do not raid the Umbers. You do not 'steal' wives from the mountain clans. You do not cross the boundary unless called upon by the North."
The Free Folk's way of life was essentially prehistoric. They lacked the fundamental concepts of codified law or private property. To a Wildling, a thing belonged to the person strong enough to take it and hold it. Their consideration wasn't whether an act was "permissible," but whether the reward was worth the risk of their lives. Settling a hundred thousand such people alongside the traditional, property-revering Northmen without a strict buffer was a recipe for a bloody civil war that would gut the North before the Others even reached the gates.
Eddard's solution was clinical: divide the tribes, isolate them from the native population, and suppress them with an authority they couldn't ignore.
"Why am I the leader?" Tormund Giantsbane growled, leaning his massive head closer to the bars. His snow-white beard tangled in the iron as he squinted at the map with his grayish-white eyes. He looked profoundly displeased. "And why is the circle so small? It's as narrow as a giant's gut. We'll be tripping over each other's shits within a moon. Bigger. I want it bigger."
Tormund was illiterate and had no concept of cartographic scale. To him, a circle the size of a palm on a piece of paper meant a patch of mud the size of a sheepfold.
"Peace, Tormund," Jon Snow interrupted from Eddard's side. "That circle covers a vast territory, over a hundred kilometers in every direction. It's nearly the size of the Ghost Shadow Forest. There are abandoned fields there that haven't seen a plow in decades, and houses made of stone that are warmer than any tent you've ever pitched. Even if your population doubles, that land will feed you all."
Jon and Tormund had shared meat and stories Beyond the Wall; Tormund was one of the few who had shown the "Crow" a shred of genuine kindness. Jon knew that if he could convince Tormund, the largest contingent of the raiders would follow.
"Is that so?" Tormund scratched his head, yanking on his beard. He stepped back from the bars, looking at Mance. "I won't be the one to say 'aye.' Mance has the cunning for this. I can outdrink any man here, and my member is three times the size of yours, Karstark, but I know a trap when I smell one. Southerners and their maps... it smells like a cage."
"You want to separate us," Mance Rayder said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "This is not a sign of friendship, Eddard. You're breaking my people apart."
"What?" Eddard's eyes widened, his expression shifting from disbelief to a cold, simmering anger. He leaned over the table, his voice a lash. "Mance Rayder! Do you truly think you're in a position to negotiate the integrity of your 'Kingdom'? Are you still harbouring dreams of being the King-Beyond-the-Wall while you're sitting on my side of the ice?"
Eddard unceremoniously rolled up the map. "If that's your mind, then turn around. Go back into the blizzards. Gather your mammoths and your bone-spears and prepare to climb. I'll be waiting on top with two thousand crossbows. I'll kill ten thousand of your people before they even reach the first ledge. Perhaps then the survivors will find their manners."
He stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the stone. "And that horn? Blow it. Blow it until your lungs burst. Do you think I don't know it's a fake? A prop dug out of a giant's grave to keep your tribes from deserting you? You aren't scaring anyone, Mance."
Mance Rayder went perfectly still. The secret of the fake Horn of Joramun was his most guarded leverage. To have it dismissed so casually by a man who had never set foot in the Frostfangs shattered his confidence. He looked at Eddard with a flicker of genuine fear. How does he know?
The Free Folk were trapped. Behind them was the Night, full of walking corpses and an unnatural cold. In front of them was a 200-meter wall of ice and a man who seemingly knew their every secret.
"Wait," Mance said, his voice losing its regal edge. "I agree to the arrangement. We have no choice."
Eddard sat back down, his movements graceful and controlled. "From now on, you address me as 'My Lord.' As for the price of your survival, it is simple: you take up arms for the North when called. Tormund's group will garrison the abandoned castles of the Wall. They will serve under Commander Jon Snow. This winter, the North will provide the grain and salt-pork to keep you alive. In the spring, you plow the Gift and become self-sufficient."
He scanned the other leaders. Styr of the Thenns remained a statue of ice and bronze. Varamyr Sixskins' eyes darted like trapped birds. Harma Doghead looked as if she wanted to bite through the iron bars.
"And the other half, My Lord?" Mance asked, the title tasting like ash in his mouth.
"The rest will follow you to the east," Eddard explained. "We will settle you in the lands surrounding the Dreadfort. That is the territory of House Bolton. Your task is simple: you surround that castle. You let nothing in. You let nothing out. If a fly tries to leave the Dreadfort, I want one of your archers to pin it to the stone."
Eddard had no intention of completely stripping Mance of his leadership yet. The Free Folk followed individuals, not offices. If he tried to appoint a Northern lord to lead them, they would revolt. But by splitting them, half with Jon at the Wall, half with Mance at the Dreadfort, he severed their mutual communication and sandwiched them between powerful Northern houses like the Umbers, Karstarks, and Manderlys.
"If the Boltons starve," Mance asked, his eyes narrowing with a sharp, political greed, "does the Dreadfort belong to the Free Folk?"
Mance had been a brother of the Watch. He understood the value of a high-walled castle. If he could go from a nomad king to a landed Lord with a hereditary seat for his unborn child, the deal was better than anything he could have imagined.
"Whether the Dreadfort belongs to you depends on your performance and King Robb's whim," Eddard replied. "My promise is only for the land and the safety of your people. Do you understand?"
Mance nodded slowly, falling into a deep silence.
"How is this different from a prison?" Harma Doghead spat, her pockmarked face twisting with rage. "You give us a 'circle' and tell us we die if we leave it. It's just an iron cage with more grass, Mance! Are we really going to be men who kneel?"
"No one is forcing you, Harma," Tormund barked. "If you love the cold so much, go back to the Milkwater and see how the Others like the taste of your dog-head banner."
"You boastful old fool!" Varamyr Sixskins sneered, the eagle on his shoulder spreading its wings. "Watch your tongue, or I'll have my shadowcat rip it out while you sleep!"
"Try it, you little rat!" Tormund laughed, though his hand went to his belt. "I've wrestled giants bigger than your mangy cat!"
"ENOUGH!"
Eddard's shout echoed through the tunnel like a thunderclap, silencing the bickering. He looked at Mance Rayder with weary impatience. "Control your people, Mance. If they can't keep quiet in a negotiation, I doubt they can keep quiet on a battlefield. If you need time to think, take it. I'm not the one being hunted by the dead."
Eddard stood and pulled his bearskin cloak tight. "The meeting is over. Send word when you're ready to march. Otherwise, the gates stay shut."
He turned and walked out of the passage, Jon Snow following close behind.
Karas remained at the grate, a playful, lethal smile on his face. He clapped his hands, and the Karstark crossbowmen in the murder holes above stood up, their bolts glinting in the torchlight. "Gentlemen, the door is closing. Please take your arguments back to the tents."
CREAK.
The massive nine-inch-thick oak door swung shut, leaving the Wildling leaders in the dark.
Late that night, Eddard lay in his bed in the King's Tower, staring at the rafters. He was mentally tallying the Soul Power he could harvest if he successfully integrated the Free Folk. It was the largest "unit acquisition" in the history of the System.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The door burst open before Karas could even announce the guest. Jon Snow stood there, his face pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Eddard! Get up!" Jon shouted, his eyes wide with alarm. "The parley broke! The Free Folk have started slaughtering each other in the camps!"
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
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