Interlude: The Wall and the Targs

They had come ashore north of Karhold, just across the border with the New Gift. Twelve dozen Hide-Covered Curraghs, each carrying twenty-five Wildling Warriors beached themselves on the shores of the New Gift, with Mance Rayder himself at their head. At the same time, three large bands of Wildling Raiders slipped past the wall in groups of a dozen or fewer using the abandoned castles at Sable Hall, Woodswatch-by-the-Pool, and Longbarrow while a concerted effort by The Lord of Bones and the Weeper distracted the Night's Watch Garrisons along the Milkwater.

These three warbands then coalesced back into their full forms under Harma Dogshead, Styr of Thenn, and Tormund Giantsbane, before joining together with the forces under Mance just east of the Village of Queenscrown in the New Gift. Five thousand of the Wildlings' Best Warriors, equipped in Pilfered Steel and Bronze formed up South of the Wall while the Black Brothers were busy defending against many times more of their comrades much further north.

The first any saw of them was when they neared Queenscrown in the New Gift. However, unlike the shell of a settlement it had been in previous decades, Shrewd Policy on the part of both the Night's Watch and Lord Stark had allowed the Town to be resettled by some of the Hill Clans, where the town had not only rebuilt but thrived. What this largely meant for the Wildlings was that while Mance had been expecting an easy sack of a small village with no defenses, he instead found a lively town with a wall of rammed earth and a dry moat across which wooden drawbridges could be drawn up using pulleys to deny entrance.

Furthermore, the Queenscrown Militia was present, and while not numerous, contained one out of every ten able-bodied men in the town, three hundred men armed in castle-forged steel ringmail, with spear, shield, bow, and axe. True, these were cast-offs handed down by the Night's Watch who had long since replaced them with equipment of Runic Arsenal Steel from Lord Seawynd's constant and generous donations, but it was still as good or better than what the majority of the Wildlings had.

On being confronted with such a sight, Mance camped his army beyond arrow range of the walls of Queenscrown for a day and a night while he decided on their next course of action. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to Mance as he was at sea at the time, Lord Eddard Stark had called what banners he could on the march north from White Harbor and was now making a beeline for Queenscrown after hearing of Mance's force. By the time Mance had decided where to head next, the Army of the North, containing some eight-thousand men and thirty guns from Houses Manderly, Flint of Widow's Watch, Bolton, Karstark, and Umber were already well on their way to catching up with them.

They would do so three days later, thirty-six hours after Mance's Army had sacked the village of Sheepshead two day's march north of Queenscrown, taking their fill of plunder and provisions from the Village. The Northern Army had marched through the burned-out village on the way to the Wild Barley Field south of the Village of Baker's Hearth where they would finally catch up with Mance Rayder.

When the Battle of Baker's Hearth began, it would not begin well for the Wildlings, nor would it change to favor them either. . .

XXXX

Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-The-Wall, couldn't believe what was happening. His plan had been flawless starting out, and he'd gotten his five thousand best troops over or around the Wall perfectly. Then had come the shock of Queenscrown, which had not been the barely functional glorified hamlet he remembered it being, but a functional town with proper defenses and a militia force that was equipped better than he recalled most Lords' wartime levies being.

He had thought that hitting that unprotected village of sheep herders had put him back on the right track. After all, nothing raised morale quite like plunder when it came to the Free Folk. His adoptive people did tend to be raiders by nature in that respect. Certainly, Harma had agreed, having made a new totem from one of the sheepdogs, while Tormund was happy to have mutton and Styr was eager to plunder the village's cash reserves. Apparently, he had some notion of forging a scale coat out of the coins won in these raids.

Of course, then they had moved toward another village, this one of Farmers rather than shepherds, and everything had come undone for them. The Starks had somehow caught them, with Ned Bloody Stark at their head. Mance had thought the Starks would be preoccupied in the South, but it just wasn't to be, apparently. Instead, they had come in force and brought some of those metal dragons that had been giving his forces so much trouble along the Milkwater with them. The second the battle began, it opened with those metal dragons belching forth fire, smoke, and death, and Harma losing her head to a bouncing metal ball.

Things had not improved since then, and now, Mance fought desperately, trying to salvage whatever was left of his force. They were attempting to cut their way out of the battle by whatever means they could. To his right, Tormund bisected a Man in Boiled Leather over blackened, steel, chainmail with a pair of piercing blue eyes on a field of blue and yellow etched across his cloak. Notably, Tormund was not using his usual Greatsword. The blade of stolen, Castle-Forged Steel had broken earlier in the battle, and Tormund had stolen a blackened steel, runic, Halberd from a Scale Clad Manderly Guardsman to use instead.

Styr, on the other hand, was finding that while his bronze scale armor was less than useful, bleeding from a dozen small wounds across his arms and shoulders that had punched through the bronze scales like they were scarcely there, the bronze bludgeon he had crafted for this campaign, specifically so that he could 'crack open the King of the Kneeler's chest like a walnut' as he put it, was still just as useful in bludgeoning guards clad in blackened steel to death as it was anywhere else. Alongside his own blood which ran down the front of his scale armor in rivulets from the many small wounds he'd sustained, was a heaping helping of brain matter from various enemies who had thought to challenge him.

Mance himself was no slouch. He had long since managed to sneak into Castle Black to acquire one of those Blackened Steel Runic Swords that the Night's Watch had started sporting some time ago. Now that blade was slick with gore and was like to be even more drenched before the day was out. Behind them, some two-thousand-six-hundred remaining Free Folk, mostly of the more disciplined contingents led by Tormund and Styr, added their weight to the wedge trying to punch through the enemy line.

"I suppose we ought to count ourselves lucky those metal dragons aren't firing any longer!" Called out Styr.

"We're too stuck in amongst their own men! Lord Stark won't chance fire hitting his own!" Responded Mance.

"Let him try! I'll dance aside from one of those bouncing metal balls quick as a mountain cat and come back to shove this spear right up the next kneeler who confronts me's arse!" Boasted Tormund.

"I'm sure Harma thought the same before the end!" Scoffed Styr.

"You ever see Harma dance? Clumsy as a newborn bitch that one, Har!" Laughed Tormund.

"Keep your eyes on the goal, the enemy lines are thinning, we're almost through!" Admonished Mance.

It was true, they'd bitten deep into the left wing of the Kneeler's army, the sudden shift in momentum from their deliberate, sudden, mad dash to escape adding to the shock of their charge. Now they just had to cut their way through the last few ranks and they could run. The question was, to where? Their Curraghs would be long gone by now, likely burned by vengeful townsfolk or men from Karhold. That would be for later, though. For now, they had to focus on escaping.

As Mance cut the throat out from a man in a Pink Cloak, he looked to see Tormund chopping the arm off a man whose cloak bore the Sunburst of Karhold, while Styr stove in the chest of a Mail-Clad Guardsman whose cloak bore the manacled giant of House Umber. Just a bit more and they would be through. Mance parried an incoming cut to his neck from a Stark Guardsman and lashed out with a Riposte that ran the man through the armpit. Suddenly, the ranks in front of them thinned to nothing they were through!

As Mance, Styr, and Tormund led the weight of over two thousand Free Folk Warriors to punch through the thinned lines of the Kneeler's Left Wing, however, they found that rather than being free to run away and live to fight another day, they were anything but. A horn sounded as thousands of hoofbeats echoed across the ground of the open field the battle was being fought in. Mance turned to see a large number of heavy cavalry bearing down on his forces from the flank, Ned Stark at their head.

He was so worried about the metal dragons and punching through to flee the fight that he had forgotten about the one other major advantage the kneelers had over his adoptive people. He had forgotten about their cavalry. Mance Rayder had just enough time to realize the depths of his error before the Northern Cavalry smashed into his flank and shattered what was left of his army.

By the end of the day, Mance Rayder, Tormund Giantsbane, and Styr of Thenn would be prisoners of Lord Eddard Stark, along with over one thousand of their men. . .

XXXX

Danaerys Targaryen had seen many things. Vast Armies of Horsemen kept together by main strength and the loyalty owed their Khal. Cities that could hold King's Landing within their boundaries multiple times over. She had seen Riders on strange, striped, Zorses and merchants in robes with hats made of monkey's tails. She had seen real magic being made by sorcerers from lands far to the east, who could call forth the elements, though never all four at once. She had seen idols to strange, harpy gods and divine shepherds with the heads of rams and the bodies of men.

However, until today, she could not have claimed to have ever seen a miracle. To think, it had not started as one either. One of the Blue Graces of Tolos, a Woman named Denanda who claimed to be initiated into the more mystical secrets of her order, had offered to work a spell on her Sun and Stars while he lay slowly dying of fever brought on by his wound. Something in the spell had gone wrong, however, and instead of healing her Drogo, Denanda had instead wound up accelerating his death with a potion that turned out to have more in common with poison than with medicine.

Dany had ordered that Denanda be fed to the flames of Drogo's Pyre, even as she prepared to die herself. She had piled her Sun and Stars' Pyre high with fine furs, exotic woods, and every wedding gift they had received, alongside a bound and unconscious Denanda. Then Dany had taken her place upon the Pyre herself and the entire thing had been set ablaze. She had expected to die. She had not.

Instead, there was an earth-shattering roar, as if the very skies had split open, and the pyre winked out, leaving all ash around her save for herself, and the three dragon eggs that she had received as a wedding present. Then, there was a cracking noise, as if someone was chipping away at stone before the three eggs burst open to reveal a trio of beautiful baby dragons!

One with jade-green scales and bronze eyes, one with cream-colored scales and golden horns, and one with scales black as night, cut through with streaks of blood red. Three Miracles, to replace the love that she had lost this day. It truly was magnificent. Now, as she sat on her chair in the tent that she had once shared with her Sun and Stars, the trio of newborn miracles lay curled up at her feet, asleep.

"I shall have to name you, though what to name you is the question." Mused Danaerys.

Looking down at her Dragons, she decided on a few different names, all of which, harkened back to names of old. Danaerys didn't know much of history, she hadn't had the proper instruction, after all. But she knew some of her family history, at least the most famous bits.

"I shall name you Vhagarion, I think a combination of the names of two of the most storied Dragons my family has ever ridden." Insisted Danaerys, gazing at the Black and Red Dragon, snoozing near her left foot.

"You, I think, I shall name Rhaenrys, after both my valiant brother, who perished at the hands of the Usurper on the banks of the Trident, but also after Rhaenyra, my ancestor, who was bold, fierce, and ultimately victorious, in the end." Mused Danaerys, gazing at the Jade Green Dragon asleep near her left foot.

"You, I shall name Aegal, after Aegon the Conquerer, a threat and a promise that we shall reconquer the stolen lands that the Usurper and his dogs have taken from us." Remarked Danaerys, gazing at the Cream-Colored Dragon snoring in her lap.

"Fair names, all." Came a voice from her tent flap.

Danaerys looked up to see her brother, Viserys standing there in the finery he had pilfered from the former ruler of Tolos. Danaerys had once been afraid of her brother, as he could often become angry and erratic, however, something had changed within him since he had become Archon of Tolos. There was something about being able to demand respect from people, and actually getting it, that seemed to cool the fire in Viserys' blood somewhat. It was never completely quenched, Danaerys had heard the rumors of what went on deep in the bowels of the Archon's Palace, but at the very least, Viserys' anger was no longer random. It was directed, channeled, and most importantly, away from her.

"I thought so, but then I am not as educated as I should have been." Offered Danaerys.

"No, neither of us were. It is the Usurper's fault, he and his band of blaggards. They will pay, however. In fact, they already are." Smirked Viserys.

"What do you mean?" Questioned Danaerys.

"One of my men found a missive in Ser Jorah's things from the court of the Usurper. It seems the Master of Laws was offering him a pardon in exchange for spying on us. Well, he won't be getting that pardon. Now, or ever." Sneered Viserys.

"Ser Jorah? I don't believe it." Queried Danaerys.

"Believe it, Sister. The proof is, as they say, in the pudding." Scoffed Viserys.

Then Viserys pulled a roll of parchment out of a belt pouch and tossed it at Danaerys. She fumbled for the scroll for a moment before finally grasping hold of it, unrolling it to read what was written. It was right there in plain ink, with the seal of the Hand of the King on it no less! Danaerys couldn't believe her eyes, Ser Jorah had been nothing but loyal to her and her Sun and Stars! How could Ser Jorah be a Spy for the Usurper? It didn't make sense!

"There has to be some mistake! Ser Jorah was never anything but loyal to Drogo and I." Protested Danaerys.

"Because he thought he could take Drogo's place once your Horselord had finally died. He confessed it before the end." Spat Viserys.

"Viserys. What did you do?" Asked Danaerys, a sudden shock of fear running through her.

"He woke the Dragon with his lies, Dany. You of all people should know what happens to those who do such things." Scowled Viserys.

Danaerys Targaryen had thought that finally having lands and forces to call their own would be a good thing. She had thought that it meant that they were one step closer to taking back what was rightfully theirs from the Dogs of the Usurper that had stolen it from them. When her dragons had hatched last night on the pyre of her Sun and Stars, she was sure that with Tolos' Ships and Troops, and her three beautiful miracles at their backs, that their victory was inevitable.

Now, however? After having heard her brother admit to her face that he had personally tortured and executed Ser Jorah after having sent one of his men to look through his possessions for incriminating documents? Danaerys was starting to think that perhaps Viserys being Archon of Tolos was not quite the victory she had thought. Perhaps, she thought, her brother being in a position of power had not channeled his bouts of anger, as she had believed, but instead only given him more avenues with which to hide it. And suddenly, Danaerys Targaryen felt a lot more afraid than she had this morning.

As Viserys left the Tent that Danaerys had once shared with her Sun and Stars, one thing became crystal clear to her. Viserys could not stay as Archon of Tolos, something would have to be done, and quickly, before the remainder of Drogo's Khalasar dispersed across the great grass sea to form Khalasars of their own. Viserys had to go, and Danaerys would have to take his place herself.

It was the only reasonable path forward. . .

XXXX

AN: All right, so here we see a look at how things are shaping up at the Wall and with the Targs. Drogo still dies, but the circumstances are different. For one thing, Dany is still carrying Drogo's child due to the nature of Drogo's death being by botched mystic healing potion instead of blood magic. She still hatches her Dragons, though this was because she, unknowingly, did the right things to cause that, being the ritual blood sacrifice of a sorcerer by fire. Unfortunately, Ser Jorah got found out by Viserys, who has gone full tyrant as Archon of Tolos, prompting Dany to start planning a coup.

Meanwhile, Ned has ridden North to the Watch's aid and has brought Mance Rayder himself to battle North of Queenscrown and utterly smashed his force. The King-Beyond-The-Wall, Styr, Magnar of Thenn, and Tormund Giantsbane are all in Custody, Harma Dogshead is dead, and now the Watch is Free to deal with the less veteran and less well-equipped forces under Rattleshirt and the Weeper at their leisure.

At any rate, the next chapter will be one on Pyke, then we'll be back with Ricasso for the start of his campaign in the Eastern Riverlands.

Stay tuned. . .