Negotiations with the king beyond the wall

38 AC

Theon Stark Pov

Six moons. Six moons since that tense conversation in Grandfather's solar, a conversation that had left a chasm between Mother and me. Her silence had been a heavier burden than any scolding, a week of unspoken worry etched on her face. It had taken all my persuasive skills, all my reassurances of the necessity of this journey, to finally earn her tearful, reluctant blessing.

And now, here I stood, north of the Wall, the biting wind whipping at my furs, the vast, unforgiving landscape stretching out before me. The Fist of the First Men, a jagged crown of rock against the pale sky, was our agreed meeting place with Ragnar Lothbrok. My small company of the Wolfpack, their faces grim and watchful, huddled nearby, their silent breathing a familiar comfort.

I waited, the anticipation a knot in my stomach. What words could bridge the centuries of hatred? What arguments could convince a king of wildlings to kneel before the Starks? The task felt monumental, the odds stacked against me.

But my purpose extended beyond this fragile negotiation. Once a truce, however tenuous, was established, I knew what I had to do next. The true threat lay not in the living wildlings, but in the ancient darkness stirring in the far north. I had to seek out the Children of the Forest, the last remnants of the old magic, and the giants, their strength a force of nature. I had to convince them to abandon their ancient territories and seek refuge south of the Wall. Only by uniting all the living, both south and north of the Wall, could we hope to stand against the coming storm of the dead. The weight of the North, perhaps even the world, rested on these perilous negotiations and the even more daunting quest that would follow.

According to my previous lives memories, the Children of the Forest in the hidden cave under the oldest heart tree, places where the magic is strong, untouched by the relentless march of humankind. The wildlings, who braved these frozen wastes might know the location of the tree. And the giant's village surely, the free folk, who lived and died in these harsh lands, would know their paths and their lairs.

My musings were broken by a soft stirring against my cheek. Frost, the direwolf pup cradled in my hands, was waking. His fur, white as the freshly fallen snow, brushed against my glove, and his eyes, the blue of a summer sky, blinked open. A small whimper escaped his throat, followed by a wet nudge against my face. Six there were, their mother was slain by shadowcats, leaving these tiny lives in our charge. Maybe I can warg into them in the future. Frost. The first of the litter. The others awaited the names.

"M'lord," Torvin's voice, rough as northern stone, cut through the wind's lament. He gestured with a gloved hand towards the horizon. "They approach."

I lifted my gaze, Frost shifting restlessly in my arms, his blue eyes now fixed on the figures emerging from the swirling snow and mist. Ragnar Lothbrok and his wildlings drew nearer. The time for thought had passed. The negotiations, and perhaps the forging of a new destiny for the North, was about to begin in this desolate, frozen waste.

They got closer, a rough-looking group dressed in furs and carrying weapons. The man leading them was tall with a weathered face and sharp, grey eyes. He stopped a short distance away, and his followers also became quiet.

He looked at me, his gaze pausing on Frost, the white direwolf pup I was holding. A slow smile appeared on his face, a smile that seemed both amused and a little respectful.

"Greetings, Magnar Wolf," Ragnar Lothbrok said, his voice having a unique sound, a mix of the harsh Northern accent and something else. "I've come as you asked. Let's talk."

I returned his greeting, my voice steady despite the weight of the situation. "Ragnar Lothbrok," I said, my gaze sweeping over the assembled wildlings. "You have gathered a vast host. Whispers speak of a hundred thousand, perhaps more. Even with such numbers, you cannot hope to breach the Wall. Why this massive gathering?"

Ragnar's grey eyes held a weariness that belied his imposing presence. "For the future of my people, Magnar Wolf," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of the harsh winds they had both endured. "The winters grow longer, the game grows scarce. Soon, our children will starve. Our old men, who should be resting by the fire, are forced to hunt in the frozen forests, many never to return. I gather them so they may live, so they may have a chance at a future beyond the frost and hunger that gnaws at our heels."

And so began a long parley on the windswept plains beyond the Wall. I spoke of the true enemy, the dead that stirred in the darkness, the ancient threat that knew no walls. Ragnar spoke of the desperation of his people, the endless struggle for survival in a land that offered little but hardship. We talked of the Wall, its ancient magic and its formidable defenses, and the futility of a direct assault. I offered a different path, a chance for his people to find refuge and sustenance within the North, if they would bend the knee and join us against the coming darkness. Ragnar listened, his sharp eyes assessing my sincerity, weighing the desperate plight of his people against the ingrained mistrust between our two worlds. The fate of thousands hung on the words exchanged in that icy wasteland.

"A future in the North?" Ragnar echoed, his brow furrowing. A murmur rippled through his assembled warriors. "Your lords would sooner see us butchered than share their lands with us. We remember the raids, the broken treaties, the heads on spikes."

"Those were different times," I countered, my voice firm. "Different threats. The dead do not care about old grudges or spilled blood between living men. They will come for us all, Northman and wildling alike. We can stand divided and fall, or unite and have a chance to survive. Bend the knee, Ragnar Lothbrok, and pledge your people to Winterfell. In return, we will grant you land, sustenance, and protection within our borders. Fight alongside us against the true enemy, and your people will have a future in a world that would otherwise consume us all."

Ragnar's grey eyes narrowed, studying me intently. "And what of your nights watch, Magnar Wolf? It has stood for thousands of years to keep us out. What does it do in the future?"

"The Watch stands against the dead," I replied, my gaze unwavering. "They are to guard against the dead not the living. They will do their duty. And when the true war begins, the Wall will be our shield, protecting all the living."

A long silence stretched between us, broken only by the howling wind. Ragnar turned, speaking in the guttural tongue of the wildlings to his closest advisors. Their faces were etched with suspicion and a lifetime of ingrained hatred for the people south of the Wall.

Finally, Ragnar turned back to me. "My people are proud, Magnar Wolf. They have known freedom beyond your walls for generations. To bend the knee… it is a hard thing to ask."

"Survival is a harder thing to earn when the dead walk," I countered, my voice low but urgent. "Pride will not keep you warm when the long night comes. Freedom will be a meaningless word when there is no life left to live it. I offer you a chance, Ragnar. A chance for your children to see the spring, for your old men to die in their beds. An alliance against the darkness. What say you?"

Ragnar Lothbrok stood silent for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over his people, then back to me, the white direwolf pup still nestled in my arms. The weight of his decision, the future of his people, hung heavy in the frozen air.

"There is another way to settle this, Ragnar Lothbrok," I proposed, my voice cutting through the tense silence. "An old way, perhaps one your people still understand. You and I. One-on-one. We fight, until one yields. The victor decides the terms of our agreement."

A flicker of interest sparked in Ragnar's grey eyes. A murmur rippled through the wildling ranks. This was a language they understood, a test of strength and will.

"The old way," Ragnar echoed, a grim smile touching his lips. "I have not tasted a true fight in too long. And you, Magnar Wolf? Do you have the steel in your veins to face a wildling king?"

"The survival of my people, and perhaps yours, depends on it," I replied, my hand instinctively resting on the hilt of my sword. "I am ready."

Ragnar nodded, a decisive glint in his eyes. "So be it. Let the old gods witness our accord. Choose your weapon, Magnar Wolf."

I drew my longsword, the steel gleaming dully in the pale light. Ragnar hefted a massive axe, its blade scarred and wickedly sharp. The wildlings and my Wolfpack formed a wide circle, the tension palpable in the frozen air. This was more than just a negotiation; it was a test of strength, a dance on the edge of peace or war.

We circled each other slowly, the silence broken only by the whistling wind and our measured breaths. Ragnar moved with a surprising agility for a man of his size, his axe held ready. I kept my stance fluid, my longsword a shield and a potential strike.

He lunged first, his axe whistling through the air in a wide, powerful arc. I parried, the impact jarring my arm. The fight had begun. 

The clash of steel against iron echoed across the desolate plain, a stark counterpoint to the mournful howl of the wind. Ragnar Lothbrok, despite the heft of his scarred axe, moved with a surprising ferocity, each swing a brutal testament to his strength and years of survival beyond the Wall. His grey eyes, sharp and calculating, never left mine, seeking any flicker of weakness.

I met his initial assault with the fluid grace my training had instilled, Jon and Theo singing a deadly duet as they intercepted the heavy blows of his axe. The impact reverberated through my arms, a raw power that spoke of Ragnar's untamed strength. I danced around his wider swings, the twin blades a blur of motion, deflecting the brutal force and seeking openings in his defense.

Ragnar roared, a primal sound that echoed across the frozen landscape, and pressed his attack. He feinted high with the axe, then brought it low in a sweeping arc aimed at my legs. I leaped back, the cold air whistling where the blade had been, and retaliated with a swift thrust of Theo towards his exposed side. Ragnar grunted, twisting his torso just enough to deflect the blow with the haft of his axe.

The fight became a whirlwind of movement. Ragnar's axe, though powerful, was slower than my twin blades. I used this to my advantage, darting in and out of his reach, scoring glancing blows against his thick furs and leather armor. Jon sliced across his forearm, drawing a bead of crimson, while Theo forced him to parry with a desperate upward swing.

He was a seasoned warrior, though, his movements honed by countless skirmishes in the wild. He used the weight of his axe to his advantage, creating openings with powerful blocks and sudden, unpredictable shifts in attack. He aimed for my head, my chest, my legs, each blow carrying the potential to end the fight instantly.

I relied on the speed and versatility of Jon and Theo, weaving a defensive web of steel while constantly probing for weaknesses. My movements were more controlled, more precise than Ragnar's raw aggression. I parried a vicious overhead chop, the force threatening to buckle my stance, and then countered with a lightning-fast series of slashes. On danced across his shoulder, drawing more blood, while Theo forced him to retreat a step.

The fight wore on, the rhythm of steel on steel a steady beat against the backdrop of the frozen wilderness. Ragnar's breath came in ragged gasps, and I could see a flicker of frustration in his eyes. He was strong, undeniably so, but the speed and the dual threat of my blades were beginning to wear him down.

He made a desperate move, a wild, lunging attack with his axe aimed at my chest. I sidestepped, using his momentum against him, and brought both Jon and Theo down in a swift, cross-body strike. One blade scraped against his ribs, tearing through his furs, while the other bit deep into his thigh.

Ragnar roared in pain, his axe clattering to the icy ground. He stumbled, his hand clutching his bleeding leg. He looked at me, his grey eyes filled with a grudging respect, and a flicker of understanding.

He straightened, his jaw tight. "Yield," he growled, his voice rough with pain and exertion. "I yield, Magnar Wolf."

A collective murmur rippled through the assembled wildlings. The fight was over. Ragnar Lothbrok, the King Beyond the Wall, had yielded to me. The terms of their future now lay in my hands.

Turning from the fallen Ragnar, my breath misting in the cold air, I addressed him, my voice carrying across the silent plain. "Ragnar Lothbrok, you have yielded. Now comes the part of our agreement. I ask not for your life, but for the future of your people. Will you bend the knee to Winterfell? Will you pledge your allegiance to the North?"

Ragnar, still clutching his injured thigh, met my gaze, his expression a mixture of pain and grudging respect. After a long moment, he nodded slowly. "Aye, Magnar Wolf. For the sake of my people, I will bend the knee."

A collective sigh seemed to pass through the gathered wildlings. The impossible had happened.

"There will be terms," I continued, my gaze sweeping over the assembled host. "Many details to be decided. But two are paramount"

"First," I stated, my voice firm, "your people will not force their ways upon the smallfolk of the North. There will be no raiding, no pillaging, no taking what is not freely given. The North has suffered enough. You seek shelter with us; you will respect our laws and our people."

A low murmur rippled through the gathered wildlings, but Ragnar raised a hand, silencing them. He met my gaze, his own hardening. "And the second?"

"The second," I continued, my voice gaining a sharper edge, "there will be no cannibalism within the North. That practice is an abomination, a defilement of the living and the dead. I understand that some beyond the Wall have resorted to such horrors in the deepest of winters, but it will not be tolerated in my lands. If any among your people still cling to such a custom, they will face the justice of Winterfell. This is not a request, Ragnar. It is a demand."

Ragnar's gaze was steady, a hint of distaste flickering across his weathered features. "You speak of a things I do not welcome in my ranks, Magnar Wolf. The weak and the desperate may have succumbed to such acts in the frozen wastes, but those who follow me do not. It is a path of madness and despair. You have my word on this. There will be no such defilement among my people."

A collective murmur of agreement rippled through the wildlings.

"My word is my bond, Ragnar Lothbrok," I replied, sheathing Jon and Theo. "The North will offer you refuge, and I believe your words regarding this matter. Send word to your people. Tell them the terms."

"Torvin," I called out, my voice clear across the clearing. Two of my most trusted Wolfpack guards, their faces grim and loyal, stepped forward. "Ride for Castle Black. Bear this message to my grandfather, Lord Torrhen Stark. Tell him the negotiations have been successful. Ragnar Lothbrok and his people will bend the knee and seek refuge in the North. Inform him of the terms we have agreed upon: no raiding of the smallfolk and no cannibalism."

Torvin and the other guard, Kael, exchanged a swift glance, a flicker of surprise and relief in their eyes. "At once, Lord Stark," Torvin replied, a rare hint of a smile touching his lips.

"Tell him to begin preparations," I continued, my gaze sweeping back to Ragnar and his people. "Tell him to summon the lords of the North to Castle Black. The meeting will take place in moon. The future of the North, and perhaps more, depends on what happens next."

The two guards nodded resolutely, already turning towards their horses. The message of a potential alliance, a chance for survival against the coming darkness, needed to reach Winterfell and the rest of the North with all possible speed. The first hurdle had been crossed. Now came the far more delicate and challenging task of uniting two peoples with centuries of hatred between them against a common, far greater foe.