The cold in the far north means corpses don't rot, which means they can be raised as wights. So, assuming the worst possible outcome, we may be facing an invading army numbering anywhere up to four or five million troops? Certainly no less than one, given the vast numbers of wildlings that have lived and died beyond the Wall."
...
Davos leaned back in his seat in disbelief, allowing the numbers to wash over him. Then he rubbed his eyes. "Seven save us all."
"The Seven may lend their aid, but only we can save ourselves," Tommen crowed. "So long as the Wall stands strong I'm not too worried, but you can see why I'm eager for peace - even a temporary one. We can't afford to lose many more fighting men by making war amongst ourselves with this threat lurking over the horizon."
"I can see that."
"Presently I rule over a bunch of squabbling lords and ladies, each of whom hate each other too much to ever be able to fight side by side. If a true war is necessary in the North - and I pray it is not - then that simply will not suffice. I need something to overshadow their rivalries and jealousies, something to spur them to action. Something they can see with their own eyes. Something to rally them - whether they rally behind me or Stannis matters little, so long as they can be convinced to work together."
"You want a White Walker," Davos realised. "A live one."
"Two might be nice," Tommen said with a smile. "Though I suspect a wight would be easier to capture, and would prove just as useful. Simply put, I want you to go north and speak with the Lord Commander. Tell him of my desires, and make a small delivery. I think he's been paying attention, and taking the necessary steps, but it's always nice to be certain."
Davos frowned. "What delivery?"
Tommen clapped his hands. Ser Balon came through the door. "Your Grace?"
"Have the men bring the prisoner. The nameless one I had prepared when I heard of Ser Davos's arrival."
Balon nodded, bowed his head, and then rushed back out.
"A prisoner?" Davos asked.
"Just take him to the Wall and make him take the black."
"How do I know you aren't asking me to plant a spy in the Lord Commander's ranks?"
Tommen gave no answer save to tell him to wait and see. Silence lingered for a few more moments before a man stumbled in dressed in filthy rags, spear points herding him into place before the guards who'd brought him here each bowed and left. A scraggly beard covered much of his face, capped by a hooked nose caked in dried blood, his head shaved bald. His eyes were rounded by dark circles, sunken and deprived of sleep. His frame was that of a fighter, even as thin as it was, half-starved. His feet were bare, and his legs seemed to shake, struggling to hold his weight. And when he met the Boy King's gaze, his eyes seemed to widen with a mix of panic and fear.
"Now, what were your instructions?" Tommen asked.
"To take the black if I want to keep my cock," the man muttered. "To serve the Lord Commander loyally. To protect his life with mine own if necessary."
"Good."
Davos eyed the man critically. "What crime did he commit?"
"He tried to fuck my mother," Tommen answered, almost nonchalantly. "And then my wife."
Davos felt his brows climb up his forehead. "He put horns on his own king?"
"I said tried," Tommen said in a bemused tone. "Obviously he failed. I'd kill him, but death would be too easy. I promised him a hard life for having the gall, and I was getting tired of watching him just waste away down in the Black cells, so..."
Davos nodded. "So to the Wall he goes."
Tommen nodded in confirmation. "I'm already asking a great deal of you, so I know better than to press the issue. You may be an honourable man, Ser Davos, but you are not mine to command. All I can do is ask and pray. Pray you will retrieve Rickon alive. Pray Stannis listens when you convey my request for truce terms, and understands why. Pray the Lord Commander can find us a live wight. Pray this wretched cur will keep his word. But enough on that. We are pressed for time. You must soon go, and I have other urgent business to attend to."
"Aye," Davos simply said. "But I'll have your word in writing before I leave."
Tommen smiled. "So you will."
...
( Sansa POV )
It took all the Lords of the Vale a little more than a few weeks to arrive.
That much made sense, at least. The roads between many of the keeps were narrow, and infested with hill tribes. Many of the lords arrived to the Eyrie itself with tales of repelled ambushes and buried guardsmen.
For the most part, however, Sansa kept clear of them.
Ever since the revelation of her identity, her whole world had been thrown into a tense silence. Petyr had denied her identity, of course, but the Lords Declarant would not accede. So concessions had been made to avert the possibility of conflict. One of their guards stood besides one of Petyr's, the men eyeing each other almost as much as they eyed her. For now, Sansa maintained the pretence, but she could tell they did not much believe her. Hells, the keep itself seemed even more suspicious than the guards.
So for the meanwhile, Sansa - Alayne - had confined herself to her apartments in the Maiden's Tower. By all measures, it was not a bad prison. Her rooms were larger and more lavish than anything she'd known in the Eyrie when Lady Lysa had been alive. She had a dressing room and a privy all her own, a balcony and a bedchamber and another room besides, one in which she might receive guests. Most of all, it was that room Alayne spurned.
The balcony, as ever, called to her.
Over the ledge she could see the many mountains of the Vale. The air was cold, stinging her extremities and buffeting her hair, but Alayne did not care. The view was enough to make anyone forget their troubles, if only for a moment. The Eyrie had seven great towers, of which she was in the eastern-most, and it provided a clear vision of the land around. Forests made thick carpets of green on the mountainsides, individual trees indistinguishable in the distance. Rivers and streams cut through sheets of rock and carpets of golden wheat and trees, winding their way down. Snow-capped peaks glinted in the golden sunlight.
From here it looks like one of the Seven Heavens made real, Alayne thought. But below the reality below would be quite different. The men who made these lands liveable led hard, short, brutish lives. Growing food on the slopes was difficult. Frequent hill-tribe attacks ruined families and endangered towns and villages. Avalanches and rockfalls were common enough hazards to be wary of. Mountain lions and leopards roamed unchecked. The vision she was presented with masked the reality of what lay below.
And above it all, falcons soared - the sigil of House Arryn - majestic in the roaring wind.
Would that I had wings as well, Alayne thought. I could leap off this ledge and just... fly, leave all my troubles behind.
Alayne leaned forwards and rested her hands on the ledge, peering forwards over the edge. The wind blustered through and blew up her skirt, travelling up her whole dress to deliver a chill all over her body, but Alayne ignored the sensation even as her skin reddened and rose with gooseflesh. Her hackles rose in anticipation. The drop from here was substantial, easily a few hundred feet - certainly more than enough to kill her on impact.
And really, what was the harm? She had lost her family - neither her parents nor a single one of her trueborn siblings still lived - and she had lost her friends as well. Men had died, given their entire lives, for her. A war had been waged and lost for her. And now it seemed Petyr might be next to suffer for her sake. Everywhere I go death and despair seems to follow, Alayne thought. Mayhaps it's better that House Stark should die with me, so at least all those who are ready to give their lives for me and mine can stop suffering for a false hope.
Yet as much as the abyss called to her, Alayne stood frozen. As she gazed at the drop before her, she stayed rooted in place, her head spinning, her arms gripping the ledge so tight her fingers turned white. She might have lacked much desire to live, but she also lacked the courage to die.
Suddenly, Alayne felt very dizzy, and she stumbled back from the ledge and fell onto her hindquarters. Slowly, Alayne lifted herself back to her feet, finally shivering after so much time spent out in the cold as she herded herself back indoors to the relative warmth of her rooms.
One more day, she thought. I'll take one more day for myself. And then will come my time to fly. Here, without the wind, the silence was even more cloying, yet what choice did she have but to bear it? The alternative was to be gawped at and spied on by strangers.
...
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