Ser Denys drew a slow breath, fighting to keep his temper in check.
"We did exchange ravens," he said. "But after Carter learned talks were happening he stopped answering entirely. You know the two of us have never seen eye to eye."
(Mallisters of Seagard and the Ironborn had been natural enemies for centuries—the ironmen raided their shores across Ironman's Bay.)
"And we have already reached an agreement with the Son of the Stars from Valyria," Denys continued. "We are prepared to recognize him as king and keep the peace."
Mance threw his head back and laughed.
"Valyria? Nice touch. Looks like Brokenlimb fed you plenty of good lines. Fine by me. A real king! King Lynn!"
Then his grin vanished. He yanked his sword free and leveled it at Denys's chest.
"Is this your idea of good faith, my lord of Seagard? You thought you could talk sweet while your brothers rode in and caught us with our pants down?"
The next second everyone heard thunderous hooves.
Fifty black-cloaked riders burst from the treeline straight at them, mail glinting silver beneath the cloaks.
Rangers.
The four giants roared and swung their massive stone hammers. One came so close it nearly brained a Thenn; the warrior cursed and scrambled clear. The rest of the Thenns snapped into formation, locking their tall wooden shields two-by-two into a solid wall.
"No!" Denys shouted. "This is not my doing!"
He squinted hard at the oncoming riders. Age hadn't ruined his eyes.
"That's Bowen Marsh! Bandage around his head—he took a bad hit at the Bridge of Skulls. He was against any talks from the start, but he lost the vote."
The lead rider did have a white linen wrap circling his skull.
Mance looked half-convinced—he still trusted Denys's personal honor—but the next heartbeat shattered the truce.
"For the Night's Watch!"
One of Denys's own attendants whipped a dagger from his sleeve and lunged at Lynn, screaming the words.
Too slow. Too shaky. Lynn drew Dark Sister in a blur and took the man's arm off at the elbow with a backhand cut.
Nymo realized he had failed his duty and roared, slamming the assassin to the ground. Before the man could roll away Weeping Blood was on him. The little dragon's jaws clamped around his neck and whipped him like a rat. One wet crack of bone and the ranger's head tore free.
Weeping Blood tossed the head high, then breathed a white-hot jet that turned it to charred fragments before it hit the snow.
The second attendant saw the smoking pieces scatter and threw both hands in the air. The sudden movement spooked the dragon. It started crawling toward him.
One low hiss and the man's legs gave out. He dropped to his knees, sobbing.
Lynn raised a hand and stopped the dragon. Denys stared straight into Lynn's eyes.
"Not me," he said, each word carved from stone. "I knew nothing."
Lynn believed him. If Denys had wanted him dead there had been far better moments inside the tent when they sat close enough to touch.
"Draw steel," Lynn ordered. "Prove it."
Denys clenched his jaw, hauled his terrified attendant to his feet, shoved a sword into the man's shaking hands, and marched both of them to the front of the Thenn shield wall—straight into the path of their own charging brothers.
They were lucky the wildlings had cut the forest back so far; the rangers had to start their charge from a long way out. That gave the camp precious seconds.
When the horsemen were fifty yards from the tent, Hark—Harma Dogshead's brother—thundered up with fewer than twenty Free Folk riders and slammed straight into the larger force.
"Free Folk forever! Son of the Stars forever!"
The collision was brutal. Wood and steel met meat and bone with wet, meaty thuds. Men and horses screamed. Bodies cartwheeled through the air trailing bright arcs of blood.
Somehow Hark crawled out of the tangle of limbs and horses, axe already swinging, and smashed a ranger who was trying to stand back down.
The wildlings had the advantage of lances—crude wooden ones, but still better than swords in a straight charge. Against unarmored rangers without horse barding, numbers were the only real edge the black brothers had. The first clash ended in a bloody stalemate.
A dozen rangers tried to loop around the flank. They ran straight into the giants. Hammers swung, bodies flew, half the riders went down in seconds.
The few still mounted saw the unbroken shield wall ahead and knew the fight was lost. They wheeled and fled.
Lynn cursed himself for leaving the white-oak longbow behind.
He ordered the Thenns forward to finish the fallen rangers. Most were already crippled—broken arms, shattered legs. It was a slaughter.
Only four or five Free Folk riders were still on their feet.
The whole bloody mess had taken less than a minute.
Lynn looked at Ser Denys, pale and motionless, and believed the old knight truly had no part in the attack. His willingness to stand in front of the charge had proved it.
"You'd better pray to your Seven that they didn't kill Qhorin," Lynn growled. "He's the only reason I'm still willing to accept your surrender."
Only then did the cold sweat hit him. It was one thing to watch a charge; it was another to feel fifty horsemen coming straight for your life. Shields, giants, even a dragon couldn't erase that raw animal fear.
No wonder so many men still swore by heavy cavalry.
Lynn was about to step into the fight himself, hungry for his first living kill, when a fresh chorus of horns blared from the north.
North?
Others?
Did the Others even use horns?
Lynn shook the ridiculous thought away.
"Varamyr!" he barked.
The Seven-Skins was busy letting his wolves and shadowcat tear into the fallen. At Lynn's shout he snapped back to himself and sent his eagle spiraling skyward.