Part MMMCCXXIII: Northern Blood and Southern Gold
Northern Blood and Southern Gold
Twenty Fifth Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC
The more you see of Mance Rayder the more convinced you are that the name ill suites him. Oh, you have no doubt the man is skilled with the ancient barrow blade he bears and his tread is quiet enough even when he makes no attempt to hint at camps surprised in the night, but at heart he is a bard, a storyteller of glib tongue and quick wits who had turned the skills to making himself lord among those more likely to meet a bloody sword with one of their own then bow to it.
Of course, that also comes with a propensity to haggle wherever he has the chance to do so. "I wouldn't say no to understanding whatever magics were spun into the silk, but when a man's cloak does more to keep him alive than sword and armor together could he's bound to value it more than most things, more so from knowing it kept me whole and hale back when most healing magic was naught but gibbering over a pot of herbs and maybe the odd spit for flavor," he says.
You smile at the jest, relieved all the while that you had chosen to make this a private conversation. Even by the flexible etiquette of your court Mance would make for a awkward guest otherwise. You wonder if he is doing it on purpose to see just how many 'Southern Airs' you would be inclined to put on, or if he simply does not care one way or another. A man who had deserted the Night's Watch over a cloak and the memory of a love affair you would name rash, but people given to following their passions wherever they lead them rarely become lords and when they do they do not stay that way for long.
"Healing magic before the Awakening?" Lya asks curiously. "How did it manifest?"
"The cloak I took from Hardhome frayed over the years in strange ways," Yara explains a touch hesitantly, less easy than Mance in present company and surroundings, though you suspect that may have to do with being in the company of men once more as much as the strangeness of the south. "It seemed to burn without fire as I watched some days, and others the threads would worm out of it and fliker in the wind. A witch once told me to feed it blood. The blood of beasts did nothing and I would not kill men for the deed. Then one winter I was set upon by raiders, Hornfoots I think they were. They fancied their odds against a spearwife lone, but not a shadowcat," the smile she gives then is more a show of teeth. "Their leader was still alive when the fight was over, but sore bleeding. Wound rot would have taken him even if I was minded to bind him up, which I wasn't."
"So you tried feeding it his blood?" you prompt with a nod to your calligraphy wyrm assignment to take notes. Yet another advantage of a private meal.
The skin-changer nods. "I was mighty surprised to see it mend his wounds instead of leaching off him like the witch said it would."
"So what'd you do about it?" Vee asks in turn.
"Tore it off 'im and slit his throat properly, what else?" Yara shrugs, to which your friend nods in simple approval. Once she would not have thought to ask the question, but the years have taught Vee that other folk might have unexpected notions of what is practical or reasonable, not that she is likely to encounter such among the Free Folk.
"But when you found Mance you wanted to heal him," the words are not a question. You had already heard the tale from Waymar as much as Yara had shared in her cabin.
"There was little enough of it left and his cloak got all torn up, I took it for a sign," she replies. Expression darkening she adds. "Didn't want to remember Hardhome anyway." There is something that does not quite fit. She is not lying, certainly, but keeping something back just the same.
Yara does not seem the sort to take well to further probing and even worse to being challenged so you once turn again to the would-be King-Beyond-The-Wall. "So what price are you thinking for that cloak of yours?"
"Ten-thousand marks, don't worry though, I'll be passing them right back to your markets, buying steel and books, and probably the odd starvling scribe to read the books if they're in tongues me and mine can't read."
"And what use would you be putting that steel to?" you ask carefully. The price must seem vast to him, to you it is barely of note, but the Lord Commander would rightfully take arming a man like Mance Rayder very poorly indeed. Hell, the Old Bear would probably want to see him lose his head for being a deserter, not having a nice chat over lunch.
"Half into tools to help rebuild Hardhome, half into weapons to defend against men who would take ill what we're building, or worse things out in the hills and vales. You know what I mean, right?" He nods his head northward to the window that shows a cloudless summer day over Sorcerer's Deep, but his meaning is clear.
"You want to rebuilt, now?" you ask surprised at the notion all the more so for his last implication.
"I want to get the Free Folk off the killing fields before Winter comes, but I would have us leave with more than the clothes on our backs beggars in the southern realms. Trade is a fair path to that as you proved yourself."
What do you reply?
[] Accept the proposed deal
[] Take the opportunity to carefully mention relocation and fealty
-[] Write in
[] Write in
OOC: I know we are not done with what was in the previous vote, but deciding how you guys are going to present this to Mance is delicate enough to need a vote.
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