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98: The Son of Ice and Fire, The King Beyond the Wall
🕑 Added 2024-12-24 03:41:25 +0000 UTCMance Rayder stood atop a rocky outcrop, the biting wind of the Far North cutting through his cloak of patched hides and black wool. Below, the clans he had been gathering for years milled about in a sprawling camp—fires crackling, voices raised in a thousand different tongues, and the occasional clash of steel against steel as disputes were settled the wildling way. It was a sight to behold, a chaotic symphony of humanity’s defiance against a world that seemed determined to crush them.
He tightened his cloak, the fabric a remnant of his days in the Night’s Watch, a reminder of a life he had left behind. Mance’s mind drifted back to those days, to the boy he had once been, raised among the black brothers. They had found him as a babe in the snow, a bastard child abandoned to the mercy of the cold. The Watch had been his family, his teachers, and his wardens. But as he grew, he began to see their flaws—the rigid adherence to rules, the blind acceptance of a single worldview.
His defection had not been an impulsive act. It had been born of years of questioning, of doubts that had grown into rebellion. The moment he crossed the Wall, he had expected death. Instead, he had found a people living free, unshackled by crowns and oaths. They were rough and savage at times, yes, but they were also brave, resourceful, and full of a fiery will to live. Among them, Mance had found not just a home but a purpose.
The dreams had begun three years ago. They came to him in snatches of restless sleep: shadows moving across fields of snow, eyes like burning coals staring out of the dark, and a cold so profound it felt like it could freeze his very soul. At first, he had dismissed them as the imaginings of a troubled mind, but then he had seen the dead himself.
It had happened during a trek beyond the Frostfangs. His band had stumbled upon a village, long abandoned, its people slaughtered. At first, he thought it the work of rival clans or perhaps even the Night’s Watch. But then, the bodies rose, their milky white eyes devoid of life, their frostbitten hands reaching out to kill. Only fire had saved him and his men that day, and it was then that Mance knew the truth: the ancient enemy had returned.
The Free Folk called them the Others. Stories of their existence were as old as the Wall itself, whispered around fires by those who claimed to have seen them. Most dismissed them as legends, but Mance had seen the truth. The Wall was not built to keep the Free Folk here, but to keep the Others out.
The wildlings were not a unified people. They were a hundred different clans, each with its own customs, grudges, and rivalries. Some lived in caves, others in makeshift villages. Some hunted with bows, others wielded bronze weapons. Some, like the Hornfoots, barely wore shoes, their feet hardened to the frozen ground. Others, like the Cave People, lived in darkness, emerging only to raid or trade.
For years, Mance had worked to bring them together. The task was monumental. Many saw him as an outsider, a deserter from the Wall who could not be trusted. But Mance had the gift of words, a charm that could turn enemies into allies. He had walked among them, shared their fires, and listened to their stories. He had promised them safety—a chance to survive what was coming.
The attack on the Wall two years ago had been both a blessing and a curse. A faction of the more savage clans—the Ice-Renders, the Bone Eaters, and others who believed in nothing but bloodshed—had launched a suicidal assault on the Wall. They were slaughtered to the last, their numbers decimated by the Night’s Watch and the southern lords who came to their aid. It had been a harsh lesson for the Free Folk, but it had also removed many of the most dangerous elements from Mance’s path. With them gone, his task had become easier.
He had gathered the Hornfoots, whose endurance was unmatched; the Cave People, who knew every hidden path in the mountains; and the tribes of the Haunted Forest, who whispered of ghosts in the trees but fought like wolves when cornered. Even the Ice River clans—though few remained after the Wall’s defenders burned their warbands—had joined him.
Now he had sent word to the Thenns, the most disciplined and organized of the Free Folk. Their Magnar, a man of iron will and sharp intellect, had yet to reply, but Mance hoped they would come.
The Wall was stronger than ever. King Rhaegar had taken a special interest in it and had strengthened it almost to its former glory. But there was no choice; they had to pass it.
He looked at the gathering again. He had perhaps thirty thousand men, women, and children. He knew there were more out there—he just needed to find them, gather them all, and march to the Wall. Mance clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. He would not let them die to the Others. If he had to lead them in a suicidal charge against the Wall, so be it.
“Mance.” He heard Val call. He turned to see the beautiful blonde approaching, wearing her all-white furs. There was urgency in her stride, and her face was a mix of shock and exhilaration.
“Mance,” she called again, her voice steady but quick. “The Thenns.”
Mance raised an eyebrow. “What of them?”
“They’re coming,” she said, her breath visible in the chill air. “Scouts spotted them. The fuckers left their valley.”
For a moment, Mance said nothing, the weight of her words settling over him. Then he stood, his expression softening into a rare smile.
“The Thenns,” he said, almost to himself. “Finally.”
Val nodded, her voice quieter now. “They’re marching south.”
Mance placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve brought good news, Val. Very good news.”
As night fell, Mance called a council of the Free Folk’s leaders. Around the central fire, the chieftains of the various clans gathered: Tormund Giantsbane, representatives of the Hornfoots, the Cave People, and others. Their faces were weathered, their eyes wary. Mance stood before them, his presence commanding.
“The Thenns are coming,” he announced, his voice cutting through the crackling fire. “Scouts have confirmed it.”
A murmur rippled through the group. Tormund leaned forward, his expression skeptical. “The Thenns, eh? The fuckers finally decided to crawl out of their holes?”
“They’ve seen what’s coming, same as we have,” Mance said. “The dead don’t care how we live or what we believe. They’ll come for us all.”
A chieftain of the Ice River clans scowled. “And you think the Thenns will listen to you, Crow King? They’re not like us.”
Mance’s gaze hardened. “No, they’re not. That is why they’ll understand what’s at stake here.”
Tormund scratched his beard. “If they fight with us, that’s a fine thing. One of my scouts reported a large number of crows leaving the Wall.”
‘So the Lord Commander has launched a great ranging,’ Mance thought grimly. “How sure are you?” he asked.
“It’s what my scout reported,” Tormund said simply.
“What are you thinking, Mance?” Val asked, seeing him in deep thought.
“This is not good,” Mance said. “We need to know more. I request that you send out your best scouts to keep an eye on the crows.”
He glanced around at the gathered chieftains, then added, “We’ll wait for the Thenns here.”
====
The Thenns arrived a day later. The sound of marching feet echoed through the valley before their forms came into view. At first, it was just a glint of bronze in the distance, catching the pale sunlight. Then the full force appeared: disciplined lines of warriors, their bronze breastplates polished, their shields marked with ancient runes. The Thenns had arrived in full force—they had all left their valley.
Mance stood at the edge of the encampment, flanked by Tormund and Val, as the Thenns marched in. At their head was Magnar Orm, a tall, imposing figure with a shaved head and piercing gray eyes. He wore a cloak of white wolf fur over his bronze armor, and his presence radiated authority.
When the Thenns came to a halt, Orm stepped forward. His warriors remained silent, their discipline a stark contrast to the chaotic Free Folk camp.
“Mance Rayder,” Orm said, his voice deep and steady.
Mance inclined his head in respect. “Magnar Orm. Your presence honors us.”
Orm’s gaze swept over the camp, his expression unreadable. “The dead rise. The old enemy stirs once more.”
“Then we fight together,” Mance said. “As one people.”
Orm’s eyes narrowed. “The Thenns will fight, but we do not bow. Not to you, not to anyone.”
Mance nodded. “I don’t ask for your fealty, Magnar. Only your strength.”
Orm studied him for a moment before giving a curt nod. “Then you shall have it.”
He led his people to make their own camp, and Mance let out a sigh of relief.
“Well, that went well,” Val said.
“Better than well. We finally have the forces to take the Wall,” Tormund said.
‘If only it were that easy,’ Mance thought, looking at Tormund.
“Come, let’s ensure no trouble arises with our new allies,” Mance said as he walked farther into the camp, making sure peace was kept.
=====
Mance sat opposite Magnar Orm, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the rugged faces of the gathered leaders. The air inside the tent was thick with tension. Around them, the wildling chieftains, clan leaders, and warchiefs of the Free Folk sat in a rough circle, their eyes fixed on Mance and Orm.
Orm broke the silence first, his voice low and measured but carrying the authority of a Magnar. “How will we get past the Wall?”
Mance leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping idly on the hilt of his dagger. He had been expecting the question, but the reality of the answer never got any easier to articulate. “It won’t be an easy task,” he began, his tone steady but firm. “The Watch was at its weakest point in eight thousand years barely two decades ago. But that has changed.”
Orm’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing. “The Starks?”
“No,” Mance said, shaking his head. “The Starks have always cared for the Wall, but the reason for its resurgence is not the wolves of Winterfell.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the circle. “It’s the dragon king in the south—Rhaegar Targaryen.”
Murmurs rippled through the gathered leaders. The Targaryen name was known even this far north—the kings of fire and blood, riders of mighty fire breathing wyrms.
“Then I ask again, Rayder, what is your plan?” Orm said, his voice firm and unyielding. “The dead are coming, along with their masters.”
“I know what’s out there,” Mance replied, his tone clipped. He lifted his gaze from the fire, meeting Orm’s piercing eyes. “The only way we can get over the Wall is through diplomacy.”
A heavy silence filled the tent, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Then Tormund Giantsbane let out a booming laugh, a sound devoid of humor. “Talking with the crows? Are you mad, Rayder?” he bellowed.
“What choice is there?” Mance countered, his voice cutting through the tension. “Do you think we can march on the Wall and survive? Even if we take it, how many of us will be left to face what comes after?”
Tormund’s face twisted in frustration. “We march, and we fight! At least if we die, it will be with steel in our hands, after bloodying the crows!”
Orm’s expression darkened, his voice low and grim. “Death in all directions. What are you asking us to choose, Rayder?”
Mance’s voice softened but remained resolute. “No, Orm. I’m asking you to choose life. I believe the king in the south did not just revive the Watch to defend against us. I believe he knows what’s coming as well.”
The tent erupted into murmurs of disbelief and skepticism. Val stepped forward, her golden hair glinting in the firelight. “Then we need to talk to this kneeler king,” she said, her voice clear and calm amidst the noise. “If he knows what’s coming, he might listen.”
“I believe we need to try,” Mance said, his gaze steady as he addressed the gathered leaders. “We have no other choice. Diplomacy is not weakness—it’s our only chance at survival.”
The murmurs subsided, and all eyes turned to Orm. The Magnar of Thenn sat quietly, his fingers tapping on the hilt of his axe. He studied Mance for what felt like an eternity before speaking, his voice deliberate and heavy with meaning. “A king should treat with a king.”
The words hung in the air, their weight sinking into the gathered leaders. One by one, heads began to nod in agreement. Tormund let out a reluctant grunt but didn’t voice further dissent.
Orm rose from his seat and drew his blade, the firelight catching the runes etched into the steel. “You have united us, Mance Rayder. You have brought together clans that have warred for centuries. You have given us hope where there was none. If anyone can treat with this southern king, it is you.”
“I name you King-Beyond-the-Wall.”
The other leaders followed suit one after another, their voices echoing Orm’s declaration. “King-Beyond-the-Wall.”
Mance’s chest tightened as he looked at the faces around him. The enormity of the moment settled on his shoulders like a weight he wasn’t sure he could bear. Yet he stood, his expression steady, his resolve firm.
“I accept,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying the strength of his conviction. “And I swear to lead you, to fight for you, to do everything in my power to ensure our survival.”
Mance turned his gaze back to the flames, the burden of his new title settling firmly in place. He prayed that his gamble would succeed, because the lives of thousands now rested on his shoulders.
And failure was unthinkable.
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There was supposed to be a Maekar POV in this chapter, but I’ve moved it to the next chapter.
Chapters 99 and 100 will focus on Maekar and Neferion at the Wall and beyond. I’m planning for these to be big chapters.
Will post after Christmas.
Comments
TyrantGod
Merry Christmas 🎄🎁 Thanks for the chapter
Zack
Merry Christmas and thank you for the chapter!
