Chereads / Brothers by Blood / Chapter 108 - Mance Rayder

Chapter 108 - Mance Rayder

The King-Beyond the Wall hid in the back of the smoke-filled tent, quietly strumming his lute while the three warriors around the fire bickered. They were the top war leaders among the free folk. Two had challenged Mance as potential kings-beyond-the-Wall, but the former crow had beaten them both before they finally submitted and pledged loyalty to him. Three others had challenged Mance as well, but they did not sit around the fire. They were buried under the soil and snow.

The Lord of Bones, also referred to as Rattleshirt by the men of the Night's Watch, was the smallest of Mance's captains. He was not a particularly handsome man, but not many saw his face due to the giant skull he used as a helm. Bones of animals and humans were sewn together for the raider's armor, which rattled when he moved, hence the name 'Rattleshirt'. He was a cruel, sly man who, like all wildings, totally distrusted the Night's Watch.

Styr, the Magnar of the Thenns, was one of the fiercest warriors Mance had ever fought. The two had fought three times before Styr had eventually pledged his support to the former Crow. He was a tall, lean man with a shaved head and no ears. He wore a shirt of bronze scales and wielded a weirwood spear tipped with bronze. He ruled the Thenns with an iron fist and commanded nothing but utter obedience from his men. Mance counted himself lucky to have the man's support. The Thenns were one of the better-armed and armored clans who were fierce and disciplined fighters.

Mance's third and final captain was a man known as Tormund Giantsbane. Although not a tall man, he was still powerfully built with a broad chest and massive belly. His beard and hair were snow white. On his arms, he sported gold bands inscribed with runes of the First Men. He was armored in heavy ringmail that he had taken from a dead Crow and favored wielding two heavy-bladed shortswords. He was a jovial man at the best of times with a knack for telling tall tales, all of which were about himself. But when he became angry, he was a demon who was quicker than he looked and could cut men down as easily as he gulped down tankards of ale.

Currently, the three men were bickering about the Lord of Bones allowing Benjen Stark to escape. The First Ranger of Castle Black had been scouting around Mance's army when Rattleshirt and his men had ambushed him. Stark had cut down three men before making his escape. The Lord of Bones continued to believe that the Crow had died. This happened months ago, and even though Mance has sent scouts to try and find the body, nothing has turned up.

"Ygritte put three bloody arrows in his back!" The Lord of Bones bellowed. "There's no way the man lived!"

"You think three arrows would kill the man?" Tormund countered passionately. "He's been killing free folk for decades. Until I see a fucking corpse, I say you're full of giant shit!"

Mance chuckled softly. Benjen Stark was very dangerous. His upbringing in Winterfell had helped him rise through the ranks at Castle Black and become First Ranger. Mance met the man once or twice, not enough times for the two to become familiar, but enough to know that the man wouldn't go down without a fight.

"He shouldn't have fucking escaped," Styr grumbled, sharpening his dagger. "You had a dozen raiders."

"I haven't seen a Thenn kill a fucking Crow yet!" Rattleshirt snapped, Stark's escape still clearly irking him.

A new argument now broke out between the three men. There were feuds dozens of generations-old between all the tribes of the free folk. They were a prideful people, probably because they had survived in harsh, unforgiving environments. But whenever they were questioned or challenged, their first reaction was to resort to violence. It was a universal language.

"Quiet!" Harma barked as she entered the tent. Harma Dogshead was another one of Mance's top raiders. She was a squat, round woman with one eye and a fierce hatred for dogs. "We found it."

After battling other potential kings-beyond-the-Wall, Mance could finally do what he had been planning on doing for years. He rallied the tribes and clans of the free folk under one banner: his.

His war camp was set up in the Frost Fangs, a mountain range running along the western side of the land beyond the Wall. Halfway up the range, the Milkwater River speared the mountain range. On the shores of the river is where many of the ancient heroes and kings of the free folk were buried. Mance had a very specific reason for assembling his people in the Frost Fangs near the burial sites of kings and heroes.

Mance emerged from the back of the tent, putting down his lute and grabbing his cloak, black wool that was patched with red silk from Asshai, swinging it over his shoulders.

"Let's see it," Mance said.

Accompanied by Tormund, Styr, and Rattleshirt, Mance followed Harma through the camp and down towards the river. On the banks, dozens of fur-clad figures were busy filling the holes they had dug.

"You didn't find it at the river?" Tormund grunted.

Harma shook her head. "We had to expand the search. We found Raymun, Bael, Gorne, and even the Horned Lord, but not Joramun. It was Mag who told us about another burial site, not far from here."

"Free Folk graves?" Rattleshirt asked.

"Giants," Harma replied. "Come, I'll show you."

The group walked for a few minutes up further into the mountains. The stone around them started to become ice the higher they got. Soon, they emerged into a clearing. All around them, the walls were ice; a beautiful blue, glass-like material. The stone was gravel, and more wildlings were working on digging up graves. There were seven in total, all laid out one next to the other. Six of the graves were about fifteen feet in length and another ten in width. Large enough to fit a dead giant easily. It was the seventh, the one in the middle, that was different from the rest. It was about eight feet in length and another five in width. It was man-sized.

Mance knelt beside the grave. The bones had become black from age, but clutched in its hands was a war horn made out of what looked like an aurochs horn. About eight feet long, entirely black, with bands of gold inscribed with runes wrapped around it. After weeks of searching, they had finally found it.

The Horn of Winter.

It belonged to Joramun, the first King-Beyond-the-Wall who helped the Starks defeat the Night King. The stories said that he used the horn to wake the giants from the earth. Some rumors said that the horn could bring down the Wall. It had been missing for centuries.

"Tormund," Mance said, grabbing one end of the horn. The Mead-king of Ruddy hall quickly came forward and helped Mance lift the horn from the grave, a wild smile plastered to his face.

"You lot!" Rattleshirt barked. "Grab the horn!"

Immediately, four wildlings came forward and took the horn from Mance and Tormund, bearing it on their shoulders.

"Take it to my tent," Mance ordered. "Build a carrier for it."

The raiders nodded and left.

"We can move south now," Styr said, glancing up at the sky, "and not too soon."

Mance shared the same thought. All the past former Kings-Beyond-the-Wall had assembled the free folk to attack the Wall and reclaim their lands from the kneelers south of the Wall. They fought to bring the Wall down. That was the last thought on Mance's mind. The Wall was a structure he wanted to keep up.

For the past few generations, free folk villages to the far north have been mysteriously attacked. There were signs of a fight, but no bodies were left behind. Soon, rumors started to spread that the Others had returned with their armies of the undead. Many of the clans who came from the north swore on the Old Gods that they saw Others and wights.

The terror in their eyes helped make the rumors seem more believable. A dozen people saying that they saw Others and wights is one thing. More than a dozen tribes saying they saw them was another.

"We still have to get past the Wall," Mance said grimly, turning back to his captains. "Once the graves are refilled, we move out. There's a long way to go between here and the Wall."

Eddard Stark

Winterfell was on the mend. The walls and towers were almost completely fixed, and now workers were beginning to work on the keeps and other permanent structures like stables, a forge, and the kennels. The Lord of Winterfell couldn't help but keep a smile on his face as he saw his home being returned to its former glory.

Though it wouldn't quite be the same. There were still so many of Ned's old friends dead or gone. Mikken, Hullen, Farlen and Ser Rodrik had been killed by the ironborn. Luwin died on the road to Last Hearth. Jory in King's Landing. In war, there was death, Ned knew that, but he couldn't help but feel that all their deaths were his fault. All because of his terrible time in the south.

Now, new faces resided in Winterfell. The Citadel had sent a new maester, a man by the name of Byron. He was around thirty, with shaggy brown hair and a full beard that would make the Greatjon duly impressed. He was quiet, but an extremely polite person who had a knack for numbers. The Citadel swore that Byron was more than up to the task of replacing Luwin.

Ned could only hope.

Catelyn had taken care of finding a blacksmith, a kennel master, a stablemaster, a cook, and most of the new castle staff. Ned had wondered how his wife had been able to throw herself immediately back into running the household, but she had admitted to him one night that it was her way of moving forward after the death and hardship she dealt with during the war.

The two positions that Ned had replaced personally were master-at-arms and captain of the guard.

Eddard Karstark, Rickard's son, had fallen for Jeyne Poole, the daughter of Ned's late steward Vayon. The girl was battered from her time in King's Landing, having been trained to be a whore by Petyr Baelish, but she and young Eddard had struck up a miraculous sort of love. House Poole was a small house in the North with no land to speak of, but Rickard Karstark had agreed to the match as long as Ned gave his son a position in Winterfell. Out of respect for Jeyne's father, Ned had given Eddard Karstark the position of captain of the guard.

The position of master-at-arms was filled by Ser Mychel Redfort, the youngest son of the late Lord Redfort. Mychel knew that he had no chance of ruling Redfort with three brothers in front of him. So, after the Battle of King's Landing, he asked Ned if there was a position for him in the North. Ned had immediately agreed and now the young knight and his wife, Yohn's daughter Ysilla, resided in Winterfell with Rickon as Mycel's first and newest pupil.

"You are quiet this morning," Cat said, slipping her arm through her husband's as they looked out over the courtyard, watching the builders work. "Is all well?"

Ned nodded. "I'm fine. Just memories."

Cat didn't have to ask what he meant. They had this conversation long ago.

"There's a raven from Robb," Cat said quietly, changing the subject. "He says that the Watch needs help."

Ned nodded. "I know. I received a message from Lord Commander Thorne yesterday. Byron sent ravens to Greatjon, Rickard, and Dacey yesterday telling them to be vigilant."

"How bad is the situation?"

"Bad," Ned answered grimly. "The host of wildlings north of the Wall is large. Thorne thinks it's larger than forty thousand."

"How many men can the North raise?" Cat asked worriedly.

"Ten thousand if we're lucky," Ned said, shaking his head. "The men just fought a war in the south and it cost them most of their harvest. The people of the North don't want to go to war again."

"Robb said he's asked Jon to learn more about the situation," Cat said. "Should I send word to my brother or Sansa?"

Ned shook his head. "No, Robb knows of the situation and will rally the southern lords when he feels it is time. Let's wait and see what Jon finds out. Gods willing, there might be a peaceful solution to all of this."

"There is," Osha said from behind the nobles. "I'm sorry, my lord, my lady, but I overheard you talking."

"Osha." Ned greeted politely. He was skeptical of the woman when he had first met her, but after a year, he was finding that he could trust her more and more. She was still Rickon's sworn sword and had taken the role of a nanny/older sister for the boy that Ned found strange but effective.

"Perhaps you could shed more light on the situation." Cat offered.

The wildling nodded, crossing her arms and leaning against the railing. "The free folk are fleeing south. This is not like the past where kings-beyond-the-Wall are coming to conquer. Mance Rayder is leading the free folk south because the Wall will protect them."

"What do you mean?" Ned asked, confused. "Why are they fleeing south?"

Osha hesitated, then seemed to find her nerve. "When I was a child, I heard stories that villages in the far north, near the Lands of Always Winter, would be destroyed and the inhabitants disappeared. Their bodies gone. Then rumors started to fly that the Others had returned. Them and their armies of wights."

"The Others are a myth," Ned said, crossing his arms.

Osha shook her head. "I came south to get away from the Others, my lord. Why else would I climb the bloody Wall? I left behind friends and family to come here."

Osha's tone had gone from peaceful to dangerous very quickly. It was obvious that she didn't like that Ned wasn't taking the situation seriously. To her, the threat of the Others and their armies of the undead were very real.

Ned held up a hand to calm the woman. "Very well. What proof do you have of this?"

Osha shook her head. "None, my lord, just rumors. But Mance had more than forty thousand with him. I'd wager he's got close to a hundred thousand. I reckon you'd be able to find hundreds with him who have seen the Others or their minions. After seeing men take control of bears and wolves, see others predict the future that comes true, after seeing giants, the Others don't seem so far fetched."

Ned and Osha gazed at each other. During her rant, the woman had straightened her back till it looked like she had a spear strapped to it. Her shoulders were pushed back and there was a proud tilt in her chin. Her eyes blazed with anger because she thought Ned thought she was a liar.

In the south, people could lie as easily as they breathe. It came naturally to men like Baelish and Varys. In the North, things were different. There was no need for lying. Lying about how much food or supplies you had got you killed.

Osha wasn't lying.

"You said that this Mance is coming south with an army of wildlings….." Ned started.

"Free folk." Osha barked.

Ned glared at her, making sure the message got through loud and clear: she would not speak to him like that. Osha got the message and gave an apologetic nod.

"Mance is coming south with an army of free folk," Ned said again, using her preferred term. "He wants the protection of the Wall."

Osha nodded. "North of the Wall, the free folk will be slaughtered and added to the Other's army. They don't want to fight the Night's Watch, but they will if it means they get south of the Wall."

"Osha, the free folk have raided the North for centuries," Cat said, speaking for the first time. "Many northern lords and others in the south won't agree with letting a hundred thousand raiders south of the Wall."

"The North and the free folk have been enemies for a long time, my lady, but this is different. If you leave the free folk north of the Wall. Men, women, children, and giants will be added to the ranks of the undead and the land of the living will have so much more to worry about." Osha replied firmly, emphasizing 'children'.

Ned rubbed his jaw. "The king sent his brother Jon to the Wall to look at the situation. I will send him a raven to make sure he sits down and speaks to Mance. That is the best I can do. I can not guarantee that the lords of the North or the rest of Westeros will agree with me if I allow your people south without proof of the Others."

Osha's shoulders sagged as she nodded. "Thank you, my lord. I….am sorry if I was forceful."

"You believe very strongly in this." Cat observed.

"Have you ever seen the Wall, my lady? Or you, my lord?" Osha asked curiously. Both Ned and Cat shook their heads.

"If you ever get the chance, you'll know in your heart that it was built to keep out something a lot more dangerous than the free folk," Osha said sincerely.

With that, the woman bowed before turning on her heel and leaving.

Jaime Lannister

"Strike!" Jaime barked, watching with narrowed eyes as the practice blade came up and flashed down. The straw-filled dummy rocked under the hit. If it had been a battle, the warrior's chest would have been sliced from shoulder to hip and his innards would be on the ground.

"Again!"

This time, the former knight watched the boy's hand closely. The wrist was angled correctly, and the grip on the hilt was firm. There was no fault with the boy's technique, even after two hours of practice.

"Overhead cut!" Jaime snapped, crossing his arms as Tommen brought the wooden practice blade back over his head before bringing it scything down at the dummy. The boy's face was scarlet red and he was drenched in sweat, but the blow was delivered with a good amount of power and solid technique.

For the past year, Jaime had been training the heir to Casterly Rock, a task given to him by Tyrion before his brother had returned to King's Landing. Jaime, at first, had been apprehensive because Tommen had always been a shy, bookish boy who seemed to have no desire to pick up a sword. But now that he was out of Joffrey's shadow, Jaime noticed an increase in the boy's confidence. He was still a sweet kid who did well in his lessons and loved animals, but he had shown some adeptness with a blade. He was not as naturally fast as Jaime had been, but Tommen has proven to be a lot more intelligent than Jaime gave him credit for, always making up for speed or power with technique.

Training Tommen had also brought Jaime out of the dark hole he had dug himself in the dungeons of Riverrun. His entire knightly career had been a joke. He had killed his first king, slept with the wife of his second, and was never around when the third ruled. Robb Stark stripping him of his knighthood and Tyrion assigning him to train Tommen had been just the kick in the pants Jaime needed.

"Thrust! Right side cut! Overhead cut!" Jaime said, snapping one order after the other. Tommen performed them all well, but Jaime could tell that he was tiring. The boy was wearing padded gauntlets and a padded vest and had been wearing the gear for two hours under the hot sun.

"Done," Jaime said finally, catching the eye of Maester Creylen. "Well done, Tommen."

The boy grinned tiredly. "Thank you, Uncle."

Jaime allowed a small smile to appear under his beard. "Go wash up and get to your lessons. Tyrion will throw me from the Rock if you miss them."

Tommen laughed and walked over to a servant, who helped the boy shed his padding before following him inside the castle. Creylen waited till the boy was gone before walking over to Jaime, who was putting his drill sword back on the rack.

"Lord Tommen is doing well," he noted.

Jaime nodded. "He's a good lad who puts in his best effort."

"Will he be as good as his father?" Creylen asked innocently. Jaime glanced at the maester, his smile quickly disappearing.

"Perhaps," he answered quietly.

"You know he looks up to you," Creylen said.

"He shouldn't," Jaime grumbled, walking inside the cool castle. "I'm here to train him, not to be his hero."

Jaime quickly lengthened his stride and walked away from the maester. All of the servants and guards within the Rock always gave Jaime a sideways glance, probably wondering what had compelled a man so gifted, so set for success, to commit the acts he did. Creylen, who had taught Jaime when he was a boy, was the only one who still treated him with kindness.

Jaime, as much as he appreciated it, wished the man would shun him like everyone else. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he didn't want to feel hopeful that he could make something of himself this late in his life. He had already destroyed his reputation so much that it seemed irreparable at this point. Creylen being kind to him gave him hope, and that's not something he wanted to feel because he knew that he would mess up again and all the goodwill he would have built up would be lost.

Jaime didn't need that.

The ex-knight finally reached his room and locked the door behind him, sliding down behind his desk and pouring himself a glass of watered-down wine. There was one letter on his desk, and it was too large to be a raven message. The wax seal was red with the insignia of a hand.

Jaime,

I hope all is well. Things in the capital are fine. Stark is still managing to surprise me, which I'm not sure if I like or not. I'm now starting to expect his grace to pull miracles from his ass. Pretty soon I might be disappointed.

I am very pleased to hear how well Tommen is doing. I was talking with the queen and she offered to bring Tommen here to King's Landing for a fortnight to work with the Blackfish. She said that you may join him if you wish. She understands if you decline. If you do agree to come, know that there will be some….rules that must be followed.

I wish you would write more to me about how you are doing. I understand that life at the Rock can be a little dull without me, but I want to make sure that you are not thinking about throwing yourself from the ramparts. Excuse my bluntness, but House Lannister has already been thinned so much and I would hate to lose one more.

I love you always, Jaime.

Your brother,

Tyrion

Jaime put down the letter and slid it into the drawer where he kept the rest of Tyrion's letters. So far, he had received eight. One for every month Tyrion had been in King's Landing. Jaime has replied to each, his letters filled with glowing reports about Tommen and anything happening at the Rock. He rarely if ever mentioned how he was doing.

Tyrion had been the one to speak with Stark about giving Jaime another chance at life. Stark had been apprehensive, and rightfully so. But Jaime saving King's Landing had been a clinching point that was big enough to offset most of his crimes. The compromise was stripping Jaime of his knighthood, his white cloak burned, and a year under 'house arrest' at the Rock, hence why Tyrion had instructed him to tutor Tommen.

Jaime owed everything to his brother. He was not suicidal. Cersei's death had been hard for him, Tyrion knew, but his time under Riverrun had given Jaime a lot of time to think about his mistakes. Cersei had a hold over him, always had, but being away from her and hearing about the acts she committed―killing children, dismissing Ser Barristan, sleeping with Lancel―it had weakened her hold over him.

He loved Cersei. He always would. But she was dead and gone, as was his father. They would no longer look down at him. He had a second chance to help Tommen become a man that he never was.

He wasn't going to squander it.