Chapter 70: Wildling Wild Ones

12th Month of 299 A.C. The Wall

Mance Rayder

It had taken years to the tribes all together, years in which he had thought he might not live, he might not survive, there had been times when he had thought about going back to the Wall to face the Old Bear's punishment, but in the end he had kept going. Mance was not someone who would quite something once he started it, he had left the Watch the day the Watch stopped being about what it was supposed to be, and it became about something else. The Old Bear had tried to stop that fall, but he had not succeeded, and so Mance had left. He did not regret any of that, did not regret anything in his life, he was a free man, and he would die a free man if it came to that. From what his scouts were saying, it seemed as if he might well die a free man. The Starks had marched north to the wall, and so Mance's chances of taking advantage of the chaos of the factional divide were lessened, but that did not worry him, perhaps with time they might break through. Something had to be done, he would not sit and wait for death to come, not after what he had seen in the north.

Death was coming, an ancient threat was coming to haunt them all once more. Mance had seen many things in his years alive, but he had never seen anything quite like the pale death that followed the White Walkers, the harbingers of death and destruction. He had heard rumours from some of the tribes that lived near the Lands of Always Winter and had not believed them, and then the attack had come, his family had died, slaughtered, only to rise back once more, and that was when he had realised what needed to be done. He had done all he could to unite the clans, the tribes, the disparate people of the free folk, desperate to ensure they managed to stand united against the foe that was rising from the ashes of a slumber that would most likely have killed most others. Foremost amongst his attempts to unite the clans and make their path south easier was searching for the Horn of Joramun, the thing that would bring down the wall, he had not found it, but he had found another horn, and he had it on his person now, as he always had since had had found it.

Now was the true test, the Wall was in sight, a towering mass of ice and bodies, there were things underneath the wall that were long forgotten Mance knew, knew they were the things holding the wall together, until the horns were sounded in unison. Not for the first time he wondered where the second horn was, whether it was with someone trustworthy, or someone who would simply try to use it for their own ends. He supposed it did not matter, not truly, not with death coming hard on their heels. He had seen the devastation the White Walkers had caused, had seen the haunted look in the eyes of women and children, had seen the dead rise up again to bring down more, he did not know who was controlling the White Walkers or if they were even being controlled by anyone, but he knew that they needed to get as far away from them as possible. And so here they were, the giants and their mammoths were leading the assault, though Mance could see the effect that was having. He barks a command and the scalers go scampering toward the wall, determined to make their way over to give them a chance.

Dalla, his wife is at his side, she is with child, but still she is at his side, walking with him, to show strength and unity to their people, that he is their King is something that he has difficulty coming to terms with sometimes, there are times when he thinks that perhaps he made a mistake, and then there are other times when he thinks he made the only viable choice for himself. One thing he knows for sure is that he would not trade this life for anything else, the chance to be free, to kneel to no one, to fight, drink and fuck as he wants, that was something, and it was his, truly his. And so he holds himself steady, holds Dalla's hand as they watch their insurrection begin. He can hear the distant sound of men shouting, barking commands as they try to get the intruders off of their wall, he laughs at that, their wall, the kneelers are so territorial, it is quite funny, it will be their downfall, it was always destined to be their downfall.

As the scalers continue on their path, he begins to feel the old itch, the desire to make a move, to do something, anything but stand still, he barks a command at Tormund, getting the big oaf to move his men into position, well as co-ordinated as the free folk armies can be. What they lack in discipline, they more than make up for in numbers, though he does not want to leave dead bodies behind, he knows what will happen if they are left to remain on this side of the wall, he fiddles nervously with the horn strapped to his chest, wondering whether he should sound it or not. A crack somewhere makes him stop fiddling with it, he watches amazed as one of the gates opens, and men begin riding out, it seems the brothers of the Watch have decided to come out and die. He laughs once more at that thought, something from an old life no doubt, but still humorous within the current setting, he lets go of Dalla's hand and draws his sword, barking commands, he waits a moment and then gives a nod, and watches as Tormund and his men go charging off to meet the oncoming enemy.

A part of him thinks that they should send the giants in first, but he thinks it would make for a far more interesting fight to see what happens when Tormund and his fighters meet the brothers of the watch. He wonders whether the new commander is as strict about the training regime as the Old Bear and Qorgyle had been, he imagines not, considering what his spies had told him. A shame really, he would have liked a good fight with some of the brothers, some of those pompous shits who did what they wanted and broke their vows, and looked down on him for making a choice. The anger that thought brings makes him tighten his grip on his sword, a moment passes and then another, and then he decides enough is enough. "To freedom." He roars, and leads the charge, his army following him, a rabble it might be, but it is his rabble, he realises as he gets closer to the enemy that they are mounted, flying banners he has not seen for some time. Horror engulfs him for a moment and then he decides that it is not important now, now he needs to fight.

His sword feels heavy in his hand, but it makes no difference, he knows how to fight, he knows how to fight men on horseback, and it seems they are all coming for him, though he does not wear a crown, most likely some of his former brothers told them what to look for. He laughs a challenge and blocks a blow, he feels a cut to his back, he moves breaking the swing, he ducks, he dodges, he does what he can to ensure that he does not get surrounded, he ducks, weaves, swings, blocks, cuts, he manages to bring one man down, allowing his men to finish the bastard off. He ducks, dodges, weaves, he manages to avoid getting seriously hurt, though there are a few times when he thinks it might be a close call. Still it fills him with deep seated energy, a drive, a desire to make the move through. He cuts, swings and blocks, his sword becoming the thing anchoring him to the world, he knows he cannot break through, but he can try and fight. Somewhere in the distance, he is distantly aware of the giants making their move, following the plan surprisingly, it makes him laugh, but still he keeps going, swinging his sword, cutting, swinging, dodging and ducking.

The Starks have come, and brought with them the fury of the north, Mance had hoped on that, and also feared it. One thing he has learned in his years at the Wall and as a member of the free folk is that the Starks are crucial to defeating the enemy, the foe that comes for them all from the north, from the bitter cold. That they are here, is both a relief and a tragedy, he fears that something might go wrong, but he hopes not, he hopes desperately that nothing goes wrong, and so he keeps fighting, keeps pushing himself, desperate to hold on. His sword has blood and dirt on it, there are men falling from horses all around him, there are countless other things happening around him as well, but all he can think of is the direwolf that is slowly making its way through his army, there are mammoths falling to fire, there are giants being brought down low by arrows, it is chaos, his army is breaking, it is falling apart at the seams, and he cannot sort it out. He feels helpless for a moment, feeling as though yet again he has failed someone, somebody, and then he feels the weight of the horn, a reassurance, and he knows what he needs to do, as the fighting mingles around him, he takes the horn and presses it to his lips, a deep and primal sound echoes through it, through him, causing his hair to stand on end, he hears a crack and then something falls. He does not know what, he does not care what it is, but then there is an answering horn blast, and he sees, the direwolf, he sees the Stark boy sounding his horn and suddenly it all becomes clear, and he becomes scared, scared of what he has done, of what they have both done.

Mance watches as his army disintegrates before his eyes, his men broken and turned to dust, the women crying out in pain, the children destroying themselves on their own hands and knees. The Giants and the mammoths left, are turning around themselves, killing one another and the men unfortunate enough to be trapped between them. Mance feels as if his head is going to explode, there is such a deep pounding against the walls of his mind, a feeling, a temptation, everything he has ever wanted, it is there before him, but then it begins disappearing, he does not know what is happening. He hears a voice screaming, roaring for the pain to stop, and then he realises that it his voice that is yelling, that is crying out for the pain to stop, the neverending pain, he sees something, a flicker of light, of dust, of white, of blue, and then cold, simple cold. The world goes black then, as the world falls apart around him, the horns echoing in the distance, their song finally being sung.

He wakes much later in a cell, a cell of ice, one he had seen once many years ago, and as he looks around him, he notices that the song still echoes in his head, a mournful tune, something that he does not know what to make of. Then he looks in front of him and he sees a direwolf, a big thing, and he sees the Stark, with hair kissed by fire standing in front of him, and he laughs. "So you have the other horn eh?" he asks aloud, his voice sounding distant. "Welcome to the end then."