Let's rewind to last night.
"Why haven't we broken in yet?"
In the darkness, in a valley not far from Domeric's camp, torches burned bright. Wildlings moved everywhere—back and forth, weapons in hand.
Inside the central tent, Tormund Giantsbane asked impatiently, his voice edged with agitation.
Tormund wasn't especially tall, but he was broad-chested, with a massive belly, a beard as white as winter snow, and thick arms ringed with heavy golden bands carved with First Men runes—heirlooms passed down from his ancestors.
He called himself the Great Boar, the Horn-Blower, the Breaker of Ice, the Husband to Bears, the Mead-King of Red Hall, the Father of Hosts, and the Gods' own mouthpiece.
But the name most people knew was simpler—
Giantsbane.
"Wait a little longer," said a middle-aged man seated near the head of the tent.
He was of average height and slim build, with a sharp face, shrewd brown eyes, and long brown hair—though more than half of it had gone grey.
There was no crown on his head, no golden rings on his arms, no jeweled chains at his throat—no ornament at all.
He wore a wool tunic and leather, and the only thing that truly caught the eye was a ragged black wool cloak, slit by long tears and mended with faded red silk.
This was the famed King-Beyond-the-Wall—Mance Rayder.
He looked utterly ordinary. Not like a king. Not even like a wildling.
Rumor had it Mance Rayder was a wildling child taken and raised by the Night's Watch.
He'd once been a loyal black brother—until he was wounded on a ranging and saved by a wildling girl.
While he recovered, she used precious red silk to mend his torn cloak.
But when he returned to the Wall, a commander ordered him to exchange it for the standard black cloak.
That small violation of personal freedom—so he claimed—was what made him abandon the Watch, follow his heart, and live among the free folk.
Of course, that was only Mance Rayder's version.
The deeper reasons ran far beyond that.
…
Other chiefs were in the tent as well, gathered around Mance and honoring him as King-Beyond-the-Wall.
Closest to him sat Harma "the Dogshead," a woman thick as a barrel, cheeks like slabs of pale flesh. She hated dogs—killed one every fortnight and mounted its fresh head on a spear as a banner.
Beside her was Styr the no-ear, the Magnar of Thenn.
Magnar in the Old Tongue meant lord—but among the Thenns, their Magnar was treated like a god, not merely a chief.
Then there was Varamyr Sixskins, small as a rat, mounted on a savage white snow bear that could rear up to thirteen feet tall. Three wolves padded at his side, along with a shadowcat.
And there were others, harsher still—wildlings from the far northern edge of the Haunted Forest, from hidden valleys in the Frostfangs, from places stranger than that.
Men of the Frozen Shore rode walrus-bone war sleds pulled by huge white dogs; they were said to feed on human flesh.
Cave-dwellers dyed their faces blue, purple, and green.
The small hardfoot men marched barefoot across the ice, soles like leather boiled in scalding water…
Beyond the Wall, the tribes fought one another often enough—but against invaders from south of the Wall, they were natural allies.
…
At least half the wildlings had never seen the Wall in their lives, and most of them couldn't speak the Common Tongue.
It didn't matter.
Mance Rayder spoke the Old Tongue. He could even sing in it. At night he would take up his harp and play music that was strange, raw, and wild.
To bind such a vast, chaotic host together, Mance had spent years.
He negotiated with chieftains, bargained with Magnars—won one village with honeyed words, another with songs, a third with blade and steel.
He made Harma reconcile with the Bone King; he forced peace between the hardfoot men and the night-walkers; he compelled the walrus-men of the Frozen Shore to make terms with cannibals from the great glacier.
He wore no crown, carried no scepter, dressed in no silks—
And yet he was king of them all.
He had forged a hundred different daggers into a single great spear—
And aimed it straight at the heart of the Seven Kingdoms.
When scouts reported a large force spilling out from Castle Black, Mance Rayder had hurried back from the Frostfangs.
He'd been searching the mountains for the Horn of Winter—the legendary horn said to be able to bring the Wall down.
In Mance's southern plan, if the free folk couldn't pass through the Wall, he would sound the horn, shatter it, and lead his people into the warmth of the south.
But the sudden presence of a large host at Castle Black disrupted everything.
He'd planned to secure the horn first—then move against the Wall.
Instead, the men of the realm marched into the Haunted Forest.
The free folk revered strength. If Mance couldn't drive these northern invaders out, the prestige he'd built for years would turn to ash.
So Mance began calling in warriors from nearby tribes, preparing to throw the invaders off their land.
…
For days, Mance did not act rashly.
The invaders were well-equipped and well-drilled.
So he shadowed them quietly while gathering more tribes to his banner.
But once the invaders began building a camp, he grew uneasy.
He could see it at a glance: the hill they'd chosen was an excellent defensive position.
If they were allowed to build a solid fort there—let alone a castle—the free folk would lose control of the Haunted Forest forever.
Mance Rayder wasn't a common raider. He'd been trained by the Night's Watch.
He understood that against a formal army of the Seven Kingdoms, the wildlings were outmatched—in arms, in physical condition, in discipline, in battlefield craft.
Without at least a tenfold advantage in numbers, the free folk would never dare a frontal fight.
And as time passed, under the pull of the King-Beyond-the-Wall's name, more and more fighters arrived.
Mance knew the moment had come.
The enemy camp was unfinished. They were isolated. The free folk were gathered—coiled, ready to strike.
If they couldn't defeat the invaders out in the open, how could they ever break the Wall and lead their people south?
A good hunter never hesitates when prey shows weakness.
For thousands of years, countless Kings-Beyond-the-Wall had dreamed of leading the free folk away from misery, away from the killing cold, into the warm and fertile south.
Centuries ago, Raymun Redbeard led a great host south. Before him, Bael the Bard had once come to the very gates.
Earlier still were the Horned King, and the brothers Gendel and Gorne.
In ancient days, there was Joramun, who was said to have blown the Horn of Winter and woken giants from beneath the earth…
All had tried.
And every time, they were shattered beneath the Wall—or driven back by Stark relief from Winterfell.
Fate. A curse.
And me?
Mance Rayder asked himself in the silence between heartbeats:
Will I be the first King-Beyond-the-Wall in thousands of years to lead the free folk south…
…or will I follow the others into failure?
-
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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