Note: Segments of this are copied or slightly adjusted from A Storm of Swords (about pages 80-85) by George RR Martin. I obviously do not own this.
Also, reviews are greatly appreciated!
CHAPTER 2: Together
Jon woke up, cold and with a stiff cloak. Standing up, it remained a harsh straight line against him. He realized, with an uncomfortable pang, it had frozen. That was nothing that had happened to him on the Wall or home at Winterfell. But here, Beyond the Wall and without a fire, it was natural. Jon frowned. Unsure, he shook it out. Fortunately, that seemed to break the ice enough it could move, and he swung it over his shoulders. Unbidden, he reached his hand to his sword pommel before removing it. Jon frowned and clenched and unclenched his hand, a force of habit, the scars rippling. They were a reminder of when he had badly burned himself saving the Old Bear from a wight by setting it, and half the tower, on fire. He remembered Gren saying he'd likely been the first steward commended for destroying most of the Lord Commander's room. His mouth rose in a slight smile, then a grimace. His cloak fell illy against his back. It was a dull hope that it would melt during the day. It was cold out here, after all. He hoped it didn't rain during the day as it had in the night.
Unsurprisingly, Ygritte was awake and looking at him. He didn't look at her, carefully. He had been the last to wake, it seemed. Longspear, a tall likable man a few years older than him, nodded warily to him, doubtlessly noticing the way his hand had drifted to his sword. "It rained in the night," he said, showing Jon his own frozen cloak. Longspear's sheepskin cloak was white and grey, instead of black, as Jon's was. It made him slightly uncomfortable to know he'd taken a liking to these people in just the few days since he had joined them. They weren't his brothers, and Jon's heart remembered that... even if the rest of him liked to forget it for a few minutes at a time.
"We'd best move out," a voice said behind him, and he turned. The Lord of Bones was there, looking at him for only a moment before turning his eyes to the pink and red horizon. "We're half a day from camp, and I'm eager to see Mance skin the crow."
Ghost growled slightly from a nearby bush, and Jon turned, startled to see him. He pushed down his own irritation with the Lord of Bones at the sight of his direwolf's revealed teeth, even as Ygritte stood up to scowl at Rattleshirt. She didn't say anything, but when they headed out, it was him she walked with. It was a long walk, and Ygritte stayed with him. They said little. Jon wondered if his determination would waver, as he looked at the hard cast of her face. The thought left him ill at ease.
For the rest of that day, they walked. And that evening they finally reached the Wildlings.
The camp the wildlings had made, a day or two from the Wall, surprised Jon mightily. Tents crowded together carelessly, leaving their occupants to wander unorganizedly through sometimes narrow and sometimes tangled paths. All the tents he'd seen were made of the same mulish gray color, and since they mostly were the same shape and size, telling them apart seemed difficult. But the wildlings that accompanied Jon seemed to know the way well. They passed many people and Jon was surprised to see that many of them were old, or very young. He wondered if the non-fighters were sectioned off from those that Mance relied upon to take up an assault against the Men of the Night's Watch, but that thought was soon dismissed as he looked at the people.
"A crow," called a leanly built woman perhaps ten years or so older than him. Her long brown hair was cut at shoulder length, and she held a bow in her hands, arrows on her back. Scowling at the sight of him, her hand flew to her side and was revealed again clasping a dagger.
"He's with us," called Ygritte, her own hands already with loaded bow pointed at the ground near the woman. "This crow's changed 'is cloak."
But the woman's call had attracted the attention of most everyone in the area. Heads of old and heads of warriors turned in his direction at once. Most all, even the old, took up arms immediately and turned to meet him. Despite himself, Jon took a step back. A young man a few tents down hauled two children, whining, by their ears into the safety of their tent. A woman quickly followed. Then, a half minute later, Jon watched the woman reemerge with a spear clasped in her hand. She joined the group gathered around and eyed him with a hard look on her face.
Longspear was just as quickly moving, a hand on Jon's shoulder and his other at his belt. It lingered near his own dagger, but Jon knew he wouldn't draw it unless he had to. Longspear wasn't the type to want to fight immediately, Jon knew from talking with the man over the past few days. Unlike Ygritte, who had raised her bow to threaten a short, thickset man with a spear who had come close to their group.
"Everyone step back," Longspear shouted. "Mance is to see the crow."
"'e's changed his cloak," Ygritte said again. Jon could see the tension in her neck and shoulders from half a step behind her. She didn't have as many qualms as fighting these people as Longspear did, but she still didn't seem eager to.
No one in the crowd moved, despite what Longspear had said. It was the Lord of Bones who drew the short conflict to an end.
His dusky laugh shook his shoulders. Jon turned to look at him, almost incredulous. "The crow is for Mance to skin, not the like of you. Everyone head off." To Ygritte he said quietly, "Lower your bow girl, you're like to get us, and him, killed."
Rattleshirt seemed to hold a degree of respect. He was listened to, at least. Most everyone headed off, and their small group, Ygritte leading, shoved their way through those who had stayed.
After a while of walking, with no more trouble except having to shout to approaching fighters that Jon was no threat, and to see Mance, they emerged in front of the king's tent. It was three times larger than any other tent and had a hole in its ceiling's center from which smoke rose out of. The Lord of Bones pushed his way through the heavy flaps first, then Ygritte. When Longspear and Jon were left, one of the guards he hadn't really noticed spoke.
"That beast doesn't go in."
The man had a spear, and Jon eyed him for a moment. Then, reluctantly, he told Ghost to sit and stay. Then when the direwolf had done so, and after fixing the guard with a harsh look of warning, Jon grimly went inside. Longspear followed.
The interior of the tent was, somehow, not what he had imagined. There was a large fire over which was roasting three birds. A woman tended it. Jon immediately noticed she was heavily pregnant. She gave him an indifferent look, and then cast her face back into the tent to look at a table where three men and a woman sat. Three of them rose when they entered, leaving the slight, black-haired man sitting alone.
"What's this?" asked the man who had risen, gruffly. The man was much taller than him (Jon thought he'd come up to about his shoulder), and had a head of heavy red hair, complete with matching beard that went down to his chest. The wildlings would have said he, like Ygritte, was kissed by fire and lucky for it. His pale blue eyes examined Jon with interest, but not for more than a few seconds. Then he was looking at something behind him. Jon resisted the impulse to look.
"What's this?" he asked again. "A crow?"
Jon felt the back of his neck grow hot and knew it was likely turning red. All eyes in the tent had turned to him, and he had the uncomfortable, stressful feeling that this was the moment he had been waiting for, that this was either the moment he would die, or the moment he would, in the eyes of everyone living, desert the Night's Watch. The question had not been put to him, and he did not answer.
"The black bastard gutted Orell," said the Lord of Bones behind him, "and he's a bloody warg as well. He's got a great wolf the size of a bloody horse with him."
That caught the attention of the man at the table, although he said nothing.
"You were supposed to kill them all, you idiot. We've got no use for prisoners, Rattleshirt."
The Lord of Bones, who disliked being called Rattleshirt, scowled at him. Ygritte spoke up before he could, though, and said hotly, "This one came over. He slew Qhorin Halfhand with his own hand."
"This boy?" the redheaded man said angrily. "The Halfhand was mine to kill by rights. Do you have a name, crow?"
"Jon Snow, Your Grace," said Jon and he wondered if he should bend the knee as well.
The room erupted into laughter. "Your Grace? You see. He takes me for a king," boomed the redheaded man, grinning. He looked around at the table for a moment, laughing. Then he looked back at Jon and pointed over his shoulder. "That's the man you're looking for, crow. I'm no king." Still though, he laughed.
The man at the table rose to his feet. "I'm Mance Rayder, and you are Ned Stark's bastard, the Snow of Winterfell."
The old lie, as it always did, made Jon shift uncomfortably and his heart thud with anger. But only for a moment. In the face of this, he was more stunned than angry. "How... how could you know..."
"That's a tale for later," he said lightly, crossing the table to join where they stood slowly. "Tell me, does my Lord of Bones speak truly? Did you slay my old friend the Halfhand?"
"I did, Your Grace." Privately, he thought that it was more Qhorin's doing that his own. It would be a poor defense when he rejoined his brothers on the Wall he knew. The thought made him feel vaguely miserable, and he pushed it down.
"Qhorin was my enemy. But he was also my brother, once. So... shall I thank you for killing him, Jon Snow? Or curse you?"
His smile was mocking, and Jon disliked how rapidly the situation had spiraled out of his control. If it had ever been in his control.
The man who stood before him, this King Beyond the Wall, looked little like any king Jon had ever seen. Although he had only seen the one, and Robert had hardly seemed a King to him, either. Mance Rayder was of middling height, slender and with a sharp face. He had brown eyes that stared shrewdly at Jon, and long brown hair that was almost grey in many places. He wore no crown and no jewels. He wore wool and leather and the only garment of note was the ragged black cloak, with thin sections of red dancing through it. Black and red, Jon thought wryly. The colors of his father's house.
"You ought to thank me for killing your enemy," Jon said finally, "and curse me for killing your friend."
The red-haired man boomed with laughter but didn't say anything. Without Jon noticing he had wandered to the fire and stood watching the hens cook. He stood nearby the woman there, but if he had said anything to her, Jon had not heard it.
"That was well answered, Jon Snow," Mance Raydar said, and beckoned Jon closer to him. "If you would join us, you'd best know us. The man you took me for is Tormund. This woman-"
"Hold," interrupted red-haired, lucky Tormund, drawing closer to the group, half a bird clutched in his hand and grease on his face. "Give me my style."
Mance Raydar laughed. "Fine. Our ferocious chicken-eater here is my loyal Tormund. Before you, Jon Snow, stands Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. And here also Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods, and Father of Hosts."
"Indeed that sounds like me," Tormund said. "Well met, Jon Snow. I am fond o' wargs, as it happens, though not o' Starks."
Jon resisted the impulse to say he was not a Stark, and never would be.
"The good woman at the brazier," Mance Rayder continued, "is Dalla. Treat her like you would any queen, she is carrying my child." As the pregnant woman, Dalla, smiled slightly at him, the king turned to the last two who had previously been sitting at the table with him and Tormund. "This beauty is her sister Val. Young Jarl is her latest pet."
"I am no man's pet," Jarl said, his face twisting slightly.
"And Val is no man," Tormund snorted. "You ought to have noticed that by now, lad."
"So there you have it, Jon Snow," said Mance Raydar. "The King Beyond the Wall and his court, such as it is. And now some words from you, I think. Where did you come from?"
"Winterfell, by way of Castle Black."
"And why are you here, so far from the castles and fires of home?" He did not wait to hear Jon's answer but looked at once to Rattleshirt. "How many were they?"
"Five. Three's dead and the boy's here. T'other went up a mountainside where no horse could follow." He considered a moment, "Perhaps there may have been six. Longspear claims to have seen a man tracking us after the crow slew the Halfhand, but if there was, we lost him quickly. And I never saw him. So, I say five."
Raydar's eyes met Jon's again. "Was it only the five of you? Or are more of your brothers skulking about?"
"We were four and the Halfhand. Qhorin was worth twenty common men. I know of no sixth man following us."
Unfortunately, that was the truth. Perhaps it had been a scout or messenger sent by the Old Bear to Qhorin, who had fled when he saw the Halfhand dead. Jon didn't know.
The King Beyond the Wall smiled at that. "Some thought so. Still... a boy from Castle Black with rangers from the Shadow Tower? How did that come to be?"
The Halfhand had told him to win their trust, to do whatever it took to join their side. He had his lie ready. "The Lord Commander sent me to the Halfhand for seasoning, so he took me on his ranging."
Tormund looked untroubled at that, but Jon caught his frown for but a moment. Then he took a bite from his chicken and said around it, "Ranging, you call it... why would crows come ranging up the Skirling Pass?"
"The villages were deserted," Jon said, truthfully.
"Who told you where we were, Jon Snow?"
Tormund snorted, still chewing. Small bits of chicken flew. "It was that creature Craster, or I'm a blushing maid. I've told you, Mance, he needs to be shorter a head."
The king seemed to take a moment to gather patience. As he did this, he stared flatly at a space on the wall of the tent behind Jon. Then he fixed Tormund with an irritated look. "Tormund, someday try thinking before you speak. I know it was Craster. I asked Jon to see if he would tell me the truth."
"Oh." Tormund spat. "Well, I stepped in that!" He grinned at Jon. "See, lad, that's why he's king and I'm not. I can outdrink, outfight and outsing him, but Mance has cunning. He was raised a crow, you know, and the crows a tricksy bird."
"I would speak with Jon Snow alone, my Lord of Bones," said the king to Rattleshirt. "Leave us, all of you."
"What, me as well?" Tormund sounded indignant, but the grin on his face said otherwise.
"No, you especially."
Tormund left, snorting with laughter and another half a chicken in his hand. The others followed him out, except Dalla.
"Sit, if you like," said Raydar when they were gone. "Are you hungry? Tormund left us two birds, at least."
"I would be pleased to eat, Your Grace. And thank you."
Mance Raydar laughed. "That's not a style one often hears from the free folk. I'm Mance to most, the Mance to some. Will you take a horn of mead?"
They fell in to talking, and Jon learned of how Mance knew who he was- he had slipped over the wall when Robert came down to fetch Ned Stark for his hand and he had joined Robert's free riders on their way to Winterfell. Mance had recognized him. Jon was astounded, but Mance merely laughed at his surprise. When Jon asked how he had gotten past the Wall, Mance had grinned sharply.
"I climbed, Jon Snow."
They talked for probably half an hour, eating and drinking as they did. Finally, when Jon could sense the meeting was drawing to an end, Mance asked the question he'd been waiting to hear.
"What of you, Jon Snow? You know why I changed my cloak, now tell me why you would have me believe you have changed yours."
Jon swallowed another mouthful of mead and leaned forward onto the table. He thought for a moment and knew there was only one tale he might believe. "You say you were at Winterfell, the night my father feasted King Robert." It left his throat feeling odd to name Ned Stark his father, although he knew deep down that was what the man had been to him. Since he left Winterfell after Ned Stark had told him the truth of his parents, he had named Lord Stark his father only once. But Ned Stark's death had softened Jon considerably to him and Jon could no longer summon much anger to the man. Still, it left him feeling odd and ill at ease.
"I did say it, for I was."
"Then you saw us all. Prince Joffrey and Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella, my brothers Robb and Bran and Rickon, my sisters Arya and Sansa. You saw them walk the center aisle with every eye upon them and take their seats at the table just below the dais where the king and queen were seated."
"I remember."
"And did you see where I was seated, Mance?" He took another sip of mead. He let the moment hang. "Did you see where they put the bastard?"
There was a moment of consideration. Mance Raydar looked at Jon's face for a long moment. Then he said slowly, "I think we had best find you a new cloak." He rose and held out a hand. Jon knew then he had, and would, succeeded in the task Qhorin had laid on him, although it brought him no joy, as he and the Halfhand had both known. Jon smiled despite this, and later walked with Ghost through the wilding camp as though he were born to it. Together he and Ygritte walked, again.
