CHAPTER 2:

HE COMETH

Mance sighed as he sat in his tent in the centre of the camp. The largest free folk camp there had ever been, Hardhome. He was immensely proud. He means to save these people and so far, most of them have seen sense, thankfully.

Of course, he had to bash some heads in and threaten to bash in a lot more in the process, but he had done an unprecedented feat which had never been done before.

He had united almost all the FreeFolk clans and tribes beyond the wall. Most of which hated or despised each other, and any other time would have been slaughtering one another without mercy.

However, now that they all shared a common enemy, one who was indiscriminate, tireless and unforgiving to such a level that makes any petty grudges between men seem like a joke. They came to realise that unity was their only chance of surviving the coming storm.

All he had to do was find a way across the wall, which was easier said than done. Mance had a plan in mind, but it would mean more of his people dying, people he is presently trying to spare from that very fate. He was not comfortable with such an approach, but he had no more options available to him.

Mance knew the Night's Watch would not listen to reason, least of all from him. There was no doubt in his mind they had labeled him a deserter and oath-breaker already, cursing his name and wishing for his death whenever his name was brought up. They would sooner behead him on sight than ask him his reasons.

He released a weary sigh and shook his head, growing despondent over the messy situation he is obligated to navigate. He was about to get up when Tormund, his reckless redheaded lieutenant came through the flaps on his tent, his feral grin present on his face as always. Mance's eyes narrowed when he saw the outlines of a frown on the usually fickle warrior.

"Mance, you need to hear this."

"Hear what, Giantsbane? You managed to fuck a mammoth this time?"

"Hah! Not even I am such a mad fucker! The giants would use my bones as kindling." Tormund let out a roar of laughter, much to the exasperation of his leader as Mance rolled his eyes and snickered at the thought of the man in front of him running from an enraged horde of giants.

"No, we have some new'uns. Came out o' the woods, scared as shit." Tormund's voice took a noticeable shift, his jovial tone turning much sharper.

"That is how they all come, Tormund. That is how we managed to band so many together, fear."

"Aye, but these'uns be differen'. Be tellin' wild stories, said they saw a man kill an Other…with his bare hands." Tormund said, eyes wide in excitement and filled with wonder.

"…And you believe them?" Mance was sceptical to say the least, looking rather apprehensive of such claims.

"We both saw much stranger things."

"Aye, we have. But we also know no man is capable of such a thing." Both of them turned sombre, memories of the people they saw fighting the others, their weapons breaking like glass against their skin and ice spears clear in their minds.

"Well, they been tellin' it to everyone they can. They also asked to see you, and said you needed to know."

Mance sighed again and decided to just get it over with, still doubtful of such sensitive claims. He allowed Tormund to lead him out of the tent and in the direction of the people in question.

They came upon them in the centre of a large gathering. One of the women in the group was animatedly telling a story, her face brimming with hope as she continued to recount the events. No doubt about this prospective Otherslayer.

"…ung his axe a' the Other. Made o' ice it was! Godly magic I tell ya!"

There were various gasps of awe and 'by the Gods' coming from the crowd. Mance could see they were hanging on to every word, like a starving man seeing a pot of stew. He couldn't blame them, for such was their despair, desperately clinging onto any ray of hope they could find.

"Woman!" Tormund hollers to catch her attention, causing Mance to wince before gently placing his hand on his ear. His voice was loud and harsh, so everyone immediately took notice.

"This is Mance. Ye said ye wanted to see 'im."

"Get rid of the crowd Tormund." Said Mance while walking towards the group of women and children.

"Away with ya! Find someone else's ass to go look up, go on!"

Tormund being his ever-charming and very diplomatic self. The crowd did indeed disperse, though with a lot of grumbling and sour faces. Soon it was only Mance, Tormund and the group of about thirty people there.

"Tormund here tells me you have an interesting story to tell?" asked Mance, his face completely neutral as he observed the people in front of him for any signs of deceit.

His answer came from one of the oldest looking women in the group, her wizened face retaining the edge of the free folk despite her age. "It aint no story boy. It is what happened."

"Are you certain of what you've seen?"

"It did happen!" Exclaimed one of the little girls defensively. She looked to be about ten and one name days old, nevertheless her posture remained firm and honest.

"Alright, calm down. Why don't you tell me about it?" Mance hummed, his hand caressing the stubble on his face that should be a beard but is not, his curiosity piqued.

"We saw the Old Gods' champion we did. A man looking like he been birthed by the Weirwood itself. That be the case!" One of the younger women spoke, her son nodding enthusiastically next to her.

"That is right! He be as tall as Torfoot there..."

"Tormund."

"…and his skin is white like snow. He has red markings on 'im, like the blue ones on Thenn. Dressed in white and red furs he was. He be either the Old Gods' champion or a' Old God in flesh."

There was a pregnant pause, neither Mance nor Tormund knew what to say. Having seen the others, they found themselves unable to completely refute such claims despite how wild they seemed.

"He will come. Ye need to prepare for him. He will lead us, all of us, to salvation." The eldest among them spoke, her voice calm and certain as if talking about the snow right under their feet.

"You're a Wood Witch." It was not a question. Tormund could tell from the way she used her words what she was, the special aura she exuded was hard to miss for a seasoned fighter like him.

"That I am boy. Ye know it, and so ye know my words are not just words." She said, staring through him with unflinching eyes and sending shivers down the warrior's spine.

Tormund shifted about uncomfortably, whether it was at being called a boy or because of his own apprehension, Mance could not tell. To dismiss the words of a Woods Witch is simply not done, and Tormund knew it well. No FreeFolk worth their salt would ever do so. Mance had no such qualms.

"What you believe you saw does not change what is possible, and I hardly believe the Gods conveniently sending us a champion is very likely."

"It does not ma''er what yer pretty southern lessons taught ye is possible. Ye may be the one what uni'ed us, brought us all into the same place. But it is he, who will make us into one people, lead us. Just ye wait. He 'ill come…and you 'ill see." Her tone brokered no counter argument, and so Mance did not bother to reply.

He needed to think, so he turned away and walked back towards his tent, Tormund on his heels. His mind was in turmoil as it went back and forth while he considered the possibilities. On one hand he was a pragmatic and practical man, never one for simple hope as it never had any value to him. If there was something to be done, he would simply do it to the best of his abilities, no hope involved. It was a trait he shared with the very people around him. Actions over words.

One had to stay active to survive out here beyond the Wall.

But now, with this many people to account and care for, some young and hearty while others old enough to hold their own.

May-haps hope was just what was needed to keep them going?

But can he? Can he afford to hope?

What are the chances that what these people think they saw was real?

What are the chances they spoke from truth and not delusion brought on by their fear and inability to cope with their grief?

He reached the threshold of his tent and went in to stand near the fire. He was deep in thought 'What they say is outlandish, but do they possess the faculties to make up such a story? What purpose would such a tale garner them?' he pondered while pacing in front of the fire.

He was so lost in thought, he didn't notice Tormund slip into the tent and stand to the side. It took Mance a while to realise his normally boisterous friend had not said a word since they left the group. He looked to see him stand aside in the tent with a far off look on his face, almost pensive.

"What do you make of this Tormund?"

"…She is a Woods Witch." He said, as if that were enough to answer.

"It doesn't mean the same thing to me as it does to you. I would like to hear your take on the matter."

"That is my take on the matter." Tormund huffed, amused by Mance's words. The warrior's eyes gazed at the flames, looking rather sombre.

"..."

"…"

Mance sighed once more, utterly exasperated by how his day is going so far. "We cannot take her at her word simply because she is old and speaks as if she is wise." He stated, frustrated.

"She is wise." Tormund shook his head, the smile on his face bordering on mocking.

"And you base that on what exactly?"

"…Ye know what I'll say." He grunted, shifting his attention from the fire to Mance. "Tell me Mance, did you notice there were no men with them?"

"Mayhaps they wandered off, or simply abandoned them to save their own hides, if we are to consider their story of being hunted by an Other to be true."

"No. That's how they came here. Just women…and children. I know those woods, they would not have been able to get through it alone, with no fighting men."

That brought Mance up short. Tormund's point was true and the more he thought about it the less sense it made. Spear wives or not, without fighting men, women didn't last long in these harsh lands filled with predators.

It was especially so with so many of them too old to be of help…and children too. Mance crossed his arms and tried to understand the situation calmly. Coming up empty, he decided to rest; this entire ordeal was making his head hurt.

He told Tormund He would revisit the problem in the morning; the warrior did not wait to hear more, opting to simply leave the tent in silence. After such a long burdensome day, Mance wanted nothing more than to have a dreamless sleep, something he knew he would not have given his shitty luck. His dreams were plagued by blue eyes and terrible shrieks these days, but he was used to it. So, he slept.

The days after that were spent going about camp as usual, trying his best to maintain a semblance of order. Although he did make time to speak with the old woman again, she said nothing she hadn't said before.

He eventually tried to banish the topic from his mind, though that was no easy task with the witch telling him to prepare whenever he ran into her, which he suspected was not a coincidental number of times.

He was speaking to one of his chieftains about food. Feeding such a large number of people was not easy and game was getting scarce in the surrounding areas. Mance was about to suggest a possible solution when he noticed a commotion near one end of the camp.

Knowing how delicate the relationship between some of the clans were, he thought there was a fight, immediately rushing to the area to try to prevent any escalation and possible deaths. A fruitless endeavour most days, but it was his burden to bear.

Pushing his way through the crowd of people in front of him, Mance came out the other side to see a few of his most prominent fighters standing staring at the tree line. Tormund, Varimir six skins, lord of bones, Val and Karsi.

These were hardened, tested folk, so the nervousness he saw on their faces and in their postures troubled him greatly. He slowed down and followed their line of sight, his eyes widening when he saw that it was not the trees they were staring at. There was a man coming towards them and he was pulling something behind him by the looks of it. The closer he got the more features he could make out and the more he saw the more he began to realise why this one man was causing such a stir.

Everything about him, from head to toe, was just as the Witch described. From the snow-white skin, to the white furs and the red markings over his body. As he came closer, what he was pulling behind him became apparent. Two bucks. Two honest to gods bucks, with ropes tied to their hind legs. The stranger was pulling them as if he did not even notice the weight, as if there was nothing connected to the ropes at all.

He came to a stop not fifteen steps from them and Mance got his first good look at him. He was a warrior alright, just by the look of him. He was big, as big as Tormund was, at least six feet and a half of imposing stature. His beard was just as thick as any of the menfolk, but his gaze was a lot more strict and measured.

He folded his arms at his chest and his muscles were put on display, a look at the bucks he pulled told Mance his head was one punch away from a tragic separation from his shoulders. A bow was strapped around his torso and what looked like the blade of an axe sticking out from his back, though that would be the prettiest axe Mance had ever seen.

Strapped to his waist was a knife and two…swords? They were noticeably short if that is what they were. Mance does not think he's ever seen swords that short. The blades were wider than usual as well and the overall design of the blades had a lot of jagged edges with carvings on the flats of the blades. There were chains attached to the handles, leading up to his forearms and under the furs that were there. Strange.

The unknown man stared hard at them all. Sizing them up. The grunt he let out along with the frown somehow told Mance their mysterious friend was not impressed.

"I have brought meat. I presume you are in need." His voice a deep growl, a commanding voice, one not used to being disobeyed. No one said anything, no one answered. The man was not put off by this though, observing each and every one within his sights.

"Who commands this camp?"

"That would be me, Stranger." Mance answered after clearing his throat and shuffling on his feet.

"Hmmm, I would have words." The pale man's eyes narrowed on Mance, his gaze exuding a strange pressure on the former member of the Night's Watch. It certainly felt all sorts of unnatural, and Mance had a feeling his building apprehension had nothing to do with the stranger's impressive build, having met the giants without feeling short of breath in their very presence.

Gritting his teeth, Mance secretly wished he had some strong ale right about now as he made sure to heed Tormund's words when he looked serious in the future.

'Gods give me strength.'