Year 295 After the Conquest
The Frostfangs rose around them, great shields of stone and snow that protected them from the worst of the winds.
Nothing ever came free however, Mance knew, for the high peaks also staved away the mountain sun. No winds to molest them so, and yet also no sun to warm their frigid bones. He pulled his furs closer to himself.
The Giant's Stairs stretched on endlessly, all bleak and grey stone, every heavy footfall he made sending shudders up his spine. The Milkwater twinkled lazily alongside them, flowing in the opposite direction, the fractured iceflow catching whatever ray of sunshine peeking through the mountaintops there was in some attempt to blind them. It was the easiest way into the Frostfangs, save Skirling Pass to the south - but Mance had a purpose with the Milkwater.
They all did.
He glanced over his shoulder, finding the great host of free folk he had unearthed from their homes and brought to this desolate place, many thousand strong. All in search of some buried legend a thousand years old and may not even exist. But they must, and they would, because the lives of all the people behind him depended on it. No, all of the north, the true north, depended on it.
"Sun's going, Mance," Orell said gruffly, "And we're all aching to the bone."
Mance stared wistfully into the distance, where the Stairs disappeared into the Frostfangs. He breathed out, mist billowing from his mouth.
"Then we make camp here."
They billeted themselves away nicely, the camp straddling the ice-white Milkwater. Before long the fires were crackling away, like dancers in red satin. Mance made his own tent, in a little patch of bright grass where a ray of sun shone through a lofty vale. He heard a throaty growl, and looked by way - and saw Rattleshirt glowering at him through that yellowed skull of his. Likely wanting for this splotch of shine as much as he did.
Mance stared back, daring him to try and take it.
The Lord of Bones plodded off, scowling as his suit did clatter. Mance'll have to keep an eye out this night, lest he find a particularly sharpened bone raking across his throat.
"Orell," he called, "Send that eagle o' yours out. Scout the way ahead. We mustn't be far off now."
"Already did, man," the skinchanger sat by a fire, "But it doesn't matter how close we are if there's nothing there."
"The Horn'll be there," Mance reassured, "No other place for it to be."
"Ye'r chasing an old witch's tale, Mance," Orell warned, "And you're dragging us all along. To the middle of this freezing hell."
Mance straightened his spine and glanced leeward, finding their new camp all staked for the coming night, like a river of torchfire running along the Milkwater. Giants lumbered about still, their mammoth rides resting like great mounds of snow-frosted barrows. The number had since grown last he counted, he thinks, for now it must be some ten-thousands along.
And he didn't even have to kill a single man for it.
There was an inkling of pride there, in his chest, at that thought. It took a year to put the peace between the Lord of Bones and the Dogshead and all the other warring clans of the forest, another to drag those Thenns from their valley up north - and that, he wouldn't have been able to alone, if the dead had not the grace shown their faces. Then there was the yesteryear he spent raking along the Shivering Sea and down the Antler.
All of that, for a few thousand souls.
And now, he hadn't even have to lift a finger to get ten-thousands more. Free folk all. And for free folk to gather so, it was never a good thing, for it meant those cold ones were only creeping closer. Southbound.
"Still following, aren't you?"
"'Cause following a bloody madman is better than out there alone to die," a new voice answered, "And worse."
Tormund joined their fire uninvited, in his hands a great thing of roasted venison, his scraggly white beard oiled with meat-juices. The bear of a man took one look at their empty fire and hands, before offering his game.
"Want some?" he tore out a big chunk, "Not good to go hungry on a night like this."
Mance took it as offered, but Orell said something along the lines of waiting for his eagle. He breathed, trying to find the end of the peaks. It was still bright - the sun wouldn't go for a few hours more, though by now it would be long dark south of the Wall. But this far north, in this summer? The moon was shy as a maid.
Mance retired early that night, having been exhausted by the long march, as they all were.
And he was awoken by screaming not long after. A truly bloodcurdling scream, like that of a dying beast - one no more human than a wight. Mance shot out of bed, fearing for the worse. A thousand possibilities raced through his mind, all from a petty murder - though he had tried to dissuade that sort of thing - to a sudden raid.
Outside was bright, and Mance felt a limber in his bones that told him he was rested well - which meant it was the next morning. The firepit was still smouldering - glowing embers like stars inlaid the black ash - the bleached bones of some hare or the other buried within. There was a crowd gathering outside a tent, drawn by the noise. Many looked just outright ready for blood, by the way they were holding their spears.
Mance made his way through the throng, some giving way when they noticed him, others had to shoved from his path. But when he got to the head, he recognised the tent - it was Orell's.
"What in devils happened here?"
"The beastling's blown our ears off s'what happened," Harma the Dogshead scowled, "And I'll gut him s'what I'll do, then I'll gut his fucking bird too."
Except she won't, because Orell and his bird were indispensable to their march. Gods know how many times they would've lost their way following some twisting branch of the Milkwater without their eyes in the sky. Though, by the looks of things, Harma's not the only man among them ready to make a stew out of eagle.
That made things rather difficult.
Mance threw open the flaps to Orell's tent and bent himself inside. The man was there inside, alright, all swaddled up in furs like a babe, his mouth moaning beneath his great mane of a beard.
"Drag 'im out, Mance!" he could hear Rattleshirt's weaselly voice howl, "Let us see the bugger!"
He ignored that.
"Orell, you alright man?"
All he received was a wail in reply. It unnerved him, that, for Mance had never heard such a thing come from the great bear of a man. Cursing beneath his breath, he threw off all the heavy layers and dragged the man out by his feet. The light will shock him awake is what it'll do.
"Help me get him up, will you?" Mance grumbled as he pulled the man free from the tent.
There was some shifting, some muttering about what could've done such to the man - but eventually, someone stepped forward to help. Some mountain-man of the Frostfangs who he did recognise, but could not put a name to.
Together, they lifted Orell upright and leaned him against the post, though the skinchanger's head still lolled slack. Orell's sunken eyes were black as coal, blood dripping from the orifices freely. His eagle was killed while he was still inside it, it came upon Mance - but by what?
"Does the man think he's the Weeper?" Rattleshirt laughed, and they laughed with him.
"The eagle got done in, didn't it?" Harma growled, "No need for him to be alive anymore, aye?"
"Calm ye' tits, you ugly bitch," Tormund said, "You know how careful the man is with his bird, and that's without 'im being in its skin!"
So what could've killed that thing? It remained unsaid, but Mance imagined there wasn't a soul among them who was thinking any differently. The wind howled in the pervading silence, and the Giant's Stairs got ever colder.
The distance ahead - that once seemed so dull before - now lay before them like the jaws of a great beast. Mance did not dare think of what may await them within, if those Others had expected their venture to find the Horn of Winter. But he forced himself to come to that reality all the same.
Mance shook Orell at his shoulders, "Wake up, man!"
The skinchanger groaned, though it was more like a bird's keening wail. The mountain-man slapped Orell right across his cold-reddened cheeks, jolting the sense back into him.
Orell lurched forwards, coughing up his lungs and furiously wiping at his bloodied eyes.
"Hey, what killed your bloody bird!?"
Orell glanced up, bewildered eyes taking in the situation. The crowd must have doubled since, and they were growing increasingly restless. Mance quietened them with a stern look - let the man gain his bearings.
"I was following the Milkwater," the skinchanger's voice was hoarse, "Trying to find the source. But then there was a great column of smoke rising from the south, thick as a weirwood and taller than the mountains."
They listened in rapt attention, catching on the tail of every word and expecting the next.
"It wasn't a white walker?" someone demanded.
Orell shook his head, "It was… I don't know - a flying ship? Like a crow's from Eastwatch, but flying like a bird. Then a snap of thunder, and I was dead."
A silence followed. They expected more, something worse - perhaps less fantastic, perhaps something more - but there was nothing to come after. It was a disbelieving silence.
"...The man's gone bloody mad," Rattleshirt said, "What? Flying boats and lightning striking a bird? Oh I believe it, and I believe t'lightning's blown his brains out!"
A ripple of agreement.
"Can you stand?" Mance offered a hand, "Do you know the way?"
"Carved into me head," Orell affirmed, struggling to his feet on unsteady legs.
It appeared Orell's eagle had snared him a hare before he sent it off again to follow the river, taking its mind in his sleep. But it was too late now, to return to sleep - so they packed up their things and returned to treading up the Milkwater's stony banks.
The next day, they found the valley that Orell had come across, and if they craned their heads over the mountain peaks, so too they found that great pillar of black smoke. It rose stiffly and straight, unmoved by wind or snow, never dispersing until they were over the clouds and out of sight. From afar, the column seemed to be a single, solid thing, like a megalith made by giants.
"I've walked the Stairs half a hundred times," the mountain clansman said, who Mance learned went by Lenn, "And I swear by the gods under, I've ne'er seen that there in me life."
"Look!" a spearwife cried.
Mance snapped around - and paused at what he saw. It was as Orell had described; flying ships, not dissimilar to the cogs berthed at Eastwatch, except with their hulls seemingly stripped bare. They flew, defying nature, strung from great leather bellies. Three of them, bearing down from the headwaters of the Milkwater, coming directly their way.
Orell stared at them with bleak eyes, but there was fire buried deep within them - a baleful rage, at the things that killed him and his. The man had been unusually sullen since, clearly mourning the loss of that part of him that resided in his eagle. Now, it seemed, he had chosen this enemy.
Mance noticed not a few free folk stringing their bows, and they would've shot too, if not for a blinding flash of light that struck them like hail.
It came from under the lead craft, some device hanging by the keel - bright by no means Mance knew off. There was not the telltale flicker of firelight, or anything else that may give it away. From so far below, he could only imagine it as some manner of faux-sun - for it was powerful, too, the beam of light clearly defined against the shadowed snows.
The light flickered - and they watched, as if mesmerised by a firefly. There was a strange cadence to it, like a rhythm, and Mance could believe it was some coded message they were supposed to understand.
But without waiting for a reply, the ship continued without pause - turning into the valley and disappearing into the shadows of the cliffs.
"They… didn't attack?"
Mance stared after the flying ships, headed in a direction wholly apart from theirs. He cast his gaze back to the Milkwater, and its winding droll ahead.
"We make camp here," he decided, "Lord o' Bones, you're coming with me, take your best warriors. You too, Tormund.
"We going somewhere, Mance?" the Giantsbane asked.
"Aye, after those ships."