Year 295 After the Conquest
At first, there was but a flicker through the white haze, like a solitary candle, struggling against the forces of nature. Mance gritted his teeth, anchoring his eyes on that fragile glimmer. The winds had descended from the mountain slopes without warning, sweeping the vales into a wintry hellscape. He could barely see but a few steps before him, the bodies of their little warband merely wraiths within the raging winds.
It was but a white expanse, the land and sky melding together. The earth was cruel and inhospitable, the snowdrift up to his calves and compact beneath. This was no hidden valley deep within the Frostfangs like that of Thenn, with its vast mountain meadows and heated black soil. This was all ice, freezing and unforgiving. They had stumbled onto a glacier, one much like the one that sourced the Milkwater.
Mance could hardly believe anyone could live here, much less raise a settlement great enough for its fires to reach the stars. But there it was, shining through the blizzard.
And with every step, they seemed to inch so ever closer, until the flame seemed to be in arm's reach.
The void yawned before them.
Mance froze in his step. A deep rumble beneath their feet, like an ancient ice dragon stirring from the bowels of the earth.
"The ice is cracking!" Lenn howled over the tempest, "Get back! Get back!"
Mance threw himself backwards just as the ground beneath gave way. Wildly, he noticed Tormund stumbling precariously - and Mance lunged at the man, knocking him backwards into the snowdrift just as an utterly massive chunk of ice calved off the edge of the glacier and plummeted into the depths below.
He could feel the tendrils of cold begin to seep through his furs almost immediately, nipping at his skin. Mance hastily struggled to his feet, swiping off any snow in the folds of his crow's cloak.
"Saved me life, Mance," Tormund muttered, leaning over the edge of the cliff, "It's… warm?"
A great bellow blasted over the lip, knocking the Giantsbane onto his ass. It was a horn, but one unlike anything Mance had ever heard. The earth shook beneath its roar, the mountain peaks shivering in the distance. The tempest retreated like a startled bird, leaving no trace of its presence as the biting winds lifted and visibility returned. If Mance did not sorely believe that the Horn of Joramun was to be found along the Milkwater, he may just believe he had heard it.
"Great gods below," muttered Lenn, "What corner of hell is this?"
With the storm gone, they could see it clearly. The cliff - a great pit, a crater, almost perfectly circular. Unnaturally so, as if a god had taken a scalpel to the ice and carved it out. And at its centre, there was a tower.
It groaned and bellowed, a beast of steel and flame. At its top was a maw of iron, reddish with flame - the source of the light, and poured from it the great tower of smoke that could be seen from leagues away.
Like the gaping jaws of a devil, or a great god slumbering beneath the mountains, emerging from the ass-end of this frigid hell.
Mance could make out streets, and the buildings that made them. Massive buildings, those that would put even the greatest abodes of Wintertown and White Harbour to shame. Each like a lord's manse, boasting multiple stories and windows bright with flame, smoke pouring from every chimney. And there was a din in the air, one Mance would have never believed to exist north of the Wall.
The roar of civilization.
He glanced the way of his little band of free folk, and saw them all stunned speechless. He was too.
For this was no hidden away clan of mountain-men, or any village or town. This was a city, and cities couldn't be built in a day. Just how long has this place been here? And how has it never been noticed until now?
The steel god at its centre roared, a geyser of fire billowing from its jaws - so powerful they could feel the hot air brush by their faces a league away.
"They have harnessed the power of the earth," said Styr, Magnar of Thenn, with no small amount of reverence, "The fire beneath the mountains, they have tamed it."
"This is not Thenn," Lenn insisted, "We don't have lava-pits and fire-geysers. They found a slumbering dragon, and they built a city at its breath!"
Or, Mance thought, they just made a particularly large hearth.
"Mance," Orell caught his attention, "Look, o'er there."
A construct of steel and wood, hanging over the lip of the crater. Mance has seen its likeness before, at Castle Black - the top brace of a winch cage. There was a great watchmast standing over a timber cabin half buried in the snow, likely the landing for the cage. On the opposite face of the crater wall, Mance could see another of the same, metal posts - metal! All metal - anchored into the frozen surface like a great caterpillar.
"All this fire," Rattleshirt breathed, "We can bring t'host 'ere, and take this place for ourselves! We would live like kings!"
"Is your skull solid, Rattleshirt? Don't be stupid," the Dogshead spat, "Even if we gather every living man north o' the wall, we would ne'er be able to storm this. Not unless you want'a jump down there ye'rself."
Castle Black's winch cage could hold ten men readily, Mance recalled, though these ones more, considering their size. But it wouldn't matter, because even if they could take the cages, all they would be doing is sending men to die piecemeal. And that wasn't considering that these people could control the cages from the bottom.
"What'da we do, then?" Rattleshirt sniped, "Leave it be? This place?"
"Nay," said Mance, "We meet their lord. We've come this far, and there's no knowing if another storm comes knocking about."
Approach them with an open hand, and hopefully - just hopefully - they would be received in kind. If not, well, they've brought the best warriors the free folk could offer. This would be no stranger to Mance Rayder.
They made for the cabin, round the edge of the pit. Once more there were the strange lights there, bulbous yellow things that shone impossibly bright, and uncaring of wind or cold. A pair of watchers swiftly spotted them and moved out of the cover of the landing. They wore thick furs and leather, not dissimilar to their own, the queer yellow lanterns that did not house fire strapped to their chests.
In their hands was an even stranger device, like a spear too short to be one, with a blade too narrow and small for a sword, and a queer butt that bulged oddly in shape. From the poise of the men, Mance surmised they were some type of weapon he had never seen before.
"You lot!" one of the guards shouted in a drawl he could not place, "You the ones by the river, eh!?"
Mance stepped forward, "That's us, aye!"
The other man leaned to the side, glancing past their warband, "Doesn't look like all of you, now does it? Edye's lot counted several thousands!"
"We only come to speak!" Mance shouted, "We never seen the like of yours 'ere, you understand. If you could offer a little bread too, it'll be gratefully received."
One of the men leaned to mutter something in the other's ear, and the two conversed beneath their breaths.
"Don't like this one bit, what they whisperin' there?" Rattleshirt growled, "There's only two of 'em, and a whole lot more o' us."
"Two of them here," Mance corrected.
"Well, we accept all folks 'ere!" the odd-speaking guard said, "But no weapons are allowed in the city, ye' see! If you want to meet the Captain, you'll need to leave those nasty axes o' yours with us."
Styr bristled, his grip tightening - but Mance raised a hand in a placating manner.
"My folks are rather protective of theirs, lots of dangers out here you understand," he tried, "But they won't raise 'em against any of your people, on my word."
The two guards glanced at each other, but one shrugged. Before long, they were beckoned after.
As Mance's warband began approaching the winch cage, he warned, "Don't make me regret my words, you lot. Rattleshirt?"
"Ye'r thinking too much, Mance," said Tormund, "What can they do with those dinky sticks o' theirs?"
Styr growled threateningly as filed through the doorway, but it only served to amuse them from the looks on their faces. The cabin was not large enough for all of them, forcing some third of his warband to wait outside.
"How many have you got with you?" the odd-speaking guard asked.
Mance reckoned he was speaking of men, "Seven and twenty."
"Seven and- twenty-seven, then," he mused, "That'll take several trips."
The other man pulled a lever, and the cables began to whirr with an unnatural buzz. Too fast for any human hands, and too stable. The cage appeared from the hole before them, and the man cranked the lever again, stopping the whole mechanism.
"Pick your folks, and stuff that thing full."
The cage was not very big, barely half as large as the one at Castle Black, to his surprise. Instead, it was far more sheltered - metal covering all around save for empty spaces at the windows, though those too were covered by small curtains. Only six of them could pack themselves within before Mance was feeling a severe lack of air, and the winches began to creak again.
"What devilry is this?" Tormund glanced around, his giant frame trammelled within.
Mance glanced out one of the windows - and to his surprise he saw an identical cage pass by, lifting upwards. And another.
Then, the cage jerked to a halt. After a period of time, it began to move again. When they reached the bottom, Mance was the first out, finding himself in the landing of another cabin. Glancing up, he found the bottom of the other cage, from there shouts of startlement at the sudden stop as it swung precariously over their heads.
"Oy!" a sharp voice from outside struck him, "You catching a piss? Get out of there!"
Mance hurriedly left the cabin, finding another four men awaiting - all with that fireless lantern strapped to their chests.
"Enough of that, Neale," one man outstretched a hand, a strange gesture Mance did not know what to make of, "What's your name, man?"
Mance eyed the hand, before hesitantly reaching out to grab it. The man snatched it with a firm grip and shook it, before letting go and patting his shoulders.
Mance coughed in surprise, "Mance. Mance Rayder."
"Well met, Mister Rayder!" he proclaimed, "God's luck on your side, eh? For you to ride out that bloody Storm. Name's Charlie Richman. I used to work at that factory o'er there, but eh, ran out of cores y'see."
Isn't that name a little on the nose? But his own name was Rayder, so who was he to say? And what was a factory?
"Anyway!" Richman clapped once, "All of you who ain't going to give up your weapons, you can stay here. I heard from Cuddon up top that you want to meet Aynesworth, eh? Well, we all need some good news. Hearing of storm survivors will do some good for the city."
How? Mance wondered. How did they manage to communicate? He had not heard any shouting or horn-blowing of the sort. Only more mysteries, in this strange city.
"Tormund, give your sword to Orell," he ordered, "Harma, Lenn, you two are coming with me as well. Anyone else willing to put away your weapons?"
None.
Mance turned back to the man, "Would you allow us to make a camp here? Only for the night."
"I see no problem with that, Mister Rayder," Richman said, "All ready? Very good."
"Gentlemen!" he spread his arms with a grin, before adding, "And women. I welcome you to New London!"
The first thing that struck Mance was the heat. He had never been so aware of the rivulets of sweat running down his back and soaking into his furs. There wasn't a single fire in sight, and yet the city - New London - boiled with warmth. The streets were narrow, straight and orderly, raised slightly above the ground by a timber causeway - and he soon found out why. Beneath the streets was mud, the once frozen soil made into sludge by meltwater.
Pipes ran along the sides of buildings and by the sides of the causeway, all emanating warmth. He had heard of the hot water pipes in Winterfell, and wondered if they were of the same kind - but a sudden blast of steam into his face dissuaded him of the idea.
"My apologies for that," Richman said, "The pipes were made for colder temperatures. Now that it's warmer, they're all expanding and letting the steam out."
Then there was the sound. A thousand sounds in one, from the indistinct chatter of men and women to the terrible grinding of metal upon metal. The hissing of steam and whine of rusted mechanisms made a clamour of noise which he struggled to drown out. The air was choked with as much soot as there was snow, buildings frosted white about their roofs and yet black as ink at their foundations.
As they approached a crossroads, a great wave of heat from his right caught his attention. Turning his head, Mance was met with a great pillar of rumbling steel that shuddered and shook as it belched flame and smoke from its orifices.
"Get out of the fucking way, you lobcock!"
The hairs of the back of his neck rose, and Mance suddenly dashed to the side out of instinct - pinning himself to the wooden wall of a nearby building. The leg of a gargantuan metal beast crashed into the place he just stood, and he glanced up in shock to take in the full thing. Each leg thin as a stake, and yet lifting its mammoth sized body high as some three giants up, able to straddle the massive manses it paraded over.
A man held onto the leg as it moved, clearly ired, "You try'na be bug guts on the bloody floor, mate!? Watch where you're standing!"
Mance waited until the great creature strode away, before cautiously stepping back onto the street.
"Not the brightest one, are you?" Richman laughed, "Come on now."
They continued down the street, the battered facades of buildings covering them in shade. There was a constant buzz in the air that he couldn't place for his life, emanating from every lantern and crevice. Tired face men brushed by them without care, some glancing curiously their way. He saw a woman airing out clothes on a balcony, and a group of children chasing each other through the winding alleys.
For once, even the tall-talker Tormund Giantsbane was at a loss for words, staring around in wide-eyed wonder. Mance spotted more of the lumbering metal creatures in the distance, among watchtowers from which red-black banners hung. He tried to place the odd sigil with those of the southron houses he knew, but could not come up with anything. He didn't even know what to make of the symbol, or what it was at all.
This was no free folk settlement, nor of any kind of southron kind for that matter. This was something wholly foreign, a people so advanced they have mastered all matters of sorcery in steel and flame that the Seven Kingdoms may as well be a realm of savages in comparison.
They have conquered the skies with their flying ships, the earth with their man-made fire-geysers. They somehow fashioned entire manses in the middle of the untamed Frostfangs, ones that would put those in the south to shame. They brought monsters straight from a wood witch's tales to life, and enslaved them to their whims.
And the steel. There was enough steel fashioned into the city that they could outfit every soldier in the Seven Kingdoms in plate armour should they smelt it all down.
And as they traversed closer to the heart of the city, it only became warmer and warmer. Until Mance could feel himself melting as they stood under the jaws of the dragon, the structure at least two-hundred feet high and as thick as any southron tower-keep. It moved with a cadence, like a beating heart, heaving and groaning as it spat fire and ash onto them. He could not understand it, all the moving parts and unearthly noises. Deep in the Frostfangs, Mance could imagine he was standing in the deserts of Dorne.
Lenn fell to his knees.
Richman followed his gaze, "Aye, she's a wonder. They say it's God's grace that saved us all. But I think God has nothing to do with it, because he hasn't answered any o' our prayers. This is our god, I say, one made by our own hands. Our very own god of fire and steel."