Year 295 After Conquest
They were led to the largest manse in the circle of buildings around the tower, built like nothing that existed north of the Wall.
Pipes - there seemed to be pipes everywhere - ran the frame of the structure, bulging with each and every heave of the immense creature at their backs. Within, however, was not what he expected. The first floor of the manse was sparsely decorated, dry timber walls lain barren of character. The landing served as a common space, and Mance noticed three children cross-legged on the floor.
The children stared at them curiously, as if they were some novel thing never seen before. The largest girl among them stood up.
"I don't know you," she stated, inspecting his face.
"They're survivors," Richman said, "Come to meet the Captain."
"Survivors?" a boy asked, "How'd you survive the Storm?"
There it was again - the Storm. Every time the word was spoken there was a lilt in the voice that said it, telling him that this Storm was no ordinary one, the memory of it carved into the minds of every man, woman, and child in the city. Blizzards were not uncommon things in the heights of the Frostfangs - or anywhere in the north, even south of the Wall - but he couldn't recall any recent storm worthy of the being known as the storm.
"Well, boy," Tormund grinned, "When ye'r lived out here all your life, you fear no storm. The winds'll come, then they'll go - and you'll stay."
Richman shot them an odd look, but only shook his hand before waving the children away.
"The Captain's upstairs, Mister Rayder. Go on."
The second floor was colder, further away from the earth - the earth from which the metal beast drew its flame. One wall was dominated by a great big window that spanned its height, commanding a full view of the central plaza and the tower. Glass, he thought numbly, even the Shadow Tower doesn't have panes that big.
"You must be Mance Rayder," a voice from behind, "It must be very warm. I've turned up the boiler. You could hang that big cloak of yours over there, should it suit you."
The Captain was a tall man - taller than he was, at the least. Pale, with a head of dirt-coloured hair slicked back to his nape, along with two bold eyebrows and a full moustache. He wore a long brown overcoat with brass buttons, over a fine, side-buttoned shirt with elaborate gold embroidery reminiscent of vines and flowers.
"Richard Aynesworth," he offered a hand - that strange gesture again - which Mance took, "Captain of the HMS Bellerophon, and I suppose as of now, Mayor of New London."
"Mance Rayder," he replied, "Though you seem to already know my name."
"That's so," he agreed, "And your companions? Please, take a seat, all of you."
Mance sat as offered, the stiff chair creaking beneath his weight. There were three other chairs, for the three Mance had brought with him. Again, these crater-folk seem to be able to communicate over great distances with no visible effort.
"This is Tormund Giantsbane," Mance raised a hand, "The woman is Harma Dogshead, and this man goes only by Lenn."
Richard Aynesworth inspected each of their faces with a keen eye, before breaking out a pleased smile.
"Well met," he finally said, "Tell me, Mister Rayder, where do you hail from? Yorkshire?"
Yorkshire? He knew no place of that name. Nor did he know a London that justified this New London.
"I don't rightly know," Mance answered, "I was raised by the Night's Watch since I was a babe, however, at the Shadow Tower on the Wall."
"Hadrian's?"
"Who?"
"Bugger," Aynesworth's smile faltered a little, but it was swiftly hidden from view when the man turned at the waist and called, "Miss Bird, I may have to borrow one of your maps!"
Mance tracked his attention to the rear end of the hall, where he found the silhouette of a woman half-hidden in the shadows, who had somehow gone unnoticed.
"Of where, Mister Aynesworth?"
Aynesworth huffed, "Of Great Britain, good miss! Do you not hear the man? He's got that accent about him. Where else could he be from?"
"Ah, my apologies gentlemen… and woman," the Captain turned back, coughing, "It completely crossed my mind. This good lady is my aide and secretary, Isabella Bird, a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society. The only Fellow left, maybe. She hails from Yorkshire as well."
Isabella the Bird was an older woman with a stern face and hooked nose like a beak, her greying hair braided around her head like a cap. She wore that same brown overcoat, almost identical in fact, and yet it was thinner at the waist, clearly tailored for a woman's figure.
"I do not know any Yorkshire, Mister Aynesworth," Mance tested the strange address, "Or London, for that matter."
"Of course, of course," Aynesworth appeased - with that kind of smile that told him the man didn't believe a thing he said - just as Isabella the Bird a book - a book, north of the Wall! - on the desk, "Miss Bird, do you know any wall worthy of being the wall?"
"Well, there's the one in China," she answered, "Thirteen-thousand miles long, as it were. Though my memory may be faulty."
Thirteen-thousand miles!? The Wall was only three-hundred miles long, from coast to coast. It was a figure Mance struggled to comprehend, for thirteen-thousand miles of wall could span from Dorne to the Wall five times over with length to spare, he reckoned. That must be some manner of lie, if not exaggeration. Just what justified such an undertaking?
Mance struggled to keep his face straight, though he heard Tormund choke in disbelief.
"Forgive me if I am being insensitive, Mister Rayder," Aynesworth smiled humorously, "But you do not look like a Chinaman."
The Bird flipped open the book to a page, and the paper folded outwards, expanding many multitudes in size.
"Look at that thing," the Dogshead muttered.
It was a map. One that put any he had seen to shame - albeit Mance has only ever seen the shoddy maps of surrounding lands at the Shadow Tower - so much so that it may as well be comparing the Painted Table to a drawing in the snow. Mance leaned forward to glean as much from it as possible, for every smallest point of interest seemed to be annotated, from wayside villages to even bays and hills.
So much detail and finesse crammed onto a single page, writ in a clean, crisp ink that he imagined not even the finest scribes could accomplish. It all swam before his eyes. At the very top, inked in bold - Atlas of the British Isles.
And most strikingly, the map was of two islands Mance did not recognise.
"Could you point out where you hail from?" Aynesworth asked slowly, speaking as if he was talking to a child.
"I do not recognise this place," he replied, just as slowly.
A beat of silence, and Isabella the Bird folded the map back into the book before closing the cover in a single, practised motion. Richard Aynesworth pursed his lips, visibly deep in thought. Isabella the Bird stepped back into the shadows, observing them with a hawkish gaze that would make any child shiver.
"You have never heard of the British Empire?" Aynesworth asked with no small amount of disbelief, "Seven continents, seven seas, and you've never once heard of it?"
An empire that spanned seven continents and seven seas. Mance only knew of two continents, and one empire - Old Valyria. What kind of civilization was this British Empire, for their technologies to be so advanced it may as well be sorcery to their eyes and ears. A shudder ran down his spine, Aynesworth's words running through his head over and over - seven continents and seven seas.
Was the world even so big?
"What are ye' harping about, man?" Harma demanded, "You try'na play yourself bigger, is that it? There's no fucking empire north o' the Wall."
Mance inhaled a wince. The man's words were hard to believe, but Mance has lived around liars for the better part of half a dozen years - and he had no reason to believe Aynesworth was lying. Not when he spoke with such conviction in this empire of his, or the disbelief in the possibility that there were men who had never heard of it.
"...Could you tell me where we are?" Aynesworth asked at last.
"The Frostfangs," Mance replied easily, "On a glacier, south of the Milkwater. North of Skirling Pass."
"Frostfangs," the man whispered, before clearing his throat, "Do you know of Spitsbergen?"
"Afraid not."
"Then let us put this matter aside," Aynesworth dismissed, admirably hiding his unease, though Mance could see through the facade, "How may New London be at your service?"
And there it was.
"I would strike an accord with your city," Mance leaned forward, "As you may know, there is a host of several tens of thousands marching up the Milkwater. They have made me their leader."
He ignored Tormund's ugly snort.
"The Frostfangs are unforgiving to outsiders," he carried on, "Would it not be agreeable that our two peoples work together?"
"...Why have you come to the Frostfangs, Mister Rayder?" Aynesworth reclined, "If these mountains are so inhospitable, why have you brought a city's worth of souls here?"
Mance bit his throat. Harma the Dogshead shifted behind him.
"Mance…" she warned.
The budding King-Beyond-the-Wall met the Captain's eyes, each man judging the other firmness of their wits. The Others and their wight thralls were weak to fire and dragonglass, this was something all free folk knew. And New London was a city built upon fire. This city of theirs may not be dissimilar to the Valley of Thenn, where the fires of the earth create bounteous veins of dragonglass.
If the Enemy comes south, New London would be an indispensable stronghold. And that was forgoing the vast technologies these people - the British Empire - held. Roaring behemoths with skin of steel and steam for blood, colossal furnaces that could turn winter to summer. And ships that flew.
Even an utter fool would realise the advantages of having eyes in the sky. Especially one not as fickle as skinchangers.
"There is a threat… coming from the north," Mance said lowly, "Creatures made of ice who command the dead who live. I've been gathering every man, woman and child north of the Wall to find a way south of it. There is an old tale, of an artefact to be found in the Frostfangs, that may help us. We came here in the hopes of finding it."
Mance waited for the inevitable disbelief and laughter, but to his surprise Captain Aynesworth adopted a contemplative face. He had a stark thought - this man claims to hail from an empire, one that spanned a multitude of continents. Although Mance had spent the entirety of his life in the North and beyond it, he too heard stories of the far-off, untamed corners of the world.
Krakens and sea dragons in the Sunset Sea, ancient gods slumbering beneath the mountains, hirsute Ibbenese whalers from beyond the Shivering Sea. Stonemen inhabiting the ruins of Old Valyria, the monsters of the Basilisk Isles, and the gods-forsaken Asshai by the Shadow. The world was large, and all that reached the shores of Westeros may as well be mere rumours and hearsay mongered a thousand times over by merchantfolk - but he knew the Others were real, seen them with his own eyes.
Why couldn't all the rest be?
Just what has this British Empire fought that necessitated a thirteen-mile long wall? For all Mance knew, the white walkers were just another foe in their unceasing conquests.
"...New London opens its gate to you, Mister Rayder," Aynesworth said at last, "God knows men like us must work together in this merciless land. Tell your people this; should they ever want for protection against the winds, food in their bellies, and warmth in their bones, New London would accept them with open arms."
Mance narrowed his eyes. Nothing ever came free, especially not aid.
"And in return?"
"New London has need for able bodies, Mister Rayder," Aynesworth smiled - the same sort of damnable smile Mance himself would give when convincing men to join his cause, "So long as our laws are obeyed, we can provide all that in return and more."
"You want us to bend the knee?" Lenn asked, speaking for the first time, "We are free folk, we kneel to no lord."
"Who said anything about kneeling?" Aynesworth retorted, visibly puzzled, "I am no lord, nor were my forefathers. All I ask is that you obey the laws of our land, should you decide to live in it. Is that so unreasonable?"
Mance felt Harma and Tormund stiffen, and he began to regret bringing them along. Rather, should've taken more reasonable men - though that sort of people were a rarity among the free folk. If there was one thing he despised about these free folk, it was that they put their inane pride in front of everything. And the only way to get them to accept anything was to beat the bloody, over and over, until they fold.
He had gotten so accustomed to fighting his way to an agreement that he had become wholly unfamiliar with the prospect of dealing with a reasonable man.
Aynesworth did not look like a fighter. And yet Mance would rather not be on the receiving end of whatever shot Orell's eagle out of the sky.
He interjected himself to diffuse the situation; "My companions are merely concerned about-"
"And who made you lord of this place?" Harma stood up abruptly, sending her chair clattering back, "Who'd follow you twig of a man? Why must we listen to ye'r rules!?"
At the edge of his vision, Mance noticed Isabella the Bird reaching into her coat.
"New London is a territory of the United Kingdom and its Empire beyond the Seas, and pays homage to its laws," Aynesworth replied testily, "Her Majesty Queen Victoria, may God bless her soul, had personally appointed me Captain of the HMS Bellerophon. New London elected me to be their leader, and God help me I will lead them to the best of my ability."
"Tell your people this," he carried on, "If you cannot swallow your pride, New London has no place for you. But if you are, then we shall protect you with all the British Empire has to offer. I have no patience for miscreants here."
Harma opened her mouth, face dark and fierce, but Mance did not allow it.
"The three of you, leave us," he said softly.
"What?" Tormund raised his voice, "Mance, you can't-"
"Leave us."
Tormund grumbled beneath his beard, but stood up nonetheless. Mance could feel Harma glaring daggers into the back of his head, but she too began making for the stairs. Isabella the Bird slowly retracted her hand and returned it back to her side.
"My apologies, Captain Aynesworth," Mance said, "My companions were merely concerned about their way of life."
"Of course," Aynesworth replied amiably, "You live in a hard place, and there are bound to be hard men. Nonetheless, New London will be open to trade. Should you provide us food, we would provide you with coal in turn."
Coal! It was a rarity in the north, for the free folk did not mine, though he knew some cave-dweller clans had access to the resource. Mance had only seen coal ever used in castle forges, for the material burned longer and hotter. And Aynesworth claimed New London had a steady supply of it.
"That is more than agreeable, Captain Aynesworth," Mance stood up, dusting off imaginary snow from his trousers in a fit of habit.
"Most splendid!" the man beamed, standing up and offering a hand, "I look forward to a long and prosperous partnership."
Mance took it, and shook his hand firmly. He found himself to quite like the gesture.
"As a token of our sincerity, Mister Rayder," Aynesworth pull out a drawer and produced a queer metal object, "An Enfield."
Mance received the object, and inspected it carefully. It had a clearly defined grip, much like that of a dagger's, connected to a very thin tube. When he tried putting his hand around it, Mance found his forefinger to be in line with a small lever. The object was heavier than he had expected, though he supposed it was to be, since it was crafted from steel.
He didn't know what to make of it.
"This thing… seems valuable," he offered.
"Well," Aynesworth mused, "I prefer my Adams revolver, see. The Enfield is an unwieldy thing, but should you ever need a man dead… it kills all the same."
Mance held the weapon - it was a weapon, clearly - more carefully. This dinky thing, he thought disbelievingly, can kill a man?
"If that is all, Mister Rayder…"
Mance tore his eyes away from the revolver, "I've heard from one Charlie Richman that my party would be able to camp under the eastern winch cage for a night?"
"Most certainly. None will accost you, so long as you depart in the morning," Aynesworth walked around the table and led him to the stairs, "New London awaits a good word."
Mance began making his way downwards, leaving the man behind. He glanced at the queer weapon in his hands, and tucked it away before his companions would notice. Joining them at the bottom landing, Mance released a breath he had not realised he was holding.