Chapter 4 –

The Lost Foundling

Mance Rayder could not believe his eyes. They had seen a lot of oddly terrifying things lately, but a talking head, with horns no less, stuck to the hip of a giant is one of the most bizarre of things he was sure they would ever see. The dead do not talk. Well not so articulately as this head did.

"Aye, I am a talking head thank you very much." The head huffed exasperatedly. "Some people have no manners at all."

Mance's shrewd eyes widened as he spluttered a little, his face coloring just a tinge red before he worked to school his features and returned to a settled frown.

"Don't take Mimir's words to heart." The witch said, the wight behind still tied up in roots struggling against the bindings. "He doesn't really mean it. Do you Mimir?"

"No, no my lady. Just having a wee bit of fun getting the poor man to calm down from his fright." The head, Mimir, chuckled.

Mance shook his head and went to ask a question, but he was cut off prematurely as the towering giant asked his own.

"Who are you?" He asked with a deep and low rumbling voice.

"Mance Rayder, a former member of the Night's Watch." He replied.

"The Night's Watch?" The giant asked for clarification.

"Soldiers that man the wall south of here, preventing the people, the free folk or the wildlings as the south call them, and other creatures of the north from going south." He replied, the mystery of these people growing even more, and it was becoming difficult to squash that curiosity.

"Was your duty done? Or….." Mimir tried to ask,

"No, I am a deserter. I wanted my freedom." Mance was quick to reply. "I was born a foundling you see. My father was from the watch, and my mother was a wilding. As a babe, the watch took me in and raised me. I knew nothing else."

"Three years ago, on a ranging we brought down a fine big elk. We were skinning it when the smell of blood drew a shadow cat out of its lair. I drove it off, but not before it shredded my cloak to ribbons. Do you see? Here, here, and here?" He said, removing the furs on his back as he pointed out the red patches on his otherwise black fur coat."

"It shredded my arm and back as well, and I bled worse than the elk. My brothers feared I might die before they got me back to Maester Mullin at the Shadow Tower, so they carried me to a wildling village where we knew an old wise woman did some healing. She was dead, as it happened, but her daughter saw to me. Cleaned my wounds, sewed me up, and fed me porridge and potions until I was strong enough to ride again. And she sewed up the rents in my cloak as well, with some scarlet silk from Asshai that her grandmother had pulled from the wreck of a cog washed up on the Frozen Shore. It was the greatest treasure she had, and her gift to me."

He swept the cloak back over his shoulders. "But at the Shadow Tower, I was given a new wool cloak from stores, black and black, and trimmed with black, to go with my black breeches and black boots, my black doublet, and black mail. The new cloak had no frays nor rips nor tears . . . and most of all, no red. 'The men of the Night's Watch dressed in black', Ser Denys Mallister reminded me sternly, as if I had forgotten. My old cloak was fit for burning now, he said."

His face turned defiant and he continued "The men of the Watch are made to swear an oath. We were to take no wife, father no children, and hold no lands. I had accepted that long ago, but this. No, I wanted my freedom to choose, and the watch gave me none. So, I left and joined the woman who fed and nursed me to health."

His mood then turned somber. "The same woman, that is now dead at the hands of the others."

"What were these creatures?" Kratos asked as he tried to turn his attention away from the depressing line of thinking.

That did not make sense to him, everyone at least knew about the others. Many, even in the wildlings claimed them to be tales of legend, but most did know of them. His shrewd mind sensed a puzzle forming, but he squashed it from becoming the focus of his mind, the others massacring the village he had been residing in, so far away from the Frost Fangs, was cause for worry enough.

"The creatures you killed were the Others or White Walkers, the true enemy." He replied easily, and when he saw a brief look being shared by the giant and the witch, but not one of recognition, but contemplation, he continued "They were supposed to be myths of old tales. The free folk always believed them to be true. The village I lived in, always had someone or the other who would tell a tale about sighting them around the base of the frost fangs, or by the fist of the first men. I did not believe them. Until today that is. But, it is too late for the village, but maybe not for the world itself. Their presence this far south, so far away from the frost fangs."

He trailed off, in thought. The free folk of the wandering village he had joined had recently started telling tales of spotting men made of ice, colder than the night itself. If they are gathering strength, then the people north of the wall are no longer safe. They need to go south. He eyed the wight trapped in the witch's vines.

'Maybe, I can convince the Talltalker with this.' He mused internally, and then looked at the ashen Giant in front of him and thought 'And if there are other giants, we can even fight back.'

"Their origin is known to you then?" The tall spear-wielding warrior asked, and Mance wondered what he was thinking.

"Well, there are stories that say that they arrive from the land of always winter, past the Frost Fangs to the west of this forest. But they could just be tales." He replied.

The ashen warrior grunted, and after a moment of contemplation, "We are going to the lands of always winter." He said with finality, and Mance panicked.

That was suicide. No mortal man can survive the wrath of the cold gods and he did not want his saviors to die in vain.

"Whoa, there. You seem to not know much about the place you are in, and normally that would be suspicious in itself. But wanting to go to the land of always winter? That is suicide, you will die." He said, but he could see the words were of little effect on the warrior. And then, another thought struck him.

'They know nothing of the place they are in. They speak of no camps. Know nothing of the free folk.' His shrewd mind began analyzing, no longer able to ignore the mystery in front of him. 'Are they giants, or are they something else? For that how did their weapons manage to damage the others and not shatter at all?'

"Brother, I suggest we wait for a while and learn all that we can about the place we are in. I suppose our fur-cloaked companion here, can be of help here. Tell me, is there a settlement or a village nearby we can take you to?" Mimir asked. While he too wanted to solve the mystery of the Hel Walker-like creatures, he thought it more prudent to learn all about the cultures from this man first.

Mance saw the opportunity to find out more of his saviors as well, and if he could somehow learn of the weapons used to kill the others and the wights, he would have found another way to fight back.

When the others had attacked his village, he had been in bed with the woman who had nursed him to health. The few thirty men of the wandering village had tried fighting back, but their weapons, even the few true steel swords they had, shattered upon contact with the crystal swords of the cold gods. And the wights felt no pain from anything they used against them.

In time, the entire village had been massacred. His lover's undead corpse had been burnt by his own hands. He could only escape because of her sacrifice; she had remembered him even in death. If he could use the captured wight, and find out more about his saviors and their armaments, he could unite the true north to either fight back, or flee south.

He had no desire to be king beyond the wall. No, but he would do anything necessary to get his revenge.

"The closest settlement from here would be Ruddy Hall. Tormund the Talltalker is chief there." He said in reply, and then looked at the spear-wielding warrior "Though, they call him Tormund Giantsbane. He would probably want to fight you."

"I am no Giant." The man said. "We will visit Ruddy Hall. But I wish to know all there is to know about the white walkers."

Mance nodded, happy that they would accompany him. He was just about to begin leading when the man turned away and headed to the slain deer that had been bleeding by the river. It was being kept clean only by the running water of the shallow stream.

The man hefted the large deer onto his shoulder like it weighed nothing and returned to the group.

'He may not be a giant. But the strength of the giants he does possess. Giant's blood perhaps?' he mused.