Year 296 After the Conquest
Mance watched as the fleet of sky-ships descended from above.
As with every time their air-borne visitors made landfall, the entire camp stirred like an ant's hill, swarming around the open clearing that had been prepared in anticipation. But this time, Mance wetted his lips nervously as he stared down the utterly colossal sky-ships. Was there even enough room for them to land?
Those are flying castles!
The lead craft was one he recognised; the Boreal Maiden - its figurehead a splendidly carved maiden in flowing robes and armoured in metal plates. A goddess of war, crowned in ice and thrusting forth a long spear as if she was at the head of a charge. The crew of the ship had named her Khione - a strange name befitting a god of an equally strange people.
Metal anchors dropped from the sky like falling stars, each impact sending a plume of dirt and snow into the air and shaking the earth. Mance couldn't even fathom the size of them if he hadn't seen it before - the anchors alone were the size of giants, scarring a deep gouge in the earth where they landed. Some free folk cautiously approached the massive craters, staring at the objects in wonder.
The Boreal Maiden landed softly, veritably graceful compared to the floating behemoths above it. As the sun began to set, the shadows only grew longer, like the vex of a demon stretching along the Milkwater and swallowing the camp whole.
A steady steel gangway was cleared over the side, and the crew began to descend.
"Mister Rayder! It is a pleasure to meet you once again," a woman's voice called, "I pray that we are not inconveniencing you?"
"Margaret Dean," Mance greeted, watching her climb down, her hair whipping in the wind, "Not at all."
The crew of the Boreal Maiden was unlike that of any other sky-ship he had encountered, Mance found. It pained him to admit a tad, but he imagined they had even more discipline than the brothers of the Night's Watch. Stepping off the rungs, the ten mates of the Maiden aligned themselves in rank, uniform coats swaying and bayonets glinting dangerously.
Mance remembered the last time they visited, on their return journey from the Frozen Shore. The Maiden and the Envoy were flagging, almost listing in the winds as they lifelessly drifted into the valley like a drowned man swept along by the waves. It was then Mance learned that these sky-ships were not powered by sorcery but instead science - an equally strange word that he thought would make more sense to maesters.
In hindsight, it was obvious. When a fire was lit, smoke made upwards. So it was reasonable that if you filled a bag with enough smoke, it would be lifted up too. He couldn't help but wonder how many more simple facts of life existed, undiscovered and waiting for a clever man to find and exploit it.
He also learned just how vicious his revolver was - now missing three shots. Orell had returned from his hunting party, and spat blood at the sight of the Maiden. He still very much didn't like Margaret Dean, but his missing foot dissuaded him from trying anything stupid again. If a revolver can put a hole in a man, a rifle could delimb a man entirely. Even now, there was more than a single free folk eyeing the inconspicuous devices on the Londoners' backs warily.
"Are you making west?" Mance asked, "If you need more fuel, I would be glad to help."
Lady Dean quirked a smile, "I am here to pay off my debts, sir. And to deliver a message from New London."
"Shall we talk in my tent?"
"That would be most appreciated, Mister Rayder," she shouldered her rifle, "But first, allow us to demonstrate New London's appreciation."
One of her men operated the lamp on their chest to signal the greater sky-ships above, and at once the keels of their hulls gave way and winch-platforms began to descend, laden with crates and carts. Mance could even see the hazy glimmer of the chest-lamps of people riding the platforms to the earth through the snowfall.
"What is this?"
"Food, furs, briquettes," Lady Dean answered, "And engineers to build your people warm, standing houses."
Mance watched discerningly at the platforms lowered into the snow, while moving machines - metal chariots that rumbled and roved without animals - dragged the supplies towards a landing to be organised. He watched as the emptied platforms were winched back into the sky-ships, before being lowered again, piled on once more with innumerable goods.
This was too much for a mere recompensation. This wasn't debt-paying, he realised, this was diplomacy. Mance flattened his face - they were courting him, he was certain, and that meant these foreigners wanted something he had. His mind shifted through the possibilities - these empire-folk had everything, and yet were coming to him. He had the upper hand, he believed.
Mance invited the guests into his tent of bear pelt, smoke steadily ruffling through the opening at the crown. Margaret Dean had only brought herself and one more man - some dim-faced fellow with an ornery expression that seemed about irritated by everything.
He found Orell and Tormund in the tent, roasting fowl by the fire and filling the interior with the smell of smoke and meat. Skins carpeted the ground, soft and warm - of which he invited the Londoners to sit upon.
"Chicken?" Tormund offered, holding out a leg with greasy fingers.
"Much appreciated, sir," Lady Dean accepted the piece and bit down as she sat crosslegged.
"Hah!" Tormund grinned, "Hear that? She called me sir! You, boy, want meat?"
The man Dean brought with her scowled and waved him off, and Orell narrowed his eyes.
"Eat, Havelock," the lady ordered, "Because if you don't, you aren't a guest."
Havelock's face darkened, but he gingerly accepted the roasted breast anyway, holding it as if it was cow turd, "Accepting barbarian customs, ma'am?"
"When in Rome, do as the Romans do," she answered, "Now sit, and eat."
Lady Dean then turned to Orell, "Is your leg doing you well?"
Orell glanced down to his left foot - cold metal from the knee down. It wasn't anything special like the steam appendages the Londoners have, which can move and act as any fleshy limb - Orell's was a simple metal stump in that regard.
"Jus' fine," he answered tersely.
"Lady Dean," Mance cut in before they could stray any further - for these empire-folk did love their blather and pleasantry, "What have you come here for?"
Margaret Dean paused, choosing her words carefully. She retrieved a small black box from her coat and pressed a button - and a red light began to blink. On the face of the box was a glass panel, behind it two wheels that spun while making a light crunching noise like stepping on snow.
"We invite your people to settle around New London," she said, "Houses and food will be provided for, and we are willing to treat any sickness or injury without cost. Make no mistake, we are not asking for everybody in this kingdom of yours, only a thousand - or anyone willing."
There were many people willing. Stories of New London have already spread throughout the Frostfangs and even to the Haunted Forest and the Frozen Shore. Tales of an ancient kingdom unearthed from the ice by storm to mountain gods awakening from their slumber and ice dragons taking to the skies since more. Mance had planned to advance westward to continue his expansion - but instead the ice-river clans and the men of the Frozen Shore had come to him, seeking the great city.
And from the east, the Weeper came hunting down the sky-ships, and it took all he had to hold back the monster from seeking New London. The mountain clans of the Frostfangs themselves, were emerging from the caves and burrows, drawn by smoke and fire and the rumbling of the earth.
Mance's furthest scouts even reported an increase in activity around the Shadow Tower on the Wall. For all the vastness of the Lands-Beyond-the-Wall, strange happenings were never far from the ears of all.
There were two kinds of people in Mance's host - those who wish to fight back against the Others, and those who just want to live. The latter, he imagined, would be more than willing to be taken in by New London.
"They call me king," Mance said, "But we are free folk. If they decide to leave, I am not one to stop them. Have your way. But in exchange…"
Lady Dean smiled pleasedly, "You needn't worry, Your Majesty, we understand there is something in this place you are seeking. New London is building a railroad through the mountains, and we would like to use this valley here as a middle-station between us and the Frozen Shore."
"A railroad?"
"Correct. In the simplest term, it is a road. One that can move an entire town's worth of supplies and people from the east face of the Frostfangs to the west in a matter of days, if not hours. Having the station here would mean our relationship would grow even closer. All we request is that some of your people help our engineers build it."
So the engineers weren't here to build houses, but this railroad. Mance had no doubt they would build houses as well, but intent was an important thing. Which meant, he thought, most of the so-called good will New London had given them was actually materials to build their new projects.
Mance worried that bending over to these New Londoners would weaken his grip on the free folk. But he was made King-Beyond-the-Wall to save them from the Others, not to rule, another part of his mind retorted. If New London offered a greater chance of survival, then there was no harm in allowing leadership to shift. The only worst happening would be if the free folk splintered entirely - but considering the amount swarming into the Frostfangs in search of this hidden city of legend, there wasn't much chance of it.
Even he could see the impact a railroad would have, from the brief description of it. There wasn't anything like it in the south that he knew of. He didn't know much of the south, anyway.
"What are you looking for?" Lady Dean asked finally, and even Tormund slowly sat up, "There is no other reason for you to lead so many souls here."
Mance held her dirt-coloured eyes, sharp and unblinking. He remained quiet, wondering if he should say - until he realised they would find out anyway. It wasn't as if it was such a secret thing.
"The Horn of Joramun," Orell said gruffly, "It was owned by an old King-Beyond-the-Wall, and is said to be able to bring down the Wall."
"The Wall," Dean repeated, "That thing? Why now?"
"This is hogwash and superstition," Havelock grunted, "Ma'am, you cannot truly believe this, can you?"
Margaret Dean raised her shoulders, "Stories are good culture, even if they aren't real."
"But it is real," Mance insisted, "We have no other choice but the believe so."
The lady leaned forward, the sight of her bayonet reddened by the smoky haze, "And why is that, Your Majesty? Why is it now that you see this Horn of Joramun?"
"'Cause of them Others, little lady," Tormund said, "It's why Mance's King-'Yond-the-Wall anyways. He promised to lead us south o' the Wall to escape 'em."
"Others?" Havelock snorted, "Is this one of those bed-time monsters that you cannot name lest they curse you?"
"You can call 'em white walkers," Orell rasped, "I saw 'em with me own eyes. They have skin of ice, riding spiders the size of horses. They command an army of wights - walking dead men with blue eyes. Wherever they go, they bring a blizzard with them. And they're coming south, so we need to go south to escape them."
Havelock scoffed derisively, "You cannot be serious. I think ye'r messing with us - who would believe such a stupid thing-"
"Lay off it, Havelock," Dean closed her eyes, "Or have you forgotten the last days before the Frost? The scientists sounded mad to us as well - geomagnetic reversal, sun spots, dimming sun, Krakatoa and Tambora, South Sea Anomaly. The Earth's axial tilt is out of alignment, the magnetic north is shifting violently. The cold will come from the south, not the north."
She breathed in, "And we ignored those words because it all meant nothing to us. We shut our ears because their truth was more terrifying than we could handle, so we called them madmen and made ourselves ignorant. We thought the world had lost its mind, but we were the only ones to lose it. So when the Great Frost came, we weren't prepared. We weren't prepared when the upper atmosphere dropped. We weren't prepared when Krakatoa and Tambora shook the Earth and darkened the sky. We weren't prepared when the Earth flipped on its head and blanketed the world with ice."
"Mister Rayder," she said solemnly, her countenance dropping, "This will be reported to New London at once. The true nature of these Others and wights may be an over-exaggeration or a misinterpretation of other natural phenomena such as disease, but so long as there is enough of a threat to gather this many people in one place out of fear, it is worth considering."
"They are real," he insisted, "As real as you or I. I've seen them, they've seen them - one in every ten men in this host has seen them."
"Then find us a walker, Mister Rayder," Lady Dean stood up, "Find us a wight. Capture it alive and bring it to us."
Mance opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden shout from outside interrupted him. Lady Dean whipped her head around, lips thinning as the sounds of fighting grew more and more obvious. Mance hastily pushed himself to his feet, reaching for his sword.
The flaps were pushed open, and Lenn's head peeked through, mild panic on his face.
"The Weeping Man's come, Mance!" he said hurriedly, "De'r picking a fight with ta' empire-folk!"
"The Weeping Man?" Havelock unslung his rifle.
"One of the most dangerous raiders this side of the Frostfangs," Tormund grunted, "Nasty fucker, tha' he is. Hear he wears a string o' eyeballs 'round his neck."
"He's been chasing your sky-ships ever since he saw 'em over the Haunted Forest," Mance said.
Margaret Dean unslung her rifle, and Mance knew someone was about to lose their limb. She left wordlessly, her crony behind her, but he knew their conversation was not over.
"Are you sure we can trust these folk, Mance?" Orell asked.
"Aye, we can."
"So certain?"
"Did you not hear what she said?" he paused as a lonely gunshot rang out, "These empire-folk survived the Great Frost. The world covered in ice, the sky darkening. Doesn't it sound familiar?"
Tormund lowered his chicken, "You can't be serious, Mance."
"Aye," he narrowed his eyes, "They, we can trust. Because they survived the Long Night."
And so as the alliance to bind the Lands-Beyond-the-Wall were beaten into steel, to the west, over the whitecapped curtains of the great Frostfangs and over the boundless barrenlands of the Frozen Shore, Joseph Edye laid in his bunk, saliva pooling in his mouth as he snored. He dreamed of what aged mammoth meat tasted like.