He was on his feet before he was fully awake, sword in hand, and turned to the door of the room where Bennard just entered.
“Mance, we have to go!” The balding and portly man spoke with urgency.
The deserter was a former steward of the watch who—like Mance—felt irked by the lack of freedom that was imposed on the men of the watch.
“Call me Abel here, dammit.” ‘Abel’ said, without raising his voice, “What’s happened?” “Benjen Stark.
He caught Torwyn,” Bennard explained, sweat marring his brow in panic.
Abel crossed to the window shutter, opened it a crack, and looked at the yard.
It was dark still, the waning moon and the torches on the far gate the only sources of light.
Two guards by the gate, a dozen more on the walls, none of them looking this way.
Whatever had happened hadn’t spread this far to the Three Wolves inn in Wintertown.
He closed the shutter before cursing inwardly.
Benjen Stark.
He had not known the First Ranger would be here.
But he knew he should’ve made precautions when he caught sight of the First Ranger the first time he arrived.
The direwolf sigil of House Stark was everywhere in this castle, but the Ranger’s pin at Benjen’s shoulder had made him reconsider everything the moment he saw it.
Mance took a risk knowing that he and the Black Wolf had never met in person, but it didn’t mean the same for the four others that Mance brought with him, all of whom were deserters of the Watch like he and Bennard.
He had brought five men south of the Wall.
Himself, Bennard, Torwyn, Byam, Ludd.
They had disguised themselves as freeriders, joining the royal procession halfway up the White Knife.
Tormund Giantsbane had warned him that this was a bad idea, but Mance had thought the risk was worth it to take measure of the supposed King of the Seven Kingdoms.
Disguising himself as a bard was no issue, he had even attended the royal feast earlier in the night.
It wasn’t difficult, for he had a good singing voice and was skilled with the lute and knew enough of the songs to blend in.
A single playthrough of The Dornishman’s Wife had all the southron lords and knights dancing to his tune.
It was a good thing, for he managed to see for himself how the King was nothing like the peerless warrior described in the tales, but just a fat man with a penchant for whoring and drinking and storytelling.
No, Robert Baratheon was not a threat, but the Starks were another matter entirely.
The three Stark brothers had each grown gruffer and more dangerous after the years since Abel had last seen them.
The tales did not do them justice, for each one exuded a feeling of danger.
Eddard Stark was the man Mance remembered, steady and capable.
Benjen, he had always known.
The First Ranger was simply good, in the plain and dangerous sense.
But Karlon Stark was the one who had made Mance hesitate.
He had known about the western fleet, what he had not fully credited was the man behind it.
Watching Karlon Stark at the feast was watching a man who had taken thirty years of expertise in the most unforgiving environment Westeros offered and turned it into an instrument.
Should Mance ever move his people south, Karlon Stark could land thousands of men by the Frozen Shore within days.
He could cut off their supply line from the west.
He could harry the wildling column from the sea while Eddard Stark held them from the south.
He could hammer them from the side when Mance besieged the Wall.
Even planning an attack from the other side of the continent wouldn’t work now, considering the rumours of the betrothal between Stark and Manderly.
And even if they managed to get through all of that, Winterfell was too formidable a fortress.
Two massive curtain walls made of solid granite with a moat and roofless drawbridges connecting them in between.
Even if he had his whole army throw themselves at the walls, they’d only be skull and bones beneath it.
He had thought the Wall was the problem.
The Wall was one hundred leagues of ice and cold stone, and the Night’s Watch behind it was scarcely a thousand men between three castles.
If Mance wanted his people to cross the Wall, he’d have to deal with the North, and that meant dealing with House Stark.
The only chance for victory was for the King-Beyond-the-Wall to best the wolves on the field.
But to do that was difficult, as experience taught him otherwise.
The summer was long and bountiful.
Memories of teaching with Maester Aemon taught him that the North could gather at least fifty thousand swords.
That wasn’t even mentioning the tactical acumen of Eddard Stark, who was famed for the victories won in Robert’s Rebellion.
Mance had a decent army, forty thousand able bodied men and spear wives, with three hundred giants, and that number was swiftly climbing by the day as more and more clans joined him.
The only problem came from their lack of discipline.
Bone and bronze weapons, with the clear inexperience of holding lines and sieges meant there was still work to be done.
He had thought to kidnap one of the children to use as a hostage, but the damned castle was filled to the brim with wary guards.
That wasn’t even mentioning that all the Stark children had gotten themselves a direwolf!
Mance had seen direwolves before, north of the Wall, in the deep forest where they still ran.
They were predators, able to tear off the limb of a man with nary an effort, and the children were raising them as dogs.
‘Wargs’, he thought, for the hundredth time.
‘They must be wargs, all of them’.
No other explanation made sense.
The Old Gods had blessed House Stark greatly in the new generation it seems, despite the losses of the previous one.
If the Stark children were wargs — if the next generation of the house that held the north was bonded to six direwolves that would grow to the size of horses — then everything Mance had been planning needed to be reconsidered.
Attempting to kidnap any of them was also futile.
Bennard had warily suggested kidnapping the Princess Myrcella instead, to which Mance had merely given him an even stare.
Not only was getting past the Kingsguard nigh impossible, they’d sooner have the entire seven kingdoms breathing down their necks should that happen.
Nay, whatever plans for the North had to be made later.
For now, they only had to lay low for another sennight at the most before quietly leaving Winterfell with none the wiser.
At least, that was the original plan.
“What of Byam and Ludd?” He asked, grabbing all of his meagre belongings.
It wasn’t much, just his lute, a pouch of thirty silver, a knapsack filled with a map and provisions, and three steel daggers.
“They haven’t returned yet…” Bennard replied hesitantly, fiddling with the copper ring on finger.
Once again, Mance cursed.
While Torwyn managed to disguise himself as a kitchen servant, Byam and Ludd found themselves as stable hands for the southron knights and squires, which was easy enough for two younguns such as them.
The royal family thought them to be from Winterfell, while the Northerners thought them to be from the royal party.
But if Torwyn had been caught at the stables, it was possible Byam and Ludd had been swept up with him, or perhaps they were still somewhere in the castle compound with no way to know the situation had changed.
“Then we’ll leave first, Towryn won’t last a day in the dungeons before telling the Starks about us, less so if they employ a skilled torturer.” Mance stated after a second of thought.
“Byam and Ludd can meet us at the second hideout.” The valeman was brave and a skilled warrior, but courage in battle was very different from what he faced now.
Torwyn would tell them about Mance.
He would not know enough to tell them about the full plan, because Mance had been careful about that, but he would tell them enough.
Which meant Mance had perhaps until morning before Winterfell was looking for him specifically.
He took out a dagger and carved two long lines into the wood of the door.
Anyone else who glanced at the door would see a mark that looked like the ordinary damage of an inn used hard.
Byam and Ludd, if they got clear, would know exactly what it meant.
Bennard nodded easily before moving to gather his own belongings through shaking hands.
Mance shook his head.
The portly man was not Mance’s first choice for a companion, but the wildlings would stick out too much south of the Wall.
As a former steward, he wasn’t even half as good with a sword as Torwyn.
Sending a prayer of luck to all his companions, Mance opened the door and rushed out in the darkness.
… AN: Here we go!
Another chapter.
I decided to take into account something that GRRM always did, which is to claim unreliable narrator in a lot of statements.
What the POV in person thought might not be the whole truth in everything.
Anyways, the added guard to Winterfell had shown results, as two events that happened in canon were now stopped thanks to it.
Lysa sends a letter with help from Baelish, along with Mance Rayder sneaking in as a bard who played at the feast.
We also see two very good boys make their debut in this fic.
Ghost and Grey Wind deserve all the treats.
Mance’s party is also entirely OC, with most of them being deserters of the Night’s Watch who followed him.
These two events of course will cause major differences into the plot, which I can’t wait to get into.
While Catelyn is absolutely right that Karlon’s opinions regarding the south are largely driven by grief and paranoia, some of his words have already affected Ned, who now has many reasons to suspect Baelish.
Check it out if you’re interested, at least chapter 19 (long form, which is around chp 36 in webnovel) should be available by the time this chapter was uploaded.
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this meaty chapter, cheers!