The King-Beyond-The-Wall

"You can't get fifty wildlings together before they start killing each other." Those were the words of Ser Alliser Thorne, the master-at-arms of Castle Black.

And Ser Alliser was wrong. Very wrong.

The army of Mance Rayder was the largest Jon had ever seen and perhaps the largest ever assembled in Westeros. He estimated that the wildlings numbered between eighty and a hundred thousand strong with well over a thousand tents stretching as far as the eye can see. However, it was more like a hundred different camps than a single one and each looked more **** than the previous. It seemed as if each of the different wildling clans had set up a camp wherever they wanted, never bothering to set up defences, no pits nor sharpened spikes. Just a few youths patrolling the area and their dogs. They had numbers but their ill-discipline were evident and if Lord Commander Mormont or his uncle would fall upon them in such disarray, it would be a slaughter.

There was no doubting which tent was the king’s. It was thrice the size of the next largest he’d seen, and he could hear music drifting from within. Like many of the lesser tents it was made of sewn hides with the fur still on, but Mance Rayder’s hides were the shaggy white pelts of snow bears. The peaked roof was crowned with a huge set of antlers from one of the giant elks that had once roamed freely throughout the Seven Kingdoms, in the times of the First Men…

"Ghost, stay." Jon commanded and the White direwolf obediently sat as Rattleshirt yanked opened the tent and gestured Jon and Ygritte inside.

Inside was hot and smoky and while he welcomed the warmth, Jon felt utterly alone as he stood there in his blacks, awaiting the pleasure of the turncloak who called himself King-beyond-the-Wall. When his eyes had adjusted to the smoky red gloom, he saw six people, none of whom paid him any mind. A young man and a beautiful blonde woman dressed in all white were sharing a horn of mead as they listened to a greying-haired man in a tattered cloak of black and red sitting crosslegged on a pillow, as he sing the Dornishman's Wife to a fair woman nursing a small babe at her heavy teats.

Jon was familiar with the song, it being a favourite of his siblings yet he was surprised to hear it so far from the sun soaked desert of Dorne.

"The Dornishman’s wife was as fair as
the sun,
and her kisses were warmer than
spring.
But the Dornishman’s blade was made
of black steel,
and its kiss was a terrible thing.
The Dornishman’s wife would sing as
she bathed,
in a voice that was sweet as a peach,
But the Dornishman’s blade had a song
of its own,
and a bite sharp and cold as a leech."

Beside the brazier an imposing bearded man sat on a stool, eating a hen off a skewer. Hot grease was running down his chin and into his thick red beard, but he smiled happily all the same. Thick gold bands graven with runes bound his massive arms, and he wore a heavy shirt of black ringmail that could only have come from a dead ranger. A few feet away, a taller, leaner man in a leather shirt sewn with bronze scales stood frowning over a map, a two-handed greatsword slung across his back in a leather sheath. He was straight as a spear, all muscle, clean-shaved, bald, with a strong straight nose and deep set grey eyes. Both the bearded man and the bald one were warriors, that was plain to Jon at a glance. And each were far more dangerous than Rattleshirt.

He wondered which one was Mance Rayder. Meanwhile, Ygritte and Rattleshirt stood idly by Jon's side as they waited for the bard to stop singing.

"As he lay on the ground with the
darkness around,
and the taste of his blood on his tongue,
His brothers knelt by him and prayed
him a prayer,
and he smiled and he laughed and he
sung,
“Brothers, oh brothers, my days here
are done,
the Dornishman’s taken my life,
But what does it matter, for all men
must die,
and I’ve tasted the Dornishman’s
wife!”

"What's this?" the redbearded warrior demanded Rattleshirt once the song ended. "A crow?"

"The black bastard in Qhorin's crew and a warg as well." Rattleshirt replied. Jon could hear the changed in tone in the wildling's voice. He was speaking more softly, with more respect. Clearly, those two men must be some sort of legendary figures among the wildlings if they could command such respect from an animal like Rattleshirt.

"Your orders were to kill them all and leave the Halfhand for me." the bald warrior stated as he looked up from the maps in front of him. He spoke with authority and his voice was filled with gravitas as he looked down upon Jon making him feel small under the intense gaze. This must be the king of the wildlings, he thought to himself, only a fierce warrior can assemble such an army.

"He killed Qhorin Halfhand!" Ygritte exclaimed, silencing the entire tent.

"This one?" the bald king asked, nearly angered by the news. "Qhorin ought to have been mine. Tell me, what's your name?"

"Jon Snow, Your Grace." Jon said, debating whether he should kneel for the king but he had heard from his uncle that the wildling's knees bend for no one, kings or otherwise.

"Your Grace? You see, Tormund? He takes me for a king." the bald man smiled at the bearded warrior.

The bearded man laughed so hard he sprayed bits of chicken everywhere. He rubbed the grease from his mouth with the back of a huge hand. "Har! A blind crow he must be! Spin around crow, and you'd might find who you're looking for."

Jon turned but could only see the bard in the darkness sitting next to the woman and child.

"My name is Mance Rayder." The singer said and although he spoke softly everyone in the room including the bearded warrior went silent. "Is it true what my Lord O' Bones said? You killed my old friend the Halfhand?"

"I did," Jon replied.

"He was my brother once... And I loved him as much. And the Wall shall never see his like again." Mance Rayder said, Jon noticed that there was sadness and genuine grief in the king's voice. "How did you do it, Jon Snow? You stabbed him in the back when he wasn't expecting?"

"In the belly," Jon replied, "But my direwolf did most of the work."

"Ghost is here?" Mance asked curiously, catching Jon off guard.

"I... Uhh... Yes..." Jon stammered and his heart began to race. He knows Ghost! He knows who I really am! He knows that I am not a deserter!! He will kill me. However, the king quickly moved on.

"If you would join us, Jon Snow, you'd best know us. The man you mistook for me is Styr, Magnar of the Thenns." Mance said as he nodded towards the bald man. Jon was surprised to hear that the Thenns had joined forces with Mance. They were the largest and by far the most civilised of the wildling tribes, worshiping their Magnar as a god on earth. "And this ferocious chicken-eater is my loyal Tormund. The woman is..."

"Hold!" Tormund rose to his feet with a mouthful of chicken. "You gave Styr his style, now give me mine."

"Hah... Very well." Mance laughed. "Jon Snow, before you stands Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. And here also Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts."

"Har! That sounds more like me!" Tormund said happily earning him a scoff from the Magnar. "Well met, Jon Snow!"

“The good woman,” Mance Rayder went on, “is Dalla.” The woman smiled shyly as she nursed her babe. “Treat her like you would any queen, she is the mother of my child.” He turned to the last two. “This beauty is her sister Val. Young Jarl beside her is her latest pet."

"I am no man's pet!" the young man defended himself fiercely.

"Val's no man, boy." Tormund replied. "You should have noticed that by now."

However, Jon could hardly hear them over the thumping of his own heart, finding it harder to breath by the minute. Mance Rayder knows who I am! He thought, panic settling in. There was no way to run. Even if he could take Longclaw from Ygritte, he'd have to fight a tent full of the most dangerous wildlings alive. Even if he could, the army outside would tear him limb from limb. Literally. His odds were bleak at best.

“Sit, if you like,” Rayder said noticing Jon's distress. “Are you hungry?”

“I would be pleased to eat, Your Grace. Thank you.” Jon said eagerly. Eating Mance's food would earn him Guest Right from the wildling king. Even beyond the Wall, the ancient custom remains a sacred one, that not even a monster like Craster would break.

Dalla rose and passed her babe to her sister while Mance poured Jon a flagon of mead. Dalla cut the well-crisped hens apart and brought them each a half. Jon peeled off his gloves and ate with his fingers, sucking every morsel of meat off the bones of what is likely to be his final meal, all while the wildling king watched him with shrewd brown eyes.

"You have eaten my bread and have earned my Guest Right. Here you are my guest and safe from harm from my hands. Until dawn at least..." the King-Beyond-The-Wall said after Jon had finished eating and drank all his mead. "Now tell me honestly, why is a Targaryen prince so far from home, Prince Jaehaerys?"