North of The Wall, beyond The Wall.
Beyond The Wall was cold and barren, a harsh land feared even by the hardiest people of The North.
Yet it was by no means uninhabited. Wildling tribes who called themselves the Free Folk lived there, though the Seven Kingdoms collectively called them wildlings.
Beyond The Wall were all manner of strange and uncanny creatures: snow bears, woolly mammoths, giants, Direwolves, and the terrifying wights and Others.
Now, at the call of Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, most of the wildlings had gathered beneath The Frostfangs.
Jagged peaks lay under snow all year round, vast, cold, lonely, and desolate.
High in the sky, eagles spread their great gray-blue wings, looking down upon the people, dogs, horses, and woolly mammoths below.
Beneath the glaciers of The Frostfangs, wildlings carried torches and shovels, searching and digging up graves in small groups. They had even brought in giants to help.
"Do you really think we can find that thing?" asked the short, stout "Giant-Slayer" Tormund, looking curiously at Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall.
Tormund's thick arms were ringed with heavy gold bands carved with runes, and he wore heavy black ringmail.
Steel was scarce Beyond The Wall, making that black armor from the Night's Watch precious indeed. It was also a symbol of his status.
"We should be able to," Mance said with a sigh.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall was of medium height, slender, with a sharp face, shrewd brown eyes, and long brown hair, though by now most of it had gone gray.
They were searching for the "Winter Horn." In the legends of a thousand years past, Joramun, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, had "blown the Winter Horn and woken giants from the earth."
According to legend, the Winter Horn could bring down The Wall. Then the crows, the Night's Watch whom the Free Folk hated most, would have no home left.
"We've dug through more than a dozen places and haven't seen so much as a hair, only a giant's skull," Tormund grumbled.
Tormund looked at Mance. Mance had no crown on his head, no gold rings on his arms, no jeweled chain around his neck, not a single ornament.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall did not look like a king, nor much like a wildling, yet he truly had united the wildlings for the time being.
Mance wore a woolen shirt and leather clothes. The only striking thing about him was a ragged black wool cloak, its long rents patched with faded red silk.
"We have no choice. Beyond The Wall is getting less safe by the day," Mance told Tormund.
Tormund's face immediately darkened. "Those damned things. Anyone who falls behind or gets separated never comes back."
"I've lost even more scouts. We have to go south," Mance said quietly.
Tormund grew even more uneasy. "Don't talk about those awful things. Best not to speak of them north of The Wall."
Mance's cheek twitched. "You and I both know they've always been there. That is why we have to find the Winter Horn quickly, then find a way south."
Tormund nodded and did not dare say more.
Mance and Tormund both knew the Others followed like shadows, hiding by day and coming out at night. They did not show themselves beneath the ancient, warm sun, but they were never far away.
Light and shadow were a balance. The shadow was always there. Perhaps they could not see it for the moment, but the Others might always be beneath their feet.
"Heave-ho. Heave-ho."
On the other side, the wildlings directed their giant friends as they helped. Giants generally had poor eyesight, so the wildlings had to point things out for them.
"Be careful. Our tall friends may not see too well. Don't let them step on you like they're crushing rats," the wildlings warned one another.
The towering giants swung logs to help the wildlings smash through the ice and search for tombs. Giants could stand ten to twelve feet tall.
Giants resembled men, but they were not like ordinary men. Their bulging chests were much like a human's, while their arms were very long and hung down from their shoulders, and their lower bodies were half again as wide as their upper bodies.
Their legs were shorter than their arms, very thick, and they wore no shoes at all. Their feet were broad, black, hard, and covered in calluses.
The giants' hair was long. Shaggy hair covered their bodies, thicker below the waist and sparser above it.
Because they had no necks, the giants' heavy heads jutted forward from between their shoulder blades. Their faces were flat and savage, with little rat-like eyes no bigger than beads, sunk so deep into their horny skin that they were almost invisible. But their noses were sharp, and they sniffed as they walked.
"We found it! We found it!"
A sudden commotion came from the group exploring the tombs.
Mance and Tormund immediately hurried over. It was a vast tomb beneath the glacier, belonging to a dead giant.
"It really is a horn."
Mance, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, and Tormund, the Giant-Slayer, hurried through the crowd and saw the horn.
A great passage had been dug into the icy ground. Deep in the sloping cavern, Mance and Tormund saw snow-white giant bones, and beside the bones was the horn.
A huge horn, fit only for a giant. Its curved body was a full eight feet long, and its mouth was incredibly wide.
It was inlaid with ancient gold and carved with runes, the gold gradually faded to brown.
"Is this Joramun's Horn?" Mance asked in amazement.
Tormund stared at the Winter Horn, looking it over again and again.
"I'll try it," Tormund said, a little doubtful.
"Don't... never mind, try it." Mance said. "Be careful. If it truly is the horn, it is a terrifying thing. Magic needs blood and fire. The Horned Lord once said sorcery is a sword without a hilt. There is no safe way to grasp it."
"I know." Tormund patted his chest. "I'm the Giant-Slayer."
Tormund used all his strength and blew the horn, but nothing around them changed.
Mance watched in astonishment. His scouts stood on the slope, the world unchanged, and far in the distance The Wall still stood tall against the horizon.
"Let's go," Mance said.
They had searched and searched, yet in the end they had made no progress.
Tormund had no choice but to have men carry the "Winter Horn" back to Mance's camp.
The world was gray and dim. The scent of pine and moss mingled with a trace of cold and drifted on the wind.
In the river valley, fires were scattered like stars. Most of the wildlings had camped there under the command of the King-Beyond-the-Wall.
Hundreds, thousands of campfires formed a wavering ribbon of light. Beside the frozen white Milkwater, they looked like two rivers: one a river of ice, the other a river of fire.
Campfires lined the river, dotted among wagons, carts, and sledges.
Mance's scouting party greeted him along the road. There were eight riders, men and women alike, all dressed in furs and leather, carrying spears or fire-hardened lances, though they had only a few helmets and a few sets of ragged armor among them.
Mance was a deserter of the Night's Watch, so he naturally knew how scarce weapons and armor were, and how immense The Wall was.
"They believe in me," Mance said. "I have to keep everyone alive."
Mance's gaze swept over the Free Folk who called greetings to him. They had hastily raised countless tents from hides and sheep felt. Some had built nests against great boulders, while others slept beneath wagons.
"Everyone believes you're the King-Beyond-the-Wall," Tormund said.
"No matter what, I have obtained the Winter Horn," Mance said firmly. "Only then will the crows of the Night's Watch wake up a little."
"Well done, Mance." Tormund burst into laughter. "You're the craftiest of them all."
The cold was heavy and damp, uncomfortable, like the touch of icy fingers.
"The battle has begun," Mance said. "No matter what, we can't keep living beneath the ice mountains. We have to prepare to break through The Wall."
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