Next came the two men who hated each other's guts: "Hunter" Harle and "Handsome" Harle. Rumor said they'd both fathered children on the same woman.
Also present were "Shieldbreaker" Sorren, "Wanderer" Howd, "Sealskinner" Davyn,
and the ones wearing weirwood masks: the warrior witch Morna, "Blind" Doss, "Trader" Gawen, "Moss" Kellegg, and Val's lover Jarl.
All of them were raider chiefs or clan leaders whose people still looked and lived more like the First Men than the stranger, half-evolved tribes.
The forest witch "Mole's Mother" huddled in a corner. She was tiny and frail, skin dark as old leather, dressed in a ragged black robe stitched with dried bark and twigs. Deep wrinkles carved her face. Most Free Folk believed she still held the old powers, and her eyes looked both gloomy and half-mad.
Then came the skinchangers, the irreplaceable scouts and shock troops of the wildling host.
The one Mance valued most was Varamyr Sixskins.
Small as a rat, with mean little eyes, he could slip into a savage snow bear, three wolves, and a shadowcat. Everyone gave him a wide berth; nobody wanted to meet that pack in the woods.
Lynn had heard the stories. Behind his back they called Varamyr "the evil little beast." As a boy he had used a dog to kill his own two-year-old brother. Later he murdered his foster father and teacher, a wolf-skins named Haggon.
Before joining Mance he had ruled a whole cluster of villages from a moss-and-clay hall that once belonged to Haggon, guarded by his beasts. The settlements brought him bread, salt, and cider; he took his own meat. When he wanted a woman he sent the shadowcat to fetch her. Any girl who caught his eye ended up in his bed—some weeping the whole way, but they still came. He planted his seed, cut off a lock of their hair as a keepsake, and sent them home. Every so often some spear-carrying hero tried to kill the beast and rescue a sister, lover, or daughter. Varamyr killed them all.
After hearing the tales, Lynn almost felt sorry for Mance. To save the Free Folk he had to make common cause with monsters like this.
If it were up to Lynn alone, he would have put an arrow through Varamyr the first chance he got.
Of course that would have emptied a quarter of the tent right there, sent another quarter to judgment, and probably made the rest run for the hills.
Next was Borroq, a skinchanger who rode a giant boar.
They said the boar was as big as a bull, covered in coarse black bristles, with tusks longer than a man's arm. Borroq himself was ugly—thick black brows, flat nose, heavy jaw covered in stubble, and two small black eyes squeezed together.
Last came Orell the Eagle-eye, a skinchanger who could slip into an eagle. He was basically a living reconnaissance drone—an edge that could decide battles.
He was the one who had been flying overhead when Lynn's capsule slammed into the Haunted Forest.
But right now none of the skinchangers had their animals with them. Every leader's weapons had been collected at the door—even Kassa's Star Spear. The only steel still inside the King-Beyond-the-Wall's tent was Dark Sister at Lynn's hip and the steadily growing dragon Weeping Blood perched on his shoulder.
The special treatment spoke for itself.
Mance had saved the seat beside him for Lynn. Lynn walked over and sat down.
He noticed Mance's wife Dalla wasn't there—understandable. The tent was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with dozens of men. The space was tight and the mix of smells was brutal. No place for a pregnant woman. Her sister Val was probably looking after her.
Once Lynn and Kassa were seated, Mance did what he always did: strummed his harp and sang an old song about life and love.
A few voices murmured approval when it ended. Most of the wildlings just looked blank.
Lynn wondered if Mance would ask him to tell one of the old hero tales next, but instead Mance reached down and picked up a broken sword.
Lynn recognized it instantly—Alfyn Crowkiller's blade.
About a week earlier Tormund had notched it deeply with Dark Sister. The break was exactly where that notch had been.
"Before we begin," Mance said, lifting the broken sword so everyone could see, "I have bad news."
"Alfyn Crowkiller ran into 'Halfhand' Qhorin and a big ranging party while scouting the Wall. His crew was almost wiped out. A handful made it back. Alfyn himself has gone to the gods."
Lynn had wondered why Alfyn wasn't here. Every other chief had shown up—even Jarl, who had only recently put together his own raider band. Now it made sense. The Night's Watch had killed him, and that notch Tormund put in his sword had probably helped them finish the job.
Lynn glanced at Tormund. Tormund was already looking back at him.
"Shadow Tower sent out nearly a hundred men," Mance continued. "They're marching toward the Fist of the First Men. That's not normal."
"My old black brothers have smelled something. It means we don't have as much time as we hoped. We need to move the original plan forward."
"We'll set out earlier. Any groups still on the march—tell them to hurry. Orell, after this meeting take some men and set up observation posts at the mouth of the Windy Gorge. Don't miss anything."
Orell nodded.
Mance stood slowly, still holding the broken sword.
"Winter is coming."
His voice was low and heavy.
"Everyone here has felt it. This disaster may be bigger than just the army of the dead. The old stories that come with the Others also speak of the Long Night."
The words "Long Night" made even the fiercest Free Folk catch their breath.
Eight thousand years ago, at the end of the Age of Heroes, the Others had brought a war that lasted a generation. The sun was hidden, the cold cut to the bone, and it nearly ended every human kingdom.
The Long Night was the nightmare of the entire known world. Every civilization had its own version.
The YiTish said the Bloodstone Emperor's crimes had angered the gods and brought the darkness.
The Rhoynar told of a hero who used a secret song to call the rivers and bring light back to the earth.