Chapter 26: The King’s Council

Mance Rayder's POV

The large hall was filled with the murmur of voices and the scent of smoke, the fire crackling at the center of the room. Mance Rayder sat at the head of the table, his posture stiff as he listened to the leaders of the various clans. Tormund, Skor, Magnar Styr, and Rattleshirt had arrived with urgent news, but Mance's mind remained focused on the same concern that had gnawed at him for months: how to get his people south of the Wall before the White Walkers could claim them all.

The Free Folk were not accustomed to unity, yet the looming threat of the Others had brought them together, at least for now. Mance had seen the growing signs—the chill in the air, the strange occurrences, the death that swept through villages—things that confirmed his worst fears. The White Walkers were real, and the Free Folk had nowhere to run but south.

"We cannot stay here," Mance said, his voice heavy with authority. "The Wall won't protect us forever. The dead are coming, and we need to move. South of the Wall is our only chance."

Tormund nodded grimly, his usual boisterousness replaced by the same grim realization. "Aye, Mance. But getting us all south is no simple task. We have families, clans who've never worked together before. They won't follow us without a plan."

Mance's gaze swept over the gathered leaders, his sharp eyes narrowing. Rattleshirt, his face hidden by a skull mask, sat in silence, his posture tense. Skor, the leader of the Ice River Clan, was always calculating, always thinking two steps ahead. Magnar Styr of the Thenns sat quietly, his cold demeanor betraying nothing of his thoughts.

"None of the clans will trust each other just because we say they must," Magnar Styr spoke up, his gravelly voice low but commanding. "What makes you think they'll follow this plan?"

"I'm not asking for trust," Mance replied, his tone firm. "I'm asking for survival. They know the White Walkers are real. They've seen the dead rise. They know the Wall is no longer enough to keep them out. And if they don't follow, they'll die."

The room fell into a heavy silence as the gravity of Mance's words settled over the group. The White Walkers were no longer a distant threat. They were here, closing in on the Free Folk with each passing day.

Tormund broke the silence with a grunt. "The question is not just whether they'll follow, Mance. The question is how we'll get them to the south. The Wall's not easy to cross."

"We've already made the first step," Mance said, his voice resolute. "We've united the clans. Now we need to get them through the mountains. The Frostfangs are our only way out. If we're fast enough, we'll make it before the snows get worse."

Rattleshirt's voice was rough, a rasping growl. "The Frostfangs are treacherous. Even if we make it across, we'll be easy prey for the Walkers."

"Then we fight," Mance said, meeting Rattleshirt's gaze. "We'll fight our way through. The people need to know that they have a chance to survive. We can't let fear stop us."

Skor leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. "We'll need provisions. Enough food and weapons for the journey. And we'll need to keep the clans together. No infighting."

"There will be no infighting," Mance said sharply. "We'll make sure they understand that now. There's no room for it. Not if we want to live."

Tormund's voice was louder now, his usual bravado creeping back in. "And what about the Others? The White Walkers?" He let the question hang in the air. "I've seen them with my own eyes. They're real, Mance. The people need to know we're not just running away. We're running to survival."

Mance's eyes darkened as he met Tormund's gaze. He could see the conviction in the man's eyes. He knew what Tormund had seen, what he had survived. But the idea of someone—someone other than a legend—killing the White Walkers with their bare hands was still hard for him to believe. A man like that, capable of such feats... Mance couldn't make sense of it.

"The Walkers are coming, that's certain," Mance said, his voice heavy. "But we're not running from them. We're running toward survival. We'll get south of the Wall, and we'll deal with them when we have to. But first, we need to get the Free Folk across the mountains."

Rattleshirt shifted, his voice low and skeptical. "And when we get there? How will we be sure we're safe?"

Mance looked at each of them, his face grim. "We'll make a stand. But we have to be ready to fight. We fight for our people. And we fight for our future."

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Later that Evening: Mance and His Family

After the meeting ended, Mance returned to his tent, his thoughts still heavy with the weight of the task ahead. Dalla, his wife, was sitting by the fire, her calm demeanor a welcome contrast to the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind.

"You look troubled," Dalla said, glancing up at him as he entered.

Mance didn't sit. He paced for a moment before speaking. "The White Walkers are coming. The Free Folk are starting to believe it, but they don't understand the gravity of it. If we don't get them south, we'll all be dead."

Dalla studied him, her eyes sharp. "And they'll follow you?"

"They will," Mance replied. "But we can't just tell them to move south. We have to give them a reason to believe. We need to unite them, give them something to fight for."

Val entered the tent quietly, her piercing gaze fixed on Mance. "You're worried, aren't you? About the journey."

Mance met her eyes, his jaw set. "I'm not worried about the journey. I'm worried about what comes after. If we survive the Frostfangs, what happens when we get to the south? The White Walkers won't stop following us."

Dalla reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "We'll figure it out. We always do. But right now, your people need you to lead them."

Mance nodded, his thoughts turning inward. "They do. And I won't fail them. We'll survive this."