Viserys' decision was soon accepted by the majority. Out of the 40 or 50 wildlings, only six would be allowed to return, which was considered a sufficient show of force. Since none of the free folk had been killed or injured yet, there were few complaints.
Tormund, however, now understood that the Dragonlord's mercy came with conditions. What had seemed like foolishness—letting them go—was more like a hunter playing with his prey, confident in his control. Regret gnawed at him. Every word he had shouted earlier now carried a weight he hadn't anticipated. If he hadn't been so loud, perhaps fewer people would have to die.
His gaze fell on Ygritte, her red hair disheveled, bound behind her back by Jon. Guilt welled up inside him.
"Your Grace Viserys, I'm willing to trade my life for hers," Tormund said suddenly.
"Tormund..." Mance began, unsure how to continue. He wondered if speaking with more humility might prompt Viserys to show mercy.
"Your Grace," Mance offered, "take my arm as payment. Spare them."
"Mance!" The others tried to stop him from saying more.
Viserys, without a word, turned, drew Jorah's sword, and tossed it at Mance's feet. "Kill half of them yourself, or you all die together."
The steel blade, still stained with Styr's blood, glinted in the snow. Mance stood frozen, unsure of what to do.
"Can't decide?" Viserys sneered. He tossed a gold coin, a golden dragon, into the air. "Flip the coin. If the dragon faces up, they live. If it faces down, they die. You throw it."
The cold weight of fate now rested in Mance's hands. Even though more lives could be spared with the flip of a coin, the agony of deciding who lived and who died was his burden alone.
The Night's Watchmen watched, realizing that Viserys, despite his gifts, was no easy ruler. His cold-bloodedness was terrifying—he wasn't just killing bodies, he was killing their spirits too. It sent shivers down their spines.
In the end, luck was not on Mance's side. Out of nearly 50 wildlings, only 13 were spared by the coin toss, the rest condemned by the cruel whim of chance. As Mance stood over the trail of decapitated bodies, he regretted not agreeing to Viserys' terms earlier.
Later that evening, Viserys dined with Mance in Maester Aemon's chamber. The room, now brightly lit by two lampstands holding three candles each, was the brightest place in all of Castle Black. Jon served at Viserys' side, eager for the chance to observe the legendary Targaryen up close.
There was good news for Jon as well: with Alliser sent by Viserys to keep an eye on Craster, no one harassed him anymore. His life had become much easier.
As for Aemon, his days carried on much the same, though the brightness in his room now seemed a small comfort in the midst of so much darkness.
Recently, since regaining his sight, old Aemon's appetite had noticeably improved. The chance to witness a dragon up close had lifted his spirits, making him eager to eat more. But after hearing about the incident that day, what could have been a full meal ended with almost a third left untouched.
"Can't finish?" Viserys asked, noticing Aemon's struggle.
Aemon smiled and made a motion to pick up his spoon again, but to his and Jon's surprise, Viserys calmly poured Aemon's leftovers into his own bowl.
"The Long Night is coming. We must cherish every grain of food," Viserys said, his voice serious. "Jon, when I leave the Wall, make sure everyone understands—no wasting food."
"Yes, Your Grace," Jon replied, puzzled. He had heard Viserys was a wealthy king who had brought plenty of goods to the Night's Watch. Yet, here he was, acting so frugally. Jon couldn't help but recall the lavish feast Winterfell had hosted for King Robert, where half the food stocks had been depleted, and afterward, bones and uneaten scraps had been strewn everywhere, wasted.
"Viserys, are you saying the White Walkers are real?" Aemon asked, his sharp eyes fixed on the Targaryen king. Previously, Viserys had explained he wanted to take Aemon away because of the "king's blood" in his veins. Aemon, who had been skeptical, now found himself reconsidering in light of recent events involving the dead rising.
"Yes, they are real," Viserys confirmed. "I believe they may have been created by the Children of the Forest. In any case, the free folk cannot stay beyond the Wall. If they do, we will face even greater threats in the future. I estimate the Wall will collapse in about ten years."
"The Wall will collapse?" Aemon and Jon exchanged stunned looks at this revelation.
"It's just an estimate," Viserys added, swiftly finishing the contents of his bowl. "The Wall holds immense magic, but that magic is fading, dissipating each day. I've deduced this from the residual amount still present."
Jon and Aemon, still processing the idea of the Wall collapsing, were further shocked when Viserys added, "And yes, magic is very real."
To prove his point, Viserys gestured toward the burning lampstand. A small, lifelike dragon of flame, no more than three inches tall, danced across his fingertips, its wings flickering like fire. He then explained the connection between the red comet and the resurgence of magic.
Just as the room fell quiet, a Night's Watch soldier entered, one unfamiliar to Viserys.
"Your Grace, Lord Thorne asked me to inform you that three women at Craster's Keep are now pregnant. The first is expected to give birth in about a month."
"Good," Viserys nodded. "Tell him to be careful and eat hot food when he can." 'I may not be fond of Alliser, but he's doing me a favor, and a little verbal concern goes a long way in keeping people dedicated.'
The soldier bowed. "Yes, my lord."
When Alliser Thorne later heard of Viserys's concern, a faint warmth stirred within him. Even a simple acknowledgment from a Dragonlord carried seemed great.