"You slept well, Lord Mance."
When Mance woke, he found himself surrounded by Night's Watchmen and Viserys's soldiers. Tormund and the others had already been tied up.
Viserys sat calmly on a stone pedestal, holding a greasy lamb chop over the fire. The fat dripped and sizzled as it hit the flames, filling the air with a mouthwatering aroma. The flickering orange light cast a golden hue on Viserys's hair and face, making him appear strikingly different from the people Beyond the Wall.
Beside him lay a small assortment of spices, which he casually sprinkled over the lamb. The smell was intoxicating, tempting even Mance. It looked so delicious, and for a moment, Mance imagined taking a bite, then another.
But no matter how tempting the food, it wasn't enough to distract him from the betrayal he now understood all too well. As he watched Viserys share the roasted lamb with Orell, who stood nearby, everything became clear.
"When? Why?" Mance demanded, fury burning in his eyes. He recalled the extra piece of rib roast Orell had given him before they left camp, now realizing it had all been part of the deception.
Orell lowered his head, unable to meet his former lord's gaze.
"Mance," Viserys said with a casual air, "the details don't matter. What matters is that I've caught you again. Now, you'll reconsider my terms, won't you?"
"No! This doesn't count!" Tormund's muffled voice burst out, his gag evidently not secured well enough. As the Horn-blower, his lung capacity was remarkable, and he spat the gag out with force.
Heart pounding, Tormund's voice boomed through the cave, echoing long after the initial shout. He screamed with a volume that made the walls tremble.
He had been so close to earning the title Defeater of the Dragonlord, and the thought of losing it now was unbearable.
However, the moment Viserys's purple eyes settled on him, Tormund immediately wilted. Any defiance drained from him as he wondered if he'd be given the chance to "flip a coin" again.
Viserys shifted his gaze to Harma and Rattleshirt, both bound like Tormund. "What about you? Do you agree?" he asked.
Rattleshirt, despite his anger, had a defiant expression, but his posture betrayed him. He looked less like a warrior and more like a scolded, aggrieved husband. "Of course, Your Grace... The only reason you found us this time is because of this shameless traitor! If you fought us fairly, you wouldn't be a match for us!"
"Yes!" Harma added, her voice softer than usual, trying to maintain composure. "The free folk will never accept such a defeat!"
The two were like a chorus, and their synchronized complaints made them seem more like a bickering couple than two warriors. It didn't help that when Viserys had found them, they were still entangled in a rather compromising position, making the scene almost unbearable to witness.
Viserys could see the fear settling in. Even the wildlings, who were once bold and defiant, were now showing signs of fear—and it wasn't lost on the Night's Watchmen, either. There was a shift in their attitude.
Good, he thought. I won't kill anyone this time. But they need a little more persuasion to truly break.
"But we had an agreement," Viserys reminded them, his tone calm yet pointed. "If I captured you alive this time, you'd accept my terms. Are you now going back on your word? Are the free folk really so fickle and small-minded?"
"What is fickle? And what is small-minded?" Tormund asked, genuinely confused.
Viserys paused, choosing to ignore Tormund's question.
While he spoke, Harma and Rattleshirt whispered to each other, plotting in low voices. Finally, Rattleshirt raised his voice again. "Your Grace, this time doesn't count. It was because of a traitor in our midst. Next time—next time—if you can capture us alive, we'll accept your conditions."
Viserys didn't reply immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze toward Mance, the true leader of the free folk. After all, Mance's word would carry the most weight.
Mance nodded, his voice steady but tinged with resentment. "Yes. We cannot accept this defeat, which was caused by a traitor, not by your skills as a Dragonlord."
"Fine," Viserys said, a slight smile playing on his lips. "This time, you tell me how you want to challenge me, and I'll give you another chance."
The Night's Watchmen exchanged baffled looks. The hard trek over the last few days had been grueling, and now it seemed like their efforts were being dismissed. They turned to the Old Bear for guidance, but seeing that he remained silent, they said nothing. After all, Viserys had funded this entire mission, and he had even provided the Night's Watch with the leather armor they were wearing. None of them felt inclined to complain, not when they'd benefited from the journey.
Mance, Tormund, and the rest of the wildlings were even more shocked than last time. Viserys had agreed to their conditions again. What was going on? Was he really going to let them go a second time?
The wildlings' faces lit up with the joy of survival.
"Thank the gods!" Tormund muttered, surprising even himself. As an unrepentant atheist, this was the first time he'd ever shown any hint of piety. At least there's no need to flip a coin this time.
But a new question arose: What should we challenge Viserys to?
Rattleshirt glanced at Mance, and after receiving a subtle nod of approval, spoke up, "We'll each provide 300 men for a head-to-head battle. If you agree to this, we'll accept your terms."
Viserys's gaze shifted to Mance, and the unspoken understanding between them was clear. The free folk still had 300 to 500 man and even giants among them, and at least 200 of those could be pulled into the fight as warriors. Mance gave a confirming nod.
"Yes," he said. "That's our challenge."
Harma, never one to miss an opportunity, added with a sly grin, "You still can't use a dragon. And no sending a falcon to spy either!" By now, it was tacitly agreed among the free folk that Orell had fully betrayed them, aligning himself with Viserys.
So, an additional condition was added this time. In truth, if they weren't worried about Viserys uncovering their plans, they'd have gladly pulled out just 200 giants for the battle. With those giants wielding massive clubs, even the simplest encounter would overwhelm ordinary men.
Viserys chuckled at the free folk's audacity. He could guess what they were plotting with little effort.
"Fine," he said, amused. "I accept your challenge. Choose the time and place, and send word when you're ready."
Mance's suspicions grew stronger at how readily Viserys agreed. It became clearer to him that Viserys wasn't after the lives of the free folk or the so-called King-Beyond-the-Wall. No, Viserys wanted something far more valuable—he wanted to conquer the hearts of the free folk.
Next time, I must win, Mance silently vowed.
They had taken almost half of their food reserves with them, and with giants joining the fight next time, the food consumption would increase even more. Mance knew they might have to cut rations for others just to keep the giants fed and ready for battle.
After untying the free folk and offering them some food, Viserys stood back, watching as Mance and his group departed. His thoughts turned to the harsh truth of leadership. He was beginning to understand more deeply the saying, "Human lifes are the currency of emperors."
The next battle wouldn't be as clean as this one. There would be deaths—many, most likely. And when people died, others would question the necessity of it. They would say, "These people didn't have to die, if only our Lord had just killed those savages himself."
But Viserys knew that if he killed Mance now, the free folk would descend into chaos, making it impossible to rally them. And that disarray would only make things harder for him in the long run.
Lives… he mused. Moving the free folk inland would require immense resources, manpower, and, inevitably, even more lives. Yet Viserys prided himself on being a miserly emperor—one who placed great value on human life.
If there was a way to save lives, he would take it. But even the miserly emperor knew that some things were worth more than lives alone.