From the sky, the scene below looked like chaos. The giants, tangled in fishing nets, resembled a massive, writhing "mushroom blanket." Some giants tried to free their comrades, but their efforts only made things worse—the tough nets tightened, binding them more securely.
Of Mance's forces, only a hundred freefolk remained free. The rest were incapacitated, leaving them severely outnumbered. After launching the nets, Viserys had freed up more of his soldiers.
'Two hundred against one hundred—the advantage is mine!' Viserys thought, gripping his halberd.
On the battlefield, Benjen and his men led a flanking retreat, pushing Mance's forces back on both wings. Meanwhile, Viserys charged directly at the struggling giants, halberd in hand. The leader of the giants, Mag, had avoided the nets by charging at the front. He was now trying desperately to free his companion, Wun Wun, whose foot had been snared in the net, trapping two other giants with him.
Mag spotted Viserys approaching and swung his massive wooden club with a furious roar, hoping to drive him back. The club, over two meters long and as thick as a man's waist, whistled through the air with terrifying force. The sound alone made teeth ache.
But Viserys wasn't aiming for Mag. He ducked beneath the giant's swing and leaped over Wun Wun's massive shoulders, landing nimbly beyond the trapped giants.
Tormund, caught in the net, was stunned by Viserys' agility. He had never seen anyone jump so high.
"Ouch!" Tormund yelped as a giant's foot kicked him hard in the rear. Being so close to the thrashing giants was nothing short of a disaster.
Mance, along with Rattleshirt and the other leaders, watched Viserys' terrifying speed with wide eyes. Mance realized, once again, he had underestimated his foe. But retreat was no longer an option—he was surrounded by seven or eight elite warriors, including Mag and Rattleshirt, both formidable fighters.
With a grim resolve, Mance gave the order. The leaders and freefolk warriors charged at Viserys. However, they had not anticipated the sheer power of his halberd.
Rattleshirt, leading the charge, was the first to meet Viserys. With a single, crushing blow, Viserys knocked him flying. His skeletal armor shattered, bone fragments scattering across the battlefield. Rattleshirt tried to rise, but only a spurt of crimson blood escaped his lips, the white of his exposed bones contrasting sharply with the fresh red of his wounds.
Harma, seeing Rattleshirt's fate, rushed toward Viserys with a scream. But she was too slow. Before she could close the distance, Viserys was already upon Mance.
With a powerful swing, Viserys brought his halberd down. Mance's sword shattered under the blow, sent clattering to the ground. In the same motion, Viserys kicked Harma aside and pressed the blade of his halberd against Mance's neck.
"Drop your weapons!" Viserys commanded, his voice cold and clear. "Or face no mercy!"
Only at Mance's reluctant command did the free folk warriors-along with the giants still caught in the nets-slowly lower their weapons in surrender.
Forty-six wildling warriors lay dead, with nearly all the survivors nursing injuries. By contrast, only a few of Viserys's soldiers had suffered minor wounds.
Rattleshirt, though battered with two broken ribs, was lucky—his life was not in danger.
"Mance," Viserys said, his voice cold, "this is the third time I've captured you and the fourth time I've defeated you. As we agreed, you will take all the free folk and move inland. Remember?"
This time, neither Tormund, Rattleshirt, nor Harma dared to speak. They could no longer deny it—Viserys was superior in every way. As a commander, he had bested them time and again. In personal combat, no one could match his strength. And in terms of strategy and deception, he had even sown division among their ranks, turning their own people against them.
But what was most terrifying? Viserys hadn't even unleashed his dragons. Knowing an opponent's strength is one thing. Not knowing how much stronger they could be is another.
Viserys's gaze swept over the freefolk. None dared meet his eyes.
"You used catapults," Mance muttered, his voice growing weak. "You knew the free folk had nothing like that."
Viserys, growing impatient, stood abruptly. Grabbing Mance by the scruff of the neck, he dragged him to the bodies of the fallen wildling warriors and forced Mance's hand into one of the corpses.
"Feel it!" Viserys shouted. "Feel it, Mance! It's still warm! They died for you! When I first came to negotiate, you could have agreed. I would've spared them! But no. The second time I caught you, you were holed up in a cave with your people—starving, not even hunting. You used up what little food you had left!"
Mance remained silent, staring at the dead as Viserys's words cut deep.
"And the third time?" Viserys continued, his voice rising. "You told me you had no horses, and I let you go. But this time, you brought giants! Tell me, Mance, do you even have enough food to feed them all? To feed yourselves?"
Mance was speechless. Images of the wildling mother, pouring the last drops of milk into a pot, flashed in his mind. He had no answer.
Even Tormund and the others, watching Viserys's brutal display, said nothing. They weren't about to abandon Mance, but the fear was real. They no longer knew how many tricks Viserys had left up his sleeve—and that terrified them more than anything.
"But free men are free, and can never accept any constraints," Mance said stubbornly.
"Free?" Viserys's voice dripped with disdain. "Do you really think you can find true freedom in this wasteland? Sure, you look free, running wild through the mountains every day. But let me ask you—what do you actually do? You spend every waking hour either searching for food or trying to survive. Is that freedom? You're all serving a master, Mance—a master called 'hunger.' You're slaves to it!"
Viserys's words cut through the air, and for a moment, the weight of the truth hung heavy over the crowd. For the wildling leaders, perhaps they had some leisure, but for 99% of the freefolk, life was a constant battle against starvation.
'In fact,' Viserys thought, 'I wasn't even harsh enough. They're either starving or on their way to starving.'
Mance, though inwardly rattled, struggled to find a flaw in Viserys's argument. He knew there was a problem with it—somewhere—but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. His silence spoke volumes.
"And what about you?" Viserys continued, softening his tone just a fraction. "If you're willing to follow me south, I'll accept it. You can still lead your own tribes, your own people."
Viserys's words hung in the air. He glanced at Rattleshirt and the others, waiting for a response. But none of them answered. Instead, they looked to Mance, uncertain and silent.
Just then, the giant leader Mag lumbered over, his massive presence drawing the crowd's attention. His deputy stood beside him, and the two exchanged a few gruff words.
Mag grunted something unintelligible in his deep, rumbling voice.
"What did he say?" Viserys asked, noticing the incredulous expressions spreading across the faces of the freefolk.
For a moment, no one responded, as if they couldn't believe what they had just heard. Finally, someone spoke up. "He said... he's willing to follow you. With his entire tribe."
Viserys raised an eyebrow in mock confusion, scanning the crowd as though searching for the speaker. "Who? Who's talking?" he said with feigned innocence, as if he couldn't find the source of the voice.
"I'm right here!" came Ygritte's voice, clearly annoyed.