Mag approached Mance, his voice low and apologetic. "I'm sorry, Mance. The cost to the giants has been too great. If we leave... maybe it'll ease the burden on you."
Mance's lips moved, but no words came out. "Mag..." he finally whispered, not knowing what else to say. The sight of his once-mighty ally, defeated by nets, weighed heavily on him. Mag had come to the painful conclusion that the giants, now ensnared and weakened, were more of a burden than a help to the free folk.
Mag's plan was simple: take his tribe and leave. If they followed Viserys, they could feast and gorge themselves—perhaps even strain the dragonlord's resources. 'Maybe bankrupt him,' Mag thought grimly.
Mance was torn. He understood Mag's reasoning, but the departure of the giants would shatter what little morale remained among the free folk. Without their towering strength, how could he hope to rally them? And how could he face the others when he returned? Especially the mothers and children he had promised to protect. Even from a distance, Mance could see some of the free folk weeping, others slumping as if their backs had been broken. They had seen their leader, their "King," dragged through the mud by Viserys like a beaten dog.
After a long pause, Mance turned to Viserys, defiance flickering in his eyes. "Do you dare let me challenge you again? One last time. If I'm caught again, I swear I'll never return. I'll lead all the free folk to swear allegiance to you."
But Viserys, now impatient, shook his head. "I've no time for your games, Mance." His voice was cold and sharp. "Before I got here, Alliser sent word from Craster's Keep—a woman there is about to give birth. If it's a boy, it will be sacrifice to the White Walkers. You have no idea what's coming. But if you saw it with your own eyes, if you witnessed the horrors of the White Walkers, you'd understand."
Viserys's tone darkened. "Why do you think I've gone to such lengths to push the free folk inland? I have millions of subjects across the Narrow Sea, and soon, many more in the Seven Kingdoms. If all of you died tomorrow, it wouldn't matter to me." He paused, letting his words sink in. "But Mance, come back to the Wall with me. I'll show you something. After that, if you still refuse to move the wildlings south, I'll kill every one of your people that I can find."
He gestured toward Tormund, Rattleshirt, and the others. "This is your last chance."
The threat hung in the air, cold and absolute. Mance and the other leaders exchanged glances. They understood—there was no choice now.
...
When Viserys returned to the Wall with two hundred giants, the Night's Watch was thrown into chaos. The cooks worked frantically to prepare enough food, as each giant could eat five to eight times what a normal man would consume. Their appetites were enormous, doubling the workload of the Night's Watch.
Lacking bowls large enough for the giants, they were each given oversized wooden ones. Mag, who had the largest appetite of them all, simply held a massive barrel and scooped food from it with his hands.
Viserys, Jon, and the others stood nearby, watching the scene unfold. As the giants devoured their meals with astonishing speed, Viserys couldn't help but doubt whether they could even taste the food at all.
For the giants, the meal was a rare comfort. After eating their fill, they felt a satisfying warmth spread through their enormous bodies, easing the fatigue of battle.
Meanwhile, Mance and the others were locked away in the dungeon, only to be released when Viserys deemed it necessary—to show them the strange, ghostly creatures haunting the North, and then return them to their cells.
After finishing his meal, Mag approached Viserys, holding up the massive keg he'd emptied. "You want more?" he asked.
Viserys surprised him by responding in the ancient tongue. "Yes, I could eat another keg."
Mag blinked, taken aback. "You can't eat that much." He paused, then added, "We can fight for you. I have more clan members. But we won't fight against Mance."
Viserys didn't answer immediately, studying the giant before him. Even sitting, Mag towered over him by two feet, taller even than a man on horseback. Viserys's mind wandered briefly. 'If these giants were given proper armor... they would be unstoppable on the battlefield.' He imagined them wielding massive hammers—human tanks, a terrifying force. But then again, with dragons at his command, perhaps the giants would serve better as standard bearers, a fearsome honor guard.
"Very well," Viserys said at last. "You will fight for me, and I will allow you to manage your tribe. I will provide for your people."
Mag tapped his empty keg. "Every day, I want a barrel of this food." He nodded toward the keg. "They will count it as a pot."
"Agreed," Viserys said.
Mag's face lit up with a rare smile. He was pleased by Viserys's offer, and the deal was struck.
...
Viserys stood before two distinct groups. On one side were his own officers, along with those he had pulled from the ranks of the Night's Watch. On the other side were the Night's Watchmen themselves, their black cloaks blending into the shadows. Orell, the skinchanger, was speaking to them, recounting the wildlings' movements.
"They like to target small tribes," Orell said, his voice steady but distant. "Usually twenty or thirty men. I've found five or six such tribes."
His words rambled a bit, but his meaning was clear.
"Have you seen any of them?" Viserys asked, cutting through the haze of Orell's speech.
"I've seen them... through my animal friends," Orell replied, his voice lowering.
"Tell us what you saw," Viserys commanded.
Orell shrank, as if a cold wind had swept through him. His eyes glazed over as the image of the White Walkers filled his mind. Even now, the fear clung to him, as though the cold of their presence had never left.
"They were milky white," Orell began, his voice trembling slightly. "Their eyes glowed with an eerie blue light, and... they weren't dressed for the cold at all."
"Did these White Walkers speak?" asked Maester Aemon, leaning forward, his voice grave.
"Yes, but I couldn't understand their words," Orell replied. He hesitated, a chill running through him at the memory. "One of them—the white one—he looked right through me. Somehow, he knew my soul was inside my animal companion. Just one glance from him... I was so terrified I fled. It felt like... like the moment I first saw Your Grace's dragon."
Viserys listened carefully, his mind racing. Drawing on the lore from his past life, he added a term to describe them: 'Necromancers.' Perhaps these White Walkers were some kind of specialized practitioners of dark magic, capable of raising the dead. He recalled how, in the original stories, the first White Walkers that killed Ser Waymar Royce had exhibited formidable combat skills.
Yet something still puzzled him. "They killed the wildlings, but didn't transform them. Why?" Viserys thought. 'Maybe their powers are weak, or perhaps they don't have the ability to immediately raise the dead, and must wait for corpses to rise on their own.'
Nearby, the Old Bear, Jeor Mormont, stroked his beard thoughtfully. If Orell wasn't lying, the implications were terrifying. "If we let wildlings starve, freeze, or die out there by any other means," he mused silently, "they'll become tireless, pain-free monsters. And by that time, the Night's Watch won't be able to stop them."
Viserys turned to Mance. "Didn't anyone tell you about this?"
Mance shook his head. "We sent scouts to investigate, but... we didn't find anything like what Orell described," he explained. Mance had once dismissed the stories of White Walkers. Even Eddard Stark, back then, had sent no word of such creatures, and within the Night's Watch itself, few believed in their return. No solid evidence had been found, and so the free folk remained skeptical.
As they spoke, the soldiers Viserys had sent to watch over Craster's Keep entered the dining hall. One of them stepped forward and addressed Viserys directly.
"Your Grace, Ser Alliser reports that Craster's woman is about to give birth."
A sudden, heavy silence fell over the room. The men knew what this meant—they would soon be facing the terrifying threat that had only been whispered about in stories. Worse yet, they would have to rely on obsidian weapons, something they had never fully believed in, nor tested against such creatures.
Viserys stood up, commanding the attention of everyone present. His voice was calm but resolute.
"Brothers of the Night's Watch," he began, his eyes sweeping across the room, "tonight is the night we fulfill our oaths. My vow is to protect the peace of the Seven Kingdoms. And your oaths? To be the sword in the darkness, the shield that guards the realms of men. No matter what we face—White Walkers or worse—I will stand with you!"