Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 278: Lord Commander’s Final Moments

Let’s go back to the moment when Mance received the ranger’s letter.

Among the free folk, few were literate, so asking them to read a letter was no small feat. Fortunately, during his time with the Night's Watch, Mance had picked up basic reading and grammar skills, thanks in large part to Maester Aemon and the other brothers. Mance was a sharp man, and with what he had learned, he could manage to read the letter well enough.

After reading it, he immediately decided to call a larger meeting than usual—not just a small, secret gathering. This time, he invited not only the leaders of the clans and tribes but also the most respected warriors among the free folk.

The meeting was held in a cave. Ygritte was there, and even Mag the Mighty, the giant chief, had come. The tent was far too small to accommodate so many, so Mance stood at the entrance of the cave, where the light from outside illuminated his face.

When Mance revealed the contents of the letter to the crowd, the reaction was swift and fierce.

“No way! Absolutely not!” Rattleshirt, dressed in his bone armor, and Harma the Doghead, a wildling woman who had long been his bitter enemy, shouted almost in unison.

For years, their tribes had fought, often clashing monthly, until Mance had finally reconciled them. The fact that they spoke together now, in agreement, sent a shiver through the gathered crowd, as if something unspoken had passed between them.

The idea of submitting to the laws of the kneelers—the people who bent the knee to kings—was unthinkable to them.

'Let them dream if they think we’ll follow their rules!'

Rattleshirt was the first to sense a shift in the atmosphere. He waved his hand dismissively before saying, "But that king of the kneelers has a dragon. Maybe we should think about it."

Mance stayed silent, watching the others closely. His gaze lingered on Styr, the leader of the Thenns, the most powerful tribe among the free folk. Styr’s face was set in a grim scowl—he was clearly opposed to the idea. According to the letter, Viserys was asking them to move south of the Wall, which meant abandoning their land, and Styr, who commanded over a thousand warriors, couldn’t stomach the thought.

For a leader, losing land meant losing power. Even though Viserys had promised in the letter that he wouldn't break up their tribes and would allow them to live as they always had, his words carried little weight here. Trust was a rare commodity Beyond the Wall, and these free folk had no reason to believe him.

"The kneelers have always been deceitful!" Styr growled, his voice rising. "We should be the true masters of this land—the whole continent! Who drove us here in the first place? Now they want us back? Are we dogs to be called and dismissed as they please?"

Styr’s words fanned the flames of anger among the other leaders. They nodded in agreement, the old resentments bubbling to the surface.

"Yes! Why should we trust them now?" one voice shouted.

"They chased us here long ago. Now they want us back, but who knows if it’s not a trap to wipe us out?" another added.

Tormund, ever the loudest in the room, took a deep gulp from his flask. The milky liquid spilled over the corner of his mouth as he growled, "We can't go back!"

The chorus of agreement grew louder, and it was clear the crowd had decided to reject Viserys' offer. It wasn’t a surprise to Mance—he had anticipated this reaction. The free folk weren’t desperate enough yet. They still believed they had time and options. But Mance knew better.

Fighting was inevitable, but if it came to that, Mance had no intention of leading his people into a slaughter. He had more information than they did, better insight into what lay ahead. Viserys had the resources to fight, and Mance wasn’t about to throw his people into a hopeless battle. Cremating bodies was no small task either, and Viserys had no intention of engaging in a "lousy battle" or a "meat grinder war." The Targaryen king was too well-prepared for that.

Mance surveyed the room, watching as the free folk argued. 'They’re stubborn', he thought. 'Too stubborn sometimes.' But even now, he knew that rebellion wasn’t the answer. A reckless revolt, even with good intentions, would lead to disaster. Besides, Mance had access to information that the others didn’t.

The truth was, prey was growing scarcer, food was dwindling, and the temperatures were dropping rapidly. More and more people were freezing to death in their sleep, while others, hidden in the snow and darkness, were also succumbing to the cold. The free folk didn’t fully understand just how dire their situation was.

Mance knew that cooperation with Viserys was their best option, but not under these conditions. There had to be room for negotiation. The real challenge, however, was convincing the free folk to accept that reality before it was too late.

Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, finally spoke up, his voice cutting through the noise of the gathered free folk.

"You’re right. The free folk will never accept the laws of those who bend their knees!"

His words had an immediate effect. The approval from their leader sent a surge of excitement through the crowd. Some began to beat their weapons against their shields and armor, while most struck the ground, as few had armor to speak of.

"There’s no doubt that we are brave—true free folk, as steadfast as the Fist of the First Men standing between heaven and earth," Mance continued. "But I fear some trick from the Black Crows. Especially since we all know the Dragonlord of the Targaryens might be aiding them. So, if they want to meet with me, let’s meet! Or else we’ll look like a bunch of cowards hiding in our caves."

Mance had a way with words, a natural talent for rousing spirits. First, he praised them—we’re free, we’re brave—then he flipped it. If they didn’t meet with the Night’s Watch, they’d look weak. His rhetoric had the desired effect. Almost immediately, people volunteered to go with him.

"Your Grace Mance! I’ve killed countless Black Crows, and there’s no one better than me!" boomed Tormund, the Bragger, rising to his feet. His towering form immediately blocked the view, prompting a displeased grunt from Ygritte.

She grabbed her spear, gave it a playful twirl, and jabbed it at Tormund’s rear. Unfortunately, her strike wasn’t strong enough, and Tormund didn’t even notice.

"Your Grace! I’ve got armor—I can protect you!" Rattleshirt shouted, standing up next. For a moment, it seemed as though everyone was clamoring for the chance to accompany Mance.

But Mance had already made up his mind. In addition to Tormund and Rattleshirt, he chose Ygritte—her red hair was considered a symbol of good luck—as well as the giant Mag the Mighty and Styr, the Magnar of Thenn. These were the leaders of the most prominent clans and tribes among the free folk. If Mance could achieve success in negotiations with their support, it would be much easier to win over the rest of the free folk.

Mance felt confident. After much deliberation, he was certain his plan was sound.

However...

As soon as Mance finished speaking, Styr felt a familiar unease. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it reminded him of when Mance had dragged him along to negotiate peace between the Night’s Watch and the free folk. Mance was using the same kind of words now, and it dawned on Styr—Mance might be planning to "negotiate peace" with Viserys, or even worse, accept the Targaryen’s conditions.

This was unacceptable to Styr. He couldn’t allow Mance to bargain away their freedom.

How could he sabotage the meeting?

An idea struck him. If he could kill one or two important members of the Night’s Watch during the meeting, the negotiations would collapse instantly. As for the threat of revenge from the Dragonlord, Styr felt confident that the harsh blizzards would prevent even dragons from finding them.

'Dragons', he thought with a smirk. 'They won’t find us in the snow.'

...

Mance sent word to the Night's Watch that he had agreed to the alliance, and soon after, they received the time and place for the meeting.

The day of the meeting arrived swiftly. Ygritte woke up early, excitement buzzing in her veins. The reason was simple: she would finally have the chance to meet the Dragonlord in person. She had promised her small group of friends that when she returned, she would describe what a dragon looked like.

More than forty wildlings had gathered for the meeting. Since horses were scarce, only Mance and a few of the key leaders rode. Orell had a horse as well—he needed one since his focus would be on controlling the falcon that scouted ahead for the group, leaving him unable to walk freely. The giant leader, Mag, also had a mount—his was a massive mammoth, towering two or three times larger than a horse. Together, Mag and his mammoth looked like a moving fortress.

Ygritte, like many others, was forced to walk. Her short legs made the journey tiring, and soon she found herself a little out of breath, glancing ahead and trying to gauge how far they still had to go.

Suddenly, Orell fell from his horse, hitting the ground with a thud. Mance and the others pulled back on their reins, halting abruptly. At the same time, Mag's mammoth grew restless, sensing something that made it refuse to move any further. The giant beast let out a loud bellow, and confusion spread through the group.

Everyone wanted to know what had spooked Orell so badly.

As soon as Orell recovered, the group crowded around him. He looked up at the sky, his face pale with fear. "A dr.. a dragon!" he stammered.

The group followed his gaze, eyes widening as they saw what Orell had seen. Above them, three dragons hovered under a darkening sky that seemed to press down on them, their massive wings stirring the air.

It was as if an icy chill ran down their spines, the sheer presence of the dragons overwhelming.

"Father, are we still going to attack the Night's Watch?" Sigorn, Styr’s son, asked nervously.

Styr turned to his son, his eyes hard. "What? Are you afraid? Are you still my son?"

"Father, yes!"

"Good," Styr growled. "We’ll attack, and we’ll kill their Commander. Do you remember what I told you?"

Sigorn nodded.

But most of the wildlings’ attention was focused on the dragons. Ygritte, her initial excitement replaced with fear, sought shelter near Mag. The shadow cast by the giant’s three-meter-tall frame gave her a sense of security. The size difference between the two was almost comical, like a basketball standing next to a tennis ball.

"My gods, that’s a dragon?" Tormund muttered, swallowing hard. Despite all his boasts about sleeping with giant bears and besting beasts, he felt a flicker of fear. But being Tormund, he quickly regained his swagger. "It doesn’t look that big. I could probably eat one in a single meal. And after eating its flesh, maybe I’d spit fire too." he said, grinning.

The others, used to his exaggerations, ignored him entirely. The moment passed quickly as their focus shifted to the figures ahead—several Night's Watchmen in black, standing out starkly against the white snow like ink on fresh parchment.

As soon as Mance recognized one of them, his guard went up. It was Benjen Stark, the First Ranger of the Night's Watch. Mance wasn’t the only one who tensed; every leader among the free folk knew Benjen’s reputation. He was called the "calamity of the free folk." Known for his silent, deadly movements, he could slip into a camp undetected and leave only a red-painted wolf's head at the bedside of any clan leader foolish enough to plunder too much. Many free folk had met their end that way.

Ygritte had heard the stories too. Her hand instinctively went to the quiver at her waist, her fingers brushing the fletching of her arrows.

"Mance, His Grace Viserys is waiting for you just ahead," Benjen announced as he approached the leaders of the free folk.

His voice was flat, cold as the wind itself, as though it were just another element of the snowstorm around them. It sent a chill through Jon, who was following Benjen, but also filled him with a strange sense of excitement.

Under Benjen's guidance, Mance led the group into a wide, open space sheltered by the mountains. The quiet there was unsettling, as though the snow itself held its breath. It was then that Styr gave his son a subtle nod. Sigorn, catching the signal, lashed his own back with a riding crop.

"Move, you useless beast!" he shouted.

Tormund glanced over his shoulder, thinking Sigorn was just heading off to relieve himself, and didn’t pay it any mind. Mance ignored it as well, figuring it was better to get such things out of the way before the formalities began.

As they pressed on, the group finally reached the meeting point. There stood not only the black-cloaked Night’s Watch but also others wearing armor and cloaks of various colors—red, green, blue—fine and intricate, far more refined than anything the free folk wore.

Ygritte noticed that these men seemed to fall into two distinct groups. One group surrounded a figure on a large red horse, draped in a matching red cloak. The other group consisted solely of Night's Watchmen, their dark cloaks flapping in the cold wind.

Ygritte’s eyes locked onto Viserys, standing beneath the black Targaryen banner. 'That must be the Dragonlord,' she thought, her heart racing with a mix of curiosity and awe. As the two groups drew closer, the details of each other's faces became clearer. But it was Viserys who captured her attention the most.

Dressed in resplendent armor and fine clothing, Viserys exuded a regal presence that took Ygritte’s breath away. For the free folk, who often lived with so little, the sight of someone so well-dressed and confident was a kind of power in itself. 'Clothes make the man,' as the saying went, and Viserys looked every bit the legend she had heard whispered about.

It reminded an old tale, the one where Genghis Khan’s grandmother dreamed of a “golden-armored immortal.” Perhaps that dream had been inspired by an officer in shining armor, much like Viserys now.

His presence alone was enough to sway spirits, and when the largest of his dragons—a golden beast nearly ten feet tall—landed behind him, many of the wildlings seemed frozen in place, awestruck by the sheer might of it.

Viserys and Old Bear began walking forward together, though Mormont deliberately kept his distance, a gap of six or seven paces between them. From a glance, it was hard to tell who led whom. In contrast, Mance walked with Tormund, Styr, and Rattleshirt close behind him, making it clear to all who was in charge on their side.

"Mance, have you made a decision regarding my terms?" Viserys asked, his voice calm but commanding.

"We cannot accept your terms," Mance replied. "The free folk may have no laws, but we do have our own rules."

"And what are your terms?" Viserys pressed.

"We want the right to come and go as we please, without being enemies of the Night's Watch."

"That’s impossible!" Old Bear interjected sharply, clearly affronted. His raven, perched on his shoulder, echoed him, cawing, "Impossible! Impossible! Impossible!" The tension in the air thickened.

It was an understandable reaction. The Night's Watch served as the "lock" on the Wall, and the free folk were seen as the thieves trying to break through it. For Mance to demand the freedom to pass through was an insult to the very purpose of the Wall and the Night's Watch.

"What do you think the Night's Watch is for? What do you think the Wall is for?" Old Bear’s voice boomed through the snowy winds, filled with indignation.

But Mance was playing his hand—this was all part of the bargaining process. As the discussion heated up and both sides prepared to "re-bid," the tense negotiations were suddenly shattered by the twang of a bowstring.

An arrow shot straight toward Mormont.