Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 279: We Refuse

Amidst the howling wind and swirling snow, the subtle sound of an arrow slicing through the air could easily go unnoticed. But Viserys, thanks to the heightened awareness provided by the his Dragon's Vision, sensed something was amiss. In the split second before Sigorn’s arrow was released, Viserys acted. With a swift pat on his horse’s back, he leaped from his saddle and landed on the old bear’s mount, catching the arrow mid-flight.

It all happened in the blink of an eye.

The unexpected attack shattered the fragile tension of the meeting. Immediately, the blue dragon overhead locked onto the attacker’s position and dove from the sky like a cannonball, pinning Sigorn to the ground with its massive claw. Before the Night’s Watch could even process what had occurred, Viserys’s yellow dragon lunged at the giant Mag, tackling him to the ground. Its sharp teeth sank into Mag’s flesh, poised to crush his throat with a single bite.

Ygritte, standing close by, instinctively reached for her weapon to save Mag, but she froze when she saw the gleam in the yellow dragon’s eyes. It was clear: Move, and I will kill him.

The red dragon swooped down as well, spewing orange flames that halted Mance’s guards in their tracks, the heat from the fire forcing them to stay back. Only then did the Night's Watch react, surrounding Mance and his party, weapons drawn.

Styr, watching in horror as his son Sigorn lay helpless beneath the dragon's claws, felt a wave of regret crash over him. He had gravely underestimated the power of the dragons. Desperation took over.

"Don’t kill him! I ordered it! I ordered the attack!" Styr shouted, his voice cracking. "Kill me instead!"

Viserys, still holding the arrow he had caught, tossed it into the snow for all to see. It was then that the crowd understood what had happened—Styr had ordered a sneak attack. The insult was clear, and the Night's Watchmen grew tense with anger.

Jorah’s heart pounded in his chest. If not for Viserys’s swift intervention, his father, Old Bear Mormont, would have been dead or gravely injured. His fury matched the cold intensity of the dragons around him. There would be consequences.

“Ser Jorah, kill him!” Viserys commanded, his voice sharp with rage.

Jorah, consumed by anger, looked like a man possessed. His face twisted into a furious snarl, his massive frame radiating menace. In that moment, he didn’t even need his sword—he could have crushed the attacker with his bare hands like a rabid bear.

Jorah raised his sword, stalking toward Sigorn, who was now subdued and helpless under the dragon’s control.

"I beg you, don’t kill him! I told him to kill your father! I did!" Styr shouted, his voice breaking as he choked on his own desperation. Viserys remained silent, his eyes scanning the faces of Mance and the other wildling leaders. It was clear—Styr was trying to take responsibility for his son’s actions.

"Go on, leave," Viserys said coolly, his gaze resting on Styr. Styr understood the meaning behind those words. Dying here, in place of his son, was the only fate left to him. With the treachery he'd committed, neither the free folk nor the Thenns would forgive him.

Jorah stood, sword in hand, waiting for direction. His eyes flicked toward Viserys, who briefly glanced at Old Bear. The attack had rattled even the most seasoned warriors, and Mormont was no exception. As he locked eyes with Viserys, a realization dawned on him. Before this, Mormont had seen Viserys as too young, too inexperienced to be taken seriously. He had quietly dismissed his plan to resettle the wildlings inland as naive. But now, after Viserys had saved his life, Mormont’s perspective shifted. Though he still had doubts about the plan, he was prepared to offer his support.

"Then kill him," Old Bear said firmly, his gaze resting on Styr.

Styr, knowing his fate was sealed, pleaded once more. "You can kill me, but please, spare Mance, Your Grace."

"My decision is none of your concern," Viserys replied sharply, his displeasure evident. Styr’s betrayal had nearly destroyed the alliance.

Without hesitation, Jorah swung his sword, decapitating Styr in a single stroke. Styr's expression, frozen in shock and regret, lingered as blood gushed from his headless body. The crimson spray stained Jorah's boots, leaving a trail of bloody footprints as he stepped away.

The sudden violence unsettled the camp. This turn of events, a major disruption to the alliance, was something no one had anticipated—least of all Viserys, whose mood darkened considerably.

"Your Grace, we should kill the rest of these savages!" someone shouted, anger fueling their words.

"Yes, kill them!" others echoed. "Kill them all!"

Viserys raised a hand to silence the calls for blood. "No," he said firmly. "Without their leaders, the free folk will descend into chaos. That will only create more problems for us."

He stepped forward, approaching Mance Rayder, who was being held down by Benjen Stark. Mance, his brown hair matted with dirt, knelt with his face nearly pressed to the ground, his breaths ragged as he inhaled the dust. His coughing echoed through the tense air.

"Ser Stark, let him up," Viserys commanded.

Benjen, who had joined the Night’s Watch later in life, had no personal history with Mance. Still, he roughly grabbed Mance by the collar and yanked him to his feet before stepping aside.

Rattleshirt, Tormund, Harma, and the other wildling leaders growled in displeasure, their anger palpable. They didn’t take kindly to seeing their king manhandled, and their low, guttural noises were a clear warning—a reminder that despite the situation, they were still wildlings through and through.

“You must be His Grace Viserys,” Mance said, meeting Viserys’s gaze.

“If you and your people are willing to move south of the Wall, I’ll grant you land. If you survive the Long Night, you may return beyond the Wall if that’s what you wish,” Viserys replied, his sword resting easily in his hand.

“Your Grace, thank you for the offer,” Mance said, his voice steady. “But the free folk cannot accept your rule. What if you lead us south only to slaughter us? We cannot trust you.”

Viserys’s eyes narrowed. “So this is a question of trust?”

“Yes!” Tormund shouted, defiant even with a sword at his neck. “We don’t trust you! What if you bring us in just to kill us like sheep? The free folk will never bend to your will. We want freedom! We’ll fight until the last man if we have to!”

Rattleshirt, standing nearby, growled his agreement. “Even if you kill us all here, you’ll never have our loyalty.”

Viserys knew this was indeed the problem. Rising to power had taught him a simple truth: it was easy to take a man’s life, but far harder to win his loyalty. While intimidation and bribery could force many into submission, such loyalty was shallow, easily swayed by fear or greed.

He wanted the free folk to move south, not to exterminate them, but to protect them. Killing them would achieve nothing. He needed their trust.

Turning to Harma, who stood clad in her dogskin cloak, he asked, “And what about you? You don’t trust me either?”

Harma crossed her arms. “No, I don’t.”

Viserys looked at Mag the Mighty, still pinned under the dragon’s claw, his enormous mouth murmuring something in an ancient tongue. Viserys couldn’t understand it, but the meaning was clear enough. He didn’t trust him either.

Ygritte, her hands bound by Jon, lifted her head defiantly. A strand of her red hair fell across her face as she spat out, “I don’t believe you, either!”

Mance’s eyes hardened, his resolve clear. The voices of his people echoed his own doubts, setting a firm line in the sand.

Viserys’s gaze landed on Orell, the Skinchanger, who had remained silent throughout. Viserys recognized him immediately as a man in tune with beasts. And unlike the others, Orell seemed different. His eyes were filled with something more—a mix of fear and awe, as if he saw Viserys as both a natural enemy and someone to submit to.

“Very well,” Viserys said, his voice calm yet commanding. “Since you refuse to trust me, I will let you go.”

“Your Grace?!” came a shocked voice from the Night’s Watch.

“No, Your Grace!” echoed another from the soldiers at his side, confusion sweeping through the ranks.

Viserys’s order was incomprehensible to both the Night’s Watch and his own men. It seemed absurd to let the wildlings go after such defiance.

But Old Bear understood. Viserys still intended to proceed with his plan to resettle the free folk—through diplomacy, not bloodshed. It was a delicate balance, one that required patience.

Viserys raised his hand, and the murmurs ceased. The cold wind howled, but the gathering was silent, waiting for his next words.

"You can go back," Viserys began, his voice calm but commanding. "But on one condition—we make a wager."

Mance's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. "Just name it," he replied, his heart racing. His life hung in the balance, and the fact that Viserys was willing to negotiate at all was a victory in itself.

"Here’s the deal," Viserys said, stepping forward. "Within ten days, if I can capture you alive, you must accept my terms. You’ll gather all the free folk you can convince and lead them south of the Wall. If I fail to capture you, I will provide enough food to last your people half a year."

The wildlings stirred at this. Half a year’s worth of food—an immense offering for those who often didn’t know where their next meal would come from. The temptation was clear, and even Mance couldn't help but feel the weight of Viserys’s offer.

Laughter erupted from the crowd—half-mocking, half-nervous. The thought of someone capturing Mance, especially with his experience and cunning, seemed laughable to many of the free folk. But the idea of losing out on that much food gave them pause.

"But... you have dragons!" Harma, the female wildling leader, finally spoke up. Her voice wavered with hesitation. "Unless you agree not to use it, we can’t accept."

The words tumbled out before she could stop herself, and immediately she regretted it. How could anyone expect a Dragonlord to give up his most powerful advantage?

"Yes," Viserys responded immediately, without hesitation.

Silence fell over the group. The leaders of the free folk exchanged bewildered glances, shocked by his swift reply. Tormund, in particular, was taken aback. "What? Did I hear that right?" he muttered to no one in particular.

Viserys had just agreed to forgo his greatest weapon—his dragons. To the wildlings, this seemed like utter madness. 'What kind of man gives up his greatest advantage in a battle of wits and strength?' they thought.

Tormund grinned, excitement bubbling up within him. The Dragonlord was tall, but Tormund was taller, nearly a full head above Viserys’s impressive height. His thick bone armor made him appear even larger. He was confident that if it came down to a fight, he could easily overpower Viserys. Without the dragon, the odds seemed heavily in his favor.

Mance studied Viserys carefully before asking, "Are you sure you can manage without your dragons?"

"Of course," Viserys replied confidently. "A king never lies. I mean, I never lie."

The proposition intrigued Mance. It was only ten days—ten days that would pass quickly. If he won, the free folk would receive enough food to last half a year, a tempting offer indeed.

"Are you sure you want to let them go, Your Grace?" asked Jaremy, wearing his blue cloak, still skeptical. Like Alliser, he had been exiled to the Wall after the Battle of King’s Landing, and Viserys had saved him as well.

"I’ve already promised them," Viserys replied without hesitation. "Release them immediately. Return their weapons and horses."

As the wildling leaders reclaimed their weapons, they looked bewildered, as if they were in some dream they couldn’t wake from. Who in their right mind captures enemies only to release them? And what kind of madman agrees to forego using his most powerful asset—his dragon—simply because the enemy asked?

Not only were the Night's Watch and Viserys’s soldiers baffled by his actions, but the wildlings themselves were equally perplexed. Yet Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, saw deeper. He understood what was happening.

'When a man doesn't want your life, he’s after something far more valuable—your heart.' Viserys wasn’t after the defeat of the free folk; he wanted to win over the free hearts of tens of thousands. While the rest of the wildlings celebrated their survival, Mance was the only one who grasped the weight of the situation.

"We agreed," Viserys said calmly, "that if I defeat you next time, you'll have to accept my terms."

"Of course!" Tormund bellowed, still oblivious to the larger game at play. But Viserys wasn’t focused on Tormund. His gaze was fixed on Mance.

Mance's thoughts raced. 'He’s not going to use a dragon, so we cannot afford to be defeated', he mused. "On behalf of the free folk, I accept your terms. If you capture us in the next encounter, we will move south of the Wall."

"Very well," Viserys said, nodding slightly. His eyes briefly flicked to Orell, the Skinchanger, assessing him with a casual glance. "I won’t use a dragon. Even if it appears in battle, I’ll still consider it my loss."

Mance turned to his people. "Let’s go!" he called out to the wildling warriors. But as they began to move, Viserys’s voice rang out again.

"Wait!"

The wildlings froze, their brief moment of relief turning into unease. 'Is he going back on his word?' Tormund and the others tensed, their hands instinctively moving to their weapons.

"You...you...you, and you," Viserys pointed to Mance, Sigorn, Rattleshirt, Harma, the giant Mag, and Tormund. "You can go. But the rest will stay, or they’ll leave their heads behind."

Killing just one person felt insignificant to them. To make an impact, everyone except these key wildling leaders needed to be defeated. Unlike the Night's Watch, the free folk couldn't be swayed by mere words or simple negotiations—they required force to be truly subdued.