Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 283: The Aftereffects of the Dragons

As Viserys prepared to face Mance's next challenge, urgent news arrived from King’s Landing.

Ronan, who had managed to stay away from the chaos surrounding the winch tower for some time, could no longer remain idle. After Robert’s fleet was decimated, he too set sail with his men for the Free Cities—or perhaps they should now be called the “Valyrian Empire.”

The news had come via the Red Viper. Since Viserys had made it clear that Robert’s head was his goal within a year, the armies of the various kingdoms and families had begun withdrawing on a large scale. Maintaining such a vast force in the field was financially crippling.

Viserys calculated that the army stationed in the North would return home in about two months. In other words, he had only two months to resolve the issue with the free folk. Any delay would only strengthen the resistance when the Northern forces returned.

The reason for Robert’s decision to pull back his troops was clear: the sudden influx of tens of thousands of soldiers had devastated the security, environment, and economy in the regions where they were stationed. Skirmishes had even broken out between the armies of different houses, further straining resources. Despite the withdrawal, most houses—apart from Dorne and Highgarden—remained loyal to Robert. They were too deeply involved in the rebellion to simply walk away.

There was, however, another intriguing development. Robert had demanded that all the lords send their heirs to King’s Landing. Viserys saw this for what it was: the fat stag no longer felt safe. It reminded him of his father, Aerys, who had once tried a similar tactic. But unlike Aerys, Robert had been talked out of it by Ned Stark. Viserys smirked, recalling how Aerys had demanded Jon Arryn send his wards to King’s Landing, only for Arryn to refuse and raise the banner of rebellion instead.

Viserys knew that the heirs of the lords were vital assets. If Robert alienated them, the already fragile Baratheon dynasty, teetering on the brink of collapse, could fall apart overnight.

The situation with Robert and Cersei, the union that most interested Viserys, had surprisingly garnered little attention. Both sides seemed to be ignoring each other, adopting a cold-shoulder approach to their marriage. The Gold Cloaks were busy arresting anyone who dared gossip about the state of the royal couple, keeping the Red Keep relatively peaceful, though unrest simmered outside its walls.

As for the smaller matters, including anything related to Barristan, Viserys paid them little mind. There were larger issues at play, and his focus remained squarely on the greater game ahead.

...

"As far as I know, no Targaryen king has ever faced a worse situation than Robert," said Aemon, stroking the head of the young red dragon as he read the letter. The dragon, resting its growing head on Aemon’s lap, closed its eyes in contentment, enjoying the gentle strokes. In a few months, it would be too large for such comforts.

Viserys, meanwhile, estimated that in three months, his yellow dragon would be strong enough to carry him. By then, his range of movement would expand significantly. He envisioned flying over Westeros, visiting lords, and receiving their renewed oaths of allegiance. By the time Robert realized what was happening, there might already be banners of “Down with the stag, restore the dragon” flying across the realm.

However, Viserys had a slight correction to Aemon’s assessment.

"Wasn't the situation my father, King Aerys, faced just as dire? Even Doran, as part of his daughter-in-law's family, sent only 10,000 men to his aid."

"But Robert has to contend with you—and seven dragons," Aemon replied with a smile, clearly in good spirits.

"Have you thought of a way to deal with the giants?" Aemon asked.

"They're just giants," Viserys shrugged. "I can think of at least nine ways to get rid of them. I’m just deciding which will cause the fewest deaths."

Aemon paused, looking at him thoughtfully before saying, "Viserys."

"Hm?"

"You have a kind heart."

...

A few days later, Viserys visited the training ground, where Old Bear and Jorah were testing a new piece of equipment he had designed. The soldiers were preparing to use it in the next battle.

This "new equipment" was deceptively simple: a trebuchet and a reinforced fishing net. The nets were specially crafted, tanned with leather and reinforced to prevent the giants from tearing them apart. These "net shells" were fired by two trebuchets, their counterweights launching the nets high into the air before they fell over the giants’ heads, restricting their movements.

Once the giants were neutralized, the poorly armed free folk would be even less of a challenge.

Harma believed that by deploying the giants, the free folk could toy with Viserys, but they had not expected him to have even more tricks up his sleeve.

Could a trebuchet be considered part of their army? Of course not. But once the giants were ensnared, the rest of the battle would be a rout. His forces would rush in, easily subduing the remaining free folk.

After this battle, Viserys would have effectively captured Mance three times, letting him go twice. But he had no interest in playing games with the King-Beyond-the-Wall any longer. The army of the North would soon return, and time was running out. He had more pressing matters to handle.

“Your Grace.” Jorah and his father greeted Viserys as he approached. The near-death experience they had shared had clearly improved their strained relationship, and they now spent more time together. The Old Bear had taken the opportunity to learn more about Viserys through his son, and his respect for the legendary Targaryen only grew.

"Any problems with the catapults?" Viserys asked, glancing at the newly constructed war machines.

“No problems, Your Grace,” Jorah Mormont replied.

“None at all,” echoed his father, the Old Bear.

“Commander Mormont,” Viserys said, “next time, we won’t all be able to go. One of us will need to stay behind and keep watch.”

"Let me go, Your Grace," Jeor Mormont quickly offered. "With this equipment, I’m confident I can take down the giants for you."

His son stood silently, caught in a dilemma. He didn’t know how to respond. It felt wrong to ask Viserys not to go into battle, just as it felt wrong to ask his own father to stay behind. In the end, he chose to say nothing.

Viserys, sensing the tension, gave him another order instead. "Clear out more fortifications as soon as possible. We’ll need them when we capture the wildlings later."

...

Meanwhile, Mance was making his own preparations for the upcoming battle. Supplies were running low, especially with his plan to field as many wildlings as possible. The more warriors he brought into the fight, the faster their food stores dwindled.

In the free folk's camp, large copper pots had been set up—so massive that two or three people could easily cook in each. It was only thanks to the Thenns that they had so many pots available for heating food. The cauldrons were filled with a chaotic assortment of ingredients, as the wildlings lined up to toss in whatever they could spare.

Mance had demanded that everyone contribute to the cause. Not far from the cauldrons, A hundred giants sat in silence, their eyes fixed on the boiling stew. They were the key to the free folk's strength, and they needed to be fed if they were to fight.

Standing on a makeshift platform, Mance watched the scene unfold below. Most people could only offer scraps—something dark pulled from their pockets, or in the best cases, a small piece of meat or bone. Many resorted to tossing in grass cakes, a poor man’s ration.

A mother holding a baby reached the front of the line, but she had nothing left to give. Her eyes pleaded with Mance, silently begging for mercy. She insisted that she had no food, that she had given all she had.

But Mance was unmoved. His voice, hard and unyielding, cut through the crowd. “Everyone must contribute,” he said, his gaze never leaving the giants. He knew that feeding them was the only way the free folk had a chance of winning the battle ahead.

Only by winning could they hope to preserve their freedom.

The barbarian mother set her child aside and, with trembling hands, exposed one breast. Thin streams of white milk sprayed out, trickling into the massive cauldron. But how much milk could she produce when she herself was half-starved? There was only enough for a few mouthfuls before the flow stopped.

Desperate, the mother knew that this meager offering wouldn’t satisfy Mance’s command. Just as she prepared to offer the other breast, her baby began to cry, hungry for the nourishment she was now giving away.

She hesitated, torn between the King-Beyond-the-Wall’s demands and the needs of her child. Maybe the root I hid last time is still there, she thought, debating her next move. As she was about to continue squeezing out what little milk she had left, Mance’s voice cut through the tension.

"That’s enough. Next!"

He wasn’t without compassion. Mance had once left the Night’s Watch because he felt a responsibility to the free folk, like a parent to their children. He couldn’t stand the thought of a child starving for a few drops of milk. It was the least kindness he could show as their leader.

What’s more, he had only recently learned his own wife was pregnant. The thought softened him further, reminding him that even in war, there were limits.

As the dark brown broth in the cauldron continued to boil, Mance turned and waved to the nearby giants. Mag, the largest of them, led the charge, and the giants, unable to wait, descended on the cauldron. They cared little for the scalding heat as they gulped down the soup with their massive hands.

Crack!

Suddenly, in their frenzy, two giants fought over the pot, and the copper vessel split in half. Boiling soup spilled across the ground, steaming as it soaked into the dirt.

Despite the mess, ordinary free folk rushed forward, scooping up what they could—even if it was mixed with soil and grime.