Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 284: The Apex of Tormund’s Wit

After nearly a month of preparation, Mance chose a battlefield west of the Skirling Pass, a flat expanse perfect for the giants to shine. The terrain was ideal, offering plenty of room for the towering giants to move. Along with the giants and the warriors he’d carefully selected, many free folk had followed, eager to watch the battle, though they were kept at a distance as mere spectators.

Despite their position on the sidelines, the wildlings had high hopes for Mance’s “army of giants.”

"Look at Mag’s arms," one of them said. "Those crows will be no different than rabbits in his hands."

Even Tormund, who proudly called himself the "Giantsbane," felt a surge of unease in the presence of hundreds of giants, each standing twice as tall as an ordinary man. As much as he boasted, he wasn’t foolish enough to ignore the sheer power standing before him.

Having learned from previous mistakes, Mance had carefully chosen not just the giants but the other free folk warriors as well, ensuring they were loyal and well-fed, ready to fight for the cause. Among them was Ygritte, whose fiery red hair made her stand out. Mance had her ride ahead of the wildlings, her vibrant hair acting as a beacon for those following.

Through long experience, Mance had learned that while the wildlings were strong and sharp of sense, their eyesight was poor. They couldn’t see well beyond ten meters, a common trait among large creatures. Ygritte, now mounted on horseback, no longer had to worry about her short legs keeping her behind. In fact, she had to slow down frequently to allow the giants and wildlings to keep pace. As she absentmindedly braided the horse’s mane, she mused, If only I had my own horse.

Suddenly, her eyes caught movement in the distance. A group of riders appeared on the horizon, their banners flying high—the black banner of the three-headed dragon, stark against the snow-covered landscape.

"It’s the king of the kneelers!" Ygritte gasped. "They all have horses!"

The realization hit her hard. The giants, with their massive strides, could barely keep up with the scrawny horses the wildlings rode. How could they ever hope to match Viserys’s powerful warhorses?

We’re doomed, she thought, as fear crept into her heart.

Mance, too, felt a cold wave of dread wash over him as he spotted the cavalry approaching. He had overlooked a crucial fact—warhorses were rare Beyond the Wall, only occasionally seized from the Night’s Watch. But south of the Wall, warhorses were abundant. When Mance had infiltrated Winterfell, he’d seen more warhorses there than in any Night’s Watch stable. And now, Viserys had brought them north.

Harma, who had been walking beside Mance with a smug grin, clearly pleased with the plan, was left dumbfounded.

All the calculations, all the strategies, had failed to account for one critical detail: the other side was playing with gold.

As Viserys’s formation of 300 warhorses thundered into view, their presence was just as fearsome as the giants’. Mance knew in his gut that the giants wouldn’t even be able to see the danger coming their way.

Viserys rode out to the center of the battlefield, leading Jorah, Benjen, and a group of horsemen. At Benjen’s request, Jon Snow rode with them, the weight of expectation heavy on his shoulders. On the opposite side, Mance Rayder led Tormund and a few others, their tension visible.

"You’re cheating!" Tormund bellowed, pointing angrily at Viserys's cavalry.

"What are you talking about? You’ve got 300 men, we’ve got 300 men. You’re a bunch of untrustworthy savages!" Qhorin Halfhand snapped, his voice cold and sharp. He was the ranger Jon had once been told to kill to earn the wildlings' trust. The memory stung like an old wound.

"You call us savages, but we are proud, free men!" Tormund retorted, eyes blazing with defiance.

As the two sides traded insults, Jon kept his focus on Viserys. He knew the cavalry wasn’t the true threat; the catapults lurking behind them were the real danger. This was all a distraction, a ploy to rattle the free folk.

This is a strategy that requires strength to support, Jon thought. He had heard stories of Viserys’s conquests: the Nine Free Cities, the Dothraki Sea—territories built from nothing under his rule. By comparison, Daeron the Young Dragon had struggled to conquer even Dorne, only to be ambushed and killed.

Now, standing in the presence of Viserys, Jon had a new idol.

"Enough!" Viserys barked, his voice commanding but calm. Jon noticed there wasn’t a hint of anger in his eyes, only calculation.

"Mance," Viserys continued, his tone almost mocking, "with so many giants, will your food supply hold out?"

Mance’s thoughts flashed to the image of the mother who had given her child’s milk for the cauldron. He remained silent, but the weight of the question hung heavy.

"The original deal was 300 men each," Viserys said, his voice hardening. "But now you’ve brought over 200 giants. Who tried to break the deal first? Do you think I’m an idiot, Tormund?"

Viserys shot Tormund a sharp look, and for the first time, Tormund, who always prided himself on being smarter than most, felt a pang of shame. It was as if Viserys had seen right through him.

"No need to wet your pants just because you saw my cavalry!" Viserys sneered, his words biting. The cavalry behind him burst into laughter, the sound rippling through the battlefield.

The jeers hit hard. The wildlings, who had placed so much hope in their army of giants, began to waver. Even the ordinary free folk, standing a distance away, looked crestfallen. They had expected the giants to be unstoppable, but now they stood uncertain, watching as the cavalry remained undaunted.

They knew the power of a warhorse. The Night’s Watch rangers had always struck fear into their hearts, using horses to appear and disappear like ghosts, attacking at will.

But now, seeing the cavalry lined up before them—and worse, catching glimpses of Viserys’s three dragons looming in the distance—the wildlings' confidence faltered.

Viserys had sworn not to use the dragons, but would he truly keep that promise if things went wrong?

Ygritte, waiting on horseback, felt a surge of anger rise within her, though she couldn’t quite pinpoint why. She clenched her bow, wanting to draw an arrow and shoot Viserys, but something held her back. Both her emotions and her reason screamed against it. The memory of the "coin toss" was still too fresh in her mind.

“When we first met at the peace conference,” Viserys's voice rang out, cutting through the wind, “you told me that if I could find and capture you, you’d accept my terms. I found you, I captured you, but you demanded another challenge, claiming betrayal. And I agreed, didn’t I?”

The wind picked up, carrying his voice even further across the field. Viserys's commanding presence, amplified by the elements, seemed almost theatrical.

"You’re riding horses!" Tormund shouted, frustration in his voice. "What if you run away? We’re not afraid of fighting you—we’re afraid of you running away!"

Yeah! We're afraid you'll run! Tormund thought to himself, feeling oddly proud of his reasoning.

But Viserys dismissed him, turning to Mance with a hint of impatience. "Mance, do you admit you’ve lost this time? If you do, I’ll give you another chance. We’ll fight again here in two days. Bring your giants. I’ll still only bring 300 men. But if you lose again, you must accept my conditions."

Mance considered the offer. He knew his infantry stood no chance against cavalry, especially on flat, open terrain like this. Viserys could run them down like dogs.

That’s... too easy, thought Tormund, Rattleshirt, Harma, and even Ygritte. They all found Viserys's terms too generous, too simple to be trusted.

"He must have a plan to deal with us," Tormund muttered under his breath, a suspicion echoed by everyone present. Every concession Viserys made only deepened their doubts. Morale was sinking, and with it, their fighting spirit.

Suddenly, the thought of moving south of the Wall didn’t seem so unacceptable.

“If he really wanted to wipe us out, he wouldn’t go to all this trouble,” Harma whispered to Rattleshirt.

"Maybe he doesn’t want to kill us at all," Rattleshirt replied, though his eyes stayed fixed on Mance.

Mance’s face betrayed his inner struggle. Uncertainty clouded his expression as he weighed Viserys's words. The only sound was the howling wind and the snorting of the horses, as the wildlings waited for their leader’s decision.

After what felt like an eternity, Mance finally spoke. "Fine. As long as you don’t defeat me on horseback this time, I’ll accept your conditions and move all the free folk south."