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The atmosphere in the forest was so thick with tension you could cut it with a knife.
Mance Rayder's face was uglier than the rubble of the Bloody Gate.
He stared at Tormund with eyes that promised flaying.
"I'll say it one more time. I just told him to touch it..."
Tormund's voice grew smaller and smaller until it vanished completely under Mance's murderous glare.
He knew he was in the wrong.
This whole thing had definitely gone off-script.
Lynn's orders were harassment. Delay tactics. Be a swarm of annoying flies.
And Tormund? He just went ahead and demolished the house.
"What do we do now?"
A Wildling chief asked cautiously, breaking the suffocating silence.
"The door is open. We... we can't just walk away, can we?"
Everyone looked at Mance.
If they went in, they disobeyed orders.
If they didn't go in... well, the door was wide open!
It felt like picking the lock to a girl's bedroom after hours of effort, only to say "goodnight" from the doorway and leave without doing anything.
It felt pathetic no matter how you sliced it.
Mance took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing his anger.
He closed his eyes, his mind racing.
What was the core of Lynn's strategy?
Diversion.
Using this surprise force to pin the main Vale army at the Bloody Gate, creating opportunities for Lynn at the Eyrie and Robb in the Riverlands.
Now, the gate was gone, but the Vale army was still there.
Nestor Royce's army was surely still on its way.
Their mission hadn't ended just because a wall fell down.
"Our mission is not to siege the castle."
Mance opened his eyes, his voice returning to its usual calm.
"It is to pin down the Vale army."
"The Bloody Gate is gone, but the men are still there."
"The plan hasn't changed."
"Continue the harassment."
"What?" Tormund immediately protested.
"Still harassing them?"
"Their front door is gone, and we're still gonna stand outside shouting insults? Isn't that just... stupid?"
"That is an order."
Mance shot him a cold glance.
"And from now on, you stay in the back and keep your mouth shut. If you try anything on your own again, I'll tie you to a tree and let the Ice Giant use you as a toy."
Tormund shrank back, not daring to say another word.
He had seen what happened to that big guy's "toys."
...
Night fell again.
atop the ruins of the Bloody Gate, the Vale soldiers lit their campfires.
Morale was at rock bottom. Every face was etched with confusion and fear.
Ser Ronald, the commander, sat on a boulder, staring blankly at the pass that had been leveled to the ground.
One punch.
Just one punch.
A thousand years of glory turned to dust.
He still couldn't understand why the enemy, after displaying god-like power, had quietly retreated.
It felt worse than just being killed!
It was like a giant kicking down your front door, walking into your house while your family watched in terror, picking up an apple from your table, wiping it on his shirt, putting it back, and then leaving.
It was highly insulting. He could picture it perfectly.
Since the enemy hadn't attacked, he couldn't abandon his post. He had to garrison the "Bloody Gate," ruin or not.
"Hey! You grandsons! Grandpa is back!"
The familiar booming voice echoed from the forest again.
Tormund, bored out of his mind, led a group of Wildlings to start their daily routine.
However, this time, things were different.
The Vale soldiers behind the rubble just looked up, gave them a numb glance, and then...
Nothing.
No angry curses, no nervous alerts. No one even raised a shield.
They just stood there like puppets without souls, letting the Wildlings' filth wash over their heads.
The enemy had the power to destroy this place ten times over, yet they were playing these childish games. It was obvious they were being toyed with.
They couldn't even be bothered to draw their swords anymore.
"Fuck!"
Tormund cursed.
It felt like punching cotton.
Where was the fun in a fight?
The fun was you punch me, I kick you; you curse me, I stab you.
Now the other side was just lying flat, letting him vent. How was he supposed to play this?
"Hey! Are you lot dead? Give me a reaction!"
Tormund picked up a rock and threw it.
Thwack! The rock hit a soldier's helmet with a crisp sound.
The soldier shook his head, rubbed his neck, and then... went back to staring at the fire.
Tormund: "..."
The Wildlings behind him looked at each other.
This job... it wasn't working anymore.
This felt more boring than shouting matches with those balls-less Crows on the Wall.
Then, things got weird.
The Wildlings showed up on time to shout at the ruins.
The Vale soldiers watched on time every night, their eyes full of a calm "do I look like I care?" attitude.
Gradually, the Wildlings got bored too.
The insults turned into chatter.
"Hey, you over there, what did you eat for dinner?"
"Black bread and salt beef soup. You?"
"Roasted venison leg! Smells great!"
By the third day, Tormund couldn't take it anymore.
He watched a soldier across the rubble drinking from a waterskin, and realized he was thirsty too.
Summoning his courage, he walked out of the woods, step by step approaching the ruins.
Everyone tensed up.
Vale soldiers gripped their spears; Wildlings touched their axes.
Tormund stopped in front of the ruins, pointed at the soldier's waterskin, then pointed at his own mouth.
The soldier paused, looked back at his commander, Ser Ronald.
Ronald was silent for a moment, then nodded.
The soldier unhooked the waterskin and tossed it hard toward Tormund.
Tormund caught it, pulled the stopper, sniffed it to check for poison, and then chugged.
Cool water slid down his throat. He let out a satisfied belch.
"Thanks, brother!"
That heartfelt thanks was like a pebble dropped into a still lake.
The barrier broke in that moment.
No one wanted to die for a ruler's war.
Everyone was just a normal person trying to survive.
A Wildling pulled a piece of charred dried meat from his tunic and threw it over.
A Vale soldier hesitated, then unbuckled a small knife from his belt and threw it back as an exchange.
Soon, the two sides of the ruins became a temporary marketplace.
Wildlings traded Northern specialties for delicate Southern trinkets.
The atmosphere became unprecedentedly harmonious.
A few bold ones even put their arms around each other's shoulders, chatting across the rubble about the women back home.
Mance Rayder stood in the distance, watching quietly, complex emotions flickering in his eyes.
He knew the opportunity had arrived.
He straightened his cloak and walked alone toward the ruins.
"I am their leader, Mance Rayder."
He looked at the Vale commander, Ser Ronald, who had also stepped forward.
"I think we can talk."
Ronald looked at this man who possessed a refined air, completely unlike a savage, and nodded.
"What... what do you people want?"
That was the question burning in Ronald's mind.
"Us?"
Mance smiled, a hint of self-mockery in it.
"We just want to live."
He didn't lecture. instead, he asked a question.
"Ser Knight, aren't you curious?"
"Why were we beyond the Wall?"
"Why did we abandon our homes and drag our families South?"
"Why, when we clearly have the power to destroy the Bloody Gate with one punch, are we just sitting here chatting with you?"
Every question struck Ronald's heart.
Yes, why?
"Because the real enemy isn't us," Mance's voice dropped low.
"It is the Long Night. It is the White Walkers. It is the winter cold enough to swallow all of Westeros."
"Our King, Lynn, fights for all the living."
"But you?"
Mance's gaze sharpened.
"What is your Lady Lysa doing?"
"She poisoned her own husband, the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn."
"She framed the Lannisters, trying to ignite the War of the Five Kings, to drown the continent in blood."
"She even stabbed Lord Lynn in the back just as he marched North to fight the Others and buy a chance for everyone to live!"
"She wants to cut off all supply lines to the North. She wants to not only leave us to face the dead alone but starve us to death in the snow."
"All for her laughable lust for power and her sick obsession with a man who never loved her!"
Ronald's face turned pale.
He had guessed some of this from Lynn's actions at the Eyrie.
But hearing it from the "enemy's" mouth, the impact was still hard to bear.
"Do you... have proof?" he asked with difficulty.
"Proof?" Mance laughed.
He pointed at the ruins.
"This is the best proof."
"If our King were a brutal conqueror, you would all be cold corpses by now."
"Do you think we'd be sitting here peacefully sharing drinks?"
"Lynn could have ordered the Ice Giant to stomp you and this entire valley flat."
"He could have burned the Eyrie with dragonfire, turning your home into a hellscape."
"But he didn't."
"He gave you a warning. And a last chance."
"He wants to end this unjust war—started by Lysa—with the smallest possible cost."
"That is our King's mercy."
"Ser Knight, tell me now: Who is the real victim here?"
Ronald fell completely silent.
Indeed, if they had Lynn's overwhelming power, they would have unleashed it long ago.
But Lynn hadn't.
The Vale soldiers behind him heard every word.
Their faces were filled with shock, anger, and a sudden... shameful realization.
They thought they were fighting for honor.
But after hearing Mance expose Lysa and Petyr's schemes, they understood.
They were just pawns in a madwoman's plot.
A blade aimed at a true hero!
And the King they saw as an enemy, despite having absolute superiority, chose the path of greatest mercy.
The grace of not killing.
That weight pressed heavily on every Vale soldier's heart.
The way they looked at the Wildlings across from them changed. There was no more hostility, only a trace of respect and gratitude.
Just then, a scout galloped in from the mountain pass behind them, looking panicked.
"Ser Ronald!"
"Ser Nestor Royce's army... has reached the pass!"
What?!
Ronald's heart sank.
He instinctively looked back at Mance Rayder.
Mance still wore that calm, breezy smile, as if he had expected this.
Nestor Royce was here.
The most stubborn, loyal old general of House Arryn. Would he believe any of this?
A new conflict seemed imminent.
Sweat beaded on Ronald's hand as he gripped his sword hilt.
What should he choose?
Continue to follow Lysa's orders and fight these "enemies"?
Or... follow the justice in his heart and stand with the merciful Lord Lynn?