The brief but terrifying skirmish with the undead had deeply unsettled the Old Bear and Lord Eddard. Witnessing the legendary abominations of the true North materialize right before their eyes shook the seasoned veterans to their cores.
Roman, however, remained entirely unfazed. The disciplined Harrenhal Vanguard had just proven that a united, heavily armed human force could effectively eradicate the supernatural threat.
The surviving wildling host, numbering several thousand, had been corralled into a massive encirclement by the cavalry. It was evident that the vast majority of Mance Rayder's followers had not even reached the front lines before the battle ended.
Roman physically dragged Mance Rayder forward by his bindings, forcing the captive King-Beyond-the-Wall to face his terrified people.
"Lord Roman, what in the name of the Gods are you doing?" Ned Stark asked, hurriedly stepping forward to intervene.
"Lord Eddard, I intend to have a frank conversation with these people. They might prove useful in our coming war against this apocalyptic winter."
"You actually intend to let these wildlings cross the Wall?"
Lord Commander Mormont was instantly enraged. The Night's Watch had bled for thousands of years to keep the Free Folk out. Was this southern lord truly going to invite them into the Seven Kingdoms? What of the countless black brothers who had sacrificed their lives?
"Lord Commander, look at my armor," Roman replied coolly. He gestured to the magical ice crystals still clinging to his steel plates, which had refused to melt even against his superheated plasma.
"What exactly do you think we are facing? If that undead horde descends upon us in full force, do you truly believe the Night's Watch can hold the Wall alone?"
The Old Bear stared at Roman with wide, incredulous eyes. "You are not actually speaking of the White Walkers, are you? You believe in fables that disappeared eight millennia ago?"
"It is not a matter of what I believe, Lord Commander. It is a matter of mathematical risk," Roman stated pragmatically. "You know the legends of the Others. If we leave these thousands of wildlings out here to freeze, the White Walkers will slaughter them."
Roman pointed a gauntleted finger at the trembling wildling horde. "To put it in the simplest military terms, every wildling we leave to die today becomes an undead soldier for our enemy tomorrow."
Ignoring the sputtering commanders, Roman dragged Mance up onto a small snowy ridge, overlooking the sea of terrified Free Folk.
"Mance Rayder, you and your people have exactly two choices," Roman projected his voice across the clearing. "Option one, you submit to my authority and march south with me. Option two, you remain out here in the freezing dark and rot, eventually becoming fodder for those undead monstrosities."
Roman patted Mance on the shoulder with mocking familiarity. "Make your choice."
"The Free Folk never kneel," Mance spat fiercely.
"I do not need you to kneel," Roman replied with a nonchalant shrug. "I just need you to bow your heads and follow orders."
"Are you playing the fool, boy?" Mance snarled. "A true free man would rather die than abandon his core principles!"
"Principles?" Roman laughed aloud, a harsh, distorted sound. "Then I am very eager to see whether your people value their abstract honor more than their own survival."
Keeping a firm grip on Mance, Roman amplified his voice to address the masses below.
"Listen closely! I am a lord of the South. I know exactly what nightmares drove you from your homes. I know exactly why you are so desperate to breach this Wall."
"I am offering you a singular chance to serve me and obey my laws. In exchange, I will provide you with warm food, secure shelter, and a return to the fertile lands your ancestors abandoned thousands of years ago."
Hearing Roman's genuine offer, Ned Stark grew frantic. If the Iron Throne learned that a southern lord was inviting wildlings across the Wall, it would spark an immediate political crisis. He stepped forward to physically pull Roman down from the ridge.
Before Ned could reach him, Fili stepped gracefully into the Warden of the North's path.
"Lord Eddard, please remain calm," the blonde girl said, looking directly into the high lord's eyes with absolute unwavering confidence. "Lord Roman operates on pure logic. He will not trigger a crisis he cannot manage."
Blocked by the fiercely loyal aide, Ned could only stand helplessly and watch Roman's manipulation unfold.
The surrounded wildlings initially erupted in fury. The proudest warriors screamed insults and brandished their crude weapons, refusing to let a southern lord buy their loyalty.
Roman completely ignored their chaotic shouts. He simply waited. He knew the brutal reality of the lands beyond the Wall. He was waiting for the weak, the starving, and the desperate to finally break.
Driven by the primal instinct to survive, a small group of emaciated Free Folk hesitantly stepped out from the angry crowd.
"Are you... are you telling the truth?" an elderly wildling asked, his voice trembling.
Roman looked down at the starving group and spoke with absolute solemnity. "I am Roman Rivers of House Whent. The promises I make are bound by blood and iron. I will not break my word."
Ignoring the venomous glares of their fellow tribesmen, a desperate mother quickly fell to her knees. "I swear it! As long as you can keep my children from freezing, we will do whatever you ask!"
"You traitorous bitch!" a nearby wildling warrior roared.
Unable to bear the sight of submission, the furious warrior drew his bone axe and lunged at the kneeling woman.
Before he could take a second step, three heavy crossbow bolts slammed into his chest. The Harrenhal vanguard had shot him dead in an instant.
Roman glared down at the Free Folk, his blue eyes glowing with lethal intent. "I did not grant you permission to discipline my subjects. Anyone else who attempts to harm those under my protection will share his fate."
Following that brutal display of absolute authority, the Free Folk became significantly more docile. Ultimately, the vast majority of living creatures deeply feared death.
To Roman's mild surprise, over five hundred wildlings immediately stepped forward to surrender.
Looking at them closely, Roman understood why. They were painfully thin, with sallow faces, hollow eyes, and frostbitten limbs. It was utterly absurd to expect starving people to uphold the lofty political ideals of the Free Folk.
Roman instantly rewarded those who submitted. He ordered his supply wagons to distribute hot stew and heavy blankets directly to the defectors. He also deployed his field medics to begin treating their frostbite.
This profound display of immediate, tangible mercy sent ripples through the remaining wildling horde. Even some of the more stubborn warriors began to reconsider their stubborn pride.
Roman did not stop at food and medicine. He deployed his scribes to mingle with the surrendered wildlings under the guise of an administrative census.
The people of the Seven Kingdoms harbored deep, violent prejudices against the Free Folk. Roman knew the only way to break this cultural stereotype was through immediate, forced communication.
Because the surrendered wildlings spoke the Common Tongue, the Harrenhal scribes could interview them without any language barriers.
The scribes did not preach southern politics. They simply sat by the fires and asked the wildlings about their daily struggles.
"How are your children faring in the cold?"
"What is the infant mortality rate in your specific tribe?"
"What supplies do you lack the most? Are there specific tools you need to survive the winters?"
"What are your burial customs? We do not wish to offend your traditions."
Mance Rayder watched in sheer, unadulterated shock as his people eagerly conversed with the southern soldiers.
"Impossible," Mance muttered to himself. "What kind of dark witchcraft are you weaving into their minds, boy?"
"Witchcraft?" Roman scoffed. "Mance, you have isolated yourself in the frozen wastes for so long that you have forgotten how simple human nature truly is. I simply gave them a path to survival."
"You forced them to assault an impenetrable fortress to survive. I offered them hot food and a warm fire. It is a very reasonable transaction, and your people clearly recognize a good deal when they see one."
Roman did not waste any more breath on the defeated king. He ordered his heavy infantry to escort Mance and the surrendered wildlings back to the Castle Black encampment.
"Lord Roman, what do you truly intend to do with the thousands of wildlings who remain out here?" Ned Stark asked, his voice tight with anxiety.
Roman glanced at the massive, defiant crowd still surrounded by his cavalry. "We can march them south into the New Gift. They can settle the abandoned farmlands and serve as a robust agricultural labor force."
"You want to march thousands of hostile wildlings south of the Wall? Absolutely not! I forbid it!"
Ned was furious. It was outrageous enough that Roman had accepted a few hundred defectors, but at least those individuals seemed willing to cooperate. Settling thousands of proud, hostile savages in the North was political suicide.
Seeing Lord Eddard take the bait, Roman casually shrugged his armored shoulders. "Very well. Since the Warden of the North refuses to let them settle south of the Wall, I will simply kill them all."
The very second the words left his mouth, a blinding aura of superheated Pale Flame erupted from Roman's body. The temperature in the clearing spiked drastically, and the surrounded wildlings instantly went pale with terror.
Several wildlings who had barely survived the slaughter in the tunnel fell to their knees in tears, praying frantically to the Old Gods for mercy.
Ned Stark stared at Roman in absolute horror, his strict moral compass violently triggered by the sudden shift in protocol.
"Lord Roman, stay your hand! These people have been disarmed and surrounded. Massacring prisoners of war is an act completely devoid of honor!"
"Of course it is, Lord Eddard," Roman agreed smoothly, the lethal plasma still crackling around his fists. "But what alternative do you propose? You will not allow them to march south. You will not allow me to execute them. Are we simply supposed to let them go, so they can regroup and slaughter the Night's Watch tomorrow?"
Ned Stark was completely speechless. He was trapped in a perfect logical paradox. His profound sense of honor absolutely forbade him from allowing Roman to massacre defenseless prisoners. Yet, his duty as Warden of the North made him deeply opposed to allowing wildlings into the New Gift.
The heavy, suffocating silence stretched on for several long moments. Finally, Lord Eddard let out a deep, defeated sigh.
"Fine. We will not slaughter them. The North will take responsibility for them. We will settle them in the New Gift and put them to work under strict Northern supervision, so we do not have to drive them back into the haunted forest."
Roman smiled faintly beneath his draconic helm. The deal was officially sealed.
He offered the Warden of the North a polite, aristocratic bow, silently thanking Lord Eddard for walking perfectly into his trap.
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