The second day after arriving at Castle Black.
Domeric led a force of 1,000 men out toward the Haunted Forest, a hundred and fifty miles away.
He halted before a small rise—higher ground, a modest earthen hill.
He intended to build a small camp here, a temporary strongpoint where the troops could quarter.
So, just after lunch, Domeric summoned the craftsmen traveling with the column to discuss construction.
"Lord Domeric, we took a quick look at the terrain and we've got a rough plan. We were about to report to you."
The speaker was a craftsman named Luka—nearly forty, big-eyed, with a full beard, strong and in his prime. He had once been the chief artisan of the Lonely Hills.
Back then, Domeric had picked him out at a glance from a crowd of slave laborers, and Luka proved the truth of the saying: gold will shine sooner or later.
"Master Luka—go on," Domeric said.
Domeric had always respected skilled hands.
Luka bowed slightly and spoke smoothly.
"My lord, building an encampment that can withstand wildling attacks will not be easy.
"My initial plan is four barracks, one stable, one storehouse, and two towers fifty feet high—enough to mount heavy scorpions on top.
"The curtain wall would be about twenty feet high, roughly three feet thick, built in three layers—inner and outer timber planking sealed with mud, with rubble packed into the middle…"
Domeric listened in silence. When Luka finished, he asked, "How long would that take?"
Luka stroked his beard, thought a moment, and said, "About a month."
Domeric's mouth twisted helplessly. "Too long. I can't wait. And even if I could, the wildlings in the forest won't."
"Then… if we push everyone and work day and night," Luka hesitated, "we could finish in half a month."
"Still too long."
Domeric made it plain. "Master Luka—I need a camp that can be built in five days. Do you understand?"
Luka's face tightened. "My lord… in so short a time, even if we finish, it likely won't hold against wildling assaults."
"That's not a problem you need to worry about." Domeric smiled and pointed at the open ground.
"I'll tell you how. First, raise a foundation with earth and stone. On it, build a wooden tower with a beacon platform. On both sides, raise three or four shorter arrow towers. Then surround everything with a ring of sturdy palisade fencing."
"But… isn't that too crude?" Luka looked troubled. "If the wildlings attack, I'm afraid it won't last more than a few days…"
Domeric's expression didn't change. "Master Luka—that's no longer your concern. Do as I said."
"Yes, my lord." Luka bowed and withdrew.
Once the camp's construction was arranged, Domeric turned to the man standing nearby.
"Ser Harrion—about the camp's security. Any advice?"
Harrion Karstark was Lord Rickard's eldest son—formerly Domeric's prisoner, now marching with his father.
He wasn't very old. He wore a black cloak decorated with a white sun, and he'd grown a beard that made him look harsher than his years.
Though there was bad blood between the houses, the Karstarks pinned their hopes on this campaign's success—so Domeric would forgive the crushing debt he'd imposed on them.
So they'd behaved, and worked.
Especially after they pushed into the Haunted Forest: Harrion led his men well, slipping free of wildling harassment several times, moving with seasoned caution.
Domeric valued that.
Harrion didn't hold back.
"My lord, I suggest we clear the trees around the camp as well—so the wildlings can't use them for concealment.
"And even though they haven't launched a full attack, they've been shadowing us. We must raise our alertness—post daily sentries, and scout the area while we're at it."
"Good." Domeric nodded. "Do it."
Then Harrion's face hardened.
"One more thing, my lord. Inside a castle we needn't fear them—but out here in the open, you must be careful. That lot isn't easy prey."
"Relax. I know." Domeric's tone was calm. "We came here to wipe them out."
…
Three days later.
The snowfield—once silent—became loud the moment Domeric's men moved in.
People shouted over one another. Craftsmen ordered soldiers to fell trees and raise timber. The place looked like a kicked anthill.
That day Domeric took his personal guards hunting into the forest.
When he returned, the camp was already half-finished.
He didn't even have time to enjoy it.
Harrion came up, worry written across his face.
"My lord—bad news!
"Our men cutting timber outside were attacked by wildlings…"
…
The smell of roasting meat drifted through the trees.
Domeric had brought down a deer. They cleaned it in the creek and set it over the fire until the skin turned golden.
When it was nearly done, he rubbed salt and sauce across it and kept turning it over the flames.
The rich aroma spread through the woods, enough to make anyone salivate.
Domeric tore off a hind leg and handed it to Harrion Karstark across from him.
"Slow down. Tell me what happened."
But Harrion had no appetite.
"The wildlings ambushed the men felling trees. Then they vanished back into the forest. They won't meet us head-on. We don't know the terrain—we can't catch them."
He clenched his teeth.
"My lord, I'm going to lead a patrol and track them down."
Domeric said nothing.
Harrion took the silence as indifference, and irritation flared.
"My lord—we're in danger. They can strike us anytime, anywhere. If we don't take the initiative, the consequences will be—"
"Your idea is fine," Domeric said, calm as still water. "But it isn't necessary."
Harrion blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Do I need to repeat it, Ser Harrion?" Domeric smiled. "Today is our third day here. The wildlings are already out of patience."
Harrion stared at him for a long moment, then spoke as if he couldn't believe his own words.
"My lord… you're saying they'll attack tonight?"
"No need to turn pale." Domeric remained unruffled.
"A bunch of skulking wildlings—what's there to fear? If they dare face us straight on, I'll make sure they regret it."
Harrion still hesitated.
"But we only have a thousand men. There could be tens of thousands of wildlings out there.
"Why not withdraw to Castle Black, bring every soldier, and fight them properly?"
"You think wildlings are as stupid as you are?"
Domeric cut him off without mercy.
"It's because we're few. It's because our camp isn't finished—that's why they'll dare a night raid.
"If we bring everyone from Castle Black, they'll vanish in an instant.
"And then what? They know the land. They come and go like shadows, harassing and ambushing us forever. When would we ever wipe out the wildlings beyond the Wall?
"So we show them a weakness, lure them into attacking—and then destroy them in a single battle."
"But—"
Domeric's tone turned cold.
"No 'but.' Go tell the men: wildlings will come tonight. Eat early. Sleep early. But do not remove your armor, and keep weapons within reach. Listen for the alarm.
"Carry out the order."
Harrion thought for a long time, then finally bit down hard and nodded.
"Fine. If you have the courage for this, Lord Domeric—then House Karstark are no cowards either."
He struck his right fist against his chest, solemnly gave a knight's salute, then turned and left.
Watching him go, Domeric chuckled.
In his hand, he held half a scrap of paper. He tossed it into the fire and let it curl into ash.
Wipe out the wildlings?
If only it were that simple.
This night raid—at best—would be nothing more than a probe.
-
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