"Wooo—"
A dull horn blast ripped through the stillness of the night.
It also jolted awake Domeric—who hadn't truly fallen asleep in the first place.
He rose from his cot, threw back the tent flap, and strode out into the camp. He glanced at the moonlight—dim, heavy, ominous.
Tonight was destined to be a sleepless night of blood.
The soldiers filed out of their tents with practiced precision, took up their weapons, and formed into ranks.
Discipline and order—those were the most invincible things on any battlefield.
In the hazy moonlight, Domeric stood atop the half-finished rampart and already saw the black silhouettes forming in the distance.
The wildlings had come—just as expected.
Once they heard the horn, they knew they'd been spotted.
So they stopped trying to hide. They began howling with strange, animal cries and charged outright:
"RAAAAH—RAAAAH—RAAAAH!"
The valley filled with those shrieks, startling countless beasts and birds from sleep.
Inside the camp, soldiers turned pale—there were too many.
With the darkness masking their numbers, no one could count them. But judging by the sound and the momentum, there had to be ten thousand—at least.
Even with preparation, fear still crept in.
With such a difference in numbers… could they hold?
Even Harrion found himself cursing inwardly. Castle Black had plenty of men—why had they come out with only a thousand?
This lord was mad.
Domeric watched the dense mass of shadows rush forward like they didn't value their lives—and yet his mind was eerily calm.
Whether it was talent or something else, the bigger the crisis, the calmer he became.
Calm enough to surprise even himself.
"Ser Harrion," Domeric said, "the camp's defense is yours."
"Yes, my lord! Then you—?"
"I'm going back to sleep. I didn't rest well."
"…Huh?"
Harrion stared, dumbfounded, certain he'd misheard.
At a time like this, you thick-browed lunatic—you can still sleep?
…
The wildlings surged closer, a black tide.
"Loose!"
At Harrion's command, soldiers shoved down the stockpiled boulders and logs they'd prepared. Fortunately, the camp sat on slightly higher ground.
Rumble—
Gravity and momentum did the work: stones and timber rolled down the slope and smashed into the charging wildling ranks.
Screams erupted at once—though the casualties were limited.
Still, it checked their arrogance and broke the rhythm of their charge.
"Shields up!" Harrion's voice rang out again.
The front line reacted instantly, planting their massive wooden shields before them, eyes fixed and unflinching on the wildlings rushing up.
By moonlight, the wildlings' twisted faces were now clearly visible.
And still—the soldiers did not flinch.
Wooden shields weren't the best protection, but they were enough.
Because the wildlings' weapons were worse.
North of the Wall, they lacked advanced smithing. Iron weapons were rare; most carried stone hammers, wooden spears, animal teeth—primitive tools masquerading as arms.
And they were attacking uphill, which further blunted their killing power.
Harrion watched coldly and issued his second command.
"Spears—thrust!"
Swish, swish, swish!
The spearmen behind the shield line drove their long spears forward through the gaps between shields.
Thud—thud—thud!
Spearpoints pierced flesh in a continuous, wet rhythm.
After several rounds of stabbing, the wildlings who'd reached the camp thinned dramatically.
"Blades out!"
With the third command, the rear line drew their long knives and surged through the spear and shield ranks, hacking down the wildlings who were still screaming.
After one clean finishing sweep, the knife-men immediately withdrew back into formation. The shield line reset, bracing for the next impact.
Again and again.
It didn't take long before the slope below the camp was carpeted with wildling bodies.
After a few cycles, the soldiers grew steadier—almost bored.
Wildlings were wildlings. Numbers alone didn't change the fact that they were a disorganized mob. They brought no real pressure at all.
Even Harrion found himself astonished at his own "brilliant" command.
Since when was I this good?
But then he thought it through: better gear, better ground, better coordination, better tactics, and a commander calm as ice—how could they not win?
So I'm a great general, Harrion thought smugly.
No matter how fearlessly the wildlings threw themselves forward, they could not shake the half-built camp.
All they could do was leave corpses behind.
The stench of blood saturated the snowfield. The camp's defenders became a grinder built for slaughter—harvesting lives in a steady, mechanical rhythm.
Across from them, the wildlings' assaults grew weaker and weaker.
They forced themselves into several more attempts—then the half-finished camp stood like an iron wall, unbreakable.
At last, the wildlings withdrew.
And dawn arrived.
The first pale light cut through the darkness and revealed a scene like hell itself—
Along nearly a hundred meters of slope below the camp lay wildling corpses, packed thick—more than a thousand.
Blood ran across the snow, staining it a dark, dirty red. The smell was so heavy it felt suffocating.
The ground was covered in the dead. The living had been dragged away.
…
"My lord—we won!" Harrion staggered up to Domeric, face smeared with blood and filth.
"Oh. We won?" Domeric climbed off his cot and stretched lazily.
"Then shall we pursue them?" Harrion volunteered immediately.
"No. We retreat."
"What?!" Harrion blurted, aghast. "We barely held this camp—and in two more days it'll be finished. Now you want to retreat?"
"Yes. Retreat. Out of the camp." Domeric didn't sound like he was joking.
"My lord, trust me—even if there are more wildlings out there, they can't break this camp. There's no need to withdraw!"
"I'm the commander here," Domeric said. "Follow orders."
"And one more thing—leave all supplies behind. Bread. Grain. Wine. Everything. Including the dozen crates of weapons in the storehouse."
"…What?"
Harrion froze again, as if reality had slapped him twice in one morning.
"Bread and wine—I can accept. But those weapons—if the wildlings get them, they'll only grow stronger. The consequences would be unthinkable! Even if we can't carry them, we can bury them—"
Domeric sighed. He had a sword brought from the storehouse, then—
CLANG!
He chopped down on an iron candlestick.
The candlestick didn't break.
The sword snapped in half.
"Ser Harrion, rest easy," Domeric said evenly. "Trash like this is only treasure to wildlings."
Harrion gaped, as if something had clicked—though not completely.
"My lord… do we withdraw straight back to Castle Black?"
"Mm."
"Then what about the wildlings here? Everything we did these past days—was it all for nothing?" Harrion demanded, unwilling to accept it.
Domeric's expression remained calm, almost carefree.
"I've already prepared a second camp thirty miles from here. Ser Jorah Mormont is there now—holding it with a thousand men…"
-
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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