The enemy's resistance was far fiercer than expected.
That half-finished camp was like a bottomless abyss, swallowing wildling warriors by the handful.
"The northern invaders only have a thousand men, and the warriors we sent outnumber them ten to one. Those invaders should be bleeding heavily by now."
"And our warriors?" one clan chief couldn't help complaining. "After fighting this long, how many have we lost?"
The question plunged everyone into silence.
Under the cover of darkness, no one could tell the true casualty count—only the brutal sounds of slaughter, only the thick stench of blood.
"Giantsbane" Tormund sprang to his feet and yanked out his blade. "I'll lead the charge myself. I'll take that camp!"
The other chiefs lit up at once, as though the moment Giantsbane stepped onto the field, the enemy would collapse.
Tormund had only taken a few steps when someone grabbed his arm.
"What is it, Mance?"
Mance was tense as well, but he kept his voice steady. "Don't rush it. Let the fighting settle first, then we decide. Besides, it's pitch-black out there—charging in now won't change anything."
Tormund sighed to himself.
He knew Mance was right. The battlefield was chaos. Even if he threw himself into it now, he couldn't truly turn the tide.
The fighting lasted the entire night.
Until dawn.
Just as the chiefs of the various clans sat on needles, a wildling came running up in a panic to report the front:
Their warriors hadn't taken the camp—worse, they'd been mauled. After leaving more than a thousand corpses behind, they'd pulled back…
Damn it!
Mance's stomach dropped. He'd prepared himself for the worst, but hearing "crushing defeat" out loud still made something twist painfully inside him.
But he knew he couldn't show panic. If he did, this improvised coalition could fracture on the spot.
So, facing the chiefs who stared in stunned disbelief, Mance Rayder smiled calmly and raised his voice:
"What's there to fear? That night raid was only a probe. The real killing stroke comes next.
They've fought all night. Every moment they've been bleeding and taking losses. They have no reinforcements.
Our warriors, on the other hand, are endless.
Next, I will lead all our warriors in a full assault—and we will break them!"
The wildlings Mance had sent in the night before were mostly cannon fodder… and clans that didn't truly obey him.
Their purpose was simple: test the invaders' strength, and grind them down.
Now, even if those warriors had returned in defeat, the goal of exhausting the enemy had been achieved.
After a whole night of bitter fighting, no matter how strong the northern army was, how much of its full strength could possibly remain?
Inspired by the King-Beyond-the-Wall's nerve, the chiefs steadied themselves again, and soon they were praising his sharp eyes and decisive action—calling him a king in a thousand, and so on.
Mance knew there was no time to waste. He immediately summoned Tormund.
Then he gathered ten thousand wildling warriors, formed them up outside the valley, and prepared to march on the invaders' camp and crush them for good.
Staring at the vast sea of fighters before him, Mance forced down his unease and made himself stay cold.
As the greatest King-Beyond-the-Wall in nearly a century, he had danced on the edge of life and death more times than he could count.
So this time, he had no reason to be afraid.
"Warriors beyond the Wall—follow me! Charge!"
Mance Rayder drew his longsword.
The other chiefs answered, drawing their weapons.
Then everyone drew steel and stone alike.
Nearly ten thousand swords, spears, and stone axes lifted into the air—ten thousand voices roaring as one:
"King-Beyond-the-Wall! King-Beyond-the-Wall!"
Breath fogged the air into a rolling mist. Firelight glinted off iron.
The warhorn sounded—uuuuuu—
Low and long, like the northern wind itself, chilling to the bone.
"My lord," Ser Harrion said, worry written all over him, "our scouts report the wildlings have mobilized another force—over ten thousand. More elite than last night's!"
"Is that so?" Domeric replied, unhurried. "Proceed according to plan."
"We're ready. Everything in the camp will be left behind. The wounded are already on horseback…" Harrion asked, "Do we withdraw now?"
"Yes." Domeric nodded. "Pull out before their main host arrives. And make the place a mess.
Remember… the wildlings must understand they won. They must believe they defeated us, and that we withdrew only because we had no choice."
At that very moment,
the wildlings—led by the King-Beyond-the-Wall—had set out, advancing along the mountain track toward Domeric's camp.
But what they didn't know was that their enemy had already withdrawn.
That camp was empty.
…
On a high peak, Domeric's white cloak snapped and streamed in the cold wind.
From here, everything at the foot of the mountain lay in full view.
As far as the eye could see—endless wildling columns.
The most experienced raiders, under "The Weeper" Harma—no, Doghead Harma—formed the vanguard and marched at the front.
The rest served as rearguard, or protected Mance Rayder himself, or fanned out as scouts.
They lacked horses. Most could only march on foot.
They were poorly armed, untrained, and most of their weapons were bone and stone rather than steel.
In short: the wildlings were numerous, but their gear was crude and their fighting power low…
They were simply not a match.
Domeric bore them no hatred. In the end, they were just pitiful people struggling to survive.
But if they remained beyond the Wall, they wouldn't only threaten the Wall's defenses—they would also become fuel for the White Walkers' revival…
After all, both White Walkers and wights were made by transforming human beings.
Taking these wildlings away would delay the White Walkers' resurgence as much as possible.
So where should these wildlings be settled?
Conveniently, Domeric's Lonely Mountain lands were desperate for large numbers of laborers—room and board, even wives, plus wages. That was far more hopeful than freezing beyond the Wall…
Of course, that was only possible if Domeric crushed them completely—if he conquered them.
"Send a fast rider to inform Ser Jorah Mormont," Domeric ordered. "After the wildlings 'win,' they'll likely go after his camp. Tell him to hold at least three days.
After three days, he may withdraw at his discretion.
Thirty miles behind him, I've already had Captain Igor hold the third line camp with a thousand men."
He added, "And when we withdraw, leave enough food and supplies behind.
Otherwise, I'm afraid those wildlings won't have the strength to take the third camp."
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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