The sun was completely swallowed by storm clouds, letting through only a faint, pallid light.
The north wind howled in spirals, laced with fine snow that lashed at every man like a whip—then slowly melted into steaming breath and vanished.
In the distance, the Wall still stood, unchanged. It had never changed in thousands of years.
On the boundless wasteland, Domeric's army and the wildling host faced each other across the open ground.
Domeric sat astride the unusually tall warhorse Robb had gifted him, sweeping the battlefield with a gaze that carried real authority.
He wore full armor now, a long spear in hand. A warrior's longblade hung at his waist, and over his mail and plate he had thrown a blood-red cloak.
The high collar made him feel stifled. More than once, he had the urge to tear the thing off—but he forced himself to endure it.
He needed to show his soldiers the bearing of a stronger man.
Sometimes "pageantry" mattered.
His troops had already formed up on the plain: roughly five thousand infantry, and around a thousand cavalry.
The largest block—sword-and-shield men—stood in the front ranks. Behind them came the fully armored spearmen, pikes and lances bristling like a forest, armor flashing like mirrors in what little light there was.
They were the backbone of the infantry square—young, hard men, fierce in battle and unafraid to die.
The archers formed behind, ready to use their range the moment an opening appeared.
Nearly a thousand riders stood in a neat line: armored head to toe, lances in hand, heavy swords at their hips, mounted on powerful horses.
Man and horse held still, silent—yet the pressure they gave off was unmistakable, as if they were only waiting for a single command to crash forward.
Domeric, still on horseback, was just about to speak when a commander strode up.
"My lord. Ser Wendel and the others are charging out of the Haunted Forest. They've already swung around behind the wildlings. Should we have them attack from the Wall's far side?" The man was Ser Jorah Mormont.
"Well done," Domeric said, and nothing more—then added, "If the wildlings crossed the Wall, they won't have left it unguarded. Forcing an assault would cost too much. Tell Wendel to seal their retreat. That's enough."
"But if we do that, we won't have a pincer. We only have six thousand on the front—" Jorah hesitated.
"Enough. More than enough for wildlings."
Domeric turned slightly, looking at his castellan. "In a moment, you and Captain Igor will command the five thousand in the infantry square."
"At once," Ser Jorah answered loudly.
Then Domeric's eyes swept over his own formation and settled on the wildling host opposite.
Under the "King-Beyond-the-Wall" Mance, the free folk had managed—barely—to form something that could be called a "battle line."
They were a messy, heaving mass, jammed together without order or method.
The hard-footed common folk—most numerous and weakest—should have been thrown into the front to grind down the enemy with sheer numbers. Instead, they were hiding at the rear.
The Thenns—strong, armed with bronze, meant to be the enforcers who kept the host in line—had already shoved their way to the very front. They shouted, brandished weapons, and looked ready to rush forward without waiting for any signal at all.
Dog-Head Harma's vanguard wandered restlessly, forgetting its role entirely…
Domeric could already see it: once the fighting began, before his men even struck them, the wildlings would trample and shove one another into brawls—shedding a tenth of their strength, perhaps more, just from their own chaos.
The thought made him smile.
After a long moment, he lifted his gaze to the sky. The hour of decision was close.
Domeric spurred his horse out ahead of the formation, drew his longblade from his waist, and raised it high. The steel gave a clear, ringing cry.
Every soldier turned toward their lord and raised his weapon.
"We will win this battle!" Domeric shouted, sweeping his men with his gaze. "Because we fear nothing!"
"We will win!"
"Fear nothing!"
The whole line roared it back.
…
"We can't lose this fight," Mance Rayder muttered to himself.
This early decisive battle was unavoidable. Mance knew it might not be wise—but the string of victories had bred a dangerous luck in him, and it had made the other chiefs restless.
Maybe this would end like the fighting in the Haunted Forest.
The free folk were a scattered swarm by nature. Forcing them into a single host had been hard enough, and Mance could already feel his grip slipping—especially on those tribes eager to rush south and raid.
If he didn't give them a battle soon, the host would splinter and start fighting itself. The grudges between tribes were no fewer than the hatreds south of the Wall.
Mance's gaze settled on the giants in the center of his host. Nearly a hundred of them stood together, thick-skinned and massive, like a low wall of flesh.
They were his confidence—the one thing he could truly lean on.
The formation around them had been crushed and tangled by the press of other wildlings, but it didn't matter. Giants were still giants.
Mance didn't give a speech the way Domeric had. The noise was too great—an endless din. He could have shouted himself hoarse and no one would've heard.
Wildlings muttered in little knots, spat on the ground, and some even started fistfights right there.
Nearby, a giant shamelessly tugged out his hose and pissed in plain view. The yellow spray splattered Mance's face.
It stank.
Mance had been raised at Castle Black. He'd served as a man of the Night's Watch. He'd seen plenty.
Still, there was only so much you could do with wildlings.
Fortunately, he had a few dependable hands.
Giantsbane Tormund was digging at his nose like he owned the world. Dog-Head Harma took a pack of elite fighters and surged to the front. Ygritte led a scouting team, ready to pick off enemy officers in the chaos. Varamyr Sixskins rode a bear more than three meters tall, and somehow he'd gathered a pack of wolves—
And the wolves, lined up and sitting still, made less noise and showed more discipline than the wildlings beside them.
Mance had thirty thousand fighters—far more than the six thousand opposite.
His elite elements—giants, Thenn warriors, Harma's vanguard, Ygritte's archer team—were not inferior man-to-man to Domeric's northmen. In some ways, they were even better.
But in a war on this scale, individual strength meant little.
What decided a battlefield was morale, equipment, cohesion, and flexible command.
Those were Domeric's strengths.
The wildlings had only numbers.
After a long while, the light around them brightened slightly.
Mance Rayder lifted a curved horn and blew—low and mournful.
Then he bellowed, "Attack!"
At the same moment, Domeric's army answered with the thunder of war drums.
And after a surge of shouting and running, the wildling host—like a raging flood—smashed straight into the enemy's battle line.
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