Where the two armies met, it looked like two rivers with a sharp, unmistakable boundary—only now and then, crimson waves would surge up as bodies broke the surface.
The wildlings' charge was vicious—especially the giants.
They were not only monstrously strong; the hard, thick hair covering their bodies was like armor. Ordinary arrows couldn't punch through their hide, couldn't hurt them in any meaningful way.
But Domeric's army rolled forward cart after cart of heavy crossbows—"bolt wagons." Their power sat somewhere between a scorpion and a hand crossbow, and they were Domeric's answer to giants.
The bolts they launched hit like thrown spears. Even the sound—an eerie, savage scream as they tore through the air—was enough to make men flinch.
Those bolts could threaten giants, and if they slammed into a knot of wildlings, they simply skewered them into strings of meat.
With several of the great crossbows working together, they could throw out overlapping volleys that became nets of cord and shafts—wrapping tight around a giant's torso and limbs.
Already clumsy and slow, the giants were finished. They toppled onto the ground and wrestled with the ropes like fools, stuck there while the battle moved on without them…
Little by little, the fighting turned into a grind. The wildling vanguard's initial fury began to falter, and Jorah started directing the infantry square into a measured counterpush.
The clouds broke.
Sunlight came down hard—so bright the wildlings had to squint, blinking against the glare.
Domeric looked up at the sky.
It was time.
He was already ready. He guided his warhorse forward at a slow walk, and behind him came a thousand cavalry—helms down, armor locked in place.
They stood on the open plain like iron statues. The biting wind couldn't shake them in the slightest—it only made the flayed-man banners crack and snap.
"You can still step back," Domeric said, riding up to a young "knight." "Once we start the charge, nobody will be able to protect you."
"Ser Domeric," Jon Snow said stubbornly, "I've sworn it. I'd rather die on a battlefield than curl up in bed like a woman and wait for death."
His face was set—though beneath his armor, the hand gripping the reins trembled a little. It was his first battle, but it didn't touch his resolve.
"Heh. And women are that contemptible?" Benita scoffed beside them.
She wore knightly armor too, a longblade at her waist—though her breastplate bulged far more than a man's.
"S-sorry. I didn't mean to offend you," Jon said awkwardly.
"Not the time," Domeric sighed. "Watch yourselves out there."
Jon's combat rating was 128. Benita's was as high as 135—though she specialized in assassination rather than open-field clashes. Domeric remembered that when he'd first met her, she'd been only 125. Somewhere along the way, for reasons he didn't know, she'd leapt forward.
Both of them were above an ordinary knight. Surviving a cavalry charge shouldn't be beyond them.
Domeric pushed the stray thoughts aside, fixed his eyes on the riders behind him, and shouted:
"Hit the wildlings' flank!"
He led from the front. With a light squeeze of his knees, his warhorse stepped forward, then broke into a controlled trot.
All the cavalry followed. They weren't fast—not yet. Too early an acceleration would just burn the horses' strength.
…
On the main front, Jorah's infantry square was tangled with the wildlings, killing intent so thick it felt like something you could touch.
The cavalry curved around the two forces locked together and drove straight for the wildlings' flank.
"Charge!"
Domeric dropped the visor of his helm. He leveled his spear and leaned forward.
His horse understood. It began to accelerate—smoothly, relentlessly.
Behind him, the thousand riders moved as one, like they had rehearsed it a hundred times.
Hooves thundered—closer and closer—like spring thunder exploding over the earth.
The ground itself trembled.
That sound was so enormous it immediately caught the attention of the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder.
"Get the giants up!" he snapped, shouting to the giant chieftain. "Take a dozen from the center and block them—protect the flank!"
But the giants barely had any shields worth naming. What were they supposed to block with?
Worse, they were slow. Wildlings clogged around their legs, tripping them, tangling them. They couldn't even get moving properly—let alone reach the line in time.
And ahead of them, Domeric's cavalry had already reached full speed.
A few hundred meters vanished in an instant.
They were an unstoppable arrow loosed from the bow, flying straight into the wildlings' flank.
The steel flood drew closer—so close you could almost smell the rust on the spearheads.
The giant chieftain ran halfway… then stopped.
For a fraction of a second, he seemed to contemplate his entire existence.
Then he turned—hard—and retreated with longer, faster strides than he'd come in on, even kicking over a few wildlings who were scrambling up to "help."
Boom!
The cavalry smashed into the wildlings' flank—like a blade heated to a thousand degrees plunging into butter.
The first ranks of wildlings were launched into the air by charging horses. Blood sprayed across the snow-dirt. The rest didn't dare stand—terror took them. They shrieked, sobbed, collapsed, and screamed on the ground like panicked animals.
The iron hooves hammered like war drums beating directly on wildling hearts.
Wildlings scattered under the charge. Spears stabbed. Blades chopped. Flesh and bone tore apart.
In that river of death, no one could face it head-on. Anything that stood in its path was trampled to pieces.
The "formation" the wildlings had barely managed to assemble was as thin as paper—and it ripped instantly.
The charge did not stop.
Only after Domeric had punched a gaping hole clean through the wildling line did he lead the cavalry out the far side.
With the cavalry added to an already lopsided fight, the balance tipped violently. Within minutes, the wildling front collapsed completely and began a frantic retreat.
Jorah's infantry square didn't chase in a frenzy. It tightened its ranks, advanced step by step, and rolled forward like a millstone—crushing toward the wildlings' center.
Bolts, arrows, spears, shields, swords—harvesting tools of war—wove together into a single, shrieking symphony of death.
The wildling center couldn't hold either. They fled backward, desperate and blind.
But then killing erupted behind them as well.
Wendel and old Karstark's two thousand men burst onto the field.
In the plan, Domeric had only ordered them to seal the Wall's exit. How they'd gotten past the wildlings guarding the Wall and appeared here—no one knew.
Enemy ahead. Escape cut off behind.
With nowhere to run, the wildlings finally shattered. They scattered in frantic, directionless bursts—reduced to nothing but targets for cavalry.
The wasteland not far from Castle Black was soaked through. The ground wept dark red. The stench of blood hung heavy in the air, thick enough to choke on.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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