Chapter 56 – The Cavalry
"Ser William has already followed your orders," Lawrence replied after a moment's thought. "He's dispatched over a hundred mounted scouts to keep constant watch on Bolton lands. Any unusual movement, and he'll know at once."
Then, more cautiously, he added, "My lord… House Bolton is the most powerful of the Stark bannermen. Guarding against them so openly may create friction between our houses."
Saelen waved the concern aside. "There's no need to worry. This comes from Lord Eddard himself. We're simply carrying out orders."
He leaned forward slightly. "Now tell me about the army."
Relieved to hear it was Eddard's directive, Lawrence continued:
"As you required, our force numbers just over fourteen hundred men. Three hundred heavy cavalry, three hundred light cavalry, two hundred archers, three hundred sword-and-shield infantry, and three hundred spearmen. Most have trained for several years. What they lack is battlefield experience."
Saelen nodded.
The three hundred heavy cavalry were his pride. Their armor had been designed after the ancient Iron Hawks formations of his previous world. Each rider was encased head to toe in iron plate, helmed with only narrow slits for the eyes. Even the horses wore specially forged barding, iron-clad from neck to flank.
Their weapons were maces and spiked war-hammers—blunt instruments built for crushing armor at close quarters. On the charge, they formed dense ranks and struck like a moving wall of steel, capable of smashing through enemy lines by sheer force.
Their strengths were undeniable: devastating shock impact and overwhelming penetration power.
Their weaknesses were equally clear: poor maneuverability, heavy dependence on flat terrain, and enormous cost. Such troops were expensive to equip and maintain.
The three hundred light cavalry were more flexible—leather beneath chainmail, unarmored horses, armed with spears, maces, and flails. Faster and more adaptable, they were tasked with guarding the flanks and exploiting openings.
The doctrine was simple:
The heavy cavalry would shatter the enemy's formation.
The light cavalry would shield their advance and widen the breach.
The infantry would press in behind them to consolidate victory and rout the foe entirely.
In theory, it was elegant.
Whether it would succeed in true war remained to be seen.
Still, Saelen felt confident. Against wildlings—poorly equipped, undisciplined, lacking armor and proper formation—six hundred trained cavalry should prove more than sufficient.
Now all that remained was for theory to meet steel.
Saelen's purpose was clear.
The six hundred cavalry were meant to deal with potential unrest from the wildlings once they crossed south of the Wall. He wasn't foolish enough to hurl cavalry into a charging horde of wights—that would be like throwing meat buns to a starving dog: once gone, never returning. Against small groups of wights, however, cavalry charges were still viable.
The three hundred sword-and-shield infantry were fully armored heavy footmen. They formed the front line, shields locked, acting as a living bulwark. Behind them stood the archers and spearmen, clad in mail and leather, delivering steady ranged and polearm support.
All of this had cost Saelen a fortune in gold dragons. Whether they were true warhorses or mere mules would only be known once tested in battle. He could only hope his investment would not prove wasted.
At the mention of battlefield experience, a thought struck him.
"Within the next few days," Saelen said to Lawrence, "detach a portion of the troops and sweep the surrounding lands. Any bandits or rogue wildlings you find—wipe them out. Let the men see blood. It will harden them."
Lawrence hesitated. "My lord… I thought we were allowing the wildlings through the Wall and cooperating with them against the Others. Wouldn't this violate that agreement?"
In the past, Lawrence had dismissed talk of the Others as northern superstition. That changed when he encountered Othell escorting the captured wight south. Othell had lifted the cloth covering the iron cage without ceremony, revealing the thousand-year terror of legend.
Lawrence had not slept properly for days afterward. Nor had the soldiers under his command.
And to hear that ordinary steel could not kill such creatures—that only dragonglass and fire could destroy them—sent a chill through his bones. If tens of thousands of wights ever poured over the Wall, the Seven Kingdoms would be swept away like dry leaves before a storm.
He thought of his wife and two young children back at Castle Edd. By the gods, he swore silently, he would never allow such monsters to cross the Wall.
He understood now why Lord Eddard and Saelen had insisted on letting the wildlings through. If those tens of thousands were turned into wights, the consequences would be unimaginable.
"Don't worry," Saelen replied calmly. "Mance Rayder and his people are still beyond the Wall. The ones slipping south on their own refuse his authority. They sneak across to burn, loot, and kill. They won't obey our laws. If you encounter them, eliminate them."
Saelen held no mercy for raiders who lived only to pillage. In his view, better to kill ten wrongfully than let one wolf roam free among sheep.
"Yes, my lord." Lawrence nodded in understanding.
"If there's nothing else, return to your duties. I could use some proper rest."
Lawrence bowed and withdrew.
---
Two days later, fully rested, Saelen stepped out from his tent and walked toward a half-collapsed tower. What had once been desolate ruin was now alive with activity—shouted commands, laughter, curses, and the steady rhythm of labor.
The only thing missing was women.
As that thought crossed his mind, a graceful figure passed before him, carrying freshly washed clothes.
Saelen blinked.
Speak of the devil…
Curious, he followed at a distance. The woman headed toward a cluster of newly erected makeshift tents near the camp's edge. Three other women stood outside, swaying their hips and casting flirtatious glances at passing soldiers.
One soldier approached, tossed a silver stag into a woman's hand, and promptly hoisted her over his shoulder before disappearing into a tent. Soon enough, muffled sounds drifted outward.
Saelen understood at once.
Camp followers.
It was common practice across the continent. Soldiers risked their lives daily; if they chose to spend their own coin on fleeting comfort, it was hardly something he could—or should—interfere with. Intervening would only breed resentment among the men, and even the women would likely resent him for disrupting their trade.
With that realization, he prepared to leave—until he caught a glimpse of one woman's face.
Familiar.
He was certain he had never sought out prostitutes himself. Curiosity won out, and he stepped closer.
Two women immediately fluttered their lashes and moved toward him, but one suddenly stiffened in recognition and hurriedly bowed.
"Lord Saelen."
"You know me?" he asked, intrigued. "Have we met before?"
"My lord," the woman replied softly, "we met in Winter Town, outside Winterfell."
That jogged his memory.
These were the same women from Winter Town.
"What are you doing here?" Saelen asked. "This is far from Winterfell."
Even hardened soldiers struggled with the cold and distance—how had these delicate women endured the journey?
At that moment, the woman who had just entered a tent stepped back outside upon hearing the commotion and bowed respectfully.
"Lord Saelen."
Saelen looked at her carefully.
"…Ros?"