The sunlight south of the Wall fell across Mance Rayder's face.
He couldn't feel a shred of warmth from it—only a bone-deep cold that cut straight through him.
The instant the enemy cavalry slammed into the wildlings' flank, Mance knew something had gone terribly wrong.
He'd made preparations. He'd even kept a reserve of giants ready. But the wildlings were creatures without discipline by nature—no matter how brilliant the commander, that flaw couldn't be patched. Orders always twisted into something bizarre as they spread, until execution became chaos and the whole plan collapsed into a mess.
Strictly speaking, the cavalry's direct casualties were nothing—barely a drop in the sea compared to thirty thousand.
The deadly part was that the charge shattered what little discipline the wildlings still had, and with it their courage. Fear spread like poison…
An army collapsing like a landslide—this was exactly that.
Now the battlefield was nothing but wildling screams, roars, begging, fleeing. They were finished.
The scene—hell on earth—drained Mance's face of all color. His whole body shook.
So this long-awaited sunlight inside the Wall wasn't warm after all.
He couldn't help remembering how spirited he'd been just days ago—swearing beneath the heart tree, vowing to break fate and lead his people out…
Thinking of it now only made him want to laugh.
The gods always loved their little jokes.
"Life is fifty years," Mance murmured, drawing the knightly longsword at his hip. "A dream, an illusion… no one lives forever. It's time to face my fate."
Boom!
A thunderclap exploded overhead like a war drum, and Mance spurred his horse into a charge—
Only for a giant, sprinting past in blind panic, to kick him full-on before he could dodge.
Man and horse went down together.
The so-called King-Beyond-the-Wall was thrown from the saddle—headfirst—face-planting like a dog.
Mance Rayder's vision went black. He lay sprawled on the ground and stopped moving.
…
Domeric sat his horse on a low rise with a dozen-plus guards around him.
He was drenched in blood. His armor was splattered with wet scarlet and bits of flesh, like a devil that had climbed out of the underworld.
A thousand cavalry, working in concert with two infantry forces directed by Jorah and Wendel, were tightening the net around the remaining wildlings who still resisted.
Cut apart. Encircle. Block. Three sides tight, one side left open.
The wildlings had already broken. They were fleeing in all directions—an enemy like that posed no threat at all.
More and more dropped to their knees and surrendered. The war was reaching its end.
On a battlefield ruled by steel and muscle, discipline and order really were the key to victory, Domeric thought.
To be honest, beating wildlings head-on wasn't difficult. In the original story, Stannis Baratheon sailed in with just a few thousand survivors of the Blackwater and sent them scattering in panic.
But capturing them—conquering them—and hauling them all back to the Lonely Hills as laborers?
That was the hard part.
On endless snowfields, wildlings could always bolt and vanish in an instant.
Thinking back over the past month, Domeric had drawn them step by step from beyond the Wall into the south, then closed the trap.
He'd "lost" again and again on purpose, burning mountains of supplies, just to strip away their caution—feed their arrogance—until they dared cross the Wall and commit to a decisive battle.
It wasn't some dazzling trick. It was strategy—an ugly test of patience and execution.
Now the wildlings had pursuers in front, their retreat sealed behind. The outcome was decided.
Domeric finally let out a breath.
A long march had taken its first real step. Less than two months remained before the War of the Five Kings began—he needed to accelerate.
"Jon—first battle. How'd it feel?" Domeric removed his helm and looked at Winterfell's bastard.
"Uh…" Jon Snow's hair was a mess. Sweat soaked him until he felt like he'd fallen into a barrel of water. He couldn't even describe his mood. "Ser Domeric… sorry. I can't put it into words."
"The first time you go into battle feels a lot like the first time you end up in bed," Domeric said with a laugh, summarizing from experience. "You don't really know what you're doing. It's intense—and then it's over fast."
"Ser Domeric… you're exactly right. That's exactly—" Jon stopped mid-sentence, face burning red, suddenly unsure what to say.
"And you?" Domeric turned to his bodyguard, Benita.
She had taken off her helm. Pale gold hair spilled down, and her violet eyes looked like a deep lake with starlight hidden in it.
Her left hand cradled the helm; her right held a knight's longsword nearly half her height. Combined with her full plate and the continuing slaughter behind her, she seemed bright, fierce, and impossibly gallant.
Her lips pressed together. Her defined face showed no smile, no coldness—only calm composure.
"Master… are you asking me?" Her voice carried that lazy drawl of hers.
Domeric watched her for a few seconds, then nodded. "Yes."
"There's a strange feeling," Benita said softly. "Killing under sunlight… it makes the blood boil more."
…
The sun sank. Light dimmed across the field. Wildling resistance had dropped to rock bottom—the war should have been ending.
"Get down, you bastard!"
Suddenly, a thunderous roar—like a tiger's bellow shaking a forest.
Domeric snapped his head around just in time to see one of his guards hit as if by a giant hammer—ripped from the saddle, spinning through the air several times before crashing down. He wasn't getting up.
The man's breastplate had caved in completely. Blood poured from his mouth—shattered organs.
A wildling had slipped away from the chaos and climbed this hill to strike at the command group.
Broad-shouldered, thick-armed, wearing heavy bronze bands etched with First Men runes—
Tormund Giantsbane.
Tormund swung his hammer and tore through the cluster like a raging beast—unstoppable, brutal.
"Stop him!" Benita shouted.
Bang!
Tormund's arms snapped forward. One heavy blow pulverized a shield—and the knight behind it burst into blood and meat.
Jon Snow saw it and drove in without hesitation. His horse surged in a short sprint, and Jon's longsword flashed down—
Clang!
Steel rang. Jon's sword flew from his hand. He was knocked off his horse and thrown backward, the pain in his chest so sharp he couldn't breathe.
"This wildling… he's strong…" Jon coughed up blood and passed out.
Tormund roared with laughter and charged straight for Domeric.
More than ten guards—none of them could last even a single exchange. One after another they were smashed from their saddles, alive or dead—no one could tell.
Tormund closed in, hands and feet pumping, accelerating like a wild bull in full charge.
Benita threw herself in front of him. The hammer came down at her face—the stench-laden wind of it felt like Death breathing on her.
At the edge of life and death, she twisted aside at an impossible angle.
Boom!
The hammer slammed into her horse's head. A scream of agony—then Benita was thrown hard to the ground. Bone splinters and torn flesh sprayed out and cut red lines across her face.
An inch closer, and her skull would have burst.
But the danger wasn't over.
"Get down again!"
Tormund snarled, raising the hammer once more. Benita had nowhere left to dodge. The massive head of the hammer swelled in her pupils—
"What a waste."
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