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There was a time when the Wall basked in glory. At its peak, this massive stretch of ice and stone, extending for hundreds of miles, was manned by a formidable force of over ten thousand soldiers.
And mind you, this place—this frozen wasteland around the Wall—had been buried in snow year after year. Even at the height of summer, the snow barely melted. Farming, in any meaningful scale, was all but impossible. That meant the logistics of feeding and supplying ten thousand men relied entirely on shipments from the South.
A standing army that large, made up of men who neither worked the land nor contributed anything to production, was likely the biggest permanent military force Westeros had ever seen.
And yet now, it was only a shadow of what it once had been. That once-proud watch had dwindled to fewer than eight hundred men—a motley assortment of criminals including rapists, thieves, and bandits, along with disgraced nobles and fallen knights who had made mistakes in their past.
Expecting them to hold the line against a wildling horde tens of thousands strong, across a defense that spanned the entire width of the Wall, was nothing short of pure fantasy. Even if they were replaced with disciplined and elite troops, it still would not be enough.
Clay rode at the head of five thousand cavalrymen, departing from the great encampment outside Winterfell and making his way swiftly north along the Kingsroad—the artery that connected the Castle Black to the heart of the North.
Traveling on what was arguably the smoothest road in the entire northern realm, Clay pushed their marching speed up by a full third. Even so, the army barely felt any strain. The roads were level, well-trodden, almost like riding on a highway.
Jon Snow and Lord Commander Mormont had already set out ahead of them, rushing toward Castle Black. This wasn't like Stannis's reckless charge from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, where he seemed to ignore the need for supplies and simply hurled himself at Mance Rayder.
If the Northmen wanted to take a ship—and we're talking about five thousand cavalrymen here—then Clay would have to lead them all the way to White Harbor, and only his own fleet would be capable of transporting such a massive force in one go.
As commander, Clay had no intention of rushing headlong into battle. He planned to arrive at Castle Black first—not to attack, but to assess. He had no idea what the battlefield looked like. He didn't even have a proper map. What kind of fool fights a war by intuition alone?
So the five thousand would wait. They'd camp at Castle Black until Clay understood the situation, crafted a plan of attack, and then delivered a single, thunderous strike to wipe out the enemy in one clean sweep.
Charging in blindly without preparation was asking for disaster. If anything went wrong, if the wildlings managed to slip past them, it would all fall apart. The threat of the White Walkers still loomed. If the wildlings pushed south again, and the Night's Watch refused to reopen peace talks, then Clay and his five thousand men would be forced to stay here indefinitely—stuck guarding against relentless savages with no gaps in their lines.
That was the one outcome Clay absolutely would not accept.
His approach to warfare had always been the same… wait for the right moment, then strike fast, strike hard, and leave nothing behind that might crawl back later.
As they continued north, the air grew colder. After crossing the Long Lake, snowflakes even began to drift down from the grey sky.
In the North, the change from late autumn to winter was sharp and sudden. Though technically winter hadn't yet arrived, the world before them was already locked in ice. A white wilderness stretched as far as the eye could see.
They passed through New Gift, then Overton, then the Brandon's Gift, then Mole's Town. And finally, at the very end of the Kingsroad, Clay saw it for the first time—the towering Wall, dominating the horizon.
It was a deep grey-black in color, stretching from one end of the world to the other, east to west. Its topmost layer was coated in snow, a thick white sheet not yet frozen solid.
Like a slumbering giant, the Wall had crouched here at the northernmost edge of the realm for thousands of years, standing guard in silence over the lands of men. This was the legendary Wall, counted among the Nine Wonders Made by Man in the Know World, as described in Lomas Longstrider's Wonders Made by Man.
As they drew closer, Clay felt the magic inside him begin to stir and churn. He was certain the Wall itself held a vast reservoir of magical power—so much that he could sense it clearly from a considerable distance.
"Damn it… do the Night's Watch really live in a place like this?"
Lord Glover muttered the words under his breath, cursing quietly. He had just dismounted to inspect the ground. The soil was frozen harder than steel. It had taken him forever to dig even a small hole, and all he found inside were glittering shards of ice.
The ground here was permafrost—nothing could grow in it. No crop would survive. Only the ancient tree species of the Haunted Forest could push their roots deep enough to reach the warmer earth below and withstand the blizzards above.
Lord Glover winced as he rubbed his thumb, twisted during the dig, then swung back onto his horse. With a nudge of his knees, he urged the animal forward and pulled up beside Clay, speaking in a low voice.
"Lord Clay, are we riding straight to Castle Black with the entire force, or following protocol and sending scouts ahead to secure the area?"
"At all times, never let your guard down," Clay replied calmly. "Even in a woman's bed, you keep your sword close. We protect ourselves, no matter what."
Lord Glover nodded, understanding what Clay meant without needing more. He turned and rode off at once. Moments later, dozens of warhorses peeled off from the main columns, heading in all directions—these were Clay's scouts, dispatched to survey and secure the surrounding terrain.
"Lord Clay, the scouts are in place. I told them, if anyone tries to lay a hand on them, they're to kill first and ask questions later."
Clay gave a quiet nod. That was the safest course. In this desolate place, there were only a handful of human settlements to begin with, and even if someone spotted the North's cavalry banners, they likely wouldn't react much at all.
The Night's Watch's black garb was easy to identify, unmistakable from a distance. That order Clay had given—shoot to kill—was clearly aimed at any wildling they might run into. Clay never left intelligence gathering to someone else.
After what Lord Mormont had pulled earlier with his little tricks, Clay didn't fully trust the Night's Watch. Sure, they were fighting from the same trench now, but if the Watch started holding back information once they were on the battlefield, that would spell real disaster.
"Let's go," Clay said. "Time to visit our dear Lord Commander Mormont. After all, we're the guests here. It wouldn't be right not to meet the host."
With that, he gave his horse a light kick, and the animal began to move forward, hooves crunching over the frozen ground. Behind him, five thousand cavalrymen followed in silence, marching in five perfect columns, moving as one beneath their commander's watchful eye.
The horses' hooves pressed shallow bowl-shaped prints into the packed earth, dusted with a thin layer of snow. But the icy wind was already rising, its sharp-edged gusts laced with snowflakes as sharp as blades, quickly covering the tracks as though no one had ever passed through.
The sky, the air, the very earth… all bitter cold.
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The army reached Castle Black. Among all the fortresses strung along the Wall, this was one of the largest. Yet from the southern side, it was almost entirely built of wood. Wooden watchtowers, wooden palisades… the only part made of stone was the gatehouse tower by the main entrance.
Most of the current brothers of the Night's Watch had never seen an army this size in their lives. Five thousand cavalrymen stood assembled in five massive blocks on the plain south of the castle, row upon row of men and horses clad in iron and leather.
The direwolf banner of House Stark fluttered in the wind beside the merman of House Manderly. A little farther back stood the steel-framed iron fist of House Glover. Beyond these, no other banners flew.
Jon Snow rode out through Castle Black's southern gate with a small escort—just over a dozen black-clad men on lean, dark warhorses—to meet Clay and his force.
"Clay, thank you for coming to support us," Jon said, his voice formal, almost rehearsed. "The Night's Watch is grateful for the North's aid."
But the smile Jon was hoping to see never appeared. Clay simply gave a cool nod and issued a command.
"Have the camps been prepared for my men to rest?"
"Uh… yes, they have. I'll take you there myself."
Jon looked a little taken aback. Clay's cold tone was unexpected, and he couldn't quite understand why.
"Lord Glover," Clay called, without turning his head, "go with Jon. Make sure our men have fires. This place is far too cold. Only warmth keeps a soldier fit for battle. And you know what needs to be done."
Lord Glover answered without hesitation, his expression stiff as frost. It wasn't anything Jon had done. No, it was Clay's voice—that tone he used when things were about to get serious. Glover had heard it many times before in the southern march, usually just before a battle. It was absolute. No arguments allowed. Disobey, and you die.
Lord Glover, and everyone else who had followed Clay into war south, knew the same thing: off the battlefield, he could be easygoing, even pleasant. But the moment he spoke like this, it meant he was done playing around.
Lord Glover turned and left, following the still-confused Jon Snow.
Three men from Castle Black remained behind to represent the Night's Watch, while Clay left thirty of his own—the Manderly family's personal guards—to accompany him as he passed through the southern gate into Castle Black.
Beyond the gate stretched a vast courtyard, likely used by the Watch for gatherings and daily training. Clay noticed weapon racks tucked into the corners, bare of snow—clearly in frequent use.
Standing in the center of the yard was Lord Commander Mormont. Clay rode forward and stopped ten paces from him, then dismounted in one smooth motion. Behind him, the thirty Manderly guards dismounted as one, their movements perfectly synchronized.
"Welcome to the end of the world, Lord Clay Manderly," the Lord Commander said, his face wearing a practiced smile.
Clay didn't challenge him. The old man had clearly maneuvered them into this—and he had done it in the open, in plain sight. An obvious trap, but one no one could really avoid. As uncomfortable as it made him feel, there was no point in making a scene. So he simply extended a hand and clasped Mormont's tightly.
"The Night's Watch stands as the kingdom's shield. Supporting that shield is a duty we northern lords share. Nothing more needs to be said."
Clay gave a faint smile, exchanged a few polite words with the Lord Commander, then followed him into the tall, narrow tower where he resided—the one known simply as the Commander's Tower. It was time for a proper conversation.
Once the door closed behind them, the dim room was left with only two occupants: Clay and Lord Commander Mormont. A table stood between them, and on it, a steaming bowl of soup had just been delivered by a servant.
Clay stirred it with his spoon, peering at what lay inside. There was barely any meat. Most of it seemed to be strange, twisted roots and stalks of wild plants.
"Do you usually eat this stuff?" he asked.
"Yes, Lord Clay," Mormont replied casually. "This is already considered a good meal up here. We have no resources of our own—everything comes from the South. Eastwatch sometimes manages to send over a bit of fish, but even that usually smells halfway spoiled."
He didn't seem bothered by it in the least. He had long grown used to this bitter way of life. Every man of the Night's Watch had. Expecting to eat meat every day up here was wishful thinking.
Clay fell silent for a moment, then spoke in a steady tone.
"I brought five thousand men with me this time. But they're all cavalry. Once we've finished this battle for you, we'll leave. There's still war in the South… a war we have no choice but to fight. Which means we won't be leaving any soldiers behind to help you defend the Wall."
"Oh, now that isn't exactly good news," Mormont said with a slight raise of his brows. "You're doing this to avenge Lord Eddard Stark, aren't you?"
He asked the question softly. Mormont had once been of the same generation as Eddard Stark. His family, the Mormonts, ruled Bear Island in the North. Years ago, he had passed the title of head of house to Jorah Mormont—the same Jorah who had been driven out by Clay himself in Essos. After that, the old lord had come here and became the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
So when Eddard Stark died, it struck him hard too. The Watch might not interfere with the politics of the Seven Kingdoms, but memory had no such rules—it did not forget.
"Yes," Clay answered. "That's why this battle has to be fought. If it weren't for the sudden mess over here with the Watch, I'd already be marching south with His Grace Robb's army."
Lord Mormont didn't reply. He didn't need to. Clay's words made everything perfectly clear. We of the North still recognize the Watch as the kingdom's final shield. That's why we've put aside our own vengeance and come to fight your war first. But don't take us for fools.
There was also a reason why Clay had brought only cavalry. The first, of course, was that he was most comfortable commanding cavalry on the battlefield. The second was that he'd already judged the terrain ahead—mostly open plains—and the snow wasn't thick enough yet to hinder the horses. They could still ride at full speed.
And the last reason was the most pragmatic: cavalry couldn't be stationed here. If he'd brought infantry, they might've just left him behind to serve as commander of a permanent northern garrison on the Wall.
"Well then," Clay said at last, "since I'm here, I'll see it through. Let's get down to business. Tell me everything you know about the wildlings. I need to understand the situation before we act."
Lord Mormont looked at the young man sitting across from him, and a quiet thought stirred in his chest. Wyman Manderly really does have a worthy heir. This boy wasn't even twenty, and yet here he was, leading an entire campaign.
At first, Mormont hadn't quite believed all the stories of Clay's achievements in the South. But now, after seeing the way the northern nobles deferred to him—the way they followed his every move—it was hard not to be convinced.
Just look at now. Clay Manderly was sitting down with the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch to discuss battle plans, and not a single other noble had been invited into the room. That alone sent a clear signal.
This entire northern cavalry force of five thousand was completely under this young man's command. He didn't need to consult anyone. What he said, within this army, was law.
"You'll see their campfires yourself once night falls," Mormont said after a moment. "Climb up to the top of the Wall, follow the ladder, and look north. Mance Rayder claims he's got a hundred thousand people in that camp. But I think he's bluffing."
"You mean he doesn't have that many troops overall," Clay said slowly, "or that he's only placed a fraction of them here on the front lines and sent the rest elsewhere?"
"Exactly. I think he's split his forces. Both the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea have reported wildling sightings in the surrounding areas. And sure, the wildlings are divided into dozens of tribes, but after finally choosing a king… do you really think those tribes have nothing to do with Mance Rayder?"
"If that's true," Clay murmured, "then Mance Rayder is stalling for time. He's tying down the few hundred men you've got at Castle Black while he takes his main army and sends the rest through the Bay of Seals or the Gorge to bypass the Wall altogether."
If that were the case, then Clay would have to change tactics immediately. He would need to break his army down into smaller strike teams and begin hunting the wildling raiding parties who were preparing to go ashore or cross the Gorge in smaller groups.
In Clay's memory of the battle at Castle Black, the wildlings had bypassed the Wall entirely and attacked from the weaker southern side, catching the Night's Watch off guard and nearly overwhelming them.
"Maybe…" Mormont replied, his tone cautious. "But I think Mance Rayder still wants to talk. Badly. Whatever's chasing them from behind has scared them half to death. And the Bay of Seals and the Gorge are narrow, treacherous, and hard to cross. He doesn't have that kind of time."
The Lord Commander shook his head as he spoke. He had been playing this game with Mance Rayder for years. They had tested each other's lines many times along the Wall. This judgment, Clay felt, could be trusted.
"No one's tried speaking with Mance Rayder directly? Found out what they actually want?" Clay asked.
"We did send people," Mormont replied with a hint of frustration, "but it was useless. That mob of wildlings just kept repeating one thing—they want to come through the Wall. But the moment my men mentioned laying down their weapons and accepting our authority, the other side lost their minds. There wasn't the slightest bit of progress."
The irritation in his voice was not directed at Clay. It was the sheer frustration of dealing with wildlings that set him off.
"Stubborn fools," Clay concluded and muttered coldly.
The old man nodded hard beside him, clearly in full agreement.
"The news of our arrival must remain absolutely secret," Clay said, his voice quiet but firm. "Under no circumstances can the wildlings find out we're here. You understand what I mean, don't you, Lord Commander?"
Lord Mormont nodded slowly. He already knew what Clay intended to do. If it came to a fight, cavalry were not infantry. And if they could strike while the enemy was completely unprepared, a single thunderous charge could accomplish far more than a straightforward frontal assault.
With a long sigh, he replied, "I'll keep my men in check. All rangers leaving the Wall will be ordered to avoid the wildling camps entirely. I'll do everything I can to make sure they don't even realize you're here."
Clay gave a slight nod and said nothing more. He already had a clear grasp of the situation. The Night's Watch barely had any troops left along the Wall—just enough to hold three key strongholds. And now that Mance Rayder's army was camped just outside their doorstep, Castle Black's garrison was effectively pinned down and unable to move.
Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and the Shadow Tower were even worse off, with far fewer men. Which meant the Wall's defense had shrunk from a long line into three isolated points. Mance could choose to break through at any one of them. If not for the Wall's sheer height, which made climbing nearly impossible, Clay suspected it would've already fallen by the time he arrived.
"How many men can pass through the Wall's gates at once?" Clay asked, suddenly thinking of another issue.
If the gates were too narrow and only allowed one rider through at a time, then even with five thousand cavalry, the first man would ride out in the morning and the last wouldn't clear the gate until dinnertime.
And in all that time, all it would take was one wildling scout catching a glimpse of them from afar, and the element of surprise—Clay's biggest advantage—would vanish completely.
Back then, Stannis had only brought a thousand troops, and they'd landed by sea at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, bypassing the Wall altogether. So this hasn't been a problem for him.
But a thousand wasn't enough—not against tens of thousands. Even if those wildlings were no more organized than a herd of pigs, cough…well, that's drifting off-topic.
Anyway, Stannis could only harass and scatter them. He couldn't annihilate them. And in the end, those who escaped just kept stirring up trouble—still as defiant and difficult as ever.
But Clay was different. With five thousand cavalry waiting and well-rested, he could encircle them across the plains like a tightening noose. He could hit them hard and fast, break their spirits with pain and fear, then chase the fleeing survivors down and crush them until even their bones gave in.
"The passage is decently wide," Mormont said. "Three horses can pass through side by side without trouble. Four can squeeze through if needed. Any more than that, though, and it gets too tight."
Clay found that answer satisfactory. That meant he could get his full cavalry force through in about four hours… and he didn't even need to send all five thousand out at once.
Send the first wave—three thousand riders—charging straight into the wildling front lines to break their formation and shatter their resistance. Then have the remaining two thousand follow immediately behind, sweeping around and racing ahead to cut off their retreat, forming a perfect encirclement.
Clay had once surrounded ten thousand of Lannister's finest with the same number of cavalry. Now, with those same five thousand under his command, going up against a ragtag swarm of wildlings, he had no doubt they would pull it off again.
As for how many lives would be lost beneath the hooves and blades of his riders, well… that wasn't something Clay intended to worry about. After all, when a commander wins a battle, what's left behind but piles of the dead?
And besides, he wasn't just a commander anymore.
An invisible crown had already settled on his head—one that no one could see, but that he felt pressing down on him all the same.
In this world, there has never been a single throne that wasn't built atop a mountain of bones.
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[Chapter End's]
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