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Once the order is given, there's no turning back!
After returning to the room the Night's Watch had prepared for him, Clay immediately summoned all the Northern lords who had followed him here.
With the current state of technology being so poor, real-time communication on the battlefield was simply out of the question. So to make sure the war could still be won even if the command-leaders lost contact with each other once the fighting began, all the leaders had to coordinate everything ahead of time.
By calling everyone into his quarters, Clay was laying out their respective battle plans in advance. The fight would begin tomorrow—and he intended to end it in one decisive blow.
Several thick candles were lit, casting a bright glow across the modest room. With the fire behind him, Clay sat tapping his fingers on the cold tabletop, waiting quietly for everyone to arrive.
These were his officers, men he trusted, and he had the patience for them. After all, once they were on the field, the only way his commands could truly be carried out was through these people. Hoping the foot soldiers would understand and execute orders on their own? That just wasn't realistic.
When the last of them arrived, Clay pointed toward the empty seats to motion them to sit. Then he swept his gaze around the room and gave a brief chuckle.
"Gentlemen, the Wall's quite the place, isn't it? Make sure to wrap yourselves up good tonight when you sleep. If you don't keep your trousers snug and warm, who knows whether your equipment down there will still be working come morning."
The gruff old men all cracked knowing smiles. When it came to looking out for their little brother, they were nothing if not serious. Within moments, the room was filled with a chorus of weird little chuckles—"heh heh heh"—prompting the Night's Watch guards on duty outside to pause and wonder what was going on in there.
"All right, that's enough fooling around," Clay said, the smile fading from his face. "Let's talk about tomorrow."
The shift in tone was immediate. Those familiar with Clay's temperament fell silent at once. They knew him well—when he was in a good mood, he could joke about anything, but once it was time to get serious, everyone had to stay sharp.
"My lord Clay, are we really going through with the attack?"
It was Lord Glover who spoke, Clay's right-hand man. He knew a bit more than the others did, but even he wasn't aware of what exactly was happening beyond the Wall. Only Clay—the one making the final decisions—knew all the key intel.
"We are. The wildlings slammed the door shut on peace talks with their own hands. So there's no need for us to be polite anymore. The decision's made. Prepare for battle at first light tomorrow. Tonight, send out scouts. Have the rangers familiar with the terrain lead them…head north beyond the Wall and keep watch on their camp."
"Are we drawing blood?"
"I'll make it clear for you all. Any wildling who spots our scouts… send them to the Old Gods with arrows and swords. Tonight's recon mission is very critical. Stay sharp, all of you. Is that understood?"
"Understood!"
The men in the room shouted in unison, their voices firm and steady. There was no doubt in their minds now. Their young commander had made his decision—the war was on. This wasn't a meeting for discussion… it was a pre-war briefing.
They all knew what kind of commander Clay Manderly was. When it came to war, he always pushed the element of surprise to its limit. That had been his style during the southern campaigns against the Lannisters, and it was clear he meant to do the same now in this operation to crush the wildlings.
Just a moment earlier, when they had asked, "Are we drawing blood?", what they truly wanted to know was whether they would be killing enemy scouts. If this wasn't a real fight, then simply driving the scouts off would have been enough. No need to risk lives or spill blood unless it was necessary.
But if blood was being drawn, then it meant Clay had already locked onto his objective—to eliminate every pair of wildling eyes near the perimeter. That was the standard approach before launching a full-scale cavalry assault.
"Lord Glover," Clay said, turning to his trusted right-hand man, "make the arrangements. Make sure the soldiers get enough to eat tomorrow morning—we need to keep their strength up. And listen closely. At six in the morning, the gate at Castle Black will open. You'll lead the vanguard. Take a thousand men and be the first to head out."
Clay continued issuing orders without pause. The food inside the barracks and the food eaten before battle were two entirely different things. This wasn't a soldier's last meal… it was fuel for the grueling demands of the battlefield. Without enough energy, they wouldn't last long in combat.
"Once your unit exits, move immediately to the northeast, northeast, beyond the hills. The rangers from the Night's Watch will guide you to the location. Wait there until I bring out the main force. We'll regroup then."
"Understood, Lord Clay. I'll see it done on time."
"Remember… stay silent. Stay hidden. Do not let them see you. Your squad's mission is to cut off their escape route."
Clay pointed to the detailed map spread across the oak table. The Night's Watch had been charting the terrain in and beyond the Wall for thousands of years. This map might very well be the most precise in all the Seven Kingdoms.
He traced a line with his finger, starting just north of Castle Black and curving slightly to the northeast, then continued explaining.
"Don't engage in the main battle right away. I'm confident that four thousand troops will be enough to throw them into disarray. The northwest is full of frozen crevasses and broken ground—no one with a shred of sense would try to flee in that direction."
He tapped the northeastern corner of the map—right at the tip of Storrold's Point, near the icy shores of the Shivering Sea. That was where the wildlings had their largest stronghold. The ruins of Hardhome.
"They won't try crossing the Antler River again. If they do, they'll be heading straight into the territory of the so-called army of the dead. They know that. So they'll fall back to the northeast. As for those who try fleeing west—if there aren't too many, let them go."
Clay lifted his eyes and met Lord Glover's steady gaze. The man had been leaning over the map, listening to every word as if memorizing scripture. Clay's voice hardened as he gave the final command.
"Block them. And if you can't, then slow them down. You're the lone wolf—your job is to make the prey bleed, to slow their escape, to buy us time until the rest of the pack arrives to finish the kill."
"Remember this: however many you can trap, that's how many we'll slaughter. Wherever Mance Rayder runs, we'll hunt him down. We'll crush him. And when he sees my banner on the battlefield, he'll have no choice left but to kneel."
"There are only two choices for him: freeze to death in the wilderness, or kneel beneath my banner."
…
The night slipped by in silence. Whether or not the men managed to sleep, time flowed on stubbornly, like a river that refused to freeze. And at last, the sun rose over the sea, pulling the morning light onto the black gates of Castle Black.
It was already eight o'clock.
In just over an hour, Lord Glover's thousand men had crossed the Wall and were moving northeast beneath a blanket of frost and shadow. Now, Clay's main force was beginning to emerge from the castle.
Warhorses stepped forward one after another from the base of the towering Wall, each carrying a knight clad in polished armor. Steam curled from their nostrils like white smoke as they advanced into the frigid morning, hooves crunching softly over the frostbitten earth.
This time, Lord Commander Mormont himself marched into battle alongside them, bringing with him three hundred sworn brothers of the Night's Watch to reinforce Clay's host. As for Jon Snow, he had been ordered to stay behind. Mormont had placed him in charge of Castle Black for the time being, naming him temporary commander of the rear.
"Lord Clay," came the report from a messenger who galloped up swiftly, "just over three more hours and the entire force will be through. The vanguard—eight hundred heavy cavalry—has already taken position."
Clay remained mounted at the gate, stationed at the very front. He watched every soldier as they passed by, meeting their eyes one by one. A small gesture, perhaps—but on the battlefield, there was no such thing as a small detail.
The outer perimeter scouts of the wildling camp had already been thrown into complete disarray. Last night's surprise strike by the interception unit had left them stunned. The brutal fighting had raged all night long, and by the time the snow settled, Mance Rayder was blind—utterly blind—to the Wall's movements.
With his sluggish command system and poor communication, the wildling leader in charge of scouting had slept like the dead through the entire ordeal. He only learned of the attack in the early hours of morning, and even then, failed to grasp the true scale of what had occurred. Still groggy and half-aware, he slowly made his way toward Mance Rayder's tent.
Inside, chaos ruled the meeting.
The wildling leaders were already deep in a noisy quarrel, shouting over each other about food, supplies, and what to do next. Some still clung to the hope of a peaceful negotiation, while others were red-faced and screaming for a full assault on the Wall. Their arguments crashed into each other like storm waves.
They kept shouting all the way to noon. By that time, Mance Rayder—his head pounding—finally managed to pull the sleepy wilding leader aside to question him about the night's events.
And the moment he heard the answer, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, once a sworn brother of the Night's Watch and still a man who understood warfare better than most wildlings ever would, went pale.
He had just opened his mouth to demand more details when an enormous roar exploded from outside the tent—shouting, screaming, and beneath it all, the rhythmic, unmistakable thunder of hooves.
A chill ran through him. Without waiting for the others to react, Mance Rayder burst out of the tent, his instincts screaming at him… but it was already too late.
Knights in full armor, flying banners of the direwolf and the merman, were galloping straight into the camp at full speed. Their warhorses surged forward with devastating force.
The wildlings had made no preparations. Not a single chevaux-de-frise. No trenches. No spike traps. Nothing to blunt a cavalry charge. They had never even imagined this could happen.
And so, the horse's hooves smashed into snow. Swords gleamed as they left their scabbards.
With cries of "For the North!" and "For Lord Clay!" the eight hundred heavily-armored knights of the vanguard plunged straight into the heart of the wildling camp.
They didn't need to cut or swing their swords with precision. That wasn't their job.
Their mission was simple—keep moving forward, shatter the enemy line, and crush anything that stood in the way.
And right behind them, Clay's main force—three thousand two hundred cavalrymen—formed a great sweeping arc, a massive fan-shaped formation that began to move as one. The ground rumbled beneath their charge as they rushed toward the enemy camp.
They were the true executioners. The ones who came to reap.
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[Chapter End's]
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