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On a real battlefield, there are very few armies that truly fight to the death without retreating. When it comes down to it, everyone's just a head between two shoulders—and when death stares you in the face, your first instinct is always the same: run.
A slightly trained army with a shared goal might hold together a bit better, but even then, only to a certain extent. And if we're talking about the ragtag mob under Mance Rayder's command—men who were used to skirmishes involving no more than a dozen fighters at most—then there's really nothing more to say.
That's what made this battlefield oddly entertaining. The vast majority of the wildlings, screaming in terror, turned and fled toward the rear of Mance Rayder's camp. Only a few, too dazed or muddleheaded to realize what was happening, raised whatever barely-counted-as-a-weapon in their hands and shouted something about fighting back.
But the thing is… none of them were the kind of people a real battlefield needs. An army is like a finely tuned machine; it runs on soldiers who understand fear, yet still have the courage to stand shoulder to shoulder and face the enemy together. Unfortunately, from where Clay sat astride his horse in the rear, he hadn't spotted a single soul like that.
The Northern cavalry crashed forward like a tidal wave, unstoppable and merciless. Wherever the hooves of their warhorses landed, any wildling who couldn't run fast enough was left sprawled in the snow, painting the white ground red—just another corpse cooling in the frost, another life snuffed out in an instant.
There was no resistance… or rather, there was, but it was utterly meaningless. Personal bravery amounted to nothing in a clash between two armies. It was smaller than a grain of sand in the vastness of the sea.
You could roar. You could scream your lungs out. You could wave around what you believed was your finest weapon. You could curse your enemies. You could hurl insults at the ones charging toward you. You could give it everything you had—but…
It still wouldn't stop a fully armored knight from thundering past on horseback and, with a lazy flick of a sword dozens of times finer than yours, slicing clean through your neck.
Pain. Blinding, searing, soul-wrenching pain. Blood gushed from your heart, spraying into the air and mixing with the cold, forming a brief, ghostly mist. But that was all. No one cared what final words slipped from your lips as you died.
Because you were too weak. So weak that your enemy wouldn't even bother remembering your name. And in this world, weakness is the most shameful sin of all.
"Lord Clay, the wildlings' first, um… line of defense has been broken. They're fleeing in droves. Honestly, they weren't even worth the effort."
The soldier who came bearing the report chose his words carefully, almost embarrassed by how little resistance the wildlings had put up. It felt more like play-acting than real combat.
Clay didn't react much. He only asked calmly,
"How's the pressure from our flanks? If we're using these giant pincers, we'd better be tearing off a big chunk of flesh, or we'll be a laughingstock."
"Everything's going smoothly. The two lords leading the eastern and western wings have already cut into their rear from both directions. From what they've reported, most of what's back there are old folks and children with little to no fighting strength."
The scout didn't mention the women. But Clay understood what that meant… clearly, Mance Rayder had handed every woman a stick and called them spearwives.
After a moment of silent thought, Clay gave a curt nod and issued his next command.
"Take my orders to the front lines. Tell them this: any man who dares to resist is to be cut down without hesitation. Show no mercy. None at all. If slaughter is a sin, then let that burden rest on my soul. As for the women, spare them if it can be done safely… but only if doing so does not put our soldiers at risk."
"If they choose stubbornness over surrender, then do not waste compassion. I don't want our men coming back with clean blades and sharp edges."
"Your will, Lord Clay!"
The scout gave a sharp bow from the saddle, then turned and galloped toward the front. In this army, Clay's word was law… like a divine command that brooked no disobedience.
Riding just behind him was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jeor Mormont. He had been silently watching the battle unfold from atop his black steed. Once the scout's silhouette vanished into the swirling snow, the old bear finally spoke.
"Clay, why did you choose to spare the women? I noticed you didn't make any distinction between the elderly and the children.… you only drew the line by gender. Care to enlighten an old man like me, young commander?"
Clay turned his head and glanced at the Lord Commander, dressed from head-to-toe in the signature black of the Watch. The old bear had sent out three hundred men for this campaign—nearly every able-bodied fighter Castle Black could muster. It was, by any measure, a costly sacrifice.
And besides, during the earlier sweep operations by the scouts, it had been the Night's Watch who provided maps and terrain reports beyond the Wall, and they had asked for nothing in return. For that reason alone, Clay decided to extend the courtesy of a reply… if only barely.
"Lord commander," he said, "if you were in my position, how would you deal with these wildlings… these people doomed to fail?"
It was a question Mormont had pondered long before now. After all, he'd spent his days dealing with wildlings, year after year. So he gave his answer without hesitation.
"If they want to live," he said, "then they must lay down their arms and swear fealty to King Robb Stark. After that, I would temporarily settle them on the Gift and keep them under guard."
Clay nodded slightly, his pupils reflecting the endless fall of snow, and murmured,
"And then…?"
"Then I would relocate them in batches to various parts of the North," Mormont continued. "With coordination from His Grace, I would grant them land and help them gradually adapt to the life of ordinary northern folk."
His plan wasn't unreasonable. In terms of vision and principle, it sounded fair enough. But to Clay's ears, it rang too idealistic. These wildlings had survived beyond the Wall for generations, relying on fish, berries, and game. They had never mastered the large-scale agriculture required to sustain true settlements.
So what then? Give them farming tools, assign them a patch of barren land, and just walk away?
Expect them to swing a hoe and somehow turn frost-hardened hills into fertile fields? That was wishful thinking. This kind of thinking was typical of men like Lord Mormont… nobles born into privilege who had never truly understood the world of the poor, the desperate, the ones who lived hand to mouth.
If things played out the way Mormont imagined, the outcome was inevitable. These wildlings would never survive off the land. Eventually, they'd give up their fields, one after another, and go back to what they knew—stealing, raiding, pillaging.
And when that happened, Clay would sit comfortably in White Harbor, watching as the entire North put on a grand performance titled How to Suppress a Bandit Rebellion.
Lord Mormont fell silent. He could see that the young commander before him had no intention of supporting his proposal. In his heart, he still believed his solution was the most rational. But despite that, he had no choice but to ask what Clay himself intended.
Cregan's answer was simple… so simple, in fact, it could be summed up in a single sentence.
He wanted the wildlings as a people to vanish from the face of Westeros. And the surest way to erase a people was this: kill the vast majority of their men and take all of their women.
Once those women bore children for the men of a new race, the old one would vanish. Not just physically, but spiritually, culturally… completely. No child would grow up identifying with that fallen people. No traditions would remain. No memory. No future.
Yes. Clay had never intended to spare them from the very beginning. He wasn't some naive saint. He wasn't going to let wildlings march south only to one day turn against him. That kind of stupidity would come back to bite him—and he knew better.
He was a highborn lord, and from where he stood, the cleanest solution was to ensure the wildlings ceased to exist.
After the war, both White Harbor and the lands of the Twins would suffer. Populations would dwindle. Morale would falter. The people's faith in the war effort would shake, and loyalty might not hold.
So then, what was the answer?
It was simple. Give them women.
Who's still single? Step right up. If you support House Manderly, if you're willing to fight and bleed for us, then when you return, we'll give you a woman. A woman who will bear your child. A woman to build your future with.
And don't think men are the only ones who die in war. In truth, among those without strength or shelter, it is the old, the weak, and the women who die first. Only a fool… or a kingdom that tosses its soldiers into the flames like kindling—would think otherwise.
"Perhaps the wildlings truly did offend the gods, Lord Clay," the old man murmured at last. "Perhaps it is the will of the divine that you were sent to deal with them. And in the end, a single, decisive purge… might truly be the kinder path, compared to endless bloodshed drawn out over years."
Snow had gathered on Lord Mormont's thick white brows, though he didn't seem to notice. After a long, aching silence, he finally spoke those words, soft and weary. And then, still looking at Clay, he said nothing more.
Because now, there was nothing left to say.
———————————————————
The wildlings' fate had been sealed the moment their scouts were wiped out. The central camp, where Mance Rayder himself was stationed, barely managed to hold out for twenty minutes before being broken under the crushing weight of the heavy cavalry's second charge.
Mance was thrown violently into the air by a charging warhorse and crashed to the ground, coughing up blood as he hit the snow. He had tried to say something—maybe to surrender, maybe to plead—but the Northern horsemen, bloodlust clouding their eyes, never gave him the chance. And so the King-Beyond-the-Wall was reduced to a bloodied, shapeless heap in the snow.
Fortunately or perhaps not… one of his ever-so-"loyal" followers revealed his identity. Without that, Mance would have been left there, buried beneath the falling snow, forgotten alongside the people who died believing in him.
Or rather, no… when the White Walkers arrived, chances were high he would've risen again as one of the wights, only to be struck down later by a dragonglass arrow, his reanimated body collapsing into a heap once more, this time for good.
But who would even remember Mance Rayder then? The wildlings no longer existed. What throne would he sit upon? What people would he rule?
When the broken and feeble Mance Rayder was finally dragged before Clay and forced to his knees, the lord looked down at him—a man who now seemed no different from any ordinary, middle-aged captive—and didn't even bother speaking. He simply waved a hand.
"Take him away. Kill him."
"No, wait… you—you can't! I'm Mance Rayder! I'm the King-Beyond-the-Wall, the man you've been hunting! We are free folk! You have no right to judge me!"
Clay paused. He gave the signal for the soldiers to hold, then dismounted slowly and walked up to the man kneeling in the snow before him.
He drew the longsword from his waist.
"Then remember my name," he said coldly, his voice as sharp as the steel in his hand. "And tell your gods who passed judgment on you."
"I, Clay of House Manderly, sentence you to death… former brother of the Night's Watch… for desertion."
The longsword flashed down like lightning through the cold air.
The head flew from the body, arced through the air, and landed in the snow with a muted thud.
Years ago, Eddard Stark had executed a deserter of the Night's Watch in this very same way. Today, Clay followed that exact tradition.
"This is treason, Mance Rayder," Clay whispered as he gazed down at the severed head.
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