Once Domeric's army deployed in formation about five hundred meters from the stockade, a small commotion immediately broke out inside Greatwood Town.
Clearly, Ironhearth's troops had arrived faster than the rebels expected.
"These mountain men really are a rabble," Jorah said with open contempt as he watched the unrest on the palisade.
Domeric studied the town's defenses and asked, "How long do you think it will take to take it? And what losses are we looking at?"
"My lord, taking the stockade will be easy. Even though we're outnumbered, our soldiers' armor is solid and our weapons are sharp.
Give me half a day, and I can break this place. Losses… around a hundred, I'd estimate."
Domeric smiled faintly. "That's still a bit high.
These rebels come from different clans. Their grudges run deep, and their alliance is even more fragile than we assumed. Send word to the town. I'll give them half a day.
If they surrender, no rebel will be pursued—only the ringleaders will be executed.
If they resist, then when the stockade falls, there will be no mercy."
Several heralds rode down toward the gate, shouting in unison as they repeated Domeric's terms.
The turmoil on the walls intensified.
Not long after, several powerful mountain men appeared atop the palisade with a roar. A volley of arrows rained down, killing one herald on the spot.
The rest fled back in haste.
Domeric frowned and said to Ser Jorah, "Show them something they'll remember."
Very soon, a clay jar arced through the air from a trebuchet arm—then a second jar followed. A fire arrow came after them.
With a thunderous boom, a wave of flame erupted and raked across the battlements.
Screams exploded. Several burning figures flailed and toppled from the wall, still shrieking even after they struck the ground.
Those mountain men who had survived the first wash of fire barely dared lift their heads—only to despair as the second pair of jars smashed down.
The screaming started again, and this time dozens more became living torches.
Wildfire from the Alchemists' Guild was indeed effective—the only drawback was its cost, Domeric noted inwardly.
The strike's direct casualties were not enormous, but it created a terror that sank deep into the rebels' bones.
Domeric immediately ordered the army to withdraw five hundred meters and rest in place, waiting to assault in the afternoon.
As the final deadline drew closer, arguments inside Greatwood Town grew ever more vicious.
The Riddle Clan—leader of this alliance—had no path left but death, and thus demanded a fight to the end.
But the other clans hesitated.
They all knew surrender would not be pleasant—yet after witnessing that nightmare of flame, none believed they could truly hold the stockade.
In the blink of an eye, it was noon.
A sudden roar of noise rose as the gate burst open and dozens of mountain men bolted out.
Arrows poured down from the walls, pinning the fleeing men to the ground beneath the stockade.
…
The rebels were already tearing themselves apart.
"Assault!" Domeric ordered.
Under the long, clear call of the warhorn, infantry rose and knights mounted.
The army advanced steadily. This time they stopped and formed ranks only two hundred meters from the walls.
At a single command, the archers loosed a massed volley.
In an instant, more than a dozen mountain men toppled from the battlements. For a time, no one dared show their head above the wall.
Domeric issued another order. Two giants clad in heavy armor stood up and sprinted toward the gate, massive iron hammers rising and falling.
The stockade's gate—over a foot thick, plated in iron—could not withstand such blows. After only a handful of strikes, it warped and twisted.
Panic erupted inside the town—shouting, scrambling, chaos.
With the archers suppressing the walls, the mountain men could not return fire effectively. They posed no meaningful threat to Domeric's soldiers—much less to the two armored behemoths smashing the gate.
"My lord," Jorah said in a low voice, "they'll abandon the stockade and flee any moment. I'll take the cavalry around to cut them off."
"Do it."
With Domeric's permission, Jorah led two hundred and fifty cavalry out from the flank, sweeping around to the rear.
A thunderous crash followed—the gate finally failed under the giants' hammers and collapsed inward, crushing dozens of mountain men who had been bracing it from behind.
Domeric lifted a hand. Heavy infantry surged first, light infantry covering both flanks, and the whole force poured forward like a tide.
Against well-equipped heavy infantry—helmets and plate gleaming—street fighting became a nightmare for the mountaineers.
Domeric remained mounted, commanding from the center, savoring once again the pleasure of directing a battle without lifting a blade himself.
On the far side of the stockade, a side gate suddenly opened. Nearly a thousand rebels burst out in a desperate rush, fleeing toward the mountains.
But Jorah Mormont's cavalry had already been waiting—like hunters by a snare—and they slammed into the routing rebels.
Seeing Jorah's force was smaller, the fleeing mountain men turned vicious, trying to swallow up the cavalry by brute force.
Jorah refused to meet them head-on. Relying on superior horsemanship, he kept his riders moving roughly a hundred meters from the enemy, striking with arrows and long spears whenever an opening appeared.
I have horses. You don't.
The power of cavalry revealed itself in moments.
Under that sharp, relentless pressure, the rebels could not stand a single exchange.
After a short fight of barely ten minutes—though it felt like hours to the mountain men—they finally broke. Shouting in panic, they scattered and fled in all directions.
…
Domeric sat tall on his warhorse, eyes narrowed as he surveyed the field.
The battle had ended shockingly fast. Aside from casualties on Jorah's side—still unreported—the storming of the stockade had cost only thirty dead and fifty wounded.
As for the mountain men: over six hundred killed, three thousand captured, and more than a thousand who escaped from the other side—likely still being cut down by Jorah.
The captured mountain men were forced to squat on the ground in a wide ring, Domeric's soldiers standing over them with blades in hand, watching like hawks.
Not far away, bodies were stacked.
A few hundred corpses might not sound like much, but piled together they formed a mound that chilled the blood at the sight of it.
Dusk was falling. The last light of the sun, the cold wind, the bare trees—everything looked bleak beyond words.
Among the prisoners, a few hardened mountain men seized a moment, gripping knives, and charged Domeric in a suicidal rush.
A guard knight's face changed—he looked up and met Domeric's icy gaze.
Their lord snatched a spear from a nearby soldier and hurled it with all his strength, pinning the foremost attacker to the ground in an instant.
Then a dozen spears flew in a crisscrossing storm, nailing the rest to the earth.
The sun went down.
And the biting wind could not scour away the thick, lingering stench of blood hanging over Greatwood Town.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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