The Lonely Hills.
The wind carried the North's biting chill, and only the high-hanging sun offered the faintest hint that it was still summer.
Domeric spurred his horse up a low rise, reined in against the wind, and watched column after column of marching soldiers with open interest.
A river forged of steel and flesh poured out of the Lonely Hills—vast, unbroken, relentless.
At the front rode proud knights, sworn swords, and free riders, followed by great blocks of infantry—clean in their gear, their blades and spears a thicket of points.
The cold north wind snapped at more than a dozen raised banners, each embroidered with House Bolton's flayed man on a pale pink field…
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The heavy, mostly-unified cadence of boots became the main theme of the march—simple, rough, and steady, like a drumline.
Mixed into it were the clang of mail and steel, the rattle of weapons, and the occasional whinny of horses.
Men who had heard these sounds all their lives wore the same expression now—an excited brightness on their faces.
There were few things that stirred more memory and more feeling than the rhythm of an army on the move.
This campaign beyond the Wall:
Domeric personally led 3,000 men.
House Karstark contributed 1,000.
From the Dreadfort, Ser Igor led 1,500 Bolton men.
And the newly-submitted mountain clans, under their new chieftain Roy Rydell, joined with allied bands to send 2,000 more.
In total, the expedition's fighting strength reached 7,500.
In addition, about 15,000 smallfolk laborers were levied from nearby villages and towns, along with wagons of supplies beyond counting…
The host drove hard.
Three days later—
Castle Black.
Inside the hall, though the hearths roared, the space still felt too vast and too cold. The chill pressed in from every corner.
Ravens perched on the high wooden rafters above, cawing over the men's heads.
Domeric took a bowl of stew and a great chunk of bread from the cook's hands.
Wendel, Old Karstark, and several others sat on the long bench nearest the fire, laughing loudly and trading rough curses.
Across from Domeric, Jorah Mormont sniffed at the thick soup with professional suspicion.
"Barley. Onion. Carrot," he murmured. "Not much meat."
Domeric shook his head, pulled off his gloves, and warmed his hands in the rising steam.
"This damned place—having meat at all is already a luxury. Tell the quartermaster outside the gate to send some over. Tonight we'll hold a feast."
Just then, a voice sounded at his shoulder.
"I didn't expect you to arrive so quickly, Ser Domeric."
A weathered hand rested on him.
Domeric turned. It was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch—Jeor Mormont, the "Old Bear."
A hard old man, sour-tempered, with a grey beard and a bald head.
Once, Jeor had been lord of Bear Island. He had taken the black to give his seat to his son, Jorah…
"Father," Jorah said, rising.
Jeor patted his son's shoulder, motioned him down again, then stepped up to Domeric.
"Here. What you asked for."
From his belt he drew a rolled parchment and handed it over.
It was a map—detailed markings of wildling forces north of the Wall, their distributions carefully noted.
"Is it accurate?" Domeric's fingers brushed the inked lines. With a map like this, the war gained several more points of certainty.
"The Watch spent thirty years drawing it," Jeor said flatly. "What do you think?"
He fed a few kernels of corn to the raven perched on his shoulder.
The bird beat its wings and screeched at Domeric:
"Bad man! Bad man—he's back again!"
Domeric didn't take offense. He whistled, pinched a morsel of meat from his bowl, and tossed it into the air.
The raven swooped in at once.
"Good man! Good man! Hello!"
…
The King's Tower at Castle Black was reserved for honored visitors. Despite the name, no king had come in more than a century.
It was a tall, stout round tower, arrow slits near the top, and an oak door studded with iron nails.
At its center sat a massive oaken council table—every seat filled.
A parchment map hung on the central board, showing the rough terrain north of the Wall.
Domeric sat at the head, as commander of the expedition.
Jeor sat beside him—not because the Old Bear lacked authority, but because the Watch lacked men. The Night's Watch had only about six hundred brothers to muster; they could not contest overall command.
In truth, nearly everyone at the table could field more men than the Lord Commander.
Seated in order were: Jorah, Ser Igor, Ser Wendel, and Roy Rydell, the new chieftain of the mountain clans.
At the far end, a bench had been placed specifically for Old Karstark.
He lay stretched out on it, snoring like a dying boar.
Jeor, unpretentious as ever, smiled and spoke first.
"Ser Domeric has brought an army to aid us against the wildlings. I assume you've prepared a thorough plan. Let's hear it."
Domeric looked around the table, but didn't answer immediately.
"Uncle Igor has seen real war—he fought in Robert's Rebellion. What do you think?"
Igor's reply was simple. "I'm here under Lord Bolton's orders. I'll follow your command."
"Ser Jorah? You've traveled, you've seen more than most. Any suggestions?"
Jorah looked awkward. "My lord… I don't have anything better to offer."
"And you, Lord Rickard?" Domeric turned his gaze to the bench.
"Hrrrkkk… hrrrkkk…" The snoring only grew worse.
Wendel stared at Domeric with eager anticipation—only to be ignored without mercy.
So none of them wanted to think.
Fine. Domeric kept his expression mild.
"Then I'll offer a proposal for everyone to weigh."
He pointed to the map on the table.
"The lands beyond the Wall are vast. Northward you have White Tree, the Haunted Forest, the Fist of the First Men… forests everywhere.
In endless snow, setting aside whether we can even find the wildlings—if we do find them, they slip into the trees and vanish in moments.
And the farther north we go, the worse the roads and the harder the supply line. It's bad country for a large host. If we're delayed or blocked, even making camp and moving provisions becomes a nightmare.
So rather than chasing wildlings for a thousand leagues, I say we gather them—lure them to the Wall itself.
We split into two forces: one holds Castle Black. The other goes by sea from Eastwatch to Hardhome, cutting off their retreat.
Two fronts. A pincer. The wildlings break."
"Brilliant!" Ser Wendel boomed, rubbing his bald head.
Roy Rydell immediately put on a grin fit for a court jester.
"My lord's plan is flawless—truly inspired…"
Domeric said nothing. He simply turned his eyes to the other three.
Jorah looked uncertain.
Igor remained silent.
Jeor's brow furrowed.
The plan sounded perfect, but it hung on one critical point:
How do you gather the wildlings and lure them to the Wall?
Wildlings might be weak, but they weren't idiots.
If they learned Domeric was marching to exterminate them, they'd scatter into the forests within minutes.
Wendel was praising because he was simply stupid. Roy Rydell was praising because he needed Domeric's support—he'd taken his chieftainship through kin-slaying and couldn't hold it without Bolton backing.
Jorah and Igor were Domeric's men; they couldn't bluntly criticize.
So the Old Bear asked the question that mattered.
"And how," Jeor Mormont said, "do we lure the wildlings beneath our walls?"
Domeric smiled slightly.
"I have my way."
And he fell silent.
-
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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