274 AC, Hardhome
Three months have passed since the gathering of the Northern lords.
We deployed without any problems.
Thirty galleys cast their shadows over the bay. Two were anchored near the shore, the rest took turns sailing — delivering people, equipment, and horses.
Two and a half thousand people landed.
Of these, a thousand were Starks, previously trained in a military camp. Among them were even 20 wargs. They can see through the eyes of the birds they are bonded with for three hours. All were fully equipped: armor made of hardened leather, on which three basic sets of runes were inscribed:
— Weight-reducing, so they could move faster than southern knights in full armor;
— Durability-enhancing, making their armor withstand blows that would normally end a conversation;
— And most importantly, strengthening loyalty to House Stark.
It was no primitive mind control. Rather, a subtle reminder.
Thanks to this, when the day of trial, division, or temptation comes, they will not turn away.
They will not flee the castle. They will not betray me for a sack of gold. They will not allow another Bolton to rise under my nose.
Swords and axes reinforced with sharpness runes.
And 100 ice bows.
The rest of the army was a mix of people from various houses. Manderly, Dustin, Reed, Hornwood, Karstark sent 200 men each; Bolton, Flint, Umber, Mormont, Ryswell sent 100 each. Most of them were young people going to battle for the first time.
After landing and securing the shore, I sent scouts. They searched every valley, every hill within a five-mile radius. It was clear that after Hardhome was burned six hundred years ago, no one had settled here since.
The stones were overgrown with lichen, columns had fallen, and where houses once stood, there were only fire pits and ashes, long cold.
A perfect place so no one would see the wildlings' kidnapping.
The plan assumed that within a week we would explore the entire Storrold's Point — from the coast to the edge of the Haunted Forest.
The map was ready, patrols assigned, rally points designated.
But not even four days passed before the scouts returned earlier than expected.
They found a camp of 200 wildlings. It was located near the Haunted Forest. According to the report: Mostly young men and women of fighting age. Some bore scars from past battles — signs of experience, not just youth.
Within an hour, a thousand men were ready. Armed. Determined. They only waited for my command.
"Men!" I raised my voice, standing on a stone so everyone could see me. "Today we set out for the first encounter with the wildlings. We outnumber them five to one. We have better equipment. Better training. And a goal they have yet to understand. Now we march. For the North!"
A roar sounded. Both angry and proud. "For the North!" they repeated until the air around trembled.
Two days later.
An hour's march to the wildlings' camp.
I stood surrounded by men. Waiting for the report before the attack began.
After a moment, one of the wargs came in to report.
"My lord," he nodded. "Camp confirmed. Eight tents, three fires, two hundred twenty people."
He paused as if unsure whether to add more.
"And?"
"The person everyone listens to. Spends most of the time watching the forest. Possibly a warg."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Why do you think so?"
"A bird. Often sits on his shoulder. Once we saw him close his eyes and the bird suddenly took off."
"Howland, you will be responsible for securing the eastern side of the camp. Harrion will secure the western side."
Both nodded silently.
"I will lead the rest of the men. We will surround their camp. Then I will challenge their leader to a duel."
Silence fell. One in which even the wind stops moving.
"A duel?" Willam repeated quietly, squinting slightly.
"Yes, a duel. My father made me the spear of the First Men. It's not just a weapon — it's a symbol. One that binds the defeated tribe to the victor."
The others' eyes immediately turned to my side. The spear was not particularly ornate — no decorations, no silver tips. But everyone felt it was not ordinary.
"The runes contain the rules. Blood spilled in the ritual does not end in revenge. The one who loses and survives swears loyalty."
"And if he dies?" Howland asked.
"Then the tribe follows the winner anyway."
Willam smiled crookedly.
"Brutal. But... effective."
"It's a ritual from before the Age of the Andals," Howland added quietly. "Old law. Older than the seven gods."
I nodded.
"That's true. It was believed that the Old Gods always watched duels. That's why they were considered sacred. That's why we have a chance to subjugate these wildlings."
Howland nodded slowly.
"What if the leader refuses the duel?"
"He won't refuse. The wildlings believe in the Old Gods strongly enough."
I paused for a moment, then added:
"For them, it's more than tradition. It's fear. Respect. Faith that if they refuse — the gods will curse them."
Willam adjusted his sword hilt.
"So when do we move?"
"Soon. The wargs will use their birds to notify us when everyone is in position. With a thousand men, we will surround their camp."
Wendel sighed heavily.
"I never thought you'd say it like that. 'With a thousand men, we will surround their camp.' As if you were talking about breakfast."
"Because it won't be a battle." I looked at him calmly. "It will be a decision. Their decision — whether they want to live or die."
I fell silent for a moment, giving everyone time for last thoughts.
"Alright. Does anyone have any suggestions, anything to add?"
Silence.
"If not, go gather the men. And wait for the signal."