GOT: The Great — Chapter 281 - The Wildlings' First Southern Campaign
Drogo had won the wildlings over with his silver tongue, but he was more certain they had submitted to the might of the dragons. It was the dragons that gave his words their weight.
He used the breakfast hour to finish the reorganization.
Thenns, Frozen Shore folk, cave dwellers, giants, and the dozen other Free Folk tribes whose names he couldn't even recall, he mixed them all together and split them into eighteen units.
Each unit got one Hundred Captain. No Thousand Captains.
The process had its hiccups, but none that were hard to solve.
A Thenn jabbed a finger at the Frozen Shore man assigned to his unit and said flatly, "My father died at their hands." A cave dweller chief went pale when told he'd be taking orders from a Thenn.
Drogo didn't bother with speeches or negotiations. One low growl from a dragon, and everyone went quiet.
The Hundred Captains were confirmed on the spot. Some were nominated by their fellows, some put themselves forward, but most Drogo simply pointed at and said: you.
Tormund Giantsbane was among them, assigned to the first unit.
After Mance Rayder's death, Tormund had effectively become the head of all the wildlings. Now Drogo had split them into eighteen equal units, each Hundred Captain answering to no one above him.
Tormund hadn't realized yet that he'd just been stripped of his power. He had no complaints about the arrangement.
Once it was done, Drogo called all eighteen Hundred Captains in front of him.
He pointed without looking. "You five — stay. Keep your units here and protect the women and children."
"The other thirteen. With me. Quick march. We're going to Last Hearth."
They reached the outskirts of Last Hearth before dark.
The walls were low, grey stone still crusted with a thin skin of ice. Compared to the Wall — seven hundred feet of it — this was barely a garden fence. But it was more than enough to stop wildling infantry with no siege equipment.
Soldiers moved along the battlements. House Umber had made ready.
Drogo didn't wait for his columns to close in.
He dove down from beneath the cloud layer on Drogon's back, and the dragonfire hit the gate in a blaze of black-tinged brilliance. The iron-banded wooden doors began to glow red within seconds, then softened, warped, and collapsed inward, scattering burning wreckage across both sides of the archway.
Rhaegal and Viserion swept his flanks. Their fire raked the top of the walls, and the archers on the battlements scattered, some leaping off the walls entirely, others throwing down their bows and huddling behind the merlons.
Tormund was at the front. He was the first through the still-steaming gate arch, a roar on his lips and an axe in his hand, with a wave of figures surging in behind him.
A few arrows rained down from the walls. One caught a giant in the shoulder. He glanced down at it and kept walking.
From somewhere on the walls came a shout: "How do the wildlings have dragons?"
The dragonfire had already scattered the first few ranks trying to form up, burning a crooked line across the street like a fence of flame. The soldiers of House Umber, their formation broken, were hit from both sides at once by the wildlings pouring through.
The giants led the way. One sweep of a wooden club knocked a whole row of men off their feet. The wildlings behind came flooding in to finish it.
The battle didn't last long.
House Umber had already lost the better half of its men marching south with Robb Stark. What was left had sided with House Bolton and followed them against the Night's Watch, only to be broken by the wildlings, the Vale knights, and the dragons. Fewer still had made it home.
War after war, loss piled on loss. There weren't many soldiers left inside Last Hearth.
By the time full dark fell, it was over.
Drogo tallied the losses. Twelve dead on his side.
He followed Dothraki custom. Coin, grain, women, prisoners, all divided among the thirteen units.
The wildlings took their share with hands that moved a little slower than usual. They had lived their whole lives and never known this kind of wealth.
Tormund stood off to one side, looking at the barrels of salted meat and sacks of wheat just hauled from the storerooms. He tilted his head back and breathed out, watching the white cloud of his breath drift apart in the cold air.
"First time I've been this far south," he said. "It's warm."
Behind him, the captured men of House Umber stood shivering in the bitter wind.
Northerners were famous for their cold hardiness. But this frozen land, to the wildlings from beyond the Wall, felt like summer.
Last Hearth wasn't wealthy. But for the wildlings, it was a windfall.
Some tried on newly claimed armor, twisting to see how it sat. Others picked up two-handed swords from beside the bodies, weighed them once in their hands, and tucked them at their belts.
The bonfires went up.
The wildlings gathered around broken fence posts and splintered tables, slicing salted meat and holding the strips over the flames. Fat dripped into the fire and hissed. Someone had cracked open a barrel of wheat ale from House Umber's stores. Bowls lined up along the rim, filled and carried off, emptied and passed back to be filled again.
Tormund stood and raised his bowl. "Long live King Drogo!"
The wildlings erupted around him, the name crashing outward like a wave.
Ordinary wildlings could always turn up something useful picking through the dead, a knife here, an axe there, and a few swaps between each other usually put together a set of armor that fit well enough. Quick work.
The giants were another matter. Most were empty-handed, or still clutching the wooden clubs they'd beaten half to splinters in the fighting.
After the feast, Drogo had every piece of iron in the city dragged into the square. Broken swords, snapped spear shafts, iron pots, door hoops, a jumbled heap of scrap that piled up like a small mountain.
He called Drogon down.
The dragon breathed once. A roar of fire, a burst of blinding white from within the heap, and within moments the whole pile had run down into a pool of glowing red.
The few blacksmiths still left in Last Hearth were brought out and set to work. They labored through the night, using the giants themselves as their measure, and by morning they had hammered out 25 thick steel rods.
The rods had barely been handed out before Tormund came striding over, iron hammer on his shoulder, eyes bright.
"Where do we hit next?"
"Kaho."
"Kaho?" He frowned. "What's that?"
"House Karstark," Drogo said. "A branch of House Stark. Loyal to Winterfell for generations." He paused. "Then old Lord Rickard watched both his sons die in battle and couldn't live with it. He killed Lannister prisoners in secret. Robb Stark took his head for it."
"After that, House Karstark broke with the Starks and threw in with House Bolton."
He glanced at Tormund, who was listening with his full attention. "They're in much the same shape as House Umber. They bled out marching south with Robb Stark, and what was left of their main force was wiped out two days ago."
Tormund's grin spread wide, yellowed teeth bright against the cold.
Drogo looked at him. The corner of his mouth pulled up just slightly.
"If we're going to hit them, now is the time."
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