Domeric XIII

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! They were definitely coming!

As soon as he felt the earthquake, Domeric Bolton knew he was cooked. There would be no QRF, no stand at the Wall, no holes to plug. Everything was a hole!

"Tybald!" he cried urgently, and the maester stumbled all over himself to attend the lord. "I need ravens away, and I mean within the hour. Warn Umber and Karstark to pull back. All the plans are cancelled. I'll bring up what men I can, and we'll make a stand on the Last River, unless it's already too late."

Damn it all! All the supplies he'd staged were completely out of position!

"And another one to King Stannis. Tell him the whole realm is in peril, and we urgently need whatever help he can send." Domeric thought for a moment. "Fuck! Arya! I should never have sent her to Dreadport to play house. I need that wolf now!"

Dom thought furiously, considering everything he could do to put a force in the path of the Others' invasion. They must've dug under the wall and undermined it somehow. That was why they got no response from Castle Black. The Watch was gone! They didn't leave tracks in the snow, and snow was definitely falling. There was no telling how fast their army could move. It might be that Last Hearth had already fallen without even being able to call for help.

It would have to be mounted men only. They would take a strong position defended with ditches and braziers with wildfire burning. He had obsidian spears and lances and arrowheads in plenty. Once Arya got here, they would ride out.

"And Lord Stark, my lord?" Maester Tybald questioned.

"It's not my place to tell him what to do, but I'd ask everyone in the western theatre to rally at Winterfell. That's a strong position. The Wolfswood would conceal an approaching enemy. You could get surrounded and cut to pieces if the Others can move as fast and silently as I suspect they can. We aren't trying to hold the Wall anymore, so no point getting exposed further north."

Yes, it made sense. With strongpoints on the Last River and at Winterfell, they might be able to hold long enough for the king to come. Stannis had obsidian spears and arrowheads enough to arm twenty thousand men. With the Royal Fleet, they could be at White Harbor within a month. If all else failed, they could fall back to the Neck. Briefly, Domeric considered evacuating his family, but the children were small, and it was getting cold. The Dreadfort itself had good stores of food, wildfire, and obsidian weapons. If the Others tried to storm the walls, they would pay a grievous price.

***

Men were huddled under heavy cloaks, trying to keep fur and wool pulled tight while they saddled horses and loaded wayns with pots of wildfire. Lord Domeric said not to bother with heavy armor. The blades of the Others could cut right through plain steel. It would be mail and boiled leather only. Light armor and speed would serve them better.

"You are riding out to die, my lord," said the Red Woman. She alone wasn't shivering as the snow drifts grew deeper and a chill wind blew in from the north. "The light of east is still far away. Without it, this war is without final hope."

He fixed the priestess with a death glare and kept his voice quiet and level. "If that is true, my lady, then you had best say nothing about it." He would not have her spread defeatism and crush morale. The awful weather was doing enough. Melisandre was no fool, and knew just how far he could be pushed before the ultraviolence began, so she said no more.

Before Domeric rode out, he gave Mordaena, Nymeria, and Alyx one last kiss each. Alyx held young Royce, his son and heir, who was a toddler and had no idea what was happening. The boy had his ghost-grey eyes but dark curly hair like his mother's. His cheeks were red from the cold, but he showed no signs of distress, bundled up in furs as he was.

"Farewell, my family. I love you all." He would not promise to return and jinx himself. If he were to die, the Others were going to join him, but Domeric Bolton had no plan to die. "Keep your fires burning and stay warm. My wife has charge of the castle while I'm away."

Nobody was weeping. Perhaps it was too cold to weep. Without ceremony, he mounted his shaggy garon, which would be of more use in the snow drifts, and took up a warlance tipped with obsidian. It was eight feet of black ash, and banded in iron. Every mounted man had one just like it. Their black glass blades pointed at the sky as he led their column of riders out of the gate.

Lady Arya and her Dreadport men met them on the road. He was pleased to see her and the direwolf Nymeria most of all. With them, he couldn't be surprised.

"I dreamed a dream, my lord!" she told him at once. He was pleased she didn't waste time. Her breath frosted in the air as she relayed it. "The Others live forever if they are not killed. Fire purifies, but ice preserves. Since they live forever, they are afraid to die, more afraid than most, I mean. I saw it half a hundred times. Before the final blow was struck, the blue eyes of the Other shifted from hate to fear. Some of them have died already. They did not expect men to be prepared to face them. Our foe advances more cautiously now. They're really bullies, I think, and turn craven when you fight back."

"You hear that?" he shouted to the men around him. "They're afraid!" There was a ragged cheer, but the wind swallowed most of it.

***

By the time they reached the Last River, the waters were entirely frozen. A constant stream of refugees struggled south. Lords Umber and Karstark struggled with them, holding together a ragged band of soldiers.

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"We've bloodied their nose, Scalp-Taker," reported the Greatjon. There was hoarfrost clinging to his beard. Though it was still bitter cold, the clouds had passed, and the sun was shining brightly, too brightly. The reflection off the snow was nearly blinding.

"Enough to make time for our folk to flee," added Karstark, whose cheeks were thin and hollow. "They have few dead men, wights, I think they're called. It is an army of them."

No meatshields then, Domeric thought. "Good, good. This is a strong place. We'll ring our camp with wildfire and meet them as they try to cross the river. It will be like the Fist."

One of Karstark's sons shuddered. "I hated the Fist. The dead men just kept coming, and there was a dead shadow cat that almost flayed the skin off my back."

"It won't be like that this time," Domeric cut him off. "Just make sure the archers know to shoot anything that glints. Their armor takes in light and shimmers. If you know what to look for, you can hit it, even in the dark."

The wolf Nymeria, who was as big as a destrier now, snarled suddenly. "What is it, girl?" Arya asked in alarm. Wolf and girl stared into each other's eyes, and to Domeric it seemed some silent communication was happening.

"What is it, Lady Arya?" he asked politely. She was more than his squire now, a sworn lady who held lands and a castle of him. It was best to keep his courtesies, though he urgently wanted to know what the wolf thought.

"There is a flat place ahead, my lord," she answered, "an old riverbed, where the course of the Last River changed. There are no roots or ruts that could make a horse break a leg. The Others have been shadowing Umber and Karstark. We could catch them now, with the sun shining. Nymeria knows the way. The Others like not the sun."

It was perfect! A cavalry charge was dangerous in the snow, since the drifts concealed the ground underneath. A horse might lose its footing or worse, but a good flat piece of frozen ground would be just about perfect.

"We attack!" he said at once. "Let the foot still dig in, but I want every mounted man with me. Come on!" he exhorted his lancers. "We ride while the sun shines!"

Arya's direwolf led the way, across the frozen river, through thickets and clusters of ironwoods and soldier pines, over hunting trails where the woods pressed so thick men knocked snow from the branches as they rode.

The first of the Others they met was on picket duty, riding a dead horse. In the light of day, the sunshine made its crystal armor glow like a beacon. Domeric put his lance through the creature before it even had a chance to look up. Immediately, he was blinded by a cloud of mist that was so cold it burned. The obsidian tip of his lance, with the weight of his horse behind it, made the Other positively disintegrate, passing through with hardly any resistance at all. The garon between his legs snorted and kept galloping while he blinked to regain his vision.

It was five leagues of riding before they found the camp in the old dried-up riverbed. It seemed thousands of Others were there, raising igloo-like shelters against the sun. They moved sluggishly in the light of day, taking no notice even as Domeric's horsemen approached. Their force was half mounted archers, and Bolton ordered them to their feet. Men swung from their saddles, strung longbows of yew, and thrust rows of obsidian-tipped grey goose shafts into the snow.

At a wave of his hand, Arya took charge of half of them, positioning the bowmen for enfilade fire. When they loosed, the sound of cracking ice was deafening, and many a crystal torch winked out of existence.

Finally realizing their peril, the Others poured from their snow shelters and started to form ranks. These clumps only served to draw more arrows. Dreadfort yeomen made it rain, feathering the Others in the hundreds. Once the arrows were spent, Domeric bid them mount again and withdraw. Their part in this was done.

Lord Domeric Bolton couched his lance and blew a warhorn, the very warhorn he had won at the tournament at Runestone so long ago. One blast was ready, and two was charge! One thousand lances heeded the call. In ten breaths, though Dom could hardly remember breathing, they crossed the flat expanse and slammed into the disordered formation of Others, some not even wearing their crystal armor. Soon, all Domeric could see was the mist they left when slain, and all he could hear was the cracking ice of their death rattle.

His garon trampled the roof of one of the igloo shelters, which seemed bigger on the inside, packed with Others almost like an anthill. The ones within were dazed and slow, easy to push his lance through. Eventually, the weapon slipped from his gloved fingers, which were moist with sweat or something else; he knew not. Domeric drew the red Valyrian sword Razor and started shaving anything at hand. They had three Valyrian blades with them. Arya had Dark Sister, of course, and his old squire Ser Alesander Frey had been loaned Longclaw by Lord Commander Mormont for the duration of the war.

He was waiting for resistance to materialize, and mayhaps it did in spots. His garon rode over men and horses cloven in two, but not many. Nothing near Domeric so much as lifted a finger to fight back. As the mist cleared, he realized they were running. Running! Arya had been right! They were afraid to die!

While daylight held, they hunted, with Nymeria for their guide. It would've been a great victory if that very night Arya hadn't dreamed of the fall of Winterfell.