Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

The deep blare of a horn shattered the silent night.

Samwell, who had barely slept, jolted awake and leapt to his feet, shouting:

"Form ranks! Form ranks!"

In the brief chaos that followed, the recruits quickly assembled around Samwell.

Discipline and order—these had been the cornerstones of the four months of training Samwell had drilled into them. Through constant repetition and reinforcement, discipline had seeped into their blood, becoming a part of them, like muscle memory.

In the dim moonlight, Samwell could make out shadows filtering into the valley's narrow entrance.

The wildlings had taken the bait.

Hearing the horn, the wildlings realized they'd been spotted, and they abandoned any pretense of stealth, unleashing eerie howls:

"Awooooo!"

"Shalalalalalala"

"Yayayayayaya"

The valley rang with their wild cries, startling animals from their slumber and filling the camp with dread.

There were so many of them—too many.

The darkness concealed their exact numbers, but the volume and force of their cries suggested hundreds, perhaps thousands.

Could they hold the line against such odds?

Standing on a small hill at the valley's entrance, Samwell looked out at the dark mass surging towards him. Strangely, he felt an extraordinary calm, a coldness that even he found surprising.

This stillness in the face of danger was something he had never attained in his previous life, but somehow, he'd come to possess it here.

The last time he'd felt this way was when he decided to kill Carter. Before the act, he'd been plagued with doubt, fear, even nausea. But in the moment he'd confronted Carter's hanging body, his mind had been clear, even when Todd had roared in fury. He had acted without hesitation.

Now, he felt the same. Earlier, lying sleepless, he'd wrestled with thoughts of Todd's loyalty, the wildlings' numbers, and the possibility that his training was just a joke. He'd worried that he might die here, untested, in an obscure valley.

But now, facing the sea of charging wildlings, he felt no fear, no doubt—only the cold resolve to fight to the end.

"Release!"

At Samwell's command, the soldiers released the stones and logs they'd prepared, sending them tumbling down the hillside.

Boom—boom—

Under the force of gravity, the rocks and logs hurtled down the slope, smashing into the wildlings' ranks at the valley's entrance.

Blood splattered, screams filled the air.

This initial blow struck hard, dampening the wildlings' reckless fervor and giving the anxious recruits a brief reprieve.

"Shields up!" Samwell's voice rang out again.

The front row of soldiers reflexively raised their large wooden shields, watching the oncoming wildlings with wary eyes.

In the moonlight, they could see the wildlings' faces twisted in rage.

Fear was inevitable, yet they stood their ground.

Their comrades were beside them, their lord was behind them.

For over four months, Samwell had drilled them not in complex techniques but in the simplest battle maneuvers. His demands were few but absolute: precision, unity, and obedience.

Countless repetitions had drilled these commands into their bones. Even though tension and fear gnawed at them, when they heard the order, they responded without thought.

Alone, each of these recruits would be stiff, clumsy, and vulnerable in a fight. But together, as a unit, they became a formidable machine of death.

Even Samwell himself may not have fully realized the significance of such order and discipline in medieval warfare.

But tonight, here in the depths of the Red Mountains, this fledgling army would reveal its bloodstained fangs.

Thud, thud, thud!

Some of the men in the front ranks closed their eyes as they braced against the wildlings' first wave.

The shields held.

This was no surprise.

Wooden shields offered modest protection, but the wildlings' weapons were cruder still.

Living in the harsh Red Mountains, the wildlings had no means of forging fine weapons. Iron was scarce, and most of their armaments were crude stone hammers, wooden spears, and sharpened animal bones.

And attacking from below uphill further weakened their blows.

Watching the scene coldly, Samwell gave his second order:

"Spears!"

Schwick, schwick—

The spearmen behind the shield-bearers thrust their weapons through gaps in the line.

Squelch—

The sound of spears piercing flesh filled the night.

After a few rounds, the ranks of wildlings in the valley began to thin.

"Blades out!"

At Samwell's third command, the men in the last row drew their long swords, slicing through the wildlings still writhing in agony.

The swordsmen would strike, then retreat back into formation, and the shield-bearers would brace for the next charge.

Over and over, the cycle continued.

After several rounds, Samwell saw the soldiers' exhaustion and called:

"First group, fall back. Second group, forward!"

With the valley's narrow entrance as a bottleneck, Samwell had divided his men into three groups, each taking turns.

The weapons and formations were identical for each group.

Shield, spear, blade—

Simple, repetitive, tedious.

But ruthlessly effective.

Not long into the fight, the slope leading to the valley was littered with wildling bodies.

Even the newly recruited soldiers were surprised by their own deadly impact.

Yes, they were clumsy, tense, and made mistakes, but the wildlings could do little against them. Their armor protected them from most blows.

Well-made gear, favorable terrain, coordinated formations, effective tactics, and Samwell's commanding presence created a rhythm of engagement and retreat, strike and reset. The soldiers became faster and more confident with each round.

The blood staining their bodies washed away their inexperience.

For a recruit to become a veteran, the transformation required little more than this: survive one battle, take one life, and live to see another day.

These young men, once laborers recruited from the docks of the Mander, were undergoing their transformation tonight.

With each passing moment, they grew more efficient, their movements sharper and more unified.

The wildlings charged with blind bravery, but they could not break this seemingly fragile line. All they left behind were their dead.

The stench of blood filled the valley as Samwell's troops, guided by his commands, coalesced into a machine designed solely to kill.

Life was its fuel, blood its lubricant, and the fear in its enemy's eyes was its highest reward.

(End of Chapter)