This is Westeros

Early 271 Summer

I had to wait over a month and a half the next time I stepped foot on the Frozen Shore for a real battle to ensue. We didn't play possum like we did last time, instead pressing to get our hands on everyone we could find. We made no secret of where we made camp, and did not fortify it in any threatening manner, but for fifty days no one contested our arrival.

Despite the success of the last venture and my increased availability of ships, I still only had five crews with me. A number of men chose not to engage in a second great raid, but I had enough young and eager men to replace them. This lot proved less squeamish and less likely to complain, having heard the tales from the prior year and signed on anyway. They worked hard, and even joked among each other about the roughness of our joint labor.

I estimated that the army that attacked us last time numbered fifteen hundred. Their night raid turned against them, making it harder for them to see how poorly the fight was going and so they took massive casualties quickly and retreated far too late from our engagement.

This host came to us in broad daylight, coming up the coast, and they numbered around four thousand. A dread filled my men as the enemy approached, many atop sleds of bone pulled by enormous dogs. Seeing this, I knew I had to rally them.

"Line up, lads!" I shouted as my terrified forces formed up at their approach, "Archers up front!"

"A lot of commanders will tell their men that they are worth ten of the enemy each." I began to monologue while we got into position and I carried with me what looked like a large leather golfing bag, but rather than sporting clubs my back carried long bladed throwing spears, "It's bullshit. It'd be miraculous for one army to have men worth even three of the enemy, let alone something like ten. But these aren't real warriors. They're a pack of fools with sticks and stones. If you get winded killing thirty of them, we'll have to sail you around the world to the City of Whores and hang a welcome sign over your ass to let the real men know you're open for business. Cause if any of you let these flea bitten fools kill, ya, selling your ass is all you were ever good for."

Like all good ad campaigns targeting young men, I hit them in the insecurities. Throw in an accusation of homosexual leanings and let that teen angst run wild.

"They're coming into range lads. 330 yards! Nock! Draw!... Loose!" I commanded and a hundred arced longbows flung their payload into the air.

I wouldn't have been surprised if the Wildlings cut and run after seeing the devastation that volley caused in their ranks, but they kept charging as the volleys kept coming. My men, while not masters of the craft, had no problems firing their bows ten times in a minute. The wildlings took over a minute and a half to get to us, tripping over each other and stalling as the volleys started hammering the frontrunners.

The Wildings returned arrow fire during their charge, but their missiles - lacking steel bodkin points - failed to do more than sting a bit through our thick armor and padding. I felt the pelting of many such attacks as I stood in front of my company and started flinging my javelins as hard and as fast as my near demigod like muscles could manage.

The first struck one of the giant dire hounds pulling the bone sleds of the local bigshots, I aimed to thin out the biggest viable threat in their army outside of just dogpiling us with their numbers and wrestling our gear away. I don't know why they didn't break during that charge. The Wildings trampled on over a thousand of their men and women and still kept charging. They actually sped up when the archers pulled back to take up our rear line in our spear and shield phalanx.

The Wildlings leapt at us, throwing their bodies onto our spears and shields in a mad attempt to rip them down with their lives. In many cases they succeeded, but the spears in the second line bought the front enough time to take axes to hand and begin hacking down on the enemy. Both sides of our conflict howled and screamed like animals as we gave our all to the effort.

I held my spear up, thrusting down with the full strength of my tricep and shoulder over and over, the Valyrian blade slipping in and out of bodies faster than a greased cock at a Lysene orgy. It wasn't until one of those giant direhounds leapt over the fray at me that I lost my grip on it as the beast took the sword spear with it to the ground when I sunk it to the hilt in its flying body.

I wanted to retrieve it, but had to punch the teeth down the throat of a big man with a stone hammer. I pulled my axe off my belt and treated him to a hatchet attack to the neck, a service I extended to every Wildling that came within reach until finally whatever frenzy drove them forward broke, the flames of fury finally doused in the rain of blood soaking the earth.

We did not pursue.

Only a few men outright died in that battle on our end, but nearly everyone looked like they went five rounds with Tony Ferguson. Many simply collapsed in exhaustion the moment the adrenaline ran out. They fell onto a ground soaked in the blood of over two thousand dead and soon to be dead wildlings stretched out before us for a thousand feet.

After retrieving Longclaw I helped carry our wounded back to camp and got to work treating the injured. Nearly forty men broke bones in the fight, wrists and collars mostly. I ended up resetting dozens of noses and sowing up a few split brows. Mostly my men moved around like broke down geriatrics, covered in bruises from the beating they took trying to kill the enemy as fast as possible.

We chose to cut the Great Raid short, lest the survivors of the battle return with another host from further east. We'd already almost matched the results of the last raid as we'd landed twenty leagues farther east from our first raid a handful of miles east of the Lorn Point. A hundred miles deeper into richer territory were more plants grew, more animals roamed, and more savage wildlings lived.

We'd almost lost the game due to our lack of numbers this year, but I'd have twelve ships available for the next, and I'd find a way to fill them with warriors able and willing to carry out our great labor in these lands. My people needed to harden our hearts and wills to carry out this great and terrible purpose. I'd have to tap into the spirit of a certain speechmaker from the 1930's.

Tiresome.

We staged our withdrawal over the next two weeks, three of our ships at a time making multiple trips back and forth with thirty man crews hauling our loot and later our thralls, fifty five women and ninety children.

I ended up taking a blonde built like an amazon in her late twenties for myself and her two daughters of about twelve and six years old. I'd have to be careful with Helga. Not because she was stronger than Ysolt. That doesn't really factor. No, all you had to do is look her in the eyes to see it. Big girl was smart.

Ysolt was like a deer, get her scared and she starts jumping. Helga starts jumping cause she knows that's what I want. Once we got back to Bear Island she picked up the common tongue quickly and somehow formed a deep friendship with Alysa, often taking care of the newly born Skjor.

I couldn't tell if I figured out her game or not when Ulfric started following her youngest around like a puppy. Was this the play of a brilliant social chameleon, a natural part of children growing up, or was my genetics hard coded for simping and I simply ignored it by always keeping myself busy. That last one was the only one that actually had me worried.

If it was the latter and Ulfric was a little natural born simp, I'd ensure when we head south for the Rebellion that he never makes it back to the North. Maybe I can get him on the Tower of Joy team. Ned would see the boy dead for me and I'd get sympathy points with the guy. Two birds one stone. That's the kind of thinking that gets me what I want.

Interesting domestic situations aside, the world decided to remind me that I live in Westeros the morning the boys went down to load up three ships with fir to sell down in Lannisport. It cleared a higher price per load than pine, and with my construction projects finished for now, I had no use for it. Better to convert it to resources capable of getting me more in the future when I actually need to expand again.

Thankfully we hadn't started the work before the signal horn blew and the message waving flags told me Ironborn sailed in from the west, ten ships. The horns sounding across the harbor let the fishermen know to scatter if they couldn't make it safely back, and my men and I took the oars and rudders from our longships to prevent the reavers from stealing them easily.

With all preparations at the dock made, I pulled back into the town and ascended to the wooden walkways to watch the Ironborn sail into harbor. Ten ships like the towers proclaimed, but these were not the thirty oar ships like we'd seen last time. Nine of the ships bore seventy oars, two men to an oar for a hundred and forty men at least, but with enough space for a further thirty if they packed in tight. The brow and stern both had elevated platforms for archers, making these vessels far more capable in naval battles than mine.

And at the head of them all came a hundred oar longship. Even with their banners down I knew a ship of this size meant one of the primarily Lords of the Iron Islands.

I frowned as I did the math and our forces came up very short. We couldn't sally out and face this enemy. We could only bunker down and let them do as they wish in my port. Considering I had nine longships they could haul away with theirs I felt a considerable frustration.

"Don't look so down, boy." Maege grinned as she slapped me on the back, "I dug deep into our armory and found a little something from my childhood. Got the men bringing them down now. If the Squids try us, we'll send them running fast."

"Good." I nodded, "I hope this surprise is as mighty as you claim."

Maege smiled even wider and slapped my back again, "Oh you are going to love this."

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I'm basing the invasion of the Lands Beyond the Wall of of the historical Northern Crusade against the wild Prussian tribes. Prussian society back in the day was basically the Wildings with better equipment and defensive structures. Jorah is making up for his lacking calvary with longbow tactics in this case.

The wildlings still almost drowned them in bodies, but history shows us examples of people succeeded against far worse odds than Jorah faced.

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