The war horn sounded.
Its harsh blast erupted across the snowfield like a roar from ancient times.
Tens of thousands of young, able-bodied Wildlings let out earthshaking cries and surged through the snow toward the Bolton ranks.
They wore animal skins and carried stone axes, bone spears, and wooden shields. War paint marked their faces, and hunger and ferocity burned in their eyes.
They were the fiercest warriors north of the Wall, men who had wrestled with death all their lives amid ice and snow... they should have feared nothing.
Yet when that torrent crashed against Bolton's shield wall, everything changed.
The Wildlings in the front rank slammed into the upright shields with dull thuds.
Some swung their stone axes down hard, only for the blades to shatter against iron-faced shields; others thrust bone spears through the gaps at the enemies behind them, but the points lodged in chainmail, caught fast in the iron rings, unable to penetrate any farther.
An instant later, spears thrust through the gaps in the shields and pierced their chests...
Before sharp iron blades, their rough animal skins were as fragile as paper.
Blood sprayed across the snow, steaming.
Wave after wave of Wildlings surged forward, and wave after wave fell before the shield wall.
Bodies piled up, only to be trampled by those behind them, who then became fresh corpses themselves.
The Bolton formation stood like a reef cast from steel, unmoving no matter how fiercely the waves battered it.
And the spray those waves threw up... was blood-red.
The outcome of this battle seemed to have been decided from the start.
Roaring, Tormund hacked down a Bolton soldier amid the ranks. He glanced back at the fighting behind him, his face livid.
Ygritte loosed three arrows in quick succession. They sailed over the