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Lushen and Roslyn obeyed the order and left.

Only Suleiman and Bronn remained in the tent.

"You don't seem worried at all," Suleiman said, watching Bronn with a calm gaze.

Bronn shrugged. "What's there to worry about? That we'll lose? I'm just as good at running away as I am at killing!"

He rolled his wrist, making it crack. "But let's get one thing straight: if things go south, I'm not dying alongside you."

"Of course." Suleiman's expression was unreadable. "But if you run, you'd better hope I die."

"Otherwise, the Seven Kingdoms will hunt you down! You'll be branded a deserter!" Suleiman chuckled.

Bronn: ...

"Such a shame!" Bronn suddenly exclaimed, as if he'd just thought of something. "If you and I had been this age during the War of the Usurper..."

Suleiman sheathed his dagger and spoke slowly. "You'll get another chance."

Bronn looked at him in puzzlement. "You mean the Ironborn? No offense, but they won't last long!"

Suleiman said nothing, only giving him an inscrutable smile.

"Damn it! They burned everything!" the chief of the Milk Snakes roared in fury, slamming his fist into a blackened stone wall.

The chief of the Howlers fell silent.

The pursuit had gone more smoothly than expected. The Flatlanders had destroyed every trace of their passage.

But they'd still left a few clues, and the Free Folk who lived in the High Mountains couldn't be fooled.

They were skilled at tracking their prey.

But the Flatlanders had realized they were being followed and burned everything.

They'd left things even more thoroughly destroyed than the Wildlings themselves would have.

They'd planned to kill every Flatlander they came across!

But they hadn't seen a single soul along the way.

Everywhere they looked were the ruins left by the Flatlanders.

Charred stumps were scattered across the ground, and the air reeked of acrid ash and something indescribably foul.

"Damn those Flatlander sheep!" the chief of the Milk Snakes continued cursing, kicking away a charred log. "They didn't even leave us a bite to eat!"

The village well had been filled with dead livestock. The Flatlanders had even dumped animal and human excrement into it.

Now it stank so horribly it made them sick.

The chief of the Howlers walked over to the well and took a spear from one of the Wildlings.

He used its tip to push aside the debris, and a powerful stench hit him in the face.

"Chief, there's another village ahead!" a scout reported. "The tracks keep going."

The group continued onward.

They kept going until noon, when the sun was high overhead and the earth baked beneath it.

The Wildlings wore animal hides covered in fur, and soon they were drenched in sweat.

Thirst burned in their throats like fire.

They passed a second village. It was also in ruins, with no food to be found and its well destroyed.

The third village, the fourth...

Every place they'd hoped would have food and water for them

held nothing but blackened earth and polluted water.

The group's pace slowed noticeably.

Their initial overwhelming fury, and the excitement and bloodlust they'd felt at finally finding the Flatlanders,

gradually gave way to agitation, hunger, and thirst.

"Chief, how much longer do we have to chase them?" a young Howler Wildling asked, unable to hold back. His lips were cracked, and his voice was hoarse. "My waterskin's empty."

"Shut up!" another Howler snapped. "The Flatlanders are just ahead. Kill them, and we'll have everything we need!"

But his words rang hollow.

His own throat was dry, and his stomach empty.

The chief of the Howlers remained silent, his gaze roaming strangely over the surroundings.

The path was too easy.

Were the Flatlanders trying to wear them down?

But that only proved the Flatlanders didn't have many warriors.

Otherwise, there'd be no need for them to do this.

The chief of the Howlers abruptly reined in his mount and raised a hand.

The group came to a halt.

He surveyed the area. It was a relatively open stretch of river valley.

Low hills stood on either side, their vegetation sparse.

"Scout ahead again!" The chief of the Howlers spoke with a faint note of fatigue and caution. "Look carefully, and report anything unusual!"

He'd just lost his only son.

But he couldn't afford to lose any more of his people.

Several Wildlings set off at his command.

The rest slumped to the ground, panting heavily.

Some tried in vain to lick their cracked lips, while others stared at the chief of the Howlers with bloodshot eyes, waiting for his decision.

Only their labored breathing and the wind in the distance broke the silence.

"Howlers!" The chief of the Milk Snakes was growing impatient. "We can't wait here! We're wasting time! The farther we go, the more distance the Flatlanders will put between us!" He left the rest unsaid, but his meaning was clear.

The chief of the Howlers didn't look at him. His gaze was fixed on the distance, where a patch of grass seemed slightly darker.

He was deeply uneasy.

"If you keep waiting, we'll go on ahead without you!" the chief of the Milk Snakes roared furiously at the chief of the Howlers.

"Thwack!"

A dull, meaty impact.

The sound of blood splattering and bone cracking rang out sharply across the silent valley.

The chief of the Milk Snakes stared blankly at the chief of the Howlers.

It all happened in an instant. His mind hadn't even caught up yet.

An axe was embedded in the chief of the Howlers' head.

The chief of the Howlers hadn't even had time to scream.

He crumpled to the ground, his body twitching a few times before falling still.

The axe blade was buried deep in his skull, its handle still quivering slightly.

Blood and brain matter burst through the wound.

The entire group fell silent.

No one had yet grasped what had happened.

A Flatlander had leapt up from a dense patch of woods more than fifty meters away—perhaps a little less.

He'd thrown an axe that struck the chief of the Howlers squarely in the head.

The brief silence gave way to deafening roars!

"Flatlander!"

"Bastard!"

"Kill him!"

Their hunger, thirst, and exhaustion vanished in an instant. The last of their restraint snapped!

The chief of the Milk Snakes had watched the chief of the Howlers die with his own eyes. His eyes turned blood-red as he let out a thunderous roar, like a beast driven into a frenzy.

"Kill him! Kill him!" he bellowed.

A blatant provocation.

The Wildlings went completely berserk.

"Kill him!!"

"Revenge for the chief!!"

The Flatlander spat. "Pah!"

Then he leapt onto a Mountain Clans warhorse hidden in the woods.

His movements were smooth and swift.

He galloped away.

"Goddamn it, Suleiman! You make me do something this dangerous and don't even give me a decent horse!"

Bronn cursed as he galloped along.

He was cursing up a storm in his head, too.

The horse was small and slow.

Behind him came a horde of charging Wildlings

and all kinds of weapons flying after him.

They whistled past his head and ears like raindrops.

Every rush of air made his heart leap into his throat.

Bronn suddenly drew an axe from his belt and hurled it viciously at the nearest Wildling behind him!

The axe whistled through the air and struck its target. A scream rang out, and the Wildling fell.

But the pursuing crowd didn't slow at all.

Bronn galloped on!

"Damn it!!" "Damn it!!" "Damn it!!"

He kept roaring!

As if he were shouting at Suleiman in the distance, his voice shaking the heavens and the earth:

"Fuck you, Suleiman! Foulkeep! More money! I want more money!"