A Clear Sign of Certain Death

The river water was so cold it bit to the bone.

Even through his coarse hemp clothes,

Lushen felt the chill seeping into his very bones.

He gritted his teeth, his whole body trembling uncontrollably from the cold.

He strained to drive a sharpened stake into the riverbed mud.

Beside him, two hundred soldiers were imitating him,

struggling to work in water that came up to their necks.

To keep from being swept away,

they had tied themselves to one another with ropes.

The ropes were anchored to a great tree on the riverbank.

"My lord! The stakes won't hold in this river!" a soldier cried, choking on water, his voice breaking.

Before he had even finished speaking,

the stake he had just driven in was swept away by the rushing current.

He tried to chase after it, but a nearby soldier hauled him back.

In water this swift, he would have been swept away along with the stake.

Lushen didn't turn around. He only grunted, bracing his shoulder hard against the stake in front of him.

With his other hand, he pressed down on its top again and again.

"Keep going!" His voice was hoarse, but the command brooked no argument.

The soldiers looked at one another, exhaustion and despair plainly written across their faces.

They had been working for a full day and night without rest.

Lushen stopped. The icy water reached his shoulders.

Slowly, he turned around, his bloodshot eyes sweeping over every exhausted, despairing soldier.

He was tired too.

His lips moved a few times, as if he wanted to say something.

But in the end, he said nothing.

He simply hefted another large sack filled with stones.

Step by step, he struggled over to the river's designated spot.

He set it down.

Then he repeated the steps again.

Silent labor, solitary and dogged.

The soldiers watched Lushen's resolute work, watched his skin turn pale from soaking in the river.

They said nothing more, only gritted their teeth.

Following Lushen's example,

they kept plugging up the damn river!

--

"Lord Bronn, where are we going?" a somewhat stiff voice called from behind him.

Bronn stiffened and slowly turned around.

He looked at the five Suleiman soldiers mounted on ponies.

They had been assigned to follow Bronn and obey his orders, so they called him Lord Bronn.

Bronn had beaten them all soundly, but now they were convinced by him.

After all, not just anyone could kill a Wildling Chieftain and make it out alive.

But this man had done it.

"We have another task," Bronn said with a dry laugh, trying to bluff his way through by invoking Suleiman's name.

"We have to reinforce Lord Suleiman!" one of the riders said gravely, putting a hand on the hilt at his waist.

Bronn's face darkened. Why were these men such idiots? He tried reasoning with them.

"Our mission is already complete! Understand?!" he roared in a low voice, spittle nearly spraying the five riders behind him.

He paused, then lowered his voice. "Our job was to lure the Wildlings to the designated place! What happens next is Suleiman's problem! We've done our part!"

Another rider shook his head and replied without changing expression, "Lord Suleiman has only a hundred men or so! How can he hold out? We have to go back!"

"I'm giving you a chance to live!" Bronn finally blurted out, exasperated. "Going back now is no different from throwing our lives away!"

"If he wins, we go back!"

"If he dies, we go home!"

The riders fell silent.

They knew Bronn wasn't wrong.

Their mission was done.

No one would blame them afterward.

And they had already made plenty of money.

"No!" Toman reined in his horse and shouted, "We can't abandon Lord Suleiman!"

Bronn's face turned completely grim. He stared coldly at the young soldier.

His hand settled on his sword hilt.

Toman saw Bronn's move but wasn't the least bit afraid. "You can't intimidate me, Lord Bronn!"

"Everyone here can leave! But you can't!"

"Lord Suleiman has given your name and likeness to the Riverlands refugees who are leaving!"

"And he's given them instructions! The moment you run, the Seven Kingdoms will be plastered with wanted posters for you!"

"A bounty of one thousand Silver Stags!"

Bronn: ...

Bronn's face froze. His hand dropped from the sword hilt.

Seeing that, Toman let out a long breath inside. He knew his gamble had paid off.

There was no such thing. He had bluffed Bronn.

Then he turned to the other four riders. "You! Do you think you can get away?"

"If Lord Suleiman falls in battle and Valleydeep Town is lost,"

"you'll either die fighting or change your names and vanish from the world!"

"You'll never see your families again!"

"Otherwise, you and your families will all be hanged!"

Everyone fell silent!

Bronn drew a deep breath, as if trying to squeeze all the air out of his lungs.

How the hell had I come to be worth one thousand Silver Stags?!

At last, he slowly, slowly let out a breath.

"Damn it!" Bronn cursed at Toman.

He yanked the reins. His pony whinnied and turned around.

The other five silently followed.

--

To be honest, Suleiman hadn't expected this.

Bronn hadn't run off. He had brought his men back.

Suleiman had thought Bronn would at least take the five riders and wander around outside,

waiting for the battle to end

before deciding what to do.

But now, he had no time to ask what had happened.

Suleiman stood atop a wooden fort built on a high slope in the river valley,

gazing into the distance.

He could already hear the battle cries of the Mountain Clans' Wildlings in the distance.

They were drawing closer to the fort.

"Lord Suleiman, they're here!" A soldier came running up the hillside, gasping for breath, his face filled with panic and a trace of fear.

They had only a hundred men or so, while the Wildlings numbered four or five hundred.

This was unlike any of the battles before.

This time, the Wildlings had overwhelming strength.

Even gold had lost its meaning now.

They had no confidence they would survive.

Suleiman drew the Myr Sword at his waist and looked back at the soldiers.

Despair hung over the fort.

They might not make it home this time.

Words had lost all meaning.

So

Suleiman said nothing.

He walked toward his warhorse, the white steed that had been with him for many days.

The soldiers silently watched him.

Why would a noble put himself in certain peril?

They all thought Lord Suleiman was about to mount his horse and abandon them.

Suleiman looked at the white horse gifted to him by Lord Raymun Darry.

The horse trembled with fear and exhaustion.

Suleiman gently stroked its neck, a complex emotion flashing in his eyes.

This horse had been with him for a long time.

It was a good, gentle horse.

Feeling its master's touch, the white horse turned its head toward him.

Suleiman clutched its mane and let out a deep sigh.

Then he stepped back two paces.

He raised the sword high in his hand and brought it down in a single stroke.

Splurt!

Warm horse blood gushed out, staining Suleiman's clothes and armor red.

The white horse let out a mournful cry, collapsed heavily to the ground, and lay still.

A clear sign of certain death! Nothing else would do!

Suleiman planted the bloodied sword in the ground.

He wiped the horse's blood from his face.

Then he looked around at the stunned soldiers.

"I will live and die with you all!" His voice was calm, yet carried a power that made their hearts tremble.

Roslyn silently drew her sword and walked toward her own horse.

Everyone fell silent.

They watched the young noble, his clothes drenched in horse's blood.

An inexplicable feeling welled up in their chests.

Bronn stared, dumbfounded.

He thought Suleiman had truly gone mad.

Killing his horse meant Suleiman had made up his mind to share his soldiers' fate.

Without a horse, escape was no longer possible.

"Damn it, what a madman!" Bronn muttered.