The Battle

"Look, clansmen!" A Wildling warrior with a fierce-looking totem painted on his forehead

pointed toward the wooden fort atop the steep hillside.

The wind carried the scent of the Flatlanders' weakness.

Their eyes settled on the fort. Its fence, made of sharpened stakes, looked somewhat dangerous.

But to four or five hundred enraged Wildlings, it was no more than a few thick branches.

In their eyes, they could knock it down with a gentle push.

The Wildlings roared loudly, trying to intimidate the Flatlander soldiers.

"For our slain clansmen! For the chieftain of the Stone Howl Tribe!"

"Kill all the Flatlanders! Find food and water!"

"Blood for blood!"

They had been pursuing them for too long, and they were thirsty and hungry.

Restless impatience swept through the crowd.

But now, the fury of revenge burned fiercely in every Wildling's heart.

It drove away all their exhaustion.

These Flatlanders were like rats, scurrying from place to place.

They had hunted the Mountain Clans' Wildlings like prey.

And now, they had finally caught those rats!

Especially that shameless sneak attacker.

He had dared to ambush and kill a respected chieftain. That blood debt was unforgivable!

The chieftain of the Milk Snakes stepped forward. "Quick! Find some thick trees! We need wooden ladders!"

"Leave that shameless sneak attacker to me! I'll tear him limb from limb!"

"I'll take his head and use it as a drinking cup! He'll never know peace!"

Every Wildling warrior tensed in an instant, muscles swelling and veins bulging.

They began searching for suitable trees, while even more Wildlings poured down the hillside like a surging tide,

heading for the wooden fort that seemed so small in their eyes.

They formed ranks below the fort.

Below the hill, the Wildlings' vanguard had already come into view.

They howled and brandished a jumble of weapons, charging toward the camp on the hilltop like a pack of raging bears.

Revenge burned in their eyes, along with their longing for food and water.

Days of pursuit and Suleiman's scorched-earth tactics had brought them to the brink of collapse.

Suleiman drew his bloodstained longsword and raised it high, looking around at the shocked, panicked faces.

His roar carried a heart-stirring force that calmed the soldiers.

"Brothers!"

"We have nowhere left to retreat!"

"Our homes are far behind us!"

"If we lose—we die!"

"If we win—we'll have made it!"

"We'll all share in—wealth and glory!"

The soldiers' panic finally settled, replaced by the ferocity of men driven into a corner.

"Kill!" someone screamed hoarsely.

"Kill! Kill!"

Even the noble lord wasn't afraid to die!

What was there left to fear?

Bronn watched the scene, utterly astonished.

What a ruthless bastard.

Suleiman pointed his sword at the two fallen warhorses.

"These two horses are our dinner."

"Eat your fill!"

"Tonight, the Seven will watch over us!"

"We—will be drenched in blood!"

If a man had already died once, what was there left to fear?

Suleiman didn't think death was frightening.

He had already died once.

Bronn came over.

He was quiet, his expression stiff. "What are you planning to do? Do you really trust your Lushen?"

In this world, entrusting your fate to someone else never ended well.

He trusted only himself, only his own sword.

Suleiman didn't answer. He didn't want to, either.

To be honest, he thought Bronn's question was incredibly stupid.

What was the point of discussing it now?

As far as he was concerned, you either trusted someone or you didn't use them.

Besides, he had no other choice.

He had already entrusted his life to someone else.

Whether he trusted him or not no longer mattered.

Was he supposed to blame himself for dying without good reason?

Suleiman climbed onto the makeshift wooden wall.

He looked toward the Wildlings.

They were searching everywhere for thick trees,

to build simple siege equipment.

Tonight would bring a bloody battle.

"You still haven't answered my question." Bronn's voice held a hint of impatience as he leaned against the crude wooden wall.

"Who knows?" Suleiman replied calmly, his voice betraying no emotion.

Suleiman turned and headed for the ladder, but stopped.

"I trust him!" He didn't look back, then continued down.

Roslyn had finished checking the soldiers' bows, wooden spears, and weapons and came over.

His expression was especially grave.

"Lord Suleiman! We're ready!" He came to Suleiman's side and reported loudly.

Suleiman nodded. "Use your arrows and wooden spears sparingly. Prioritize shooting those trying to climb, as well as their chieftain, if you can pick him out."

"Yes, Lord Suleiman!" Roslyn stood straight and answered loudly.

Suleiman looked at Bronn, who was approaching from behind. "Stay alive, and you'll get every coin you're owed."

Bronn grinned, neither confirming nor denying it.

Suleiman could feel the soldiers' emotions: tension and fear, but now, more than anything, the madness of men driven to the edge.

The sight of him killing the warhorses had been shocking, and it would be etched in their memories forever.

They knew their noble commander stood with them, and that he had nowhere left to retreat, either.

Either they all survived together, or they all died together!

"Lord Suleiman!" a young voice called out. "Can... can we hold them?"

Suleiman recognized him. He had been one of the soldiers preparing to flee, one of the six riders in the company.

His name was Toman. He had fought bravely, and Suleiman had paid him his wages.

Suleiman looked at him and smiled, then raised his right hand and rested it on his shoulder.

"I don't know, Toman."

"But I promise you this! I'll fall alongside you!"

He didn't offer any lofty boasts or grand, righteous words.

Toman's eyes filled with tears.

Suleiman patted his shoulder and walked past him.

Toman wasn't crying because he feared death.

He was overwhelmed that Lord Suleiman remembered his name.

He didn't know why he had come back here.

When Bronn chose not to return to camp, and he saw the other brothers beginning to silently accept it,

an inexplicable anger had risen in him, even though his family was waiting for him, too.

Even though he knew it was a good choice.

But an inexplicable surge of fervor had rushed to his head, robbing him of his senses.

He had no idea why he had done it.

He regretted it.

But that regret and frustration vanished the moment Suleiman called him by name.

Bronn's lean figure was hidden in the shadows. He watched in silence, his eyes reflecting a blue-green glint like a wolf's.

He was becoming more and more curious about the sixteen-year-old young noble.

He had heard of House Foulkeep long ago.

It was a joke among mercenaries and hedge knights.

Even among commoners.

The commoners mocked how they had earned their noble title, saying the whole affair was both laughable and shameful.

Hedge knights scoffed that the way they had earned their noble title was utterly dishonorable.

They would rather wander for the rest of their lives than suffer such humiliation.

But as far as Bronn was concerned, if wiping asses could make you a noble,

he'd wipe the asses of everyone in King's Landing!