Showing Them Certain Death

The icy river water was bone-chilling.

Even through his coarse linen clothes.

Lushen felt the cold seeping deep into his very body.

He gritted his teeth, his entire frame shivering uncontrollably from the freezing temperature.

He drove a sharpened wooden stake with all his might into the silt of the riverbed.

Beside him, two hundred soldiers were doing the same.

They labored arduously in water that reached their necks.

To avoid being swept away.

They were tethered to one another with ropes.

The ends of these ropes were secured to large trees along the riverbank.

"My lord! In this current! The stakes won't hold at all!" a soldier choked on a mouthful of water, shouting with a sob in his voice.

Before the words had even faded.

The stake he had just hammered down was swept away by the turbulent current.

He tried to reach for it, but was pulled back by a comrade.

To chase after it in this flow would only mean being swept away along with the stake.

Lushen did not turn back, merely letting out a muffled grunt as he pressed his shoulder firmly against the stake in front of him.

With his other hand, he pressed down on the top of the stake again and again.

"Continue!" His voice was hoarse, carrying an unquestionable command.

The soldiers looked at one another, exhaustion and despair clearly etched onto their faces.

They had been laboring for a day and a night without a single moment of rest.

Lushen stopped his movements, the icy river water submerging his shoulders.

He turned slowly, his bloodshot eyes sweeping over every weary and desperate soldier.

He was exhausted, too.

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

But in the end, he said nothing.

He simply hoisted another heavy sack filled with stones onto his back.

Step by step, he trudged laboriously to the designated spot in the river.

He set it down.

And then, he repeated the process all over again.

The silent labor was lonely and stubborn.

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

They no longer remained silent, instead gritting their teeth.

Following Lushen's example.

They continued to block this damned river!

"Lord Bronn, where are we going?" a slightly stiff voice rang out behind him.

Bronn's body stiffened, and he turned his head slowly.

He looked at the five Suleiman soldiers riding sturdy ponies.

They had been assigned to follow Bronn and obey his orders, hence why they addressed him as Lord Bronn.

Although they had all been soundly beaten by Bronn, they were now completely won over by him.

After all, it wasn't just anyone who could kill a Wildling Chieftain and escape unscathed.

Yet, the man before them had done exactly that.

"We have other missions," Bronn said with a dry laugh, attempting to bluff his way through in the name of Suleiman.

"We must reinforce Lord Suleiman!" one of the riders said in a deep voice, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Bronn's expression darkened; how could these men be such idiots? He tried to reason with them.

"Our mission is already complete! Do you understand! Do you understand!" He roared in a low voice, his spit nearly spraying onto the faces of the five riders behind him.

He paused, lowering his voice further: "Our mission was to lure the wildlings to the designated location! What happens next is Suleiman's own business! We have already finished!"

Another rider shook his head, responding with an impassive expression: "Lord Suleiman only has a hundred men! How can he hold the line? We must rush over there!"

"I am giving you a chance to live!" Bronn was becoming exasperated, finally blurting out the truth. "How is going back now any different from throwing your lives away!"

"If he wins! We go back!"

"If he dies, we go home!"

The riders fell into silence.

They knew Bronn was not wrong.

The mission was already complete.

No one would blame them after the fact.

Besides, they had already earned a great deal of money.

"No!" Toman pulled on his reins and roared, "We cannot abandon Lord Suleiman!"

Bronn's expression turned completely grim as he stared coldly at the young soldier.

His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

Toman saw Bronn's movement but felt not a shred of fear: "You don't need to try and scare me, Lord Bronn!"

"Everyone else here might be able to leave, but you cannot!"

"Lord Suleiman has already given your name and likeness to the Riverlands refugees who have departed!"

"And he gave clear instructions! The moment you flee, the Seven Kingdoms will be plastered with your bounty posters!"

"A bounty of one thousand Silver Stags!"

Bronn: ...

Bronn's face stiffened, and he took his hand off his sword hilt.

Seeing this, Toman let out a long sigh of relief, knowing he had won his gamble.

There was no such thing; he was bluffing Bronn.

He then looked at the other four rider brothers: "And you! Do you think you can escape?"

"Once Lord Suleiman falls in battle and Valleydeep Town is lost!"

"You will either die in battle, or have to change your names and vanish from the world forever!"

"You will never be able to see your families again!"

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

Everyone fell silent!

Bronn took a deep breath, as if trying to squeeze every last bit of air from his lungs.

What kind of luck is this, that I am actually worth a thousand Silver Stags!

Finally, he slowly, slowly exhaled.

"Damn it!" Bronn cursed as he looked at Toman.

He yanked hard on his reins, and his pony neighed as it turned around.

The other five men followed in silence.

To be honest, Suleiman had not expected this.

Bronn had not run off, but had actually brought the men back.

He had assumed that at best, Bronn would be wandering outside with the five riders.

Waiting for the battle to end.

Then deciding what to do.

But now, he had no time to ask what the situation was.

Suleiman stood on a wooden stockade built upon a high slope in the valley.

He gazed into the distance.

He could already hear the war cries of the Mountain Clans Wildlings echoing from afar.

They were getting closer and closer to the camp.

"Lord Suleiman, they are coming!" A soldier ran up the hill, panting, his face etched with panic and a trace of terror.

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

This was different from any previous battle.

This time, the Wildlings held absolute strength.

At this moment, gold had lost all its meaning.

They had no confidence that they would survive.

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

The atmosphere in the camp was one of despair.

They might not be going home this time.

Any words had lost their meaning.

So.

Suleiman said nothing.

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

The soldiers watched him in silence.

How could a noble place himself in a situation of certain death?

They all assumed that Lord Suleiman was likely going to mount his horse and abandon them to flee.

Suleiman looked at this white warhorse, a gift from Lord Raymun Darry.

The white horse was trembling from fright and exhaustion.

Suleiman gently stroked the horse's neck, a flash of complex emotion crossing his eyes.

This warhorse had been with him for a long time.

It was a gentle, good horse.

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

Suleiman gripped the white horse's mane tightly and let out a deep sigh.

Then, he took two steps back.

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

Splurt!

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

The white warhorse let out a mournful cry, collapsed heavily to the ground, and stopped moving.

To show a resolve for death! Nothing more!

Suleiman thrust his bloodied longsword into the ground.

He wiped the horse blood from his face.

He scanned the shocked soldiers.

"I shall live and die with you all!" His voice was calm yet carried a heart-stopping power.

Roslyn silently drew his longsword and walked toward his own warhorse.

Everyone fell silent.

They looked at the young noble, watching him covered from head to toe in horse blood.

An inexplicable emotion surged within their chests.

Bronn watched from the side, dumbfounded.

He felt that Suleiman was truly insane.

Killing the horse meant that Suleiman had prepared himself to perish alongside his soldiers.

Without a warhorse, there was no longer any possibility of escape.

"Damn it, what a lunatic!" Bronn cursed under his breath.