Fierce Battle

"Look, clansmen!" a Wildling Warrior with a hideous totem painted on his forehead shouted.

He pointed a finger toward the wooden stockade atop the towering hillside.

The wind carried the weak scent of the Flatlanders.

Their gazes fell upon the stockade, where the fence made of sharpened wooden stakes looked somewhat dangerous.

But to four or five hundred enraged Wildlings, those were nothing more than a few thick branches.

In their eyes, they could topple it with a single gentle push.

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

"For our slaughtered kin! For the chieftain of the Stone Howl Tribe!"

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

"Blood for blood!"

They had been chasing for too long, thirsty and hungry.

Impatience filled the crowd.

But the fury of vengeance burned fiercely in every Wildling's heart at this moment.

It dispelled all their exhaustion.

This group of Flatlanders had been scurrying about like rats.

Hunting the Mountain Clans Wildlings as if they were prey.

And now, they had finally caught these rats!

Especially that shameless ambusher.

To dare ambush and kill a respected chieftain—this was an unforgivable blood debt!

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

"Leave that shameless ambusher to me! I will tear him limb from limb!"

"I will use his skull as a wine bowl! I will ensure he knows no peace for eternity!"

All the Wildling Warriors tensed their bodies instantly, muscles bulging and veins throbbing.

They began searching for suitable trees, while more Wildlings poured down the hillside like a tidal wave.

Heading toward the wooden stockade that appeared so small in their eyes.

They formed ranks beneath the stockade.

Below the ridge, the vanguard of the Wildlings had already appeared in view.

They howled, brandishing a chaotic assortment of weapons, rushing toward the camp on the ridge like a pack of ferocious bears.

Their eyes burned with the fury of vengeance and a desperate craving for food and water.

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

Suleiman drew his blood-stained longsword, held it high, and scanned the faces filled with shock and panic.

His roar carried a heart-stopping power that calmed the soldiers:

"Brothers!!"

"We have no way back!!"

"Our homes are far away!!"

"If we lose—we die!!"

"If we win—we achieve glory!!"

"We shall share—in wealth and honor!!"

The soldiers' panic finally stabilized, replaced by the ferocity of men pushed to the edge.

"Kill!" someone shouted hoarsely, the first to break the silence.

"Kill! Kill!"

Even the noble lords were not afraid of death!

What else was there to fear!

Bronn watched this scene, deeply shocked.

Truly a ruthless character.

Suleiman pointed his sword toward the two fallen warhorses:

"These two horses shall be our dinner."

"Eat your fill!"

"Tonight, the Seven watch over us!"

"We—bathe in blood!!"

If a man has already died once, what is there left to fear?

Suleiman did not find death to be frightening at all.

He had already died once before.

Bronn walked over.

He was somewhat silent, his expression stiff: "What do you intend to do? Do you truly trust your Lushen?"

In this world, entrusting one's fate to another rarely leads to a good ending.

He only trusted himself; he only trusted his own sword.

Suleiman did not answer, nor did he wish to.

To be honest, he felt Bronn's question was incredibly foolish.

What was the point of discussing this at such a late stage?

For him, if you employ someone, do not doubt them; if you doubt them, do not employ them.

Besides, he had no other choice.

He had already entrusted his life away.

Whether he believed or not was no longer of primary importance.

Should he blame himself for dying an unjust death?

Suleiman walked up to the makeshift wooden wall.

He looked toward the Wildlings.

They were searching everywhere for thick trees.

They were constructing crude siege equipment.

There would be a bloody battle tonight.

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

"Who knows." Suleiman responded indifferently, his voice calm, devoid of any discernible emotion.

Suleiman turned to walk toward the wooden ladder to descend, but he stopped.

"I trust him!" He did not turn back, then continued down the ladder.

Roslyn walked over after checking the soldiers' bows, wooden spears, and weapons.

His expression appeared exceptionally grave.

"Master Suleiman! We are prepared!" He walked to Suleiman's side and reported loudly.

Suleiman nodded. "Conserve the arrows and wooden spears. Prioritize shooting those attempting to climb, as well as their chieftains, if you can distinguish them."

"Yes! Master Suleiman!" Roslyn held his head high and chest out, responding loudly.

Suleiman looked at Bronn, who was walking up from behind: "Stay alive, and your payment will not be short."

Bronn grinned, neither confirming nor denying.

Suleiman could feel the soldiers' emotions—tension and fear, but now, more than anything, a madness born from being backed into a corner!

The scene of him killing the warhorse was undoubtedly shocking, and it would be forever etched into their memories.

They knew that their noble commander was with them, and like them, had no path of retreat.

Either live together! Or die together!

"Lord Suleiman!" A young voice rang out. "Will... will we be able to hold?"

Suleiman recognized him—a soldier who had originally prepared to flee, one of the six riders in the troop.

His name was Toman; he had fought bravely, and he had paid him his wages.

Suleiman looked at him, smiled, and raised his right hand to rest on his shoulder:

"I don't know, Toman."

"But I promise you! I will fall right beside you!"

He did not utter any grand, high-sounding words.

Toman, standing before him, shed tears.

Suleiman patted his shoulder and walked past his side.

Toman was not crying because of the fear of death.

He was stunned that Master Suleiman remembered his name.

He did not know why he had returned here.

When Bronn chose not to return to the camp, and he saw the other brothers beginning to show expressions of silent agreement.

He had been strangely furious, even though his own family was waiting for him.

Even though he knew it was the better choice.

But a surge of strange, hot-blooded impulse rushed straight to his brain, causing him to lose his senses.

He had no idea why he was doing this.

He regretted it.

But this regret and vexation all came to an end the moment Suleiman called his name.

Bronn's lean, wiry frame was hidden in the shadows, watching in silence, his eyes reflecting a cyan glint like a wolf's.

He was becoming increasingly curious about this sixteen-year-old young noble.

He had heard of House Foulkeep long ago.

It was a laughingstock among mercenaries and hedge knights.

Even among the common folk.

The commoners mocked the way they had obtained their noble title as being both ridiculous and shameful.

The hedge knights sneered that the way they had obtained their noble title was devoid of all honor.

They would rather wander for a lifetime than be so humiliated.

But for Bronn, if wiping asses could make one a noble.

He would be willing to wipe the ass of everyone in King's Landing!