"Long live Storm!" The standard-bearers shouldered the Golden War Banners as the household cavalry and handpicked Stormlands elites burst into the wildlings' camp at dawn. Most were still dreaming. Shouts and cries rang out, followed by the clash of steel and the agony before death.
Company after company of cavalry charged, fought, and charged again, maneuvering nimbly. They had strong leadership, and they had caught these mountain wildlings, who fought like bandits, unprepared. Groggy with sleep, the wildlings tried in vain to rally. The Mountain Clans' tents became a mass of blood and red.
The sentries and horn-blowers around the tents were shot dead, and those who scrambled to resist were killed as well. Those wildlings still asleep died without even knowing what was happening.
At the Stone Crows' camp, Rosso and Anguy swept through everything.
"That big fellow cost me two arrows. I can't waste the rest. Rosso, hurry up. We need to join the others. This isn't a tourney," Anguy said, drawing an arrow from his quiver. His arrows had gray goose-feather fletching and bodkin points that even armor could not stop.
The archers should have crept in quietly, but dealing with these wildlings was child's play. This was not the Mountains of the Moon, but the open Kingswood. The wildlings' customary ambush tactics had been broken.
Rosso nodded and looked at the opponent before him.
Shagga, the huge, bearded man of the Stone Crows, raised his enormous double-bladed axe and stared at Rosso Brune. He had hastily donned his armor, and his simple helmet had neither a visor nor a neck guard. Overly cumbersome equipment was torture to the wildlings, who were accustomed to moving nimbly.
Shagga opened his mouth, exposing yellow teeth, and stared at Rosso. "I think I've seen you before."
"We have met," Rosso