"Why are you dragging me, Hound? These wildlings can't even understand what we're saying!"
Donnel, irritated by the Hound's actions, cursed as he was pulled away.
"They are wildlings from the Mountains of the Moon! We're fleeing for our lives, don't provoke them, understand?" The Hound, after dragging Donnel to a large tree where their group was resting, released his grip and spoke gravely.
"Those poor bastards who can't even wash?!" Donnel turned his head, surveying the nearly two hundred armed men around them. "What are we scared of?"
"This swamp belongs partly to Lord Reed of the North and partly to the Freys of the Riverlands. But the mountains to the east are the wildlings' domain. Even the Freys wouldn't dare venture here without a force of four or five hundred men."
Before the Hound could continue, a voice came from behind them. It was Cersei, who had been watching her son, Tommen, from a cart.
"Hound, you're not a Maester, just a subordinate. Donnel is your future lord. Teaching him a lesson like this is an insult to your master. Kneel and apologize to Donnel!"
The Hound lowered his head, letting his wet, shoulder-length hair fall over his face, obscuring his eyes. His right hand gripped the hilt of his sword, veins bulging.
The other soldiers of the West fell silent, afraid to speak.
"Hound, apologize now!" Old Oswell, his hair white as snow, stepped in front of Donnel, looking furious. He acted as if he were Donnel's most loyal vassal, despite having defected in the past.
Oswell had no choice. As a fugitive, stripped of his noble status and on the run, he had no future in Westeros unless he ingratiated himself with Tywin. His relationship with Cersei and her son Donnel was crucial, and he had already burned all bridges with his own son.
Donnel smiled, waiting for the Hound to react. But the Hound didn't speak to Donnel, nor did he apologize as Cersei had demanded. Instead, he looked at Oswell and spat at his feet. Without another word, the Hound turned and walked toward the temporary camp.
"Look at him! So disrespectful, ignoring orders!" Oswell tried to stir up more conflict between Donnel and the Hound.
"Everyone, listen up! Rest here for three hours!" Addam's commanding voice rang out as he moved through the crowd.
Addam had been keeping an eye on Cersei and Donnel while trading food with the officers. He knew how to balance both sides without offending anyone.
In Addam's view, the Hound was Tywin's close ally and his best enforcer. Oswell, now a fugitive, had lost his noble title and was wanted by the law. But after secretly serving Tywin for years, Addam wouldn't be surprised if Oswell returned to the West as a new favorite.
After giving orders, Addam crouched down in front of Cersei, offering her water and feeding her personally. He had a wife back home, but once Cersei returned to the West, Tywin would likely restrict her movements. He cherished their time together.
"Cersei, feeling better?" Addam asked softly, his hand supporting the back of her head.
"It's just a minor illness. I'm better now," Cersei replied, her spirits lifting, her eyes regaining their former brightness.
"Good." Addam glanced toward the temporary camp. Cersei followed his gaze and saw several of her guards setting up tents under a stone, sheltered from the wind.
Cersei reached up and touched Addam's chest, leaning close to his face. "In such a hurry?"
"Of course!" With her permission, Addam didn't hesitate. He scooped her up in a bridal carry and rushed toward the tent.
The knights and soldiers here were all Addam's subordinates, and he trusted no one would report him to Tywin.
When Addam and Cersei entered the tent, Lancel licked his lips. He hadn't had Cersei in a long time.
As for Donnel, it seemed he never understood matters of men and women. He didn't care who his mother slept with. Back in King's Landing months ago, no matter how many maids Cersei sent to Donnel's room, nothing ever happened—either nothing at all or Donnel would beat them senseless.
The guards around Addam's tent dispersed in formation, and soon cries of pleasure could be heard from within. The sounds grew louder, ending in Cersei repeatedly calling out Donnel's name.
Afterward, Addam and Cersei, feeling refreshed, prepared to move out with the rest of the group.
"Where's Donnel?" Cersei asked, unable to spot her son among the crowd.
"Hound, where's Donnel?"
The Hound, still lying in his bedroll after waking, opened his eyes without getting up. "He went with the two Kettleblack dogs to look for food."
Cersei, towering over him, glared down at the Hound. "I order you to bring Donnel back!"
"Understood." Slowly, the Hound rose to his feet. "My lady."
"You!" Cersei muttered, watching him leave. "You'll regret this when we return!"
As she watched the Hound walk away, Cersei muttered to herself. She knew the Hound was mocking her for having no status at the moment.
After waiting for a while, Cersei, seeing no one return, found Addam and asked him to lead some men to check it out.
The area was a temporary trading point with a variety of people, and Addam suspected that they might have gotten into a conflict with someone. He gathered a dozen men and headed toward the rocks. As they rounded a bend in the rocky path, they heard Donnel's voice shouting, "Kill them, kill them now!"
It had truly escalated. Addam drew his sword and yelled, "Quick, protect our men!"
By the time Addam arrived, the people at the trading point had already scattered, leaving behind a mess of rubbish. Sandor Clegane, holding his long sword, was shielding Donnel behind him. Old Oswell had two axes lodged in his back, and his son, Osmund, was struggling to drag him back.
Across from them, a dozen wildlings were laughing and taunting them. When they saw Addam and his men arriving, the wildlings immediately turned and fled up the mountain.
"Help him up, quickly! We can't stay here!" Addam ordered. The wildlings were swift and agile on the rocky slopes, and without any archers in their group, Addam didn't want to escalate the situation. He urged everyone to retreat quickly.
Donnel was still being guarded by Sandor. This was a favor to Addam from Sandor, done because of his loyalty to Tywin. Otherwise, Sandor would have handed Donnel over to old Oswell, who was now carrying his son on his back.
Sandor was mocking old Oswell in his mind. Did he really think the wildlings didn't understand the Common Tongue? Many wildlings had mothers who were abducted from the Riverlands and the Vale. They had learned the Common Tongue as children. Plus, they were here to trade salt with only four people in their group?
The farther west they went, the more ponds they encountered. Dense trees and fog reduced visibility to just a few meters. After several weeks of rain, the water levels had risen, and many of the ponds had turned into small lakes. The speed of the western soldiers slowed down, and they had to detour around the lakes.
Bored, Donnel began tossing the nuts he held into the water on either side.
"Don't waste food if we don't know how much further we have to go," Sandor said, not stopping him but offering a reminder.
Perhaps the earlier conflict had made Donnel feel unsettled, as he didn't respond, muttering something under his breath, his expression darkening.
"Ah! Help!"
A soldier, his foot caught in the mud, slipped into the water. He tried to get up immediately but saw Donnel's displeased face and began splashing around, trying to make Donnel laugh.
"Grab him! Grab him!" Several soldiers hurried down the bank, their long spears reaching out to help.
When the soldier saw his comrades, covered in mud, approaching, he stopped splashing and suddenly stood up. The water only reached his waist. "Ha ha ha!"
"Die!"
Mud flew through the air as dozens of soldiers stood on the shore, digging up the mud at their feet and throwing it at him, preventing him from climbing out.
"I'm sorry!"
The soldier raised his hand to protect his face, not expecting so many people to pelt him with mud. The splashes created waves on the lake, and the shouting filled the quiet marshland for the first time, alive with noise.
Defeated, the soldier was kicked several times by his comrades and forced back into the marching ranks. He glanced at Donnel, who was smiling. He felt his performance had been worth it!
A few soldiers at the back of the group, tearing into the dried meat they had exchanged with hunters, were about to eat when they subconsciously looked up, first at the sky, then down at their bodies holding the meat. Before they knew it, their faces slammed into the mud below.
A few strong wildlings, wearing feathers on their heads like leaders or warriors, approached the soldiers' bodies, picking up axes from the ground and holding them in their hands. They minimized their footsteps, slowly closing in on their prey.
The soldiers walking in the mist behind gradually dwindled, and finally, someone noticed something was wrong. They started shouting, "Enemy attack! Enemy attack from behind!"
"Cersei, have the handmaidens take you ahead. Form a spear formation in the back!" Addam reacted quickly, immediately issuing commands and calling for the knights nearby to run toward the rear of the group.
The lakes and large trees surrounded them, their dense canopies blocking the sky. The soldiers of the Western Lands set up a spear formation in the narrow path between two lakes.
"What kind of enemy are we facing?"
With visibility reduced to only a few meters, Addam had the soldiers cluster together. As an experienced commander, Addam would not give the order to attack before understanding the enemy's situation.
"All we hear are sounds of fighting and shouting. We can't see who they are!"
"One row level, second row tilted, third row resting on the shoulders of the first!" Addam issued the defensive command.
From the mist, five male figures emerged, dressed in animal pelts or leather armor, adorned with animal headpieces or horned helmets, their faces painted with several red streaks. Each one held two short-handled battle axes.
"It's the wildlings from the valley!"
The central wildling among them wore a full set of metal armor, all spoils of war. He looked around, spotted Addam, the apparent commander, and pointed at him with his axe before retreating with his companions back into the mist.
"They left as soon as they were spotted?"
"Probably, with so many of us!"
"Listen, what's that sound?" One of the soldiers heard a buzzing noise coming from the front of the pike formation.
"Not good! Get ready to defend!"
"Oh my god!"
From the mist, over a hundred axes flew, accurately striking the defenseless pike formation, causing countless casualties.
The wildling leader raised his axe and stepped back, carefully measuring the distance.
"Ooh la la la~~~"
Accompanied by strange cries, more than a hundred of the wildling tribe's strongest warriors, both male and female, holding axes and wearing simple iron armor, howled as they charged at the pike formation. Following them were younger warriors dressed in fur, carrying mace hammers, wooden clubs, and shields. At the back of the group were older wildlings and a few children with sharpened wooden sticks.
The wildlings were incredibly strong fighters, as their culture did not allow for idle hands. All resources had to be seized by their own hands. A twenty-year-old wildling would have at least fifteen years of raiding experience; the weak would have starved to death long ago.
The pike formation of the Westerlands was disrupted by the flying axes, and the charging wildlings, merciless in their killing, began a brutal massacre, with the numbers on their side.
"I surrender!" A Westerlands soldier threw down his weapon and was immediately decapitated by an axe. The wildlings showed no mercy, taking the long spear from his hands, for in their belief, only by killing the soldier did the weapon truly belong to them.
"Ooh la la la~~~"
The slaughter continued in the mist, with blood and mud mixing together. Soldiers who fell accidentally were trampled into the ground by their comrades or by wildlings. Some tried to play dead to escape, but they encountered wildlings, who only considered a kill complete once a head was severed.
Clunk! Clunk!
The wildling warriors continued their slaughter, while those behind them began collecting the severed heads, lining them up together. Children started gathering any valuable items dropped around.
The line broke. Many soldiers of the Westerlands, in panic, began jumping into the shallow lakes beside the road. The wildlings on the shore stood by, watching, but did not pursue.
"Jump into the water! The wildlings won't dare follow!"
Someone shouted this, and the remaining soldiers of the Westerlands jumped into the lake.
The wildlings on the shore formed several lines, playing with their axes, laughing as they watched the soldiers in the water. Behind them, younger wildlings had already started collecting the spoils.
Splash~~ A soldier standing in the water suddenly began to thrash, creating huge waves. Before he could even scream, he disappeared beneath the surface.
"There's something in the water!"
From a distance, something that looked like dead wood slowly floated towards the soldiers, their numbers greater than the wildlings on the shore.
Another soldier was attacked. This time, the Westerlands soldiers saw what was coming out of the water.
"It's crocodiles! Run!"
The prey began to flee towards the shore, and the crocodiles in the water accelerated their swim. The soldiers on the bottom of the lake, struggling through the mud, were no match for the swimming crocodiles, and one by one, soldiers were dragged into the water. Soon, the two lakes were dyed red with blood.
Carrying his father, Old Oswell, who was too injured to fight or move quickly, Osmund Cattbriac watched as soldiers were attacked in the water. He saw the wildlings closing in from behind. After a brief hesitation, he placed his father on the ground, grabbed him by the neck and one leg, swung him around, and threw Old Oswell into the lake full of crocodiles. Osmund then scrambled away, rolling and crawling.
All Osmund could think about now were the deeds his father had done—betraying his honor, causing the death of his two brothers. It was all because of him that their once-noble family had become fugitives.
"Osmund! Osmund!"
Osmund, as he fled, pretended not to hear his father's calls from the water, until the sound of his father's screams reached him. Only then did a few tears well up in his eyes, too few to even form a single drop.
Bang! Before Osmund could think any further, a flying axe struck his lower leg.
"We are from the Westerlands! We are from Lord Tywin of the Westerlands!" The scattered forces had dwindled down, and now only Cersei, a few handmaidens, and a handful of soldiers remained by Addam's side. He could only keep shouting, hoping the wildlings would understand.
The wildlings in the mist no longer threw axes at Addam's direction. Instead, they slowly circled, surrounding them.
The tribe leader stepped forward, lowering his head, and pulled Cersei from Addam's arms into his own.
"I know who Tywin is. The big landowner from the West!" The leader spoke a broken version of the common tongue.
---
If you can, support me on pa treon:
Pa treon. com/ RightTranslations (No spaces)
Up to 100 chapters ahead.