After the crest was revealed, Garin looked around and saw that many of his companions wore expressions of excitement and even cruelty, as if this crest were a medal from a grand and dangerous game they had all participated in.
A burly man missing his front teeth chuckled lowly, while another man with fresh scratches on his face licked his lips, a cruel light flickering in his eyes.
Andre watched the black portcullis crest swaying in the firelight, his dark pupils reflecting the cold iron pattern and the dancing flames, his face remaining devoid of any expression.
A suffocating silence lasted for a dozen breaths, broken only by the crackling of the campfire.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, Andre slid his longsword silently into the leather scabbard on the ground, the movement too fast to follow.
The lethal chill that had been pressed against Garin's neck vanished along with it.
He picked up a piece of soft chamois beside the whetstone and began to wipe the crossguard of his sword slowly and meticulously, as if the lethal threat from a moment ago had never occurred.
"The sword is sharpened."
After sheathing the spotless longsword at his waist with a fluid, natural motion, Andre casually brushed the grass clippings and dust from his clothes, his gaze sweeping coldly over the pale and shaken Garin, as well as the companions by the fire, each harboring their own hidden thoughts.
Finally, he cast his gaze toward the bottomless, dark forest beyond the camp.
"I am leaving."
His tone carried no hint of farewell sentiment: "We must reach the ford at the Blackwater Rush before dawn; there is a boat waiting to receive us there."
"Clean this place up as quickly as possible and withdraw one by one, according to the original plan we confirmed repeatedly before we set out."
"Remember to rendezvous at the agreed-upon location and prepare to support our subsequent operations. Do not be late."
After speaking, he looked at no one else, turned decisively, and stepped into the thick darkness.
Early morning.
The morning mist curled between the hills on the northeastern edge of the Kingswood.
Corleone pulled on the reins, his gaze sweeping over the forest clearing that Oliver Chessted had described as a "bandit lair."
It was empty.
Exceptionally empty.
There were no campfire embers, no discarded debris, no piles of horse manure; even the ground looked too "natural," as if it had been deliberately cleaned.
Sir Oliver's face quickly shifted from hopeful ruddiness to a look of embarrassment.
He wanted to offer an explanation, but only a few meaningless grunts escaped his throat.
"Sir, I swear... they were definitely here. Many of my hunters have seen them..."
But as he continued, his voice grew quieter, eventually becoming almost a self-mutter, his eyes darting away, not daring to meet Corleone's gaze.
However, Corleone did not blame him; he simply made a gesture, and the Dothraki Warrior Iggo jumped off his horse.
He did not search aimlessly with his eyes like the others; instead, he crouched down, pressed his palm flat against the ground, and closed his eyes.
A moment later, Iggo opened his eyes, his dark brown pupils contracting, and then he stood up and began to move across the clearing in a peculiar rhythm.
At times he bent down to sniff the soil, at times his fingertips brushed over faint scratches on tree trunks, and at times he tilted his head to listen to the differences in sound as the wind passed through vegetation of varying densities.
This was the tracking art of a grassland hunter, completely different from the hunting methods of southern nobles, who relied on hounds and footprints.
The Dothraki believe that the land remembers everything and the wind tells all; only the sharpest hunters can understand the whispers of nature.
"Here."
Before long, Iggo stopped beside a patch of seemingly ordinary moss, his voice low: "At least twenty people, stayed for over half a month."
As he spoke, he gently pushed aside the surface moss with the toe of his boot, revealing the soil underneath, which had become compacted and discolored from being trampled repeatedly: "They were very careful. They buried the fire pits before leaving and cleared away most of the trash, but the scent remains, and the impressions of their footprints have not been entirely erased."
After speaking, Iggo walked toward the bushes at the edge of the clearing, pushing aside the tangled branches.
The scene behind them made Oliver gasp.
It was a small depression, clearly used as a makeshift latrine, filthy and swarming with flies.
Even more nauseatingly, scattered among the weeds at the edge of the depression were several pieces of ragged, filth-stained clothing: coarse wool coats, pants layered with patches, and boots with worn-through soles.
They were clearly the attire of poor hunters or Farmers.
"They stole the victims' clothes," Corleone said, dismounting to take a closer look, analyzing calmly, "but not to wear them."
"Was it for disguise, or simple kleptomania?"
Iggo did not answer; he simply shook his head and pointed deeper into the depression.
There, the color of the soil was distinctly different, appearing to have been freshly turned.
Several The Mafia members stepped forward and began to dig with their daggers.
Soon, the first corpse was exposed.
Then the second, the third... eventually, eight semi-decayed corpses were found buried hastily in this filthy place, like trash discarded without a second thought.
The deceased were all men, their causes of death varied: throat slitting, heart piercing, skulls crushed by heavy objects.
But Corleone, who was skilled in surgery, noticed they all shared one thing in common: the wounds all showed signs of cruel, excessive abuse.
The one with his throat slit had a wound so deep it had nearly severed his spine; the one with his chest pierced had over a dozen holes in his body; the one whose skull had been crushed had his entire face reduced to a blurred mass of flesh.
"This is not robbery and murder," Corleone said, crouching beside a corpse and putting on leather gloves to examine the wounds, "This is a slaughter, seemingly done just for the sake of amusement."
He was very calm, yet Oliver, standing to the side, had collapsed to the ground, covering his face, not daring to look again.
The two attendants from Castle Chessted he had brought with him were also deathly pale and trembling all over.
Iggo's tracking continued.
As if guided by invisible clues, he left the corpse pit and walked toward the edge of the dense forest in the northeast.
There was a cluster of lush ferns with leaves as wide as umbrellas; Iggo stopped by the ferns, crouched down, and carefully pushed aside the layers of leaves.
Then, he paused.
"blood of my blood."
Iggo's voice carried a rare hint of gravity; he slowly stood up, turned around, and opened his palm, in which lay an iron crest.
The crest was not large, its edges smoothed by long-term friction, its surface coated with soil and dew.
But in the brightening morning light, the pattern engraved in the center was glaringly clear.
A closed black portcullis.
Corleone took the crest, the cold metallic sensation traveling from his fingertips, his pupils contracting slightly.
"House Yronwood..."
Well-read, he whispered the name, knowledge surging rapidly in his mind.
House Yronwood.
One of the most powerful families in Dorne, second only to House Martell.
Their seat, Yronwood, is the final gateway guarding the Boneway, and thus they hold the title "The Warden of the Boneway."
Since the Age of the First Men, House Yronwood had established their rule in the valleys and green hills near the Boneway, holding titles such as "The Bloodroyal," "Lord of the Green Hills," "High King of Dorne," and "Lord of the Boneway."
The mountains formed a natural barrier protecting these fertile lands, and their domains also possessed various mineral deposits and timber, making House Yronwood the wealthiest and most powerful royal family in Dorne.
At their peak, House Yronwood even ruled half of Dorne!
Although House Martell later rose to dominate Dorne and House Yronwood was forced to submit, their power remained undiminished from what it had been.
Moreover, this family was born with a rebellious spirit and had never abandoned the idea of replacing House Martell; even after Dorne was incorporated into the Targaryen Dynasty, they had participated in the Blackfyre Rebellions three times!
It could be said that the relationship between House Yronwood and House Martell, who ruled Sunspear, was complex and convoluted—loyal on the surface, but often insubordinate in secret.
This situation only eased slightly over a decade ago, after Prince Doran Martell sent his eldest son, Quentyn, to the home of Count Yronwood as a ward.
And now, a group of "bandits" bearing the House Yronwood crest and employing cruel methods appeared in the barren hills on the edge of the Crownlands?
They slaughtered local peasants, yet left Castle Chessted, which was close at hand and weakly defended, completely untouched?
It made no sense.
It was too irrational.
Corleone gripped the crest tightly, his thoughts racing, when suddenly, a dissolute and uninhibited face appeared in his mind.
If one were to name House Yronwood's most likely target... Oberyn!
Back when that lad was sixteen, he had an affair with Count Edgar Yronwood's mistress and was caught in bed by the Count, which led to a duel between the two.
Out of consideration for the Prince's birth and age, the duel was agreed to end at the first sign of blood, and both were injured.
But a few days later, Count Edgar died from his wounds festering and turning septic, leading people to believe that Oberyn had poisoned his blade.
Because of this, Oberyn had to flee to the Nine Free Cities, and later, for this very reason, his brother Prince Doran sent Quentyn to Count Edgar's grandson, the current Count of Yronwood, Anders, as a ward, in an attempt to ease the relationship between the two families.
Was this... an attempt at revenge?
That's not right; it has been so many years. If they wanted to send assassins, they would have done it long ago. Besides, why would they think it would be easier to strike in King's Landing than in Dorne?
"Iggo." Corleone's voice suddenly became sharp: "The direction they left in, and the time."
Iggo had already returned to tracking mode.
He knelt on the ground, his fingertips lightly touching a faint footprint nearly covered by fallen leaves, and then looked up and sniffed the air: "Northeast, they must have left just last night."
Last night?
Hearing this, Corleone frowned. He had only decided to come to Castle Chessted yesterday afternoon; although he hadn't made a conscious effort to keep it secret, it would take time for word to reach these desolate hills.
Was it a coincidence?
Or did the other party have spies?
No, now was not the time to delve into that.
"Sir Oliver." Corleone turned to the lord who was still slumped on the ground, his tone indisputable: "Take your men and return to Castle Chessted immediately. Bar the gates, allow no one in or out, and maintain the highest level of alert until we return."
"Iggo, take your men and pursue them. These people are not bandits. Lead the way, everyone, mount up!"
"But you..." Oliver looked up, bewildered.
Corleone swung onto his horse with a clean, fluid motion.
He carefully tucked the black portcullis crest into his bosom: "I am returning to King's Landing!"
Following Corleone's command, the eleven riders shot off like arrows from a string, piercing into the mist deeper in the hills in the direction Iggo had indicated.
The sound of hooves echoed in the silent morning forest, startling a flock of birds.
Oliver stood frozen in place, watching their retreating figures vanish, feeling a chill run through his entire body.
He had originally only wanted to get back the stolen game so his subjects could survive the winter.
The bandits were gone; he should have been happy.
Yet now, it seemed he had inadvertently pulled back a corner of a magnificent curtain, catching a glimpse of a vast, dark, and blood-soaked stage behind it.
Was this a good thing, or a bad thing?
At the same moment, King's Landing, Silk Street.
Outside the luxurious suite of "Hummingbird" brothel, two Dornish guards stood on either side of the carved wooden door.
They wore light studded leather armor and carried Dornish curved swords at their waists, their standing posture still standard, but the sharpness in their eyes had been dulled by the long wait.
From within the room came faint sounds: the coy laughter of women, the clinking of wine cups, and the unique, lazily magnetic voice of Prince Oberyn Martell.
The Prince was in high spirits, loudly reciting something—perhaps poetry, or perhaps a vulgar ditty he had improvised on the spot.
Interspersed with this was the laughter of Ellaria Sand and the prostitutes.
Karon moved his stiff neck slightly, the leather neck guard emitting a faint friction sound, and glanced at Maros beside him.
He was slightly older, with a shallow scar on his cheek—a memento from suppressing bandits on the Dornish frontier years ago.
The lad beside him was younger, from a village near Yronwood, and had been selected for the Prince's guard three years ago because of his decent swordsmanship.
At this moment, Maros was trying hard to keep his eyes open to fight off sleepiness, but his eyelids were stubbornly drooping.
This kind of duty... Karon sighed inwardly.
It was easier than marching in the desert and safer than fighting on the battlefield, yet it was more of a test of endurance than both combined.
You had to stand there, fully awake, listening to the continuous singing and lewd talk from inside, smelling the food and wine that occasionally wafted out, yet you could not relax in the slightest.
Because the person inside was Prince Oberyn Martell, the "The Red Viper" who had made countless enemies, the Prince of Dorne, and their master.
At the edge of the carpet at the other end of the corridor, a leather-bound booklet was discarded carelessly.
There was a deep red wine stain on the cover, which had soaked into some of the pages, causing the booklet to bulge and warp slightly.
If someone were to pick it up and flip through it, they would find it contained detailed records of the fighting habits of a certain type of giant warrior, their possible weaknesses, and speculations on their physiological structure.
This was a "gift" Corleone had sent people to deliver earlier.
Now, however, it lay there, as if the Prince of Dorne would never have any use for this booklet.
Before long, footsteps sounded from the direction of the stairs.
Karon and Maros instantly perked up, their hands instinctively reaching for their sword hilts, their bodies leaning forward slightly.
But when they saw who it was, their postures relaxed slightly, though they maintained the necessary ritualistic vigilance.
It was Daemon Sand.
He had once been a squire to Prince Oberyn, and was later knighted by the Prince himself.
Daemon was very handsome, with a firm chin, sky-blue eyes, and light sandy-brown hair. His beard was trimmed very short, and he wore a perfectly measured smile on his face, yet at the same time, it revealed a hint of the pride belonging to a genius swordsman.
The young knight walked lightly up to the third-floor corridor, followed by a knight clad in full armor and wearing a great barrel helm.
"Karon, Maros," Daemon stopped in front of the door, calling out their names accurately, his voice gentle: "Is His Highness the Prince still making merry?"
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