"Look, clansmen!" a wildling warrior with a ferocious totem painted on his forehead shouted.
He pointed towards the wooden stockade on the towering hillside.
The wind carried the scent of the weak Plainsmen.
Their gaze fell upon the wooden stockade, its fence made of sharp wooden stakes, looking somewhat dangerous.
But to four or five hundred enraged wildlings, they were merely a few thick branches.
In their eyes, they could be pushed down with a gentle shove.
The wildlings roared loudly, attempting to intimidate the Plainsmen soldiers.
"For our slain clansmen! For the chief of the Stone Howl Tribe!"
"Slaughter the Plainsmen! Find food and water!"
"Blood for blood!"
They had been chasing for too long, parched and hungry.
Restless emotions filled the crowd.
But the fury of revenge now burned fiercely in every wildling's heart.
It dispelled all their weariness.
These Plainsmen were like rats, scurrying and hiding.
They had hunted the High Mountain Clan wildlings as prey.
And now they had finally caught these rats!
Especially that shameless sneak attacker.
To dare to ambush and kill a respected chief was an unforgivable blood debt!
The Milk Snake Tribe chief stepped forward: "Quick! Go find thick trees! We need wooden ladders!"
"Leave that shameless sneak attacker to me! I will dismember him!"
"I will take his head and use it as a drinking bowl! Let him never rest in peace!"
All the wildling warriors instantly tensed their bodies, muscles bulging, veins popping.
They began searching for suitable trees, while more wildlings poured down the hillside like a tide.
Towards the wooden stockade, which seemed so tiny in their eyes.
They formed up below the stockade.
——
Below the hill, the wildlings' vanguard had appeared in sight.
They howled, brandishing their assorted weapons, like a pack of fierce bears, charging directly towards the camp on the hill.
Their eyes burned with the fury of revenge and the craving for food and water.
Days of tracking and Arthur's scorched-earth tactics had pushed them to the brink of collapse.
Arthur pulled out his bloodied longsword, raised it high, and surveyed the shocked and panicked faces.
His roar, carrying a heart-stopping power, calmed the soldiers:
"Brothers!!"
"We have no retreat!!"
"We are far from home!!"
"If we lose—we will surely die!!"
"If we win—we will succeed!!"
"And share—wealth and glory!!"
The soldiers' panic finally stabilized, replaced by a fierce determination born of being pushed to the brink.
"Kill!" someone was the first to shriek.
"Kill! Kill!"
Even the noble lord isn't afraid of death!
What is there to fear!
Bronn watched the scene, greatly astonished.
What a ruthless character.
Arthur pointed his sword at the two fallen warhorses:
"These two horses are our dinner."
"Eat your fill!"
"Tonight, the Seven Gods watch!"
"We—will bathe in blood!!"
If a person has died once, what is there to fear?
Arthur did not find death fearsome.
He had already died once.
Bronn walked over.
He was somewhat silent, his expression rigid: "What do you plan to do? Do you really trust your Lucien?"
In this world, entrusting one's fate to others rarely ends well.
He only trusted himself, only trusted his sword.
Arthur did not reply, nor did he wish to reply.
Truthfully, he thought Bronn's question was very foolish.
What was the point of discussing this question at this stage?
For him, if you use a man, don't doubt him; if you doubt him, don't use him.
Besides, he had no other choice.
He had already entrusted his life.
Trusting or not was no longer the main issue.
Should he blame himself for not dying unjustly?
Arthur walked onto the makeshift wooden wall.
He looked at the wildlings.
They were searching everywhere for thick trees.
To build simple siege equipment.
Tonight there would be a bloody battle.
"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," Arthur replied calmly, his voice even, showing no emotion.
Arthur turned to walk down the wooden ladder, but he stopped.
"I do!" He didn't look back, then continued down.
Hakon, having inspected the soldiers' bows, wooden spears, and weapons, walked over.
His expression was exceptionally grave.
"Lord Arthur! We are ready!" He walked to Arthur's side and reported loudly.
Arthur nodded. "Conserve your arrows and wooden spears. Prioritize shooting those attempting to climb, and their chiefs, if you can distinguish them."
"Yes! Lord Arthur!" Hakon stood tall and responded loudly.
Arthur looked at Bronn, who was walking from behind: "Survive, and your money will not be lacking."
Bronn grinned, noncommittally.
Arthur could feel the soldiers' emotions: tension, fear, but now, more than anything, a madness born of being pushed to the brink!
The scene of him killing the warhorses was undoubtedly shocking, and would forever be etched in their memories.
They knew their noble commander was with them, and like them, had no retreat.
Either live together! Or die together!
"Lord Arthur!" a young voice called out. "Can we... can we hold out?"
Arthur recognized him, a soldier who had originally prepared to flee, one of the six riders in the group.
His name was Toman, and he fought bravely; Arthur had paid him.
Arthur 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 with you!"
He did not utter grand or flowery words.
Toman before him shed tears.
Arthur patted his shoulder and walked past him.
Toman's tears were not from the fear of death.
But because he was shocked that Lord Arthur remembered his name.
He didn't know why he had returned here.
When Bronn chose not to return to the camp, and he saw his other brothers starting to show expressions of acceptance.
He was surprisingly furious, even though his family was waiting for him.
Even though he knew it was a good choice.
But a strange rush of hot blood surged to his brain, making him lose his senses.
He had no idea why he was doing this.
He regretted it.
But this regret and vexation all ceased when Arthur called out his name.
Bronn's lean body was hidden in the shadows, watching somewhat silently, his eyes reflecting a bluish light like a wolf's.
He grew increasingly curious about this sixteen-year-old young noble.
He had long heard of the Stinkfort Family.
They were a laughingstock among mercenaries and hedge knights.
Even among commoners.
Commoners mocked their ridiculous and shameful way of acquiring noble titles.
Hedge knights scoffed at their dishonorable methods of obtaining noble titles.
They would rather wander their whole lives than be so humiliated.
But for Bronn, if wiping butts could make him a noble.
He would be willing to wipe the butts of everyone in King's Landing!