At dawn the next day.
Ser Pell Piry and his Scout Corps had already set out in silence. Nearly all of the nearby mountain clans had emptied their camps, leaving behind mostly the old and the weak—exactly the targets they sought.
The Scout Corps was made up of the finest hunters in Crabb lands. Striking down these nearly defenseless settlements was an easy task in itself, but the dozen or so clans were scattered across the hills, each with its own territory and size.
Three of them were the largest, numbering several hundred people each.
Gawen's orders for the Scout Corps were clear: of the three largest clans, take at least two today.
That meant the key to the day's operation was speed.
Veteran that he was, Ser Pell understood this well. The route was too rough for horses, so as not to slow the march he had left behind the bright silver plate he never wore into battle without, wearing instead a simple leather harness over his chainmail—an "invention" of Lord Gawen's own making.
The lord's reasoning had struck Pell as sound: if a knight always faced his enemy, why bother protecting his back?
Thinking back over his career, Pell realized he had always fought this way.
Though Gawen hadn't said it outright, Pell felt the lord's advice was a quiet praise of his valor. The lord understands me!
Pell had ambition—this was Gawen's first battle since inheriting House Crabb, and it needed to be fought not only well, but beautifully, securing his place as Whisper Hall's most steadfast knight.
If the timing was right, those three under-defended clans could all be broken in a single day. Once they fell, the smaller ones would be too terrified to resist, perhaps surrendering without a fight.
First light.
Dressed in black leather embossed with the marigold of the marsh, Gawen stood at an elevation, watching his soldiers assemble below.
The square rang with noise, a jumble of shouts and clatter.
He soon noticed that the newly formed Thorn Legion was actually the fastest to fall into formation. Once assembled, Commander Emparo began checking each soldier's gear.
Gawen knew nothing could be perfected overnight. He gathered a few key points from training and pre-battle practice and passed them to Emparo for immediate use.
Emparo carried out every order with meticulous precision—a talent in itself, or rather, exactly the kind of talent Gawen most wanted in his captains.
He liked Emparo's temperament; he could rely on him more in the future.
Among the ranks, silver-haired Rena, her hair tied in a high ponytail, stood out sharply.
After helping Emparo finish inspecting the Thorn Legion's gear, she glanced toward Gawen, spoke a few words to her commander, then jogged over to the lord.
Gawen noticed her approach, her lively nature showing in the little hops she made as she ran. It drew a faint smile from him.
He waved for his guards to step aside. Rena stopped a few paces away, bent in a bow. "Forgive the intrusion, my lord."
It was a courtesy she had just learned from Emparo.
Facing her lord for the first time, she seemed almost giddy, her voice clear and bright.
"You're Rena, deputy to Commander Emparo of the Thorn Legion," Gawen said with a hint of a smile.
"Oh! I haven't even introduced myself and you already know my name? My lord, you really do know everything, just as they say! … And the leather gloves you gave us are wonderful. I tried them, and my fingers are so much better after shooting. The sisters all feel confident about keeping up our volleys—we'll see it done!"
The storerooms held plenty of soft leather. Gawen knew how hard longbow work was on the fingers, and after making the "new leather armor," he had ordered gloves for the archers.
Rena kept talking, bouncing a little when she grew excited.
It was still early, and Gawen had patience for the soldiers marching with him that day. He kept his warm smile, letting her finish before replying.
"Given the rush, some gloves may be a bit too large or small. You'll all have proper sizes later."
"No problem, my lord—look!"
She held out her right hand to show the glove, fitting perfectly. "I fixed it myself last night. It was easy—the sisters with ill-fitting gloves followed my example and we adjusted them all."
"Well done. Go on now, and support Emparo. Remember—united, we stand."
"Yes, my lord! United, we stand!"
The agreed battleground with the mountain clans lay about two miles east of Whispers Hall, a stretch of relatively level ground.
By full daylight, Gawen led his forces there.
A few hundred yards off, a mass of clansmen was gathering, dark and dense as an approaching storm.
Ser Morsen swung down from his horse and bellowed, "Armor up!"
His rough voice carried as he strode among the moving men, punctuating his orders with the occasional kick.
"Shield-bearers, form up! Form up!"
"Move it, you sluggards—tighten that line, now!"
"Stop flailing! Over there—move!"
"If you don't want your wife in another man's bed tonight, check your kit again!"
"Seven hells, shoulder to shoulder! I said shoulder to shoulder!"
Mounted, Gawen sat beside the already-formed Thorn Legion.
Once again, he reflected on how much these "duel-like" battles on the Crab Claw Peninsula differed from the grand clashes he recalled from his otherworldly memories of Westeros.
If his troops had the discipline and training, he'd have driven the formation forward already, smashing through before the enemy finished their noisy posturing.
Just as his own lines settled, strange cries began to rise from the clans across the way—at first discordant, then growing in unison and volume.
To Gawen's eye they had no real formation, yet they began pressing forward in a great, uneven wave toward his ranks.
"Marking arrows!"
"Yes, my lord—marking arrows!"
The clansmen pushed toward the point where the bright-fletched shafts had struck the ground.
"Loose!!!"
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