Thwip-thwip-thwip!Chua-chua-chua!
The 120 bowmen of the Thorn Legion loosed in unison, the wind carrying the hiss of their arrows.
Thud!Thud! Thud!Thud! Thud! Thud!
A rain of black shafts fell from above, punching through the charging clansmen and felling them one after another, the ground echoing with cries of pain.
Their chieftains, unacquainted with the horror of a long-range arrow storm, howled all the louder in fear, driving their warriors to press forward faster.
Ser Morsen kept his eyes fixed on a point just over a hundred yards ahead—the killing ground carved by the Thorn Legion's volleys—and could not help but feel a jolt of awe.
After a stretch of rapid shooting, Gawen noticed the archers' pace beginning to slow.
By then, more than two hundred clansmen lay dead. Disorder spread among the wildlings; a few turned and fled despite their leaders' screams.
Another few dozen fell, and the retreat became a rout. Gawen decisively ordered the bows to cease.
Ser Morsen then directed the 200 Crabb household soldiers in the rear—armed with shields, longswords, and spears—to advance into the broken foe.
With steady chants, the Crabb soldiers marched in unison, their momentum unstoppable.
Their average service was over ten years, every man a veteran of countless battles. These were the hardened core of House Crabb, survivors of more than a decade of skirmishes with the mountain clans since Gawen's mother's time.
The sight of their disciplined advance sent the already-panicked wildlings into complete collapse.
A few chieftains tried to rally charges against the shield wall, only to be instantly swallowed and cut down.
To Gawen, these captives and would-be surrenderers were nothing less than his future reserve subjects—and their conduct today more than justified the "wildling" name.
If he meant to rule them, there could be only one way: strict, unyielding law.
So strict, he mused, it might dictate which foot they stepped out with when leaving their homes.
The game of thrones was about to begin, and military strength was the only true trump card. To achieve results quickly, the Crabb lands would have to become a single great training camp, encompassing all its people.
Resolved on the path his domain must take, Gawen hesitated no more.
The Thorn Legion was only days old, yet it had managed continuous volleys—a remarkable showing—and Emparo had proven his gift for command.
During the rest, some of the spearwomen… well, it was hard to describe—perhaps the heat was to blame—but they'd stripped down to bare shoulders, and in a wave of imitation, many followed suit.
A sea of pale skin met Gawen's eyes, and he could not help but note the Crabb spearwomen's chief physical trait—sturdy, to say the least.
Emparo, standing stiffly beside him, noticed too; something flickered in his memory, and a flush crept into his cheeks.
Some of the women, catching the lord's glance, grinned back unabashedly—one or two even squared their shoulders in challenge.
In another life, Gawen might have whistled and given a thumbs-up.
But a lord must mind his image—his mother's lesson, and one he agreed with. And in Westeros, a thumbs-up meant nothing like praise; an unknown gesture might only cause trouble. In Crabb lands, a man had to know how to protect himself.
So he only smiled faintly and let his gaze drift elsewhere.
This wasn't the time or place to explain why a soldier's appearance mattered. Still, he resolved to add standards of presentation to future training; in time, they'd learn.
After a short rest, the Thorn Legion rejoined the household troops in chasing down the routed wildlings.
Meanwhile, Ser Pell's Scout Corps had taken one clan settlement in a sudden, flawless strike—only a few lightly wounded, none killed.
Nearly 300 captives were taken.
The clans lived by hunting and gathering; their spoils were mostly furs and dried meat. In the chieftain's hut, they found only a small pouch of gold dragons—fewer than twenty.
The captives were loaded with the plunder. On Pell's orders, the settlement was burned to the ground.
Some captives resisted at the sight and were cut down on the spot. Pell assigned twenty men to march the rest back to Crabb lands.
"Once you near the domain," Pell told the squad leader, "someone will meet you. If you're hungry, chew jerky, but don't stop. Once you hand them over, join me at the second clan. Stay sharp—I'll be waiting."
"If they so much as twitch on the road, cut them down. Don't hesitate."
A pat on the shoulder ended the orders. "Go."
By nightfall, Pell had brought down all three large clans.
The Corps bivouacked at the third, and at dawn set out for home with captives and spoils, capturing several more bands of scattered wildlings along the way.
In their first campaign, they had lost twenty-three men.
After two days of rest, Crabb soldiers, in groups of thirty to fifty, began striking the smaller remaining clans in a coordinated sweep.
All captives were sent to the domain; the wildling huts were all burned.
Ser Morsen himself escorted the last batch to Whispers Hall, where he found Steward Herschel standing before the storeroom, his round belly leading the way and a wide grin on his face.
Morsen's mood was just as good. "Old friend, you seem cheerful."
Herschel's smile didn't falter. "Good day, Ser Morsen. The storeroom's so full of furs we can hardly close the doors. It's been a long time since we've had such surplus."
"Aye," Morsen said with feeling. "The lord was born for war. The wildlings never even reached us—one Thorn Legion volley broke them. I've never seen so few of our own wounded."
"Herschel, I have no doubt now—the lord will reclaim all Crabb lands."
"Yes, ser. I believe it too. House Crabb will have its old lands again."
"Now, get yourself ready," Herschel added. "Steward Sulana and I have been preparing the victory feast for days—very, very rich fare. Tonight, we'll drink well."
In the lord's study, Whispers Hall.
Gawen, Maester Arl, and Karlea had nearly finished tallying the war's gains.
The captives numbered over 2,500—nearly 700 were old or children.
Of the remaining 1,800, 1,200 were women—truly, far more women than men.
To prevent them from regrouping, the captives would first be broken apart so that each was surrounded mostly by strangers from other clans.
Integrating them peacefully would take careful planning—slow, deliberate work, all for the sake of stability.
Once scattered, they would be sent in batches to labor across the domain.
At first, the military companies would work with the bailiffs to watch and intimidate them.
Gawen leaned back in his chair, weary but pleased.
Weary, yes—but content. With captives to take on the toil, the Crabb lands could free most of their able-bodied folk.
They could begin a second round of recruitment at once.
For now, his greatest joy was the thought of swelling his armies.
Raising troops makes me happy!.
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