Under the dense rain of arrows from the Crabb longbowmen, the wildling coalition broke before they even came within reach of the Crabb spear phalanx.
The mountain wind was sharp and cold, stinging the skin.
The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, and the cries of the wounded echoed across the field.
The killing was not yet done.
One Crabb household soldier caught up to a fleeing hill tribesman. With both hands tight on his longsword, he drove the blade hard beneath the man's arm.
The sword pierced through the ribs and into the heart; when the soldier pulled it free, hot blood gushed forth.
Ser Masson rode at the very front, fearless.
A tribesman lunged at him with a spear, but Masson swayed aside with ease, clamped the shaft under his arm, and with a swift slash of his sword took the man's head clean off.
The Crabb longbowmen broke into groups of twenty to thirty, cutting off and harrying the fleeing enemy.
The pursuit turned into a one-sided slaughter.
After the battle, a sudden downpour swept the camp.
In Lord Gawen's tent, he sat at ease, speaking with his commanders in a rare moment of leisure. The air inside was warm and companionable.
Then Ser Pell burst in, soaked to the bone, his usual composure marred by a flicker of agitation.
He bowed low. "Good day, my lord!"
Gawen's eyes shifted, brows drawing together. "Loyal Ser Pell—you've ridden hard. Is there urgent news?"
The calm in his voice steadied the knight. "Yes, my lord. Dread Hollow Keep has made its move. They've rallied allied wildling tribes—at least ten thousand strong. This is their challenge to battle."
Gawen accepted the scroll with mild amusement, scanning it briefly before giving a dry chuckle. "Ah… House Brunn of Dread Hollow. So it's the Crabb family who's disturbed the peace of the Crab Claw Peninsula, is it?"
The peninsula, technically royal demesne, was in truth a lawless land. When noble interests clashed, they fought without so much as a thought for the Red Keep.
By the letter of the king's law, lords of the royal demesne were forbidden to make war upon each other without royal leave.
Gawen rose and walked to the great map spread across a table. The mood in the tent tightened as the others gathered round.
He did not make them wait long. Fixing his gaze on the map, he set his finger on a point. "Here—Crescent Valley. We'll break them here."
Crescent Valley lay some twenty miles northeast of their current camp. Both entrance and exit were about a hundred yards wide, the space inside broader, flanked by steep slopes. True to its name, the valley curved like a crescent moon—a poetic touch from the more cultured folk of the Crab Claw Peninsula.
Gawen pointed to a gently sloping ground some distance from the valley mouth. "Pell—send word to House Brunn. Crabb accepts their challenge. We'll settle it here."
By Pell's own report, the chosen ground was fair to both sides in terms of approach, and Gawen had no doubt they'd accept.
There were other sites much like Crescent Valley nearby, but he had chosen one Dread Hollow would readily agree to.
If they refused every location he offered, he would forgo the field battle entirely, strengthen the camp's fortifications, and fight from behind works.
Ten thousand against fewer than a thousand—no one would call it cowardice.
And in truth, by issuing the challenge and choosing the ground, he was honoring the traditions of the Crab Claw Peninsula.
As Gawen had guessed, Dread Hollow and their wildling allies confirmed the site without hesitation.
The ground was sound, the choice in keeping with custom, and no one suspected any hidden stratagem.
Outwardly they mocked the young lord's arrogance, but privately they respected his courage. This was the peninsula's way.
On the third day, at the appointed time, Gawen led Ser Emparro and the household troops, along with auxiliaries and disguised Crabb soldiers posing as surrendered captives, to the site.
In the dark mass of the wildling host, the banner of House Brunn—bearing the mark of Dread Hollow—stood out bright and clear.
Gawen noted that under it stood about two hundred men in ordered ranks, in stark contrast to the wild rabble around them.
The Brunn soldiers had roughly fifty suits of plate and twenty warhorses—richer, clearly, than House Crabb.
On Gawen's side, only he, Emparro, and a few of his guards were mounted.
The poor Lord of Crabb could not help but think: here was almost all the plate and horseflesh he needed for his journey to King's Landing—without spending a single gold dragon.
Truly, taking by force beat toiling for it.
Perhaps, he thought, the ironborn had once reached the same conclusion.
Emparro finished his own appraisal. "My lord, counting them all, they have about fifty mounts. Shame Lady Raina can't ride and shoot—one more archer would make culling them even easier."
Gawen's smile was faint but genuine. "I'll have two mounted guards ride with you. Keep a safe distance. Our first priority is to bring down any cavalry that charges."
None knew what truly brightened his mood; no one would guess it was the sight of Brunn arms and armor. At most, they'd think their warlike lord was simply eager for battle.
Emparro bowed his head gravely. "Understood, my lord. You can rely on me."
Gawen clapped him lightly on the arm. "I always have. You should have a suit of plate yourself."
Even Emparro, with his straightforward mind, grasped the meaning at once. Together, their eyes turned toward the Brunn formation.
Crescent Valley, Seagull Town.
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