Lushen and Lauchlan left to execute their orders.
Inside the tent, only Solomon and Bronn remained.
"You don't seem worried at all," Solomon said, watching the sellsword.
Bronn shrugged. "What's to worry about? If we can't win, I run. My running skills are just as good as my killing skills."
He cracked his knuckles. "Just so we're clear—if things go south, I'm not dying for you."
"Of course," Solomon replied, unbothered. "But if you run, you better hope I die too."
"Otherwise, you'll be a wanted man in all Seven Kingdoms. 'Deserter' is a hard label to wash off."
Bronn rolled his eyes. "You really are a delightful young man."
"A pity," Bronn mused. "If you and I were this age during the Rebellion... we could have made a killing."
Solomon sheathed his dagger. "You'll get your chance."
Bronn looked at him strangely. "You mean against the Ironborn? With all due respect, they won't last long."
Solomon gave him a cryptic smile and said nothing.
The Pursuit.
"Damn them! They burned everything!"
The Chieftain of the Milk Snakes punched a blackened stone wall, roaring in frustration.
The Howler Chief stood silently nearby.
The chase had gone smoother than expected—at first. The Lowlanders had left tracks. But as the clans followed, they found only devastation.
Blackened fields. Charred timber. The air reeked of soot and rot.
"Those Lowland sheep!" the Milk Snake Chief cursed, kicking a piece of charcoal. "They didn't leave a crumb!"
The village well was filled with dead livestock and human waste. The smell made even the hardened clansmen gag.
"Chief, tracks lead to another village," a scout reported.
The column moved on.
Noon came. The sun beat down mercilessly.
The clansmen, dressed in heavy furs and leather, were sweating buckets. Thirst burned in their throats like fire.
The second village was a ruin. The third was a ruin. The fourth...
Every place they hoped to find food or water was a poisoned wasteland.
The clans' speed dropped. The initial fury and bloodlust were being replaced by exhaustion, hunger, and a gnawing anxiety.
"Chief, how much longer?" a young Howler rasped, his lips cracked. "My waterskin is empty."
"Shut up!" another snapped. "The Lowlanders are ahead. Kill them, and we take their water!"
But his voice lacked conviction.
The Howler Chief remained silent, scanning the horizon with paranoid eyes.
This is too easy, he thought. They are leading us.
The Lowlanders weren't running scared; they were dragging the clans into a grave.
He pulled his pony to a halt and raised his hand.
"Stop!"
He looked around. They were in a wide river valley. Dry hills rose on both sides.
"Scout again!" the Howler Chief ordered, his voice heavy with fatigue. "Look for anything unusual!"
He had lost his son. He couldn't lose his tribe.
The other clansmen collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air.
"Howler!" the Milk Snake Chief shouted, losing his patience. "We can't wait here! We're losing ground!"
The Howler Chief ignored him, staring at a patch of darker grass in the distance. His gut twisted.
"If you keep waiting, we're going on without you!" the Milk Snake Chief yelled, stepping closer aggressively.
Thwack!
A dull, wet sound echoed through the silent valley.
The Milk Snake Chief stared blankly at his ally.
It happened in an instant.
A throwing axe was embedded in the Howler Chief's forehead.
The Howler Chief didn't even scream. He crumpled to the ground, twitching once before going still. Blood and brain matter oozed around the axe blade.
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.
Then, a roar of pure, unadulterated rage erupted.
"Lowlander!"
"Kill him!"
Fifty meters away, a figure burst from the brush.
It was a man in black. He had thrown the axe with terrifying precision.
"Peh!" Bronn spat on the ground.
He vaulted onto a hidden mountain pony and kicked it into a gallop.
"Dammit, Solomon! You make me do the dangerous work and give me this goat to ride?!"
Bronn cursed as he rode. The pony was slow. Behind him, three hundred screaming savages were scrambling to their feet.
Weapons flew past his head—spears, stones, axes.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Bronn pulled another axe from his belt and threw it blindly behind him. A scream confirmed a hit.
But the horde didn't slow down.
Bronn kicked the pony harder, leaning forward.
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"
He screamed at the sky, his voice carrying over the valley.
"Fuck you, Solomon! I want a raise! A massive raise!"
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