The Kingswood held the scent of nature. Fresh leaves, rot, and sunlight. Its towering trees hid the shapes of men among them.
But smoke and ash had begun to drift through the Kingswood. The wildlings sent by the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, were setting fires in the forest, making sure the horses of the Stormlands would have no leaves to eat.
The Stormlands' decoy army moved slowly and openly along The Kingsroad, while Gendry led the Stormlands vanguard at speed along a smaller trail. From that vanguard, he chose eight hundred elite men and personally led them as the advance guard.
"The fish have taken the bait, Prince Gendry. We've found their camp." The scouts of the Deer-Catchers brought the brief report. These men had hunted in the Kingswood for years and knew the terrain intimately.
"Tyrion's pets?" Gendry asked.
"Yes. From what we saw, some came from King's Landing to the Kingswood on fishing boats. The first were a group of burned, twisted, maimed men. Then came the women with ears hanging from them, and so on. Finally, another wave arrived. In short, they're a pack of wildlings."
"So three groups," Gendry said. The High Mountain clans had fought among themselves for years, which was why they crossed the river in three separate waves.
"That's right. They've split into three camps, all not far from one another."
"How many came this time?"
"A little over a hundred."
"Looks like the Imp sent all his pets," Lothor said. "From what I know, there should be about a hundred and fifty of them."
"That's all he can spare," Jon Snow said. "Sellswords only love gold. They won't take a mission this dangerous. As for the Gold Cloaks, they barely have enough men to hold King's Landing."
These wildlings were the Imp's guerrilla scouts. They did not fight head-on. Instead, they hid, harassed the Stormlands camps and supply trains, ambushed scouts, circled around to kill stragglers, and hung corpses from the trees along the army's route. They would also launch sudden night raids again and again, so the Stormlands soldiers could never sleep in peace.
Unfortunately, the Storm is always one step ahead of you, Gendry thought.
"The Imp sent guides as well. Could they find you?" Ser Barristan asked.
"They do know this forest, but guides who live in King's Landing still can't compare to those of us born and raised here," the hunter said confidently. "Besides, they think our Stormlands army is still crawling along The Kingsroad, so they've grown a little careless."
"Send these loyal hunters to rest first," Gendry said. Lothor made the arrangements, seeing that these faithful servants were well treated and allowed to wash away their exhaustion before the march quickened again.
In return, Gendry meant to swallow these appetizers whole.
"We cannot miss this chance. After the men have rested, we attack before dawn," Gendry said.
"Should we wait for the men behind us?" Ser Justin Massey asked.
"We outnumber the enemy five or six to one. There's no need to wait," Gendry said. The wildlings' advantage was their mobility. In a direct fight, they had no chance at all.
"I'll deal with the fiercest group, the Burned Men," Gendry said. "Ser Guyard Morrigen, take your men and attack the Black Ears and the Moon Brothers. As for Lothor, you and Anguy will handle the Stone Crows. Justin, you cut off their retreat."
"As you command!"
"As you command!"
The wildling camps were set at different points along a small river in the Kingswood. The Burned Men were farthest upstream, while the others were spread along both banks.
It was the moment just before dawn, before the sun had risen. One of the hours when men slept the deepest.
Hooves thudded dully over fallen leaves. The soldiers of the Stormlands and Gendry's Golden Cloaks crept through the darkness toward the wildling camps, then struck at precisely the right moment.
The standard-bearers raised golden banners. Battle flags with fields of gold fluttered in the wind, where the stag, the Dragon, the Wolf Pack, and freed slaves danced together.
"Long live the Storm!" Gendry shouted, raising his warhammer. He wore black scale armor beneath a yellow surcoat.
"Long live the Storm!"
"For the Baratheons!"
The knights roared their answer. The guard cavalry wore black plate armor, while the Stormlands riders were clad in all manner of plate. Ser Barristan was the most conspicuous of all in his white armor, dazzling even in the dim light.
The column curved around the trees, gradually picking up speed.
"We're in luck," Gendry said when he saw the weary wildlings posted as guards. There were very few of them, and no tall watchtowers. To keep their mobility, the wildlings had built almost nothing permanent in their camps.
The wedge formation drove forward. The knights thundered in with a roar, steel clashing against steel, pounding hooves and sharp blades blending into a fierce music.
At first, the wildlings had not noticed the attack, but the thunder of hooves and the soldiers' battle cries soon jolted them awake.
"Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!"
Arrows cut through the air. Then flames rose, and the killing began.
"Bang!"
Gendry swung his iron warhammer with terrifying force. Together with the momentum of his horse, it made him unstoppable. A pitiful wildling in front of him opened his mouth, only for his head to burst like a smashed watermelon. Brains, bits of bone, and blood sprayed in every direction.
Gendry galloped on, striking down every wildling who dared show himself. His raging spiked mace carried death with every blow, sweeping aside everything in its path.
The Burned Men truly lived up to their reputation. Every one of them seemed to be missing a joint or some other part of himself. It was said the fiercest among them even gouged out their own eyes.
Even wildlings looked presentable enough once they had weapons and armor supplied by Tyrion, but they were still wildlings, and their discipline was loose. Now they had no chance to ambush the Stormlands army. Instead, they were the ones caught by surprise.
"Die!" Timett shouted.
Gendry noticed him as well. He was a man missing one eye. Self-mutilation was a tradition among the Burned Men.
In the Stone Crows camp, the hulking Shagga realized something was terribly wrong. The sounds of fighting and killing rang out from every direction as knights in black armor and golden cloaks charged in.
"Who dares provoke Shagga, Son of Dolf?" Shagga roared, stumbling out of his tent in a panic.
Shagga seized his axe. He was a fierce, powerfully built man, broad and strong. But the reckless way he rushed out only marked the moment of his death.
"Whoosh!"
"Whoosh!"
Anguy's long arrows tore through the stillness. The first arrow pierced Shagga's left arm, and the second struck his right.
Lothor rode his tall horse up before Shagga as the entire Stone Crows camp turned into a killing ground.
"Vile lowlanders!" Shagga cursed.
He endured the agony and tried to attack Lothor, but nothing went as he wished.
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