Doooo—Doooo—
The sharp blast of warhorns shattered the early morning silence of the cavalry camp.
"Why so early today? Do wildlings not need sleep?"
"May the Others take them all."
"Seven Hells, hand me my mail."
The hedge knights and sellswords, eyes bleary with sleep, stumbled out of the inn's common room and their tents, pulling on armor and cursing under their breath.
Quentyn Roxton woke instantly at the sound of the horn.
With his squire's help, he donned his armor quickly. When he arrived at the assembly point in front of the inn, he found that Menedy—who had been complaining just yesterday—was already mounted, organizing the ranks and taking a headcount.
Watching Menedy issuing orders to the cavalrymen, a glint of pride flashed in Quentyn's eyes.
"Father, everyone is assembled." Menedy soon rode up to Quentyn. "Aside from those still recovering from injuries, everyone is present."
Quentyn nodded and swung onto his horse with practiced ease. He wasted no words. He waved a large hand forward. "Follow me! To reinforce Twilight Keep!"
With a kick to his horse's flanks, he led the way, galloping toward the castle that had lit its beacon fires for aid.
Behind him followed the standard-bearer, Menedy, and over two hundred Reach cavalrymen, a dark mass of steel and horseflesh.
"Menedy, you did well this morning." Quentyn turned his head slightly to speak to his son as the scenery blurred past.
"I believe you will one day be an excellent Lord of the Ring."
"Father, I only did what you have done before," Menedy replied, his voice muffled slightly by his half-helm with a nasal guard. "I may be a slow learner, but I am not a fool."
Menedy suggested, "Father, let us pick up the pace. If we reach Twilight Keep early, perhaps the wildlings won't have time to retreat, and we can kill a few more.
"Mounting their heads on pikes above the castle walls might scare the next lot away."
Quentyn didn't reply but spurred his horse faster. However, the closer they got to Twilight Keep, the rougher the road became. The terrain on either side rose into hilly forests, so their overall speed didn't increase much.
After crossing a small stream and entering Gambler's Wood, Quentyn slowed down. They were very close to Twilight Keep now, and he needed to conserve his horses' strength for the final charge against the wildlings.
"When the fighting starts, remember to stay close behind me," Quentyn instructed Menedy sternly, turning his head.
"Do not separate from the formation like last time, chasing too deep. It is dangerous."
Menedy smiled confidently. "I know, Father. Don't wor—"
Thrummm—
Quentyn heard the piercing whistle of a sharp object cutting through the air.
In the next instant, he saw the smile freeze on Menedy's face. Terror filled the boy's eyes as a short throwing spear flew from the trees on the flank and buried itself in his neck!
"No!" The sound was strangled from Quentyn's throat.
Before he could react further, he felt several heavy impacts against his own breastplate and waist. Beneath him, his horse let out a scream of agony.
Ignoring the pain, Quentyn threw himself from the collapsing horse, rolling onto the dirt road.
"Ambush! Ambush!"
The standard-bearer on his left, lucky enough to survive the first volley of spears, shouted frantically. "On the slope to the right! Wildlings! Protect the Lord! Form up!"
Quentyn looked up the slope. Hundreds of warriors in dark green armor emerged from the tree line like ghosts.
These were not wildlings. These were soldiers of Starfall's Mountain Corps! Despair flashed in Quentyn's eyes.
He had seen these soldiers maintaining order at the tourney in Starfall. A single set of their rattan armor sold for a hundred gold dragons in the smithing district.
"Blood for blood!"
"Surrender and live!"
Hearing the war cries of the charging enemy, Quentyn gritted his teeth and stood up. He grabbed a fallen shield, drew his sword, and roared:
"Do not panic! Follow me! Kill them!"
He leaped over his dead horse and charged at the nearest brown-eyed soldier. The soldier was ready; his sword swung out almost simultaneously, clashing against Quentyn's shield and bouncing off.
After trading several blows, Quentyn noticed the soldier's footwork was a bit sloppy. He feinted a slash, then lashed out with his right leg, kicking the man hard in the groin.
The soldier howled in pain, dropping his shield.
Quentyn seized the opening, thrusting his sword forward. The tip pierced the soldier's unprotected throat.
After taking a hit to the shoulder and having his shield shattered, Quentyn fought fiercely, cutting down three more Mountain Corps soldiers who charged him.
As he pulled his notched blade from the neck of the last soldier, Quentyn suddenly realized the battlefield had fallen silent.
He leaned on his sword, his injured left arm hanging uselessly.
Around him, soldiers of the Mountain Corps stood in a dense circle, hemming him in. The ground was littered with corpses and kneeling hedge knights and sellswords begging for mercy.
His standard-bearer had long been hacked down. The banner of House Roxton—golden rings interlinked on a sky-blue field—lay in the dirt, trampled and ruined.
Suddenly, the wall of Mountain Corps soldiers parted like a tide.
A tall man in blood-red armor, wielding two distinctive blood-stained swords, walked through the opening toward him.
Arthur Snow, the Sword of the Morning!
Quentyn recognized him instantly. But compared to the elegant, shining figure at the tourney, this blood-drenched incarnation of the Sword of the Morning was terrifying beyond words.
Why is he here?
Didn't Lady Olenna's letter say that Paxter's Redwyne Fleet had pinned Starfall's main force at the Torrentine?
"Surrender, Earl Quentyn," Arthur said, stopping a few paces away. "I can guarantee you the treatment due a noble prisoner."
Quentyn tightened his grip on his sword and roared, "Fight!"
Looking at the legendary greatsword Dawn in Arthur's hand—the ancestral blade of House Dayne—Quentyn's lips curled in bitterness. His own House Roxton had once possessed a Valyrian steel sword, Orphan-Maker, but it had been lost long ago.
"Dying in battle earns respect," Arthur said, flicking the blood from Dawn with a sharp swing.
"But dying for the atrocious acts of House Redwyne is meaningless."
"Redwyne? To the Seven Hells with Redwyne!" Hatred flashed in Quentyn's eyes. "I fight only to protect my people and my land."
"I have no interest in your land, nor do I wish to harm your people, Earl Quentyn." Arthur removed his helm, shaking out hair wet with sweat and blood.
"As long as you surrender to me, order your soldiers to stand down, and provide Ring as my base of operations, I will restrain my men from harming your smallfolk. I also guarantee that Ring will be returned to you when the war ends."
"Return Ring?" Quentyn's voice echoed hollowly from under his helm. He pointed his sword at Menedy's motionless body on the ground. "My eldest son, my heir, was killed by your men right before my eyes!"
"I regret that. But no one is immortal on the battlefield." Arthur shrugged.
"If not for the atrocities of House Redwyne, I would not have crossed the Red Mountains to come here."
"Enough, Earl Quentyn." Arthur put his helm back on.
"Will you die for Redwyne's crimes? Or surrender to me, and live to see Redwyne pay the price for what they've done?"
"Choose!"