Redstone Village lay near the eastern coast of the North, while Horwood City nestled beside the White Knife River, which ran through the very heart of the region.
The distance from Redstone to Horwood accounted for roughly two-thirds of the entire journey to White Harbor.
After more than a month of stop-and-go travel—loading, unloading, trading, resting—the caravan finally entered the direct domain of Earl Harris Corbray.
Just thinking about reaching the market outside Horwood City in two days—where he could visit the brothels—made Craig's blood stir.
Boya or Safia?
Boya had an incredible figure, but her prices were steep; some special services cost a small fortune.
Safia was a little aloof, but she never minded his belly and grew wonderfully eager once aroused—letting Craig recapture a taste of his younger days.
What a pity the stay in Horwood would be so short. Otherwise he could have enjoyed both. Wouldn't that be perfect?
Lost in pleasant calculations, Craig was suddenly jolted by a sharp whistle.
A crossbow bolt tore through the air and buried itself in the side panel of the wagon just behind him.
His mind blanked.
After two stunned heartbeats he tumbled off the driver's seat—his heavy body twisting awkwardly—and crawled beneath the chassis.
"Enemy attack!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Defend! Defend now!"
Farther back, Rams slammed his powerful crossbow to the ground in disgust.
"Useless piece of junk! Good lads—charge!"
His two remaining crossbowmen—already sighted on the mounted guards flanking the caravan—squeezed their triggers the moment the order came.
Perhaps it was the long years of peace, or perhaps Craig's unexpected dodge had thrown them off—but the guards reacted too slowly. One after another they tumbled from their saddles, bolts protruding from chests and throats.
By the time the surviving guards and drovers finally grabbed weapons and tried to fight back, seven or eight black-clad raiders—chainmail glinting beneath dark cloaks—burst from the shadowed treeline with longswords drawn.
In seconds two more caravan men went down.
Rams stayed well back, observing with cruel satisfaction, muttering to himself:
"Yes… just like that. Crossbow ambush first, then close with melee. Break their vanguard, push them back, shatter the center—then crush them in the confusion…"
He was still gloating when a sudden roar erupted from the rear of the caravan:
"Throat!"
An arrow hissed through the air.
With a wet *thud* one of the crossbowmen hiding behind a tree on the left flank screamed and dropped, clutching his right chest.
Friend and foe alike froze for a heartbeat—then turned toward the sound.
A tall figure in gleaming brass plate stood atop the rearmost wagon, longbow already drawn for a second shot.
Ethan had grown accustomed to the easy routine of caravan life—lounging in the cargo bed of Harry's gift carriage, idly drawing and loosing his weirwood longbow while Kevin handled the reins.
When Craig's warning shout rang out, Ethan snatched the breastplate beside him, slung it over one shoulder (no time to buckle it properly), rose, nocked, and loosed at the most dangerous target—the nearest crossbowman.
After the first man fell he immediately barked at the second:
"Between the eyes!"
The second crossbowman—Pero, a countryman of Rams—felt the shout like ice water down his spine.
A second arrow whipped past his ear and buried itself quivering in the dirt.
Pero barely had time to feel relieved before an enormous force yanked his arm sideways.
Pain exploded through his shoulder as an arrow punched clean through his upper arm and pinned it to the tree trunk behind him.
Ethan scanned quickly. No more visible crossbowmen.
He dropped the longbow, seized "Sea Serpent Strike," and leapt down into the melee.
The raiders had chosen their ambush spot well: the road was narrow, the mud still soft from recent rain—completely unsuitable for cavalry.
Ethan therefore fought on foot.
Even so, the black-clad bandits—once locked in close combat—were utterly helpless against the weight and razor edge of his longsword.
One stroke took a head.
Another cleaved a man from shoulder to hip.
A third shattered an enemy blade and continued through flesh.
With Ethan's arrival the battle's momentum flipped instantly.
The surviving black-clad raiders began desperately parrying, looking for escape.
Rams—watching from a safe distance—snatched the crossbow he had discarded earlier from the ground, nocked, drew, and loosed at Ethan.
At that moment Ethan had just finished off another opponent.
He felt a sudden shove from behind—followed by a metallic *clang*.
He looked down.
A crossbow bolt lay twisted at his feet, its point deformed.
*Still crossbowmen alive?*
Ethan frowned and traced the shot's trajectory.
A young man in black brocade robes had already wheeled his horse and galloped into the deep forest, shouting back over his shoulder:
"Stinky—run!"
The black-clad fighters who had still been resisting saw their leader abandon them without a backward glance.
Their will collapsed instantly.
The smarter ones dropped weapons and fell to their knees in surrender.
The slower ones tried to flee after their master—only to be overtaken and cut down by guards who had been fighting them for long minutes.
Once the fighting stopped Craig finally crawled out from beneath his wagon.
Only four black-clad men remained alive and able to speak.
——————
"Boss—Martin and Johnny are dead. Carl's badly hurt—barely hanging on, probably won't make it. Everyone else is wounded to some degree."
Craig's face darkened at the report.
"Understood."
After the skirmish he immediately organized treatment for the wounded and secured the prisoners.
Even so, some brothers didn't survive.
The ambush had cost them dearly. Whether they could even finish the trade run was now in question.
Craig approached the captives, fury boiling.
"Tell me—where did you come from? Who sent you to rob us?"
Before anyone could answer he kicked one prisoner viciously in the stomach—again and again.
"So stubborn! So stubborn!"
After several blows the first man curled into a ball like a boiled shrimp and vomited blood.
The second prisoner watched in terror, body trembling.
When Craig loomed over him the man stammered desperately:
"Please, sir—I'll tell you anything you want to know…"
"Serves you right for being stubborn! Serves you right for not talking!"
Craig kicked again without warning.
This prisoner was unlucky—while trying to duck he caught Craig's toe squarely under the jaw.
His head snapped back at an unnatural angle with a sickening crack.
He dropped dead.
The third prisoner—seeing this—threw himself flat, clutching his head and wailing:
"I'll tell you everything! We're from the North—our leader is that bastard Rams—"
"Shut up!"
The crossbowman whose arm was still pinned to the tree trunk—untied, blood soaking the earth beneath him—snarled through gritted teeth:
"Do you want your family to die with you?"
Rams?
Craig's rage vanished in an instant—like a hot iron plunged into snow.
He went very still.
Standing nearby and listening intently, Ethan asked quietly:
"What—is this guy famous?"
"Not just famous," Craig answered heavily, slumping to the ground. "He's… a very special kind of evil."
Craig continued in a low voice:
"Ramsay Snow—bastard son of Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort. His only surviving son.
Bloodthirsty, cruel, depraved—practically a monster. Though he's been in Bolton's household less than two years his name is already infamous across the North.
And their lands lie just north of our trade route."
Ethan's expression tightened.
The only son of a great lord—leading a cross-border raid against another house's caravan.
This didn't feel like simple banditry.
It smelled like the prelude to open war between Houses Bolton and Corbray.
He needed details.
He had no intention of being dragged into a feud between two great Northern houses.
Ethan crouched beside the pinned crossbowman.
"Why did you attack our caravan? Who was the one who escaped?"
The crossbowman glanced at Ethan—eyes full of contempt—but after witnessing Ethan's slaughter he didn't dare show it. He turned his face away and stayed silent.
"You think staying quiet protects your master's secrets? That even if you die he'll treat your family well?"
Ethan gave a cold smile.
"But from what I've heard your master isn't exactly known for mercy or honor.
You're already captured. Do you think he'll believe you kept silent?
Without you to shield them—what do you think Ramsay Snow will do to your wives, sisters, children?"
In truth Ethan had no idea what Ramsay Snow would actually do to these men's families.
He was simply bluffing—trying to drive a wedge between the prisoner and his lord.
Even a small crack of doubt would make the man easier to break.
But he had clearly underestimated Ramsay's reputation.
These black-clad raiders knew their young master intimately—a ruthless, amoral sadist completely unbound by conscience.
Thinking of Ramsay's favorite "games"—and of their own families back home—the crossbowman began to tremble.
He swallowed hard.
"If I tell you everything… will you spare my life?"
Ethan didn't answer.
He looked at Craig.
Craig stared at the man for a long moment before speaking heavily:
"Fine. Tell us everything—and I'll let you live."
The pinned crossbowman immediately began to talk—eagerly spilling how Ramsay had acted on a whim, how they had lain hidden by day and hunted by night, how they had chosen the perfect ambush site, how they had deployed.
When he finished Ethan felt a strange chill.
"He wasn't robbing a caravan. He was using it to practice command."
Craig nodded grimly.
"Ramsay Snow treats living people like toys. I've heard stories—he likes releasing women into the woods so he can hunt them down.
It's not surprising he suddenly decided to treat us as bigger game.
He just didn't expect that this time he wouldn't devour us—he'd break his teeth instead."
"So what now?" Ethan asked. "Report to Rodney? Or go straight to Earl Corbray and demand retaliation?"
Craig shook his head slowly.
"I'll definitely report to Rodney. We have a courier post outside Horwood—we even paid a local maester to raise a raven back to Redstone.
I can't speak directly to the Earl. Once we reach Horwood I'll write to Rodney first and see what he wants to do.
But I doubt Earl Harris will react strongly. To men like him the lives of people like us are worth less than their hunting hounds.
He won't pick a fight with House Bolton over our sakes."
Ethan nodded heavily.
Yes—human life was cheap in this world.
Back on Earth the worst violence he had ever committed was swatting a mosquito that drank his blood.
Since crossing to Westeros the number of lives he had taken far exceeded what his fingers and toes could count.
After prying the crossbowman Pero from the tree trunk Craig ordered the other prisoners' throats cut.
Then—following Pero's directions—they located the raiders' tethered horses hidden deeper in the woods.
Unfortunately only seven remained. Whether the rest had fled on their own or been taken by Ramsay during his escape was impossible to know.
Still—the small windfall lifted the survivors' spirits slightly.
The ambush site was only two days from Horwood City. After this attack Craig dared not delay further.
They pushed hard and reached the market outside Horwood in just one day.
With only one remaining assistant Craig went into the market to trade goods and contact buyers—working without rest.
The other guards took the wounded to find healers and began recruiting replacements—leaving Ethan and Kevin to guard the wagons.
The two—who had originally hoped to explore the city—were stuck in camp, practicing spear and bow.
Five days later Craig finally received a raven reply from Redstone.
He then sought formal audience with Earl Harris—presenting gifts and the surviving prisoner.
As expected the Earl had Pero hanged—and refused to accept that the attack had been ordered by Lord Bolton's bastard son.
A single prisoner's word was insufficient evidence.
Perhaps as a small gesture of appeasement House Corbray offered slightly better prices than usual for the caravan's goods. The extra profit served as quiet compensation.
Craig had no reply to give.
One could not openly defy one's lord while in his service.
So—after resupplying and hiring several new guards—the caravan set out once more toward White Harbor.
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