[July 3, 298 AC | Noon | Westeros > Banks of the Green Fork > Aspen Ford Woods] The fog in the poplar forest did not disperse with the rising sun.
Instead, pressed lower by the dense canopy, it hung thick with the lingering stench of decaying leaves.
The convoy stretched into a long, single file along the narrow mud road.
The spears of the Westerlands veterans constantly snagged on the low bushes flanking the path, making their progress stumble along like a line of blind men marching into a graveyard.
*Whoosh—!* A sharp, jarring screech ripped through the dead silence.
Walking on the far left, a Westerlands veteran abruptly froze.
He looked down at his throat, pierced through by a feathered arrow, and collapsed straight into the mud without even uttering a scream.
“Enemy attack—!” someone shrieked, their voice cracking in terror.
Accompanying that scream, a deafening war cry erupted from the thick fog on both sides of the poplar forest.
“Winter is coming!” “For the North!
Slay the Lannister dogs!” Dozens of light cavalry mounted on garrons and foot soldiers wielding polearms and short weapons charged out of the mist.
Wearing mismatched leather armor, they hoisted grey-and-white direwolf banners, raining arrows down on the supply column like a swarm of locusts.
The already disciplined-lacking Westerlands old and feeble soldiers collapsed instantly.
Some threw down their spears and turned to flee; others tried desperately to scramble under the wagons.
“Protect the grain!” Soren drew his longsword, letting out a thunderous shout.
Yet there was not a trace of panic in his eyes.
Instead, he observed these “Northerners” with absolute composure.
His 23 Intelligence turned his mind into a precision war room simulator.
With a single glance, he picked out a slew of clumsy flaws.
When true Northerners shouted “Winter is coming,” their voices carried the sting of ice and blood.
But the accents of these men bore the smooth, rounded trailing tones distinct to the coastal Westerlands.
Although the arrows they shot were Northern-style black-feathered shafts, their boots left three-point anti-slip stud prints in the mud—a mark unique to Westerlands blacksmiths.
Most absurd of all was their charge.
They made no move to sever the front and rear of the convoy, nor did they surround the fleeing guards; instead, they headed straight for the dozen outermost grain wagons.
A few fire arrows wrapped in oilcloth struck the wagons, instantly setting the outer burlap blazes, exposing the sand-mixed moldy oats inside.
“Burn the Lannister grain!
For the Young Wolf!” the masked leader at the front yelled, putting on a grand act.
“My lord!
The grain wagons are on fire!” Roland Leyton drew his shortsword, spurring his horse back to Soren’s side with a pale face.
“Let them burn,” Soren watched coldly.
“If they don’t burn off the outer layer of rotten wheat, how are they going to balance the ledger?” Roland froze.
Watching those “Northerners” exert all their effort to throw torches onto the moldy sand-wheat, he suddenly felt a wave of absurdity.
Seeing the outer dozen wagons engulfed in roaring flames, the leader of the “Northerners” seemed to feel the play had gone far enough.
He swung his bloodstained longsword, pointing directly at Soren in the center of the convoy and the scribes hiding beneath the wagons.
“Slaughter that commander!
Leave no one alive!” Dozens of masked foot soldiers leapt across the mud pits with cruel grins, rushing toward the empty wagon bodies in the middle of the formation.
In their eyes, this was nothing more than a flock of defenseless sheep waiting for the slaughter.
“That’s about enough,” Soren said, watching the enemies draw within ten paces, the corners of his mouth curving into a cruel arc.
He suddenly raised his longsword, its blade catching the firelight, and roared: “Uncover and kill!” *Rip—!* The waterproof oilcloth tarps draped over a dozen supposed empty wagons were hurled back instantly.
Accompanied by a beastly roar ten times more ferocious than that of the “Northerners,” seventeen massive figures reeking of stale blood and grime burst from the wagons into the enemy ranks like demons crawling straight out of hell!
Conn led the charge.
He didn’t even use a weapon, using his helmet to shatter a masked man’s nose bridge before snatching the enemy’s longsword and plunging it backward into another man’s belly.
“Argh—!” The ambushers were completely stunned.
They had assumed the wagons held grain, or at most a few terrified camp followers.
Who could have guessed that a gang of high-mountain clan lunatics wielding war axes and broken swords were hiding inside!
The tide flipped in an instant.
This was no battle—it was a pure, one-sided slaughter.
“Retreat!
It’s a trap!
Retreat to the woods!” the masked leader screamed in panic, turning his horse to flee.
Right then, two towering walls of fire erupted along the path behind the convoy.
The two Burned Men lunatics who had been guarding the oil wagon had somehow rolled several barrels of wild-fire oil onto the forest escape route and tossed their torches down with manic glee.
“Not allowed to burn grain wagons, but we can burn the road!” a Burned Man warrior with half his face scarred by fire laughed insanely amidst the flames.
Their retreat was entirely sealed off by fire.
In the center of the battlefield, an ambushed warrior was pushed against a supply wagon during the chaos.
Desperately slashing left and right, he caught sight of Gawen curled beneath a wheel, clutching his ledger for dear life.
“Die!” The ambusher raised his short knife and lunged at Gawen.
Roland Leyton gritted his teeth and charged forward, trying to parry with his shortsword.
But the noble swordplay he had practiced in the main army was completely useless in the deep mud.
The ambusher kicked him hard in the knee, sending Roland kneeling with a heavy splash.
Seeing the short knife about to descend— *Clang!* A black sword blade passed right by Roland’s ear with razor precision, catching the short knife.
Soren flipped his wrist, the blade sliding down the knife’s crossguard to cleanly sever four of the ambusher’s fingers.
Immediately after, a heavy boot slammed into the attacker’s chest, sending him screaming into the fire pit.
Soren sheathed his sword, not bothering to glance at the severed fingers on the ground.
“Grip your sword tight,” Soren said, throwing a glance at Roland before turning to Gawen, who was holding the fake ledger so hard he had wet his pants.
“And hold that fake ledger tight.
As long as you don’t let go, I guarantee you won’t die today.” Gasping for air, Roland scrambled up from the mud, looking at Soren’s broad back.
For the very first time, he bowed his head in genuine submission, uttering with deep sincerity: “Yes, Commander.” The ambushers began to scatter.
Some shouted Northern oaths, but when cursing, Lannisport accents slipped out.
Roland panted heavily, his face changing as he heard it.
“That’s a Lannisport accent.” Soren nodded.
The slaughter up ahead was drawing to a close.
Conn, like a completely rabid bull, tackled the masked leader along with his horse into the deep mud.
Conn raised his blade to finish him.
“Conn!” Soren shouted sharply to stop him.
“Keep him alive!” Conn’s eyes were blood-red, his chest heaving violently.
He remembered Gunthor falling in the mud, remembered his stolen axe.
Yet in the end, he slammed the flat of his blade hard against the back of the enemy’s head.
“Alive!” Conn roared through gritted teeth.
“This one’s alive!” Soren walked over to the leader who was struggling to get up and squatted down.
Conn kicked the man in the back of his knee, forcing him to kneel.
“Northerner?” Conn sneered.
“Since when do Northerners smell like pigs under their feet?” The captive raised his head, his mouth full of bloody foam.
“Long live Stark!” Soren ignored the slogan spat from his mouth.
He grabbed the man’s boot, pulled out a short knife, and pried a broken iron nail from the gap in the sole.
The nail was caked in mud.
Once wiped clean, it revealed a tiny wild boar stamp.
Roland’s face went completely pale.
“Pig trotters under a wolf skin.” Soren picked up the rivet with his knife, examining it under the firelight as a satisfied, cold smile touched his lips.
“Roland, prepare to get to work.
It’s time to collect interest.”