Two young Wildlings were focusing intently on the tree trunk in front of them.
Unlike what most people imagined, chopping wood was not merely physical labor.
It required mastering the angle of each chop, concentrating force onto the exact notch made by the previous strike.
That way, not only did it save energy when chopping wood, but it would do the same when hacking down men in the future.
Blackhand watched one of the young men with a faint smile on his face.
This was his son by another Wildling woman.
Blackhand had chopped off her husband’s head, but the woman had been spared because of her youth.
Since the cold had recently claimed Blackhand’s original wife, taking her in was only natural.
The young woman was named Bonfire, a typical Wildling name, and their son—the boy currently swinging the axe—was named Gareon.
The name came from a Night’s Watch ranger Blackhand had killed—a ranger who had nearly killed Blackhand first.
Blackhand swore the man was the strongest he had ever seen.
Clad in the black of the rangers, he looked as massive as a bear.
If Blackhand hadn’t had numbers on his side and if the ranger hadn’t been unarmored, Blackhand might very well have been the one killed.
As the man lay dying, he had slurred out the word “Gareon,” which Blackhand guessed was his name.
And so, Blackhand bestowed the name upon his own child, hoping his son would grow as strong as that Crow.
Gareon’s axe landed five consecutive strikes on the exact same spot of the trunk.
He was strong for his age, and those five chops had nearly felled the wrist-thick sapling.
But he was gripping the handle too tightly, leaving his palms stinging from the vibrations.
Noticing this, Blackhand called out, “Don’t grip it so hard!
Control your force, or you’ll hurt your hands.” Gareon glanced back, nodded, raised the axe again, and brought it down against the trunk once more.
*Thwack!* A dull thud echoed through the nearby woods as an arrow suddenly burst through the dry brush, piercing the stiff, dried furs Gareon wore.
The young Wildling collapsed onto the snow.
Meanwhile, his companion nearby was struck by several arrows and died instantly.
“Crows!” Leaning against a tree, Blackhand came under attack as well, but the moment he heard the hiss of arrows cutting through the air, he dropped flat to the ground.
Several arrows slammed into the tree trunk behind him.
The black shafts made their owners instantly recognizable.
Shouts from Night’s Watch rangers echoed from the woods nearby, and several dark figures could be seen darting between the trees.
“Gareon!
Are you alright?!” “I’m okay!” Why were the Night’s Watch here?
Blackhand was bewildered.
Though this spot was relatively far south in the forest, it was still a considerable distance from the Wall.
Even ranger patrols rarely came this far.
Why were so many of them popping up today?
The surrounding Night’s Watchmen began closing in.
Peeking from behind his tree, Blackhand estimated their numbers.
At least five brothers of the Night’s Watch, and they were armed with bows.
If they had been ordinary rangers, Blackhand wouldn’t have been afraid.
But ranged weapons changed everything.
The Night’s Watchmen fanned out, encircling Blackhand and Gareon from all sides.
They had no intention of engaging in melee, opting instead to trap them and pick them off with arrows.
*I might die here today.* There was no love lost between Wildlings and the Night’s Watch, and surrender never crossed Blackhand’s mind.
The only thing he cared about was his son.
The boy’s hands were trembling, whether from pain or terror.
The black shaft stuck out of his shoulder, its fletching quivering with every breath he took.
Just as Blackhand was about to instruct Gareon to run while he drew the rangers’ fire, pressed flat against the earth, he caught a strange vibration.
He lowered himself further, pressing his eyes level with the snow.
He heard the thundering beat of hooves.
Snow in the south was much thinner than in the far north; horses could gallop without hindrance.
Could it be more rangers?
The rangers never deployed in such large mounted formations.
Usually, it was just small patrols riding along the immediate vicinity of the Wall.
Looking up again, Blackhand saw the encircling rangers halt their advance and form a defensive ring on the spot.
*Not rangers then?* *Then who could it be?* …….
A silver meteor burst into the chaotic battlefield.
Gwendolyn Vance charged at the head of the formation, one hand gripping a heavy lance and the other holding the reins tight.
Guided by Will, her company had made rapid progress toward the southeast.
The snow on the ground thinned steadily, dropping from knee-deep drifts to barely touching their insteps.
Despite the jarring ride, the group’s cartographer worked diligently to map out the terrain on his parchment.
They had followed the sounds of shouting rangers, which had drawn their attention.
They had been wondering how to locate the Wildling encampments; now, opportunity had dropped into their laps.
Several dark figures stood out against the white snow.
Clad in the black of the Night’s Watch, they turned in alarm toward the cavalry thundering toward them from behind.
Land north of the Wall belonged to Wildlings, direwolves, and wild beasts.
So when Gwendolyn Vance burst into view leading a troop of heavily armored cavalry, the commander of the Night’s Watch patrol panicked.
What did infantry fear most?
Cavalry, naturally.
Was there anything worse than cavalry?
Yes: heavily armored cavalry.
As the elite cavalry of the Great Bastion Border Guard, the Jingsai Guard possessed the same formidable equipment—full heavy lamellar armor that rivaled infantry song-style suits of plate in thickness.
Nothing was exposed except their eyes.
Holding long cavalry lances, mounted on warhorses wrapped in iron barding, their charge was a terrifying sight to behold.
The moment Gwendolyn Vance’s force arrived, no one on the field dared to move a muscle.
Where had such a cavalry force come from north of the Wall?
The leader of the Night’s Watch patrol racked his brain, searching for heraldic sigils on their armor to identify their house.
But the iron armor bore no crests, nor did they carry banners.
Only the silver-armored commander at their head bore intricate patterns etched into her plate.
Yet even though the patrol commander was a highborn bastard, he could not recognize which house that silver knight belonged to.