In the chilly light of dawn, the soldiers kept moving forward. Just as Blackfish had said, the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon were stony, high, and barren. Snow still capped the peaks.
Fortunately, it was not winter, and there had been no recent torrential rain, so they could avoid the most dangerous enemies of all: landslides and falling rocks.
Gendry had just finished putting on his black scale armor and lifted the tent flap when he saw Dacey Mormont and Jon Snow hurrying over to him.
"There's a situation, my lord," Jon said quickly.
Jon bore the Stark look far more strongly than Robb did. Robb looked more like a Tully. Jon was not very tall, leanly built, with a long face, brown hair, and gray eyes that sometimes carried a gloomy cast.
"Wildlings?" Gendry asked.
"Yes." Jon nodded. "They've blocked the road ahead, but they don't seem to mean to fight. They want to speak with whoever's in charge."
"These wildlings are poorly equipped. We should just charge through them. They're no Vale knightly host," Bronze Yohn said as he stepped forward, already dressed in his rune-covered silvered armor with a longsword in hand.
"Lord Yohn, our goal is to push straight through to the Bloody Gate, not fight a mountain skirmish against the natives. That would delay us badly, and the danger would be great. I've dealt with them many times. They have no armor, they're half-starved, and all they have is courage and knowledge of the mountain paths. Once they slip back into the hills, they vanish in an instant. Still, with a column this long, they rarely show themselves. That is strange indeed," Blackfish said. As a knight of the Bloody Gate, he knew these natives better than anyone present.
"Why don't I go speak with them? I used to serve at the Bloody Gate. They may have heard of me," Blackfish proposed. His voice was hoarse, his face weathered, his hair completely gray, with thick brows and blue eyes. He was an old knight with a wealth of battlefield experience, a veteran of the War of the Ninepenny Kings.
"I'll go," Gendry said. Since the natives had chosen to show themselves instead of launching an ambush, there was a real chance this could be settled peacefully. Blackfish did not insist.
The shrill cries came from a wind-carved ridge not far from the army. Gendry soon spotted the native riders perched along it. At a glance, they looked like a rabble.
The Vale guide knights were already prepared and eager to strike, but the rough mountain road would certainly hamper any cavalry pursuit.
Anguy and the longbowmen were ready as well, arrows already nocked. A few volleys would be enough to slaughter every native in sight, but there were far more of them than these alone. Kill these, and more raiding bands might follow.
So these were the villains bred by harsh mountains and harsher land, Gendry thought as he looked at them.
The natives were all dark-skinned and wiry, dressed in hardened leather and mismatched pieces of stolen armor, with their faces hidden behind half-helms. They wore gloves and carried all kinds of weapons: old longswords, spears, sharpened sickles, spiked maces, daggers, and heavy iron hammers. The riders at the front all wore cloaks made from spotted Shadowcat pelts and carried two-handed greatswords or long axes.
But the natives did not charge. Instead, a spotted Shadowcat hide fluttered from a bamboo pole, waving again and again. The meaning was obvious. They wanted to talk.
"The mountain road is rough. Why block our way? Have you come to sample our fine wine?" Gendry shouted, his voice ringing like steel.
"The mountains are ours. The roads are ours." A burly man carrying a two-handed greatsword rode out from among them. "I am Dos, son of Dolf, of the Sons of the Tree."
"So you mean to bar our path?"
"Not exactly," the burly man, Dos, said seriously. "If you're willing to give us some gifts, I guarantee I'll let you pass quickly. The people of the high mountains do not wish to tangle with the people of the lowlands. Swords? Spears? Or armor?"
"This is the king of the Stag Clan," Blackfish said. "You don't sound as though you're bargaining with a king."
"A king? We never kneel, but king sounds far grander than some eagle chieftain. I heard several tribes followed the Lion Chieftain's son out of the mountains. Stags and lions?" Dos asked.
"Lions and stags have never gotten along," Gendry said with a laugh. "Are you on good terms with the Burned Men?"
At the mention of the Burned Men, Dos's face immediately soured. The Burned Men were currently the strongest native tribe in the Mountains of the Moon, and the other clans feared them deeply. In their coming-of-age rite, Burned Men warriors would burn away part of their own bodies, usually a finger or a nipple. That was how they had earned their name. The more important the part burned away, the greater the warrior's prestige.
"We're certainly not close with the Burned Men." Dos's expression twitched visibly, and the warriors behind him grew instantly wary. Their fear of those madmen ran deep.
"The Burned Men went down from the mountains and made a fortune. When they come back wearing armor and carrying fine swords, you'll be the ones in trouble," Gendry said coldly.
That clearly hit a sore spot. The high mountain clans had been locked in internal strife for years. Once one tribe grew strong, the others were bound to suffer for it. Several tribes had followed the Burned Men out of the mountains, and if they really returned, there would surely be bloodshed.
"That's exactly why I need gifts. Armor and longswords are worth more than gold," Dos said, glancing enviously at the soldiers below and their fine equipment.
"You'll get gifts, but not now. You can see for yourself. I'm heading into the mountains. If the Burned Men can come down, why can't the Sons of the Tree?" Gendry said. "Or are you afraid of the Burned Men, only brave enough to hide behind rocks and rob travelers?"
If the Burned Men could leave the mountains, then the Sons of the Tree could too.
"That's not true!" Dos roared, swinging the greatsword in his hand.
"You really are richer than the lions and the eagles?" he asked doubtfully.
"As real as can be," Blackfish said, stepping forward and patting his armor, his cloak fastened with a blackfish brooch. "Our Prince has tens of thousands of men equipped like this. You could go stab the lions in the side, and you might even find Timett."
A moment later, another native rider in a Shadowcat cloak came galloping over. His face was marked with the tattoo of a great snake. He looked like a warrior of the Milk Snakes, and he carried a pitchfork in one hand.
"Have you settled it yet, Dos?" the Milk Snakes warrior asked. He was thin as a rail, and only the tattoo on his face truly stood out.
Dos rode closer to him and muttered a few words under his breath.
The Milk Snakes warrior nodded and whispered back, "We don't want gold. The children and the mothers are starving. Tools are worth more than gold. If Timett has gone down from the mountains, then we can too. If winter comes again, our sheep and horses will all be eaten up."
"The lowland lord's gold is as worthless as a dwarf's promises," Dos said, thinking it over.
"If you don't even have this much courage, then all you can do is wait for the Burned Men to kill you."
"I'm not afraid," Dos roared, brandishing his greatsword. "My sword can prove our words."
"You don't have much time left. The moment my soldiers charge..."
"People below the mountains, chieftain of the Stag," the Milk Snakes warrior shouted hastily. "The Milk Snakes and the Sons of the Tree are willing to go to the Riverlands to fight lions. But when?"
"When this banner appears again." Gendry threw his quartered-banner cloak to Dos.
Dos hesitated for a moment, then tossed over his Shadowcat cloak in return.
...
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