Past midnight, a group of riders finally drifted into view beneath the hill.
They were moving in uneven lines, horses stumbling from exhaustion.
Even from above, Matthew could hear their irritated voices echoing up the slope.
"That pack of damned rats—how the hell do they run so fast?"
"Because they're rats, idiot. If I were them, I'd be halfway to the coast by now."
Another voice chimed in with a laugh. "Ha! Says the man known for bolting first—'Mad Dog,' wasn't it?"
The banter turned into chuckles as the group trudged halfway up the slope.
The lead riders dismounted, stopping to check the ground for tracks, squinting into the dark ahead.
But with only the flicker of their torches for light, anything outside that glow was swallowed whole by the night.
Hearing nothing suspicious, they remounted and moved on—step by step, climbing straight into danger.
Matthew watched their advance, hand raised to signal patience to his men. Not yet. Let them come closer.
Only when the torchlight crept near the top did he snap into motion—kicking the wagon forward with both feet and shouting,
"Now! Loose!"
The mercenaries fired immediately, loosing a ragged volley into the flames below.
The wagon thundered down the slope like a boulder, picking up speed as the arrows whistled through the dark.
Down below, it smashed into a corpse already bristling with bolts, flipping into the air with a crash.
The looming shadow and the roar of splintering wood sent the pursuers into panic.
"Run! Run!" someone screamed.
Horses shrieked and stumbled as riders whipped them mercilessly, desperate to flee downhill to open ground.
The formation broke apart within seconds.
Matthew saw the scattered torchlight veering in different directions and grinned. "That's our cue."
He turned and shouted to Bernas, already astride his mount. "Take your riders—hit the smaller group first!"
Bernas nodded sharply and charged down the hill, his cavalry fanning out to the right.
Matthew followed close behind, bringing half his archers and crossbowmen in support.
The air filled with dust as they ran. He pulled up behind an overturned wagon, spat once onto the ground, and scanned the flickering lights.
A cluster of torches on the left had broken off, then oddly begun to circle back.
"Oh, you've got guts, huh?" Matthew muttered.
He braced the fallen wagon and heaved it sideways until it wedged tight against the slope—forming an angled barricade across the path.
When the pursuers came pounding up again, shouting wildly, Matthew raised his arm and fired.
The bolt hissed through the dark and slammed into the leading rider's gut, punching through his leather armor and yanking him off the saddle.
The ones behind crashed against the wagon, unable to see or strike past it.
They hacked and cursed, blades chopping wood with sharp cracks as Matthew's men held the barricade firm.
Squatting low, Matthew reloaded, sighted, and fired again.
Another cry. Another body hitting dirt.
The attackers tried to wheel around, but the terrain betrayed them—there was no way left or right, only the narrow road ahead.
His archers loosed again, not caring for precision, just fire and pressure.
The result was chaos.
A few horses went down screaming, tossing their riders across the ground. Those who could still move turned and ran, abandoning their dead and wounded.
Matthew saw their retreat and loaded once more, sending another bolt flashing into the nearest back. The man never made another sound.
That was the beauty of a crossbow—accurate, fast, brutal.
The mercenaries' bows lacked the same punch, more noise than power. Still, their volleys did enough to unnerve and wound several mounts.
In the end, a handful of enemy riders were left sprawled on the ground.
Matthew waved forward. "Finish them off—don't let any crawl away!"
The mercenaries rushed in. The half-stunned survivors barely raised their heads before blades came down.
Four bodies later, one man still breathed.
Not out of mercy—the survivors had simply run out of targets when this one started shouting.
"I surrender! Don't kill me! I can tell you where the loot is!"
Matthew's men exchanged looks, and two of them dragged the limping captive forward.
"Easy, damn you," the man yelped. "My leg's busted!"
They grunted, then hauled him up between them and dumped him in front of Matthew at the rear wagon.
"Got a live one, boss."
Matthew eyed the prisoner, a trembling man trying to smile through pain. "Tell me one good reason I shouldn't kill you right now."
"I know where our troop keeps the gold and goods," the man gasped, clutching his thigh. "Spare me—I'll take you there!"
Matthew tilted his head, gaze half-lidded with contempt.
He didn't believe a word. These sorts always promised treasure—usually right before springing a trap.
The man sensed his hesitation and grew frantic. "Gold! Silver moons! A whole fortune—you want it, don't you?"
A few mercenaries looked tempted, but none dared speak with Matthew watching them.
This was already their second victory under his command—and their fear of him had started to shift into something else: respect, uneasy but real.
Matthew felt both the eagerness and the danger in the air.
He gave a faint, cold smile. "Tell me something else then—why are you people so bold? Aren't you afraid the Hogs of Sow's Ridge or the Haverfields will call in the crown to crush you?"
The prisoner's eyes lit up—finally, a question he could answer. "Not afraid at all! This area doesn't belong to the Hog family. It's no-man's-land—they've no authority here. King's Landing's too far to care."
He licked his lips and added quickly, "And the Haverfields? They're a mess right now. Someone's gunning for them hard. The Hogs aren't getting involved—they stopped sending riders weeks ago."
Matthew's brows lifted slightly. "And how would you know that?"
The man puffed up, sensing Matthew's interest. "I've worked the roads between Sow's Ridge and Harrenhal all my life. Lately, fewer caravans, fewer guards. I started asking around—locals say something big's about to happen."
Matthew rubbed his chin thoughtfully, nodding once. For a heartbeat, it looked like the man might live.
Then Matthew waved his hand casually. "Alright then. Send him to meet the Stranger."
The prisoner froze, his grin collapsing into horror.
When the mercenary beside him drew his sword, he screamed, wild and desperate. "Wait! I can help! I can get you the gold—real gold, mountains of it—don't—"
The blade slid straight through his chest.
His eyes went wide, mouth twitching, blood frothing out as he tried to look down at the steel emerging from his ribs.
Then the sword jerked free and he collapsed, gurgling, gone in seconds.
Matthew frowned at the glare frozen on the dead man's face and kicked his head aside.
"Pathetic liar," he muttered. "Did you really think we'd run into a trap for a bag of shiny coins?"
He looked up, scanning the faces around him one by one.
He memorized who had hesitated, who had acted, who had stared too long.
Which of them could be trusted, and which could not—every detail etched itself quietly into his mind.
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