Chapter 648: Hijacking the Path

On the main road leading from Skyreach to Prince's Pass,

Clippety-clop--

The hooves hit the soft earth, trailed by a line of carriages laden with goods, their wheels churning a melody of travel.

They bore the banner of Kingsgrave, displaying a white skull crowned in gold against a black background.

The emblem and name of the town hailed from the founder of House Manwoody, who once slew a Riverlands king on this very ground.

This convoy carried supplies to the front lines, mainly Dornish wine to reward the soldiers, along with dried meats and a smattering of gold and silver.

Due to Dorne's perennial hot and arid climate, fresh meats like pork, beef, or mutton could hardly be preserved for long, hence the necessity of drying them swiftly and salting them for longer shelf life.

Kingsgrave, the domain of House Manwoody, was a close neighbor to Prince's Pass. Though not the 'Guardians of the Pass', they had tight-knit relations with the Fowler family of Skyreach.

This time, Lord Franklin Fowler, the 'Guardian of the Pass', had committed an offense against the kingdom's laws, inviting severe retribution.

The Fowler family was actively persuading other Dornish nobles to join their cause. Although House Manwoody did not openly pledge allegiance to the Fowlers in defiance of the royal army—deeming the rebellion too risky—they clandestinely provided some material support to the defenders.

For instance, this batch of reward supplies soon to be delivered to the rear of Prince's Pass, was now under the charge of Dickon Manwoody, the second son of the Count of Kingsgrave.

The young Dornish lord was not a knight, a rarity in Dorne due to its unique history and culture which somewhat alienated it from the rest of Westeros. Hence, knights were a sparse breed here.

At the moment, Dickon Manwoody rode at the forefront of the convoy, nonchalantly whistling a tune, appearing utterly relaxed without a trace of vigilance.

He donned scale armor cloaked in a sandy-colored robe, a white turban wrapped around his head, a curved blade tucked at his waist, and neatly trimmed sideburns adorning his face.

Behind him, two to three dozen soldiers from Kingsgrave escorted the carriages. They too wore sandy-colored leather armor embroidered with scales, brandishing spears with one hand, the other holding metallic round shields.

The harsh sun overhead seared the earth like a blazing fireball, with not a breath of wind to be felt. The extreme heat was unbearable. The Dornish soldiers, having marched half a day under the scorching sun, were drenched in sweat, utterly exhausted with beads of perspiration continually trickling down their foreheads.

"Let's take a break, young Master Dickon."

"The pack horses can hardly move."

One soldier from Kingsgrave, utterly drained, couldn't help but plead with their young lord.

Crack—

A whip lashed across his body, causing him to stagger, nearly falling to the ground.

Without hesitation, Dickon Manwoody, upon hearing the soldier's request, lashed him with his whip. The smile on his face vanished, replaced by a cold, stern tone.

"Hurry up!"

"If we don't reach the Pass by nightfall, do you fancy sleeping out in the open with me?"

"Yes, yes."

Seeing young Master Dickon enraged, the other soldiers from Kingsgrave, although drained to the bone, dared not utter a word of complaint. After all, the young master's father was the Count of Kingsgrave. They could only muster whatever strength remained and grit their teeth to continue the arduous journey.

Yet, just as they proceeded, a furious roar resounded from the cliffs flanking the road to Prince's Pass above their heads.

"Kill them!"

Subsequently, over twenty skilled soldiers from the royal army seemed to descend from the heavens. No one knew where they emerged from as they brandished their longswords and charged at them.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

Dickon Manwoody, the heir of Kingsgrave, was aghast at the sight. He hastily drew the curved blade from his waist as he struggled to control his frightened steed.

"Damn it!"

"Kill them!"

"Kill them!"

Dickon swung his blade, commanding his soldiers vehemently.

The Dornish soldiers, without needing further instruction from Dickon, tightly gripped their weapons, forming a protective ring around the carriages. They watched as the assailants charged, gulping down the lump of fear lodged in their throats.

"Attack!"

In the next moment, a melee ensued, the clanging of steel and cries of pain filled the air.

"Die!"

The soldiers of Kingsgrave resisted valiantly. However, due to the long, exhausting march under the blistering sun, they were severely fatigued, some even showing signs of heatstroke.

How could these Dornish soldiers, in such a state, be a match for the handpicked warriors led by Jon Clifton?

Therefore, the Dornish soldiers were quickly overwhelmed, retreating step by step, until the last man was cornered by Olifer.

"Die!"

He shouted, lunging forward with his spear at the knight of House Ochre. Yet, the knight easily dodged the attack, piercing the soldier's throat with his sword.

After withdrawing the blade, the corpse tumbled to the ground. The burly Riverlands knight wiped the blood off his blade with the dead man's clothes, sheathing his sword as he looked toward the other side.

Here, Dickon Manwoody, the heir of Kingsgrave, seemed to have attempted to break through the encirclement on horseback during the skirmish.

But he was seized by the Dornish boy, Caron, who served as their guide, forcibly dismounted, and captured alive.

"Spare me!"

"Spare me!"

"My Lords, I surrender! I surrender!"

The heir of Kingsgrave was now a sight to behold—his turban knocked off, his body covered in dirt, a picture of utter disarray.

Dickon Manwoody was desperate to live. Realizing escape was impossible after being dismounted, he simply dropped his blade, raised his hands, and knelt on the ground in surrender.

"Pah—"

"Coward!"

A knight from the Riverlands spat in disdain at Dickon's direction after sheathing his sword.

On the other hand, the leader of this expedition, a somewhat cold-natured knight from the Riverlands, calmly sheathed his blade. He glanced around, the corpses scattered around catching his eye, before finally focusing on Dickon Manwoody.

"The emblem of Kingsgrave, which Manwoody lord might you be?"

"Dickon, my Lord. My name is Dickon."

Dickon hurriedly responded, kneeling on the ground.

"Oh, Lord Dickon."

"No worries, no need to panic. We just need you to do one thing for us. Accomplish it, and you shall be set free."