The Kingswood is a hard beast to tame, a green vastness where all sorts of secrets and dangers nestle persistently. The Wardenry sees to maintaining order by dotting it with outposts where from troop spills into the wood to uproot poachers, thieves and other ruffians yet. Alerted by an outrider, a small column marched out on this day for such purposes, for apparently some wretched lot of peasants or the other had forgotten their place and were seen preying on supplies meant for the feeding of the King’s men. No more than five or six troop were dispatched, as how could more be needed to deal with cowering smallfolk, who would surely fall on their knees and beg for mercy?
Taking a well-hidden—or rather badly kept—trail encroached on by elms, birches and moss, they finally descended on the poachers. They were to find no ragged poachers sporting makeshift bows; instead before them were hardy men, armed with short swords and daggers and hunger, curiously not intent on fleeing. Different tales have circulated between the men of the Warden of the Kingswood since then, but all agree the scuffle was vicious and the patrol repelled ignominiously and forced to stagger back to safety bearing all kinds of injury. The name of a Dornish witch is on more lips by the day, and the stricken outpost has been supplied with some reinforcements.