Lady Roslyn sat on the main seat, her face pale, with several pleas for help spread out before her.
The contents of the letters were largely similar: the Ironborn had turned villages into infernos, burning everything, men were slaughtered, women were... then killed, and not even livestock were spared.
Roslyn's voice was soft, yet exceptionally clear in the dead silent council hall: "The Ironborn have already stepped onto our land."
"They are setting fire to my land, slaughtering my people."
"I need someone to lead the army. There's no need to fight, just to use our numbers to force them to leave."
Maester Walder's withered fingers wrung together, his cloudy eyes filled with worry: "Lady, news from Licester Castle confirms that the invading Ironborn number in the thousands."
"Our forces are insufficient to contend with them in the open field."
Roslyn's gaze swept over the silent knights present: "So we just sit here, listening to the wails of our people, smelling the scorched earth of our own land?"
"I said, there's no need to fight, just use the army to force them to leave for someone else's land."
One by one, they lowered their heads, their eyes darting away, as if the cracks in the floor were more captivating than the Lady's eyes. Some stroked their sword hilts, others adjusted their collars, but no one spoke.
A fat knight stood up and mumbled evasively: "The Ironborn are fierce, we... should defend the castle."
Everyone chimed in agreement.
"Yes, Lady, a rash attack would only sacrifice our precious manpower in vain."
"As long as we hold the castle, the Ironborn will leave after they've plundered."
"Right, we just need to wait."
Roslyn's heart sank. These family knights, who usually prided themselves on their bravery, these men who enjoyed the sustenance of the domain, now looked like a flock of sheep terrified by wolves.
She asked again, a hint of chill in her voice: "Who is willing to go to war for my family?"
The suffocating silence in the hall persisted. Just then, an old voice sighed, breaking the awkwardness: "Let me go."
Everyone looked over. An old man stood up from the corner. His hair was white, and the wrinkles on his face were like dried riverbeds. The hearing in one of his ears was no longer good, but he stood ramrod straight. It was Old Ser Erack.
Roslyn looked at him, a flicker of emotion in her eyes, immediately covered by deep worry: "Ser, you..."
Ser Erack raised his head, interrupting her: "Lady."
"My honor does not allow me to sit idly by. Please let me lead the troops."
Roslyn closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them, her gaze resolute: "Very well."
'Ser Erack, I command you to lead my army. Remember, just display our banners and force them to leave, drive them from our land."
Ser Erack knelt on one knee, his right hand over his chest: "As you command, Lady."
The wind on the plains stirred the Daintings City banners. Ser Erack rode on his horse, looking at the distant, dark mass of "thousands" of Ironborn, and the faintly visible, iconic Kraken banner of the Ironborn.
The thousand-plus soldiers beside him were mostly farmers who had been wielding hoes in the fields yesterday. Their clothes were tattered, and their faces were filled with fear. More like a flock of driven livestock than an army, they gripped their spears tightly, their palms slick with sweat, their fear of the "enemy" opposite them even more intense.
"Blow the horn!" Ser Erack shouted. He tried to follow Lady Roslyn's order, to display the size of his army and use their numbers to force the enemy to another lord's land.
A long, slightly off-key horn blast echoed across the plains. However, what answered him was not the enemy's retreat, but a sudden, beast-like roar erupting from the enemy's ranks.
A black torrent suddenly surged out from the distant ranks, charging forward. These were true Ironborn, one hand holding a round shield, the other a battle-axe, their faces twisted in a bloodthirsty grin.
Ser Erack roared hoarsely: "Hold! Hold the line!"
"Orderly retreat!!!"
But his aged voice was instantly drowned out by screams and shouts of alarm. The Ironborn were getting closer and closer. The farmers' world instantly collapsed. They had heard of the Ironborn's brutality in stories. No one obeyed the Old Knight's command. Some broke ranks and fled backward, and the formation crumbled.
On the right side of the battlefield, Lucien calmly watched all this. From the moment the Ironborn charged out, the ranks inexplicably suddenly began to scatter and flee. The four hundred "display-only" soldiers of new settlers behind him also stirred. His heart sank to the bottom, but the teachings of Lord Arthur echoed in his ears.
Lucien didn't hesitate for a moment, turning to the "display-only" soldiers: "Run!!!"
"Maintain formation! Run at full speed! No disorder!"
"Run!!!!"
This command was like a heavenly sound. The four hundred "display-only" soldiers immediately turned around and began to run wildly in an orderly retreat, in a well-trained manner. Their movements were so swift and decisive that the Daintings City soldiers who hadn't moved yet were stunned for a moment, then began to turn and follow suit.
As the two forces engaged, more and more people fled. Spears were thrown to the ground, and people scattered like headless flies.
Ser Erack's eyes turned red. He saw an Ironborn cut down his standard-bearer and trample his family banner with his foot. Honor and anger burned away his reason. He let out a roar and spurred his horse forward.
Several throwing axes spun through the air, embedding themselves precisely in his chest and neck. The Old Knight's body jolted violently and he fell from his horse. The last thing he saw were countless dirty boots and raised battle-axes.
On the retreat, Lucien, while keeping his troops in order, forced himself to observe the battlefield like Lord Arthur. He quickly noticed a strange phenomenon: although the Ironborn pursuing them attacked fiercely, their numbers seemed to be small, at most a few hundred, while most of the distant forces did not move.
Lucien succeeded. Because he was the first to flee, he not only brought back his entire four hundred men but also gathered over two hundred fleeing Daintings City soldiers.
As the gates of Dendings Castle slowly closed, the force of over six hundred men became the castle's last armed strength.
Outside the city, Roderick Greyjoy drove thousands of refugees, waiting in a dark mass just beyond the line of sight of Dendings Castle.
He spat, his face full of scorn: "Just like that woman in Licester Castle! I hear the current owner of this castle is also a woman!"
"It won't even take half a day! She'll open the gates and flee!!"
Bronn squinted, surveying the city walls. A bunch of useless cowards, he couldn't even describe these weak and incompetent wretches.
Time passed, but there was no movement from the castle.
Roderick Greyjoy frowned and stepped forward to observe the situation. On the city walls, rows of archers were already in position.
A figure appeared in the center of the castle tower. She wore a suit of armor, her posture appearing incredibly resolute.
Roderick's smile froze on his face. He hadn't expected that the woman of this castle would be even tougher than those men of the Riverlands.
He had no siege weapons, nor did he have as many soldiers as he claimed. Storming this strong castle would only result in heavy losses.
Roderick turned his head, gritting his teeth fiercely: "Retreat!"
"Since they won't come out! We'll continue plundering!"
Night fell, atop the city walls.
Lucien reported his observations from the day to Lady Roslyn: "I saw it, Lady."
"The enemy's true numbers may not be large."
Although they felt this might be Lucien's words to comfort them, it still slightly eased the tense nerves of Roslyn and Maester Walder.
Roslyn turned her head and said sincerely: "Thank you and your soldiers for choosing to stay."
In the midst of defeat, the vassal army did not flee. Regardless of their humble status, they deserved her gratitude.
Lucien scratched his head somewhat awkwardly. He felt that he was the first to lead the flight, and he led four hundred men directly in fleeing, bearing an undeniable responsibility for the large-scale rout, after all, a significant portion of the four hundred men in formation suddenly began to run in an organized manner.
Roslyn walked to the wall, looking at the dark expanse outside. She turned around, her eyes calm again: "Maester."
"Release the raven."
"To Riverrun."
"To my family's vassals."]}
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