Flames erupted, black smoke billowed into the sky, engulfing the entire village.
Viken stood on the village's only dirt road, the soil beneath his feet stained red with blood, as his crew carried out the final culling of the poor farmers.
Grain was roughly poured into sacks, spilling onto the ground, uncared for, while the few surviving sheep let out desperate cries, their legs broken before being tossed onto a cart.
There were also several women, their hair disheveled, clothes torn, strung together like livestock with ropes, their eyes vacant, only silent sobs remaining.
It was too easy, Viken smiled, his gaze sweeping over the forty-plus reveling Ironborn, then settling on the silent, softly weeping figures behind them.
Over three hundred Riverlands refugees, herded together like soulless zombies, stood numbly, their clothes tattered, faces sallow and thin, their pitchforks and wooden clubs mere laughable toys in the face of real weapons.
But... this 'army' was very effective; they were enough to scare away any distant scout, making those noble lords hiding in their castles overestimate the size of their own armies tenfold.
"Too easy," Viken licked his chapped lips, tasting the fire and blood in the air, which gave him a twisted sense of pleasure.
An Ironborn beside him grinned, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth: "By the drowned god, these sheep of the green lands don't even have the courage to show their fangs."
"They only show their courage to women, First Mate Viken."
The surrounding Ironborn roared with laughter, their cackles crude and grating.
As night fell, a bonfire rose in the center of the ruins, its flames greedily consuming the villagers' furniture and the dry wood torn from their houses.
The Ironborn sat around it, large chunks of lamb sizzling over the fire, fat dripping into the flames, sending up a shower of sparks; they drank stolen ale and laughed loudly, as if this were not a hell on earth, but their victory feast.
A burly man with a full, louse-ridden beard, tearing at a scalding lamb leg, roared indistinctly: "Those so-called knights! They only hide and tremble in their small castles! Their swords are only good for cutting bread!"
He tossed the cleanly gnawed lamb bone into the fire, eliciting another round of laughter.
"Their women, though, are tougher than their swords, at least they still resist on the ground!"
Another one-eyed Ironborn, hearing this, scanned the women tied up nearby with his single eye, letting out a grotesque laugh.
The laughter grew fouler, filled with undisguised desire and cruelty.
Viken did not join their revelry; he simply sat quietly to the side, sipping his wine, listening calmly, like a wolf observing a flock of sheep. He was always summarizing, trying to understand the patterns of this invasion.
He noticed that especially for those nobles whose men had been conscripted to Seaguard, leaving only women and children in their lands, those noblewomen would simply barricade themselves in their castles like oysters, not even daring to open the gates, allowing the Ironborn to collect their iron price on their land.
A younger Ironborn, with several fresh scars on his face, appeared particularly excited: "Speaking of that."
"These people raised on the green lands always like to brand themselves with wolves, lions, and bears."
He deliberately drew out his words, as if telling a joke, trying to attract attention.
"I heard the Riverlands people call a child something like Black Lion."
An old Ironborn looked around disdainfully and said, "Ha! A slightly fiercer sheep from the green lands, and they call him Black Lion?"
"We'll go to his land right away! Scare him senseless! Does he dare show his face?!"
Everyone beamed, chiming in.
"What Black Lion! I say he's just a Black Cat!"
"Black Cat! Right! That's the nickname a greenlander should have!"
"Hahaha! Black Cat!"
"Well said! Drown that cat!"
The bonfire crackled, casting flickering light on their distorted faces, only Viken remained silent.
The young Ironborn who started the topic, emboldened by alcohol and victory, grew particularly audacious.
He swayed over to Viken, cup in hand, his voice tinged with a challenge: "First Mate Viken."
"Why don't we follow that drunkard Roderick's example and lead our men deep inland, directly to that woman's castle to show off our might!"
He spread his arms, as if already envisioning victory.
"Just imagine! Our army stands before her castle! That woman might just be scared out of her wits! Abandon the city and run! Just like that foolish old woman at Licester Castle!"
Some younger Ironborn cheered in agreement, eager for greater glory and more spoils.
Viken lifted his eyelids, looking at him coldly: "Be careful, young man, the drunkard you speak of is the King of the Iron Islands' eldest son."
"Our mission is to create panic and spread rumors among the Riverlands people."
"Not to attack meaningless castles."
The young Ironborn's face stiffened, then he pouted. Viken, meanwhile, put down his cup and met the gazes directed at him.
"Going deep inland, far from the river, is too risky. Our ships are downstream; that's our only retreat."
"Once our true strength is revealed, these forty-plus men won't even be enough to fill the teeth of those knightly lords you claim only cut bread."
His words were like a bucket of cold water, dousing the enthusiasm of the Ironborn present.
Coward, the young Ironborn standing before him pouted, almost mouthing the three words, then turned and walked away, plopping back down among his companions.
Viken could clearly hear their hushed jeers from within the crowd.
"He's becoming more like a greenlander than an Ironborn."
"Like a merchant, only calculating risks; the drowned god will despise him."
"No wonder Roderick prefers the newcomer Hadwin, sending him and us to such a small place."
"Roderick never fears the advice of the clever Hadwin; he dares to plunge his sword into the gates of any noble's castle."
Viken did not look up or get angry; he simply picked up the cloth beside him and began silently wiping his longsword. The longsword, illuminated by the firelight, glinted with a cold, sinister light in his eyes.
His fingers were steady and strong, as if the sword were a part of his body. Cowardice? He simply understood survival better than those hot-headed fools. In the Iron Islands, the one who lived longest was never the bravest, but the most cunning.
As the night deepened, most of the reveling Ironborn had fallen into a drunken stupor, their snores and murmurs rising and falling.
Viken pulled out a crude map, his fingers, stained with roasted meat grease, slowly moving across it. Two more villages to plunder.
He had already set his plan: raid two more prosperous villages along this tributary of the small river downstream, drain the last of the iron price, and then immediately return along the riverbank to rejoin Roderick's main force. He did not want to take any unnecessary risks.
The poor woman, like a moth caught in a spider's web, could only watch helplessly as her lands were slowly destroyed, powerless to do anything. He, Viken, was the hunter who held the initiative; he savored the feeling of toying with his prey.
He drew a clear plundering route on the map with his finger, from his current position to the next village.
At this very moment, on the other side, an army was also drawing a line on a more precise map.
The end of that line was not Lady Rona's castle, but his current location.
The hunter can always become the hunted.
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