On the muddy dirt road, cries and curses mingled.
The people of the Riverlands, swept up like cattle, were driven forward; their bodies were covered in mud and blood, their eyes vacant and numb. Women, bound together with rough hemp rope, trailed behind the group, stumbling occasionally from the pushes and shoves of the Ironborn, only to struggle back up under the lash of whips.
"Old man!!" An Ironborn with a scarred face brought his axe down hard on an old man's back.
The old man grunted, blood splattering from his back as he collapsed forward into the mud and water, never to move again.
The Ironborn burst into raucous laughter, their crude and cruel cackles echoing over the ravaged land. These people were not those they intended to plunder and take back as slave laborers, but rather captives they had rounded up to inflate their numbers.
Their ultimate fate was to be killed after they were used, replaced by the next batch.
Viken walked in the middle of the group, watching everything with cold eyes. He did not partake in his companions' amusement. His gloomy eyes constantly scanned his surroundings with an ever-present sense of unease.
Just then, a scout responsible for the rear guard galloped back from behind, mud splattering high from his feet.
The scout stopped, bent over, hands on his knees, and gasped, "First Mate Viken!"
"There's a guy on horseback behind us! He's been following us! Very close!"
As soon as he finished speaking, the Ironborn in the group erupted in even louder jeers. Some clapped their round shields to make noise.
"Ha! Another idiot coming to die?"
"Who cares! He must be someone sent by that woman from this land to spy on us!"
"Looks like that woman is preparing to escort us out! Why doesn't she personally come to send off my 'sword'!"
"He only dares to watch from afar. After we're done plundering, he'll go back and report to that woman that the real men have left!"
Arrogant laughter rose and fell. Having come all this way so smoothly, unopposed, it seemed to them that the events in this land proved the weakness and incompetence of the farmers, who were no match for the Ironborn.
An Ironborn spat on the ground and said disdainfully, "Exactly! Wasn't the last one like that?"
"He followed us like a stray dog for half a day! In the end, he just watched us burn his village!"
Viken, however, did not laugh. His brow furrowed tightly, and an indescribable unease, like a cold snake, quietly crawled up his spine. He had risen from an unknown sailor to the position of first mate on the Iron King's son's longship, not merely by cruelty.
He relied on a beast-like vigilance that had helped Roderick avoid countless dangers and earned him his trust. This matter, he had a strange feeling, was different from the previous times when people had followed them to monitor and escort them.
Viken's thoughts drifted to the ship, recalling that sly newcomer named Hadwin, who now even had the nickname "Clever" Hadwin.
He always felt there was something strange about that bastard, but ever since Roderick listened to him, everything had gone smoothly, even taking a large castle in the Riverlands. Yet, when Viken suggested being wary of this Ironborn from Lonely Light, Roderick, that drunkard, sent him to this remote little place to plunder.
Roderick relied more and more on that glib-tongued bastard, which made Viken feel a real threat. He felt that if he made even the slightest mistake on this expedition, Hadwin would pounce like a shark smelling blood, taking everything he currently possessed.
Now he had to be careful, more careful than ever. Roderick was a brainless drunkard. After Balon Greyjoy died, Viken would use Roderick to climb even higher. He absolutely could not stop here. He would have his own longship, even his own island.
He looked back. What exactly did those people on horseback want? From what he knew, the woman of this land could only field over four hundred farmers as soldiers, and they were all holed up in the castle, guarding her.
"Keep going." Viken's voice was cold. He ignored his subordinates' taunts, only occasionally glancing at the horizon behind the group.
The group continued through the mud, but the atmosphere subtly grew strange. The Ironborn were still kicking and cursing the poor Riverlands refugees, arrogantly discussing the women and riches of the next village, seemingly already celebrating prematurely.
Viken, however, occasionally stopped, narrowing his eyes like a lurking wolf, focusing all his attention on the activity behind him, the coming and going of the knights.
The sun slowly moved overhead, lengthening everyone's shadows. Another knight appeared, on a small ridge in the distance, like a black silhouette.
He only paused briefly, seemingly observing something, then turned his horse and disappeared on the other side of the ridge. Everything was as before.
No!! It's not the same!!!!
Viken's heart suddenly contracted.
He keenly noticed a pattern that was almost imperceptible, yet fatally crucial.
The time interval between each appearance, return, and reappearance of those cavalrymen was significantly shortening!
The first time, he probably took six hundred breaths; the second time, it seemed only four hundred.
And this last time! It was probably less than two hundred!
Viken's mind raced, sweat seeping from his forehead. The knights' round-trip time had shortened... Why? Why would it shorten?
A thought, like lightning, cut through the fog in his mind, instantly freezing the blood in his veins.
He understood!!
The shortened round-trip time of the knights could only have one explanation: they were reporting to their main force behind them, and that army was rapidly closing the distance to them!
This was not surveillance or some kind of escort! The enemy was preparing to attack!
"Damn it!!!" Viken's face instantly turned pale, all the hairs on his body stood on end, covered in goosebumps.
He abruptly turned his head, looking at his companions beside him who were still reveling in their dreams of victory, oblivious to death. A surge of anger mixed with anxiety rushed to his throat.
Then, with all his strength, he let out a heart-wrenching roar: "Idiots! Stop moving, all of you!"
"Quick!! Everyone!! Drop those burdens!! Get into the forest, fast!!!"
In Arthur's marching column, the atmosphere was equally tense.
The sworn swords sent out by Rosso Brun, like arrows released from a bow, moved back and forth between the main force and the front, bringing back news with increasing frequency.
"My Lord!" A sworn sword galloped back, reining his horse sharply in front of Arthur. "We've closed the distance again! The enemy hasn't reacted!"
"Well done!" Arthur nodded, signaling him to withdraw and continue scouting.
Beside him, Brin and Rosso Brun both had grave expressions, their hands on their sword hilts, awaiting the final command. They were already very close; as soon as the order to attack was given, they could quickly engage the enemy.
Another sworn sword returned, and this time, he brought back intelligence that puzzled everyone.
"My Lord! The enemy's formation is very strange!" The sworn sword reported breathlessly. "I saw it more clearly! The main body of their group,
the large section in the front and middle, is all very strange people!"
"They are holding pitchforks and wooden sticks, their clothes are tattered, and they walk unsteadily. They don't look like Ironborn warriors at all!"
The rider paused, then added, "The real Ironborn seem to be only on the outer edges and at the front and back! No more than a hundred at most!"
This news was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, stirring up a thousand ripples.
Rosso immediately requested to attack: "My Lord, whether it's true or false, let me launch the attack and we will know!"
"Exactly!" Brin also spoke excitedly. "My Lord! Give the order for us to attack!!"
Rosso looked at Arthur, his eyes gleaming with battle intent: "My Lord! Give the order! The training results of the sworn swords should be shown to you! They are already impatient!"
However, Arthur raised his hand, calming everyone. As a man who had been through countless conspiracy theories and war stratagems, his face showed no joy at all, but was instead filled with suspicion.
He had once been inundated almost daily with stories of countless cunning and variable war stratagems. Now, they swirled in his mind like countless ghosts. The Ironborn were known for their ferocity; how could they dare to penetrate so deeply into their territory with only a little over a hundred men?
He looked around at his two generals, analyzing in an extremely calm voice: "Things are not that simple. This is very likely a trap."
"A trap?" Brin asked, puzzled.
Arthur's gaze fell upon the dense forest that appeared in front of both groups in the distance: "Yes."
"Perhaps they are deliberately showing us this to lure us into attacking. Those who look like refugees might be disguised warriors, waiting for us to charge."
The excitement on Brin and Rosso's faces slowly faded, replaced by a hint of fear. Lord Arthur's analysis was reasonable. There were countless examples of disastrous defeats in war due to underestimating the enemy.
Just as he was hesitating, weighing various possibilities, a sworn sword galloped back like a madman, his horse almost crashing into the column.
The knight fell from his horse, scrambling to Arthur's front, his voice hoarse from extreme tension.
"My Lord! The enemy... the enemy is speeding up!"
"They are desperately... running towards that forest!"
"And... they are throwing various things..." Arthur paused, silent for a moment. His fingers, gripping the reins, were slightly white from exertion. The enemy began discarding things and fleeing. This could either indicate their guilt and fear, or it could further confirm a feigned retreat to lure them in, hoping his forces would fall into disarray while picking up loot, allowing them to counterattack.
Wait, a wave of self-mockery suddenly surged in his heart. Perhaps he had read too many war stratagems, to the point of overcomplicating a simple matter. Where would the people of Westeros, with their simplicity, come up with so many plots and schemes?
His own army's discipline was guaranteed, and the numbers of the forces were not far apart, so what was there to hesitate about?
On the battlefield, things change in an instant. Excessive caution is cowardice. He suddenly looked up at Brin and Rosso beside him. There was no longer any frivolity in their eyes, only resolute and cautious anticipation of orders.
His longsword was drawn, its clear ringing sound piercing the stagnant air.
Arthur's voice was loud and firm. He pointed his sword tip forward, giving the final command: "When paths cross, the brave prevail!"
"Let me see this so-called Ironborn!"
"Rosso Brun!"
"Here!!"
"You, take all the sworn swords and quickly flank them from both sides! Ignore their main force, bypass them, and block their path into the forest! Don't let them escape!"
"Yes!" Rosso roared excitedly, immediately leading his forty-plus sworn swords away from the main force, like two open blades, outflanking the enemy's flanks.
"The rest of you!" Arthur's sword tip turned, pointing straight ahead. "Catch them!!"
"Roar!!" Four hundred soldiers let out a deafening roar, spears like a forest, swords in hand, charging forward! "Kill!!!"
When Arthur led his main force, charging menacingly towards the Ironborn column, the sight before him left him dumbfounded.
Rosso Brun's riders had successfully completed their task. They had formed a sparse but deadly line at the forest entrance, like a cold wall, blocking the Ironborn's only escape route.
And the more than three hundred Riverlands refugees, who had been swept up by the Ironborn, finally had their nerves, stretched to their limit, completely break when they saw countless "knights" in heavy armor appear in front of them, and heard the thunderous sound of pursuers killing from behind.
They threw away their ridiculous wooden sticks and pitchforks. The instinct for survival overwhelmed all fear. They no longer paid attention to the Ironborn's hacking, shouting, and whipping,
but instead, like a flock of utterly terrified sheep, let out piercing screams, rushing in all directions without a care. They charged towards the unguarded flanks, towards the dense bushes. For a moment, the entire clearing in front of the forest became a chaotic mess.
Viken and his forty-plus subordinates could only watch helplessly as their painstakingly assembled "fake army" disintegrated in an instant.
Then, they were completely exposed in the open clearing in front of the forest.
Arthur slowly reined in his warhorse. He looked at the scene before him, which was almost comically absurd, at the forty-odd dumbfounded and helpless Ironborn, then at his own four hundred fully armed, battle-ready elite peasant soldiers behind him, and then at the forty-odd fully armored sworn swords blocking the Ironborn's path to the forest.
The wind rustled through the dense forest.
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found he couldn't utter a single word. Looking at that small group of enemies, he silently, slowly, lowered his longsword, which he had already raised high, and gave his order to attack.
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