In the council hall of Seaguard, the salty sea breeze, whistling through the window cracks, ruffled Jason Mallister's brown-and-white hair.
News about the Ironborn contingent in the Riverlands had finally arrived by raven, dousing the last flicker of hope like a bucket of cold water. Riverrun's reinforcements had missed their target and were now aimlessly pursuing the cunning Ironborn, who were leading them on a wild goose chase.
He stopped his agitated pacing and slammed his palm heavily on the cold stone table, making the map on it jump.
"Those damned Ironborn!"
The air in the hall was so thick it could almost be cut with a knife. The messenger's description was clear and brutal: the Ironborn had defeated two thousand-man armies consecutively outside Daisding City. Both the first and second armies reported the Ironborn force as a massive army exceeding three thousand men.
The air in the hall was so thick it could almost be cut with a knife. The Riverlands lords gathered there looked increasingly grim. They no longer spoke grandly of loyalty and honor; their glances exchanged only silence and calculation.
The lord of House Roote was the first to rise and speak, his voice dry: "Lord Mallister."
"My territory, Harroway's Town, is only two days' journey from the mouth of the Trident River. If the Ironborn sail downstream, they could arrive in less than a day…"
He didn't finish, but everyone understood his meaning. The sea off Seaguard was calm, with no Ironborn in sight, but there was indeed an Ironborn army floating on the Trident River.
And old Lyman Lannister had already set the precedent, leading his army home to reclaim his castle, which Riverrun had not prevented.
Another noble immediately rose, his voice hoarse and pained:
"Exactly! I've only left fewer than four hundred soldiers in my castle. If the Ironborn reach my castle, my family…"
Jason Mallister roared: "Silence!"
"We are here to protect your families and your lands! Seaguard is the first and strongest line of defense against the Ironborn!"
His words were impactful but failed to calm the already fractured morale.
A sharp voice rang out, also from a lord on the Trident River: "Defense line?"
"My Lord, our defense line is based on the assumption that the enemy will attack from the front."
"But now, the sea off Seaguard is calm!"
"And over three thousand Ironborn are rampaging through our heartland! They can attack any undefended place! We must go back!"
"If the Ironborn really attack Seaguard, it wouldn't be too late to summon us then."
Jason's gaze swept over them like a hawk: "Go back?"
"And then what, let the Ironborn pick us off one by one, defeat us individually?"
This question brought a brief silence to the council hall. But panic is a contagious plague; once it starts, it cannot be contained.
An elderly man stood up, Quincy Cox, a landed knight from Saltpans. He bowed deeply to Jason, his posture humble, but his words were unyieldingly firm: "My Lord, the situation is different."
"Seaguard is calm, and our responsibility is to protect our property, to protect our people. If the Ironborn wish, they can destroy my undefended Saltpans in half a day."
"Therefore, I request your permission to lead my men back to my fief."
Even a knight had requested to withdraw. For a moment, requests to withdraw rose one after another.
"I request the same!"
"My Lord, please allow us!"
"What's wrong with summoning us when the Ironborn truly arrive?"
The so-called noble coalition was not an army at all. Composed of individual retinues and disparate interests, it exposed its fragile side when faced with the choice between foresight and immediate threat. The Ironborn at sea were unseen, but those on the Trident River were an immediate danger.
Jason Mallister felt a profound sense of powerlessness. Did these men not consider that if Seaguard fell, and the Ironborn roamed the Trident River, they would still lose their property? He wanted to roar, to draw his sword, to use violence to force them to obey, but he couldn't. Once morale shattered, it could not be reassembled.
Finally, after a tumultuous debate, an absurd decision was made: the garrison would be further divided, with four thousand men led by several lords into the interior to cooperate with Riverrun's forces in hunting the Ironborn.
After the meeting, Jason Mallister stood alone on the castle wall, looking out at the gray sea. The sea breeze ruffled his graying hair.
He felt he had never been so old and weary.
The next day, the permitted troops began to break camp. There was no despondency of defeat on the soldiers' faces; instead, a sense of relieved ease radiated from them. They could finally leave this oppressive front line and return to their familiar homes.
They sang songs, packed their gear, and bid farewell to their companions, as if they were not going to hunt a brutal enemy, but embarking on a pleasant journey home.
Jason Mallister watched them depart in droves, a premonition of ill omen rising in his heart.
Out at sea.
Victarion Greyjoy stood at the prow of his flagship, the *Iron Victory*. The massive hull rode the waves as steadily as if on solid ground. Behind him was a vast fleet, hundreds of longships like ghosts, silently following the flagship, the sound of their oars perfectly muffled by the waves.
A thick sea fog enveloped everything, visibility less than ten meters. Everything was prepared for their surprise attack; it was as if the drowned god himself had manifested and made the arrangements for them.
Victarion spoke gruffly to the captain beside him: "That boy Roderick, to come up with such an idea."
There was a rare trace of surprise in his tone. He had always thought his nephew was a reckless fool, only capable of solving problems with brute force, and a drunkard to boot.
But this time, Roderick's plan had impressed him. Using only a few hundred men to wreak havoc in the Riverlands had attracted everyone's attention, creating the illusion that the Ironborn had penetrated deep inland. This not only panicked those timid Riverlands lords,
but also caused them to make a wrong judgment, drawing troops from Seaguard for defense.
And he, Victarion, commander of the Iron Fleet, could lead the true main fleet, under the cover of thick fog, straight to the most undefended Seaguard.
"Lord Commander, when do we begin?" A young voice came from beside him. It was Roderick's younger brother, Maron Greyjoy, who served as Victarion's crewman in this operation. "Didn't we get intelligence a while ago that Seaguard had already sent another four thousand men to pursue Roderick?"
"Almost time," Victarion said only a few words. His eyes, like a wolf's, were fixed on the coastline swallowed by the thick fog ahead.
Time passed, drop by drop.
The fleet quietly dropped anchor not far from the coastline. All the Ironborn maintained absolute silence, with only the wind and waves echoing in their ears.
"Dong!!!"
A distant, heavy bell toll pierced through the fog and night, coming from the shore. The sound was so urgent, filled with desperate warning.
"Were we discovered?" Victarion's face twisted into a grim smile. He abruptly drew the longsword from his waist and raised it high: "The drowned god is with us!"
The Ironborn's war horns blared, their deep sound instantly tearing through the quiet night. A thousand oars simultaneously plunged into the water, rushing towards the dimly lit coast.
"My Lord! My Lord! Wake up!"
A squire stumbled into Jason Mallister's bedroom, his voice distorted by extreme fear.
"What's happening?" Jason sat up abruptly from his bed, still in his armor from the night before, and grabbed the longsword by his bedside. The piercing alarm bell had already jolted him from his uneasy shallow sleep. Ever since the constant weakening of the garrison, he had been in a state of high tension.
The squire knelt on the ground, trembling with agitation: "Ironborn! It's the Ironborn fleet!"
"My Lord! The sea is full of their ships! They… they are landing!"
Jason Mallister's mind instantly cleared. He rushed out of the bedroom and up to the castle's highest tower. When he leaned on the cold stone railing and looked out at the bay, he saw a sight he would never forget in his life.
Countless Ironborn were leaping from their ships, wading towards the beach. Their roars merged into a destructive wave of sound, shaking the entire castle. In the bay, dense longships covered the entire surface of the water, their bow torches forming a continuous line, illuminating the thick fog in an eerie orange-red.
The defenders on the castle walls were in disarray. Most were soldiers who had just been roused, many not even fully armored. Faced with an assault of such magnitude, they descended into chaos.
But soon, an officer roared: "Ring the alarm bell! Everyone to the walls!"
"Archers! Shoot! Bring up the boiling oil and stones!"
Jason Mallister's heart sank to the bottom of the sea outside Seaguard. Looking at the scene of the castle, he gripped the sword in his hand. The duty his family had guarded for generations, he would uphold to the end.
He turned to the guards and squires who had caught up with him: "Release the ravens, send out the message."
After a moment of silence, he spoke his final words.
"Take my children away."
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