On the muddy dirt road, crying and cursing muddling along.
The Riverlands people who had been forced into ranks were driven like livestock.
They were covered in mud and blood. Their eyes were hollow and numb.
Women were tied together with rough hemp ropes, stumbling behind the column.
They fell often from the Ironborn's shoving and pushing.
Then, under the lash of whips, they struggled to climb up again.
"Old thing!"
An Ironborn with a face full of bulging muscles hacked an old man's back hard with his axe.
The old man grunted. Blood sprayed from his back. He fell forward into the mud and water and did not move again.
The Ironborn erupted in loud laughter.
Their laughter was rough and cruel, echoing over the ravaged land.
These people were not the ones they planned to raid and take back as slave labor.
They were captives forced into their ranks to make the column look bigger.
The final result was that they would be killed after they were used, then replaced with a new batch.
Viken walked in the middle of the column, watching coldly.
He did not join his companions' fun.
His gloomy eyes kept scanning the surroundings alertly.
He constantly forced himself to feel uneasy.
At that moment, a rear scout rushed in from behind, mud splashing high from his feet.
The scout stopped, bent over, hands on his knees, and shouted breathlessly, "First mate Viken!"
"There's a rider on horseback behind us! He's been following us! Very close!"
As soon as he finished, the Ironborn in the column erupted in louder laughter again.
Someone slapped his round shield to make noise.
"Ha! Another fool coming to die?"
"Who cares? He's definitely that woman from this land's spy sent to watch us!"
"Looks like that woman is preparing to escort us out! Why doesn't she come herself to hand over my 'sword'!"
"He only dares to watch from far away. After we finish robbing, he'll go back and report to that woman that the real men have left!"
Reckless laughter rose and fell.
Along this route, things had gone so smoothly. No one dared to block them.
In their eyes, what had happened on this land proved that the greenlanders were weak and useless, no match for the Ironborn.
An Ironborn spat on the ground and sneered, "Right! The last one was just like this!"
"Followed us like a dry-assed dog for half a day! Then just quietly watched us burn his village!"
Viken did not laugh.
His brows tightened.
A невысказанная unease, like a cold snake, quietly climbed up his spine.
He had risen from an unknown sailor to the position of first mate of a longship under the Iron King's son.
That was not just by cruelty.
He relied on beast-like alertness.
He had helped Rodrik dodge countless dangers and earned his trust.
This time, he had some strange feeling.
It was not the same as those situations before where people followed them to watch and escort them out.
Viken's thoughts drifted to the ship.
He remembered that newcomer, the cunning man named Hadwin.
Now he had even earned the nickname "smart" Hadwin.
He always felt that bastard was strange.
But since Rodlik had listened to him, everything had gone smoothly.
They had even taken a great castle in the Riverlands.
When Viken proposed being cautious about the Ironborn from Lonely Light, Rodlik the drunkard had instead sent him to this remote small place to raid.
Rodlik relied more and more on that silver-tongued bastard.
That gave Viken a real sense of threat.
He felt that if anything went wrong on this expedition, that Hadwin would swoop down like a shark smelling blood and take away everything he now had.
Now he had to be careful. More careful than ever.
Rodlik was a drunkard with no brain.
After Balon Greyjoy died, he would use Rodlik to climb higher.
He would not stop here.
He would own his own longship. Even his own island.
He looked back.
What were those riders doing?
As far as he knew, the women of this land could only bring out four hundred-plus farmers as soldiers.
And they all stayed locked in their castles, guarding closely around the women.
"Keep moving."
Viken's voice was cold.
He ignored his men's mockery.
He only kept turning his gaze toward the horizon behind the column.
The column continued forward through the mud.
But the atmosphere subtly grew strange.
The Ironborn still kicked and cursed those poor Riverlands refugees.
They recklessly talked about the women and goods in the next village.
They seemed to have started celebrating ahead of time.
Viken, however, kept stopping his feet.
He narrowed his eyes.
Like a wolf lying in ambush, he focused all his attention on the movements behind.
Those riders coming and going.
The sun moved slowly overhead, stretching everyone's shadows longer and longer.
Another rider appeared.
He showed up on a small ridge in the distance, like a black silhouette.
He stayed only briefly, as if observing something, then turned his horse and disappeared on the other side of the ridge.
Everything was the same as before.
No!! Not the same!!!!
Viken's heart contracted violently.
He keenly detected a pattern almost impossible to notice, yet deadly.
The riders, each time they appeared, returned, then reappeared—the time interval was significantly shortening.
The first time, he had about six hundred breaths. The second time, it seemed like only four hundred.
And this last time!
Probably not even two hundred!
Viken's mind spun fast.
Sweat seeped from his temples.
Why had the riders' return time shortened? Why?
A thought like lightning split the fog in his mind.
His blood froze at once.
He understood!!
The only possible explanation for the riders' shorter return time was that they were reporting to their main force behind them.
And that army was rapidly,疯狂ly closing the distance to him.
This was not watching or some escort.
The other side was about to attack.
"Damn it!!!"
Viken's face instantly turned pale.
His body hair stood on end.
His whole body was covered in goosebumps.
He suddenly turned back, looking at his companions who were still enjoying themselves, lost in the sweet dream of victory, knowing nothing of death.
A storm of anger and anxiety rushed up to his throat.
Then, with all his strength, he shouted in a tearing roar: "Fools! All of you, stop moving!"
"Quick!! Everyone!! Drop those burdens!! Into the forest!!!"
In Solomon's marching column, the atmosphere was equally tense.
The squire riders sent by Rosso Bren flew like arrows loosed from the string, moving between the main force and the front.
The frequency of their reports became faster and faster.
"Lord!"
A squire rider rushed back and sharply pulled his horse's reins before Solomon's horse.
"We've closed the distance again! The enemy has not reacted!"
"Good work."
Solomon nodded, signaling him to withdraw and continue scouting.
Beside him, Brin and Rosso Bren both looked grave.
Their hands were on their sword hilt.
They waited for the final order.
They were already very close.
If he ordered the attack, they could engage immediately.
Another squire rider came back.
This time, he brought an intelligence that confused everyone.
"Lord! The enemy's column is strange!"
The squire rider reported breathlessly.
"I saw more clearly! The main body of their column, the large mass in front and middle, is all very strange people!"
"They hold pitchforks and wooden sticks. Ragged clothes. They walk shakily. They are not like Ironborn warriors at all!"
The rider paused and added, "The true Ironborn seem to be only on the outside and at front and rear. No more than a hundred men at most!"
This news was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, stirring up a thousand waves.
Rosso immediately asked for battle.
"Lord, whether true or false, let me attack. I will know naturally!"
"Yes!"
Brin also spoke excitedly.
"Lord! Order us to attack!"
Rosso looked at Solomon.
Warlust flashed in his eyes.
"Lord! Order us! The squire riders' training results should be tested for you! They are already eager!"
However, Solomon raised his hand and steadied everyone.
As a man who had been tempered by countless conspiracy theories and war tricks, there was no joy on his face.
Instead, it was full of doubt.
Before, he had been filled almost every day with stories of countless cunning and changeable war stratagems.
Now they were like countless ghosts circling in his mind.
The Ironborn were famous for ferocity.
How could they dare to go deep into our hinterland with only a hundred-plus men?
He glanced at his two generals and analyzed in a voice calm to the extreme.
"This is not that simple. This is likely a trap."
"A trap?"
Brin did not understand.
Solomon's gaze pointed toward the dense forest that appeared between the two columns in the distance.
"Yes."
"Maybe they are deliberately showing this to us, luring us to attack. Those people who look like refugees might be disguised warriors, waiting for us to charge."
The excitement on Brin and Rosso's faces slowly faded.
In its place came a hint of regret for having been too bold.
Solomon's analysis was reasonable.
In war, there were countless examples of crushing defeats caused by overconfidence.
Just as he hesitated, weighing various possibilities, a squire rider came charging back like a madman.
His horse almost crashed into the column.
The rider fell from his horse, rolled and scrambled to Solomon's side.
His voice was hoarse from extreme tension.
"Lord! The enemy... the enemy has started to accelerate!"
"They are frantically... running toward that forest!"
"And... they're dropping various things..."
Solomon stopped.
He was silent for a moment.
His fingers on the reins were slightly white from force.
The enemy had started dropping things and fleeing.
This could mean they were feigned and showing fear.
Or it could further confirm the trap of luring the enemy deep, wanting his column to fall into chaos while picking up loot, then counterattacking.
Wait.
A wave of self-mockery suddenly rose in his heart.
Maybe he had overread those war tricks.
He had made a simple thing seem so complicated.
Where did Westeros people get so many conspiracy tricks from? Their simplicity.
His column's discipline was guaranteed.
And the numbers were not much different.
What was there to hesitate about?
On the battlefield, things changed in an instant.
Excessive caution was cowardice.
He suddenly lifted his head, looking at Brin and Rosso beside him.
There was no frivolity in their eyes anymore.
Only resolve and caution, waiting for his command.
He drew his longsword.
The clear sound of the blade cutting the air pierced the stagnant air.
Solomon's voice was loud and firm.
He pointed straight ahead with his sword tip and gave the final order.
"When paths cross narrowly, the brave win!"
"Let me see these so-called Ironborn!"
"Rosso Bren!"
"Here!"
"Take all squire riders. Move quickly on both sides! Do not engage their column. Pass them and block their road into the forest! Do not let them escape!"
"Yes!"
Rosso shouted excitedly.
He immediately led his forty-plus squire riders away from the column.
Like two opened deadly scissors, they swept toward the enemy's flanks.
"Everyone else!"
Solomon's sword edge turned, pointing straight ahead.
"Chase them!"
"Hoo!!"
Four hundred soldiers erupted in a sky-shaking shout.
Spears like a forest. Swords in hand.
They charged forward.
"Kill!"
When Solomon led his main force and thundered furiously to the Ironborn column, the scene before him made him stare in shock.
Rosso Bren's riders had successfully completed their mission.
They had drawn a sparse but deadly line before the forest entrance.
Like a cold wall, they blocked the Ironborn's only path.
And those three hundred-plus Riverlands refugees forced by the Ironborn, when they saw the countless armored "knight" lords in front and the sky-shaking pursuers behind, finally snapped.
Their nerves, stretched to the limit, completely broke.
They dropped the ridiculous wooden sticks and pitchforks in their hands.
The instinct to survive overcame all fear.
They no longer cared about the Ironborn's hacking, shouting, and whip-beating.
Like a flock of sheep completely terrified, they screamed mournfully and charged in all directions without restraint.
They charged toward the flanks without riders.
They charged into the dense bushes.
For a moment, the open ground in front of the forest became a chaotic mess.
Viken and his forty-plus subordinates could only watch helplessly as the "fake army" he had painstakingly assembled collapsed at once.
Then they were completely exposed on the open ground in front of the forest.
Solomon slowly pulled his warhorse.
He looked at the ridiculous, almost absurd scene before him.
He looked at the forty-plus stunned, helpless Ironborn.
Then he looked at the four hundred fully armed, battle-spirited elite commoner soldiers behind him.
Then he looked at the forty-plus fully armored squire riders blocking the Ironborn's path to the forest.
Wind blew through the dense forest, making a rustling sound.
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found he could not speak a word.
Looking at those small enemies, he silently, slowly, lowered the longsword he had already raised high.
He gave his attack order.
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