On the open plains, flames roared into the sky. Thick black smoke billowed upward in great rolling columns.
The wild laughter of the Ironborn and the screaming of villagers mixed together into one.
Rodrik Greyjoy raised his wineskin and let the wine pour freely over his beard and soak into his chest. The raiders moved through the village like a pack of starving wolves, taking everything that could be carried and destroying everything that could not.
A scout came sprinting in from outside the village, face bright with bloodthirsty excitement.
"Captain!"
"Another army's coming! From the river! Looks like a decent number!"
The commanders gathered around Rodrik immediately broke into jeers.
"Someone still dares to come?"
"Another flock of sheep walking to their deaths!"
"Let them see the Drowned God's fury!"
Rodrik wiped his mouth and laughed along with them. He grabbed a long axe and led his men up a nearby rise to watch the slaughter that was about to unfold.
But as the distant army appeared on the horizon and grew clearer, the laughter on the rise died away all at once. The sneering expressions hardened into something more careful.
What they were looking at was not the chaotic mob of pitchfork-carrying farmers they had expected.
It was a body of troops moving in orderly formation. Banners stood thick above them. The most striking was a black lion banner, not the sort of thing you would expect from a pushover.
The flanks and rear of the column looked ragged and disorganized, much the same as the forces they had seen before. But the center moved in five large square formations, silent and orderly, crossing the plain. Countless spears pointed toward the sky in even lines. On each side of the main body, thirty-odd riders patrolled without spreading out, keeping tight formation, watching everything around them with cold eyes.
They even spotted large numbers of soldiers carrying heavy crossbows on their backs.
The entire army was silent. Only the dull, massed sound of thousands of feet pressing down on the grass carried across the distance, building into something that unsettled the chest. A bone-cold, battle-hardened presence crossed the distance between them and hit like a wave.
Rodrik made his judgment quickly.
The greenlanders had plenty of armies that looked impressive and fought like farmers, but judged purely on appearances, this was a force that genuinely looked like it could fight.
He waved a hand at the men around him.
"Starting now! Send people out to provoke and rattle that column!"
A group of Ironborn immediately assembled into a false charge formation, roaring and howling as they swept down the rise.
Rodrik watched in silence.
If the column stayed orderly, the charge would stay false. If the column fell into confusion, the charge would become real. It was a tactic they used often, and it worked.
It had no effect at all.
The flanking riders locked their cold eyes onto the rushing men. The Ironborn pulled back.
The column had not shown a single flicker of disorder. It moved across the plain like a stone sliding on glass, ignoring the harassment entirely, continuing at the same pace in the same direction without slowing once.
The mood on the rise turned grim.
A scarred young captain could not hold himself back.
"Captain! Let me take men and hit them once!"
"Their rear is a mess! We crash through the back, tear those soft greenlanders apart!"
Rodrik said nothing. He stared at the black lion banner with his brow pulled tight.
He liked his drink, but he was not stupid.
His mind was clear. Attacking a hedgehog like this one, which showed no weakness on the outside, would cost him heavy casualties even if he won. That would give away just how thin his actual numbers were.
He pushed down his irritation and turned to a new favourite standing nearby, a man in leather armor who always wore a calm expression.
"Hadwin, you know things. Recognize that banner?"
Bolon narrowed his eyes at the black lion banner snapping in the wind.
Well, it's you after all. About time.
His face showed nothing.
He answered in a flat, unhurried voice.
"I know it, Captain. That's the Black Lion's banner. Solomon, the one making a name for himself across the Riverlands lately."
Rodrik quietly noted that name. A flicker of wariness crossed his eyes. In the end he pushed the impulse down.
He turned and bellowed at his men.
"Pass the word!"
"Everyone pull together! Stop grabbing that rubbish! This army doesn't look easy to deal with!"
The Ironborn harassment went on for a while, but when it became clear they were only wasting energy, it stopped.
Solomon's army paid no attention to the enemy gathered on the distant rise. It marched on for several more miles, then began choosing ground for camp.
The command tent had barely been raised when Rosso Bren came thundering in from the rear with a squad of riders and several Deddington knights.
They were herding a group of men.
At the front was a knight wearing House Payle's colors. His helmet was askew, his armor crooked, his face a mask of embarrassment. Behind him trailed eight men-at-arms, heads hanging, expressions hollow with fear. Their weapons had been confiscated. They were tied together in a line with rope.
Rosso dismounted and gave a crisp bow before Solomon, his voice carrying across the whole camp.
"My lord! During the Ironborn's probing charge just now, this commander from House Payle, Ser Curt, led his men-at-arms in unauthorized retreat! We gave chase and brought them back in time!"
Rosso's booming, faintly mocking voice rolled across the camp that was still being assembled. Every soldier stopped working. The Deddington knights who had not been part of the pursuit, and the unit leaders from the dozen-odd other houses, all came crowding in. Their faces carried a complicated mix of expressions, some curious, some tense, and most barely concealing their delight.
Ser Curt and his men were shoved roughly to their knees before Solomon's horse by the squire riders. The air went still.
Solomon looked down at them.
His expression was calm.
He understood these men perfectly well. Under the feudal system, preserving your family's strength was the first priority. It was practical. He had even told Ludo himself: if it gets dangerous, run.
That was something of a double standard.
But running from battle inside his own army was a different matter entirely.
His voice was level, carrying no emotion at all.
"Is there anything you would like to explain, Ser Curt?"
Ser Curt's whole body trembled. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead instantly.
"A misunderstanding! Lord Solomon, this is a terrible misunderstanding! It was these damned men-at-arms! They lost their nerve the moment they saw the Ironborn and ran first!"
"I... I went after them to bring them back! I swear by the Seven! My lord may execute every last one of them for the sake of military discipline!"
As he spoke he shot a look of pure venom at the men behind him.
Every noble and knight watching let out a quiet breath.
This was a graceful way out for everyone. It preserved Ser Curt's dignity and allowed proper discipline to be enforced at the same time. They all assumed Solomon would take the easy path offered to him, execute the eight men-at-arms, and let the matter end there.
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