Flames roared, black smoke billowed into the sky, and the entire village was engulfed.
Wicken stood on the village's only dirt road, the soil beneath his feet stained red with blood. His men were putting the finishing touches on their slaughter of the hapless farmers.
They roughly dumped the grain into sacks, not caring when any spilled onto the ground. The few sheep that had survived bleated in agony; after their legs were broken, they were tossed onto carts.
There were also several women, their hair disheveled and clothes torn. Tied together like livestock, they stared blankly ahead, reduced to silent sobs.
It had been too easy. Wicken smiled as his gaze passed over the forty-odd compatriots reveling before him and settled on the silent, softly weeping figures behind them.
More than three hundred Riverlands refugees had been swept up in their wake. Like soulless walking corpses, they stood there numbly, ragged and gaunt. The pitchforks and wooden clubs in their hands were nothing but laughable toys against real weapons.
But... this "army" served its purpose. It was enough to scare off any scout watching from a distance and make the noble lords hiding in their castles overestimate the size of their force tenfold.
"It's been too easy." Wicken licked his cracked lips, savoring the taste of fire and blood in the air. It filled him with a twisted delight.
An Ironborn beside him grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth. "The Drowned God be praised. These sheep from the green lands don't even have the courage to bare their fangs."
"They only know how to put their courage into their women, Wicken, my first mate."
The surrounding Ironborn burst into hearty laughter, their voices coarse and grating.
When night fell, a bonfire was lit in the middle of the