The village on the plain was engulfed in towering flames, thick smoke billowing up into the sky.
The Ironborn roared with laughter as the villagers screamed. Roderick Greyjoy raised his wineskin, letting wine spill over his beard and run down his chest. The raiders rampaged through the village like a pack of greedy, starving wolves, taking everything they could carry and destroying anything they could.
A scout came sprinting from outside the village, bloodthirsty excitement on his face. "Chief!"
"Another army is coming! From the river! There are a lot of them!"
The chieftains beside Roderick immediately began taunting.
"Someone else dares come?"
"Another flock of sheep coming to die!"
"Let them see the Drowned God's fury!"
Roderick wiped his mouth and laughed along. He grabbed a long axe and led his men up a nearby rise, ready to enjoy the slaughter that was about to unfold.
But when the distant army appeared on the horizon and gradually came into focus, the jeering on the rise abruptly stopped. Their laughter froze, and their expressions turned serious. Looking closely, they saw not the chaotic farmers with pitchforks they had imagined, but an orderly army in motion, its banners bristling above the ranks. The most striking was a black lion banner. These were no ordinary foes.
The flanks and rear looked disorganized and chaotic, no different from what they had seen before. But at the center, the army advanced silently and in perfect order across the plain, arranged in five enormous squares. Countless spears pointed uniformly toward the sky. On either side of the formations rode more than thirty cavalrymen, keeping to their tight ranks as they coldly watched everything around them.
They even saw many soldiers carrying extremely dangerous crossbows. Not a sound came from the army; only the muffled thud