In Seaguard's Council Chamber, salty sea breezes slipped through the window cracks, tossing Jason Mallister's brown-and-white hair.
At last, a raven had brought news of the Ironborn in the Riverlands. It was like a bucket of cold water, extinguishing the final flicker of hope. Riverrun's reinforcements had come up empty and were now hunting aimlessly, thoroughly outplayed by the cunning Ironborn.
He stopped pacing and slapped his palm hard against the cold stone table. The map on it jumped.
"Damn those Ironborn!"
The air in the hall was so heavy it felt as though water might drip from it. The messenger's account was clear and brutal: the Ironborn had defeated two companies of a thousand men beneath Deddings Castle. Whether the reports came from the first army or the second, every account described the Ironborn force as a massive host of more than three thousand.
The air in the hall was so heavy it felt as though water might drip from it. The Riverlords gathered there looked more grim by the moment. They no longer spoke grandly of loyalty and honor. In the glances they exchanged, only silence and calculation remained.
The lord of House Roote was the first to rise. His voice was dry. "Lord Mallister."
"My lands, Lord Harroway's Town, lie barely two days from the mouth of the Trident. If the Ironborn sail downstream, they could reach it in less than a day..."
He left the thought unfinished, but everyone understood him. The sea off Seaguard was calm, and not an Ironborn was in sight. But a great Ironborn host was undeniably sailing along the Trident.
Old Lymond Lychester had already set the example, leading his troops home to reclaim his castle. Riverrun had not stopped him.
Another nobleman sprang to his feet, his voice hoarse with