On the muddy clearing, a cold wind blew. The air seemed to freeze into ice, bitterly cold.
After Suleiman announced the plan for the three hundred cavalrymen, he added another order. It was like a cold dagger, piercing the last illusions of every knight present.
His voice was perfectly calm, without a hint of emotion, yet every word landed heavily in their hearts:
"All the knights taking part in this operation, aside from your warhorses, are to bring no heavy equipment."
"Wear only chainmail, and bring enough food and water for two days."
No heavy equipment, only chainmail? The color drained from the knights' faces. They were to charge at an army of two thousand five hundred Ironborn without plate armor, wearing nothing but chainmail?
The clearing fell deathly silent. Even the sound of breathing vanished. Was this young man really planning to show off the noble spirit of honor and lead them all to their deaths? This wasn't madness anymore. It was outright suicide—to serve as bait and draw the Ironborn's attention away from the main army!
Fear and shock ultimately gave way to deep despair, like a thick layer of ash covering every face.
But no one argued or questioned him, because Suleiman would be taking part too. He wasn't sending them off alone. When someone plainly told you he would lead you to your death, any words were powerless.
The knights bowed silently, their movements stiff as they left the muddy clearing to gather their final belongings.
Lymond Lychester was the last to go. His eyes, now cloudy and now clear, fixed intently on Suleiman's back. His lips moved, but he couldn't say a word.
Suleiman had taken only a few steps when a bony hand suddenly seized his arm.
Lymond Lychester had finally decided to follow