Beneath the gloomy sky, a vast host of Ironborn marched along the muddy road. Countless boots churned the mud into slurry, and the air was thick with the smell of earth and the charred remains of villages they had burned in the distance.
Five thousand Ironborn had just been freed from the siege of Luanhe City. Like a pack of hungry wolves breaking their chains, they gleamed with a thirst for blood and riches. Their armor varied in style, much of it dented and rusted, but the long axes and swords in their hands shone bright.
Gore Goodbrother rode a tall warhorse, his burly frame seeming almost too heavy for the saddle.
His broad, fleshy face flushed with pride as he surveyed the Ironborn force under his command. His voice boomed like thunder over the marching ranks. "Move faster! You lazy bones! The Riverlands women aren't going to grow legs and run over here by themselves!"
The Ironborn let out a rough burst of laughter. Amid it, one figure stood out like a sore thumb.
Sawane Botley had once been a leader famed for his courage, but now all his spirit was gone. Head bowed and eyes vacant, he trudged along with the host, like a walking corpse encased in armor.
Gore Goodbrother rode up beside him, his horse's hooves flinging mud all over Sawane Botley. His voice was coarse. "Hey, Botley!"
"Why the long face? Did your son die or something?"
"Oh!"
"I forgot. Your son really is dead!"
The Ironborn erupted into another shrill burst of laughter. Sawane Botley's shoulders jerked, and the painful memories echoed in his mind.
His son, eager to prove himself, had taken a band of men on a raid and blundered into the lands of a minor Riverlands lord. The Riverlanders called that