Tiny figures could still be made out moving along the castle walls, and glints of metal shone from behind the battlements.
"That should be Deepwood Motte." Viserys recognized the banners flying from the wall towers. Though they looked somewhat tattered, the sigils embroidered on them were still clearly visible.
"Those are House Glover's armored fist banners," he said.
The sentries at Deepwood Motte spotted the Dragon Horde almost the moment it came into view. The constant harassment by the Ironborn had kept their nerves stretched taut lately.
Soon, the harsh alarm bells rang out in frantic succession. Dong, dong, dong! The sound echoed over the hill and through the surrounding woods, shattering the morning silence.
The soldiers in the castle reacted quickly, too, and soon surged onto the walls. Some had rushed straight out of their warm barracks without even putting their armor on properly, clutching their weapons with tension written across their faces.
But when they truly saw the enormous Dragon Horde approaching the castle, especially the unmistakable golden, three-headed dragon, their reactions varied.
Some dropped to their knees with a thud, clasping their hands together, their lips trembling. It was impossible to tell whether they were praying to the Old and New Gods or merely muttering without thinking.
Their lord had told them that these dragons belonged to His Grace the Dragonlord and had come to deal with the Ironborn. Yet when those legendary creatures actually appeared overhead, radiating menace, reason could not fully suppress their instinctive terror.
Others turned deathly pale and instinctively fled backward, trying to hide inside sturdy towers or behind the walls, as though those flimsy wooden walls could withstand a dragon's dragonfire.
A few tightened their grips on their spears or bows, their knuckles whitening with the effort, hatred mingling with fear in