In the darkness before dawn, inside the Daintings City Lord's study, candlelight flickered, casting a sallow glow on Lady Roslin's haggard face. She hadn't slept all night, her eyes sunken and crisscrossed with spiderweb-like blood vessels. Yesterday's argument had drained her last bit of strength, leaving her feeling like an emptied scarecrow, sitting on her husband's lord's throne yet feeling no authority whatsoever.
The heavy oak door was pushed open, and Arthur entered, guided by a maid.
Arthur was now dressed in a crisp military uniform, looking like a drawn sword, completely out of place with the decadent atmosphere of the study. Roslin looked up, her eyes somewhat unfocused.
Looking at the weary and desolate woman before him, his voice was calm, breaking the silence: "My Lady."
"I've been thinking all night."
Arthur slowly walked towards her, his gaze serene, his face showing a gravity that came from deep deliberation.
"The lands of Daedings Family must not be defiled by the Ironborn. Your people cannot continue to suffer."
He paused briefly, every word like a hammer blow on Roslin's taut nerves, each strike gradually bringing the woman's eyes back into focus.
"Please allow me to lead the allied army out of the city to drive away those Ironborn for Daedings Family."
"I will drive them away."
These words were like a clap of thunder, making Roslin sit up sharply. She looked at Arthur, a flicker of hope in her eyes quickly replaced by a deeper fear. All night she had considered Little Suleiman's suggestion of holding out for reinforcements, remembering Old Knight Erac and the thousand-man unit that had charged out to meet the enemy, only to be routed and decimated. That battlefield, where they scattered and fled, seemed to appear right before her eyes.
Her voice trembled, almost incoherent: "But, Little Suleiman… your army… will it also collapse like before?"
At this moment, holding out for reinforcements might be her best option. As long as the land remained, she could recruit new common folk to farm. Moreover, the family fortune still contained countless gold dragons.
A subtle curve appeared at the corner of Arthur's mouth, a smile full of confidence and reassuring power.
He didn't offer a lengthy explanation of tactics, nor did he make any grand, empty promises. He simply and powerfully replied: "My Lady, please trust me, it will not."
Lady Roslin looked at the young man before her. He was not like those Knights who only paid lip service to loyalty, nor like those vassals who only cared about their own interests. There was a strength about him that commanded belief.
This smile, these two words, flowed like a warm current into Lady Roslin's cold, tense heart. Her heart, which had been suspended all night, finally found a glimmer of support.
She clutched at him like a drowning person grabbing a lifeline, standing up from her chair, her cheeks flushed with excitement: "Good! Good! Little Suleiman!"
"I will reward you!"
Several attendants quickly left and soon returned, placing five heavy money bags on the table in front of Arthur, making a crisp metallic clinking sound.
Lady Roslin's voice held a hint of relief as she looked at Arthur, pointing to the money bags: "Here are five hundred gold dragons."
"As a reward for your family!"
Arthur calmly glanced at the gold dragons, then winked at Brin, Rosso, and Lucien, who immediately stepped forward to collect the money bags.
His heart was unperturbed. Five hundred gold dragons. Yesterday, he didn't open the treasury because the money would have been spent on a group of farmers, and they were unworthy; it would have been a shameful waste. This morning's generosity was because the money was a reward for a powerful noble vassal, an attempt to buy loyalty. The logic of nobles was always so simple and ridiculous.
Inside Daintings Castle, news spread like wildfire. When the vassal leaders and Knights of the various Dading families learned that Lord Arthur had changed his mind and decided to launch an offensive, everyone was stunned.
"What's going on? Wasn't it agreed last night that we'd hold the line?"
"Hasn't Ser Erac's lesson been enough?"
"With our limited numbers, isn't it suicide to go out and fight the Ironborn head-on?"
Anxiety and suspicion filled the castle. Last night, they had been relieved by Arthur's prudence, grateful they wouldn't be cannon fodder. But overnight, the tide had completely turned. They felt as if they were tied to a runaway chariot, driven by a young man who changed his mind at a whim.
Only one person was an exception. Young Patrick Morrison, upon hearing the news, was flushed with excitement.
He drew his longsword with a clang, its blade glinting coldly in the morning light, and rushed to Arthur's door, shouting: "Lord Arthur!!!"
"Please allow me and my troops to serve as your vanguard!!!"
Arthur stepped out of the room, looking at this inexplicably hyped-up, hot-blooded young man. He didn't know if he had ever seen blood before, eager to be cannon fodder. However, a good brother who didn't even ask for money was hard to find, so he stepped forward and patted Patrick's shoulder approvingly.
His voice was so gentle: "You are as brave as your father, Patrick."
"You and your soldiers, follow my vanguard. You will be my sword."
Patrick puffed out his chest excitedly, feeling a surge of strength throughout his body. As for the other troops with ulterior motives, their faces plainly showing their reluctance, Arthur's arrangements were applied equally.
The designated leaders exchanged glances, inwardly lamenting their fate. Vanguard to meet the enemy? Protect the flanks? Prevent encirclement? It sounded good, but wasn't it just putting them in the most dangerous, most easily overrun positions to serve as cannon fodder, protecting his own army…?
But as they looked into Arthur's deep eyes, and at the silent, capable soldiers behind him, not a single person dared to object.
The horn blast echoed through the sky, and the drawbridge of Daintings City slowly lowered. In an eerie atmosphere, this "allied army," supposedly numbering nearly three thousand but actually less than two thousand, began to assemble, marching grandly out of Daintings City.
Arthur led the way, his Black Lion banner fluttering and snapping in the wind behind him. Lady Roslin on the city walls watched Arthur's meticulously arrayed army, standing out like a crane among chickens, and as she saw the Black Lion banner flying, the flame of hope rekindled in her eyes.
The common folk had long suffered from the Ironborn plundering their lands, and the citizens and garrison inside the city let out a thunderous cheer. However, after the army marched out, it did not, as everyone imagined, aggressively seek out the Ironborn for battle.
The army advanced about ten miles to the east, stopping on an open plain backed by hills. Arthur reined in his warhorse.
His voice clearly carried throughout the army: "Order!"
"The entire army is to make camp immediately! Build defensive fortifications!"
This order left everyone, except Arthur's core team, completely bewildered.
"Huh?"
"What?"
"Make camp right here?"
Patrick Morrison rode up to Arthur, asking in confusion: "My Lord, are we not continuing forward? The Ironborn are not far ahead!"
Arthur pointed to a few wisps of black smoke rising on the distant horizon, traces left by plundered villages: "No, our mission is to force them to leave."
Thus, a strange scene unfolded. Arthur's army, on a hillside maintaining an absolutely safe distance from the Ironborn, established an orderly camp, felling trees, digging trenches, and setting up sharpened stakes, as if preparing for a long-term stationed.
Only the cavalry were sent out to monitor the Ironborn's movements from a distance, but they never approached, nor did they initiate any attacks. The representatives of the lords in the camp, though confused, were grateful for Lord Arthur's wisdom. Fighting the Ironborn, they believed, was tantamount to suicide.
Arthur ignored these discussions. He was waiting for news, news that would be despairing for others but potentially better for him.
He stood on the hillside, looking at the scattered Ironborn campfires in the distance, calmly calculating. All provisions were supplied by Daintings City. Lady Roslin, for the sake of this hope, was continuously sending food and supplies.
He could live here for free, doing nothing, and still demonstrate his loyalty and responsibility to his liege and the Seven Kingdoms. This way, he could not only save valuable war resources for his own territory but also slowly await changes in the situation.
Until this Ironborn force was eliminated, no one could reassign him, or rather, no one would dare to reassign him. His well-disciplined army, constantly in a state of readiness, was like a lion entrenched on a mountain, intimidating the jackals below with its very presence.
The Ironborn, nominally over three thousand strong, dared not easily scatter to plunder the Riverlands, thus successfully protecting the property of the lords.
Inside the Ironborn camp, the atmosphere was oppressive and irritable. Roderick Greyjoy, the drunkard, even smashed his favorite wine cup to the ground, scattering wine everywhere.
The scouts had returned with the same unchanging intelligence for three consecutive days: the Black Lion's army was felling trees and digging trenches, building their camp like a small fortress, but they wouldn't attack.
He stood up, angrily looking at the conspicuous Black Lion banner on the distant hillside, feeling as if a fly was buzzing in his ear, impossible to swat or drive away.
That army was like a nail, firmly embedded by his side.
Crucially, the enemy's formation was strict, their discipline tight, and their numbers actually exceeded that of his true Ironborn warriors. That hillside was easy to defend and hard to attack. A frontal assault, even if victorious, would inevitably be a Pyrrhic one, and the Ironborn didn't have that many lives to waste on a siege.
Not attacking? The enemy was like a sword hanging over their heads, preventing them from scattering into small groups to plunder as they had before. Their numbers were already few; once dispersed, they could be picked off one by one by the enemy's superior forces.
"Hadwin!" Roderick shouted to a thin man in the corner of the tent.
Bronn looked up, displaying a loyal demeanor, though inwardly he was already cursing incessantly, "What the hell is Arthur doing?!"
He stood up and sat beside Roderick: "Leader, what are your orders?"
Roderick slammed his axe to the ground: "What do you think? What trick is that Riverlander named Arthur playing?"
Bronn stood up, squinting towards the distant hillside, feigning a solemn expression as he analyzed: "Leader, this man is very cunning. His refusal to attack shows he has great patience."
"He's waiting."
"Waiting for us to expose a weakness."
"Or, he's waiting for more reinforcements. Reinforcements from Riverrun could arrive at any moment."
"He's using this army to tie us down, leaving us unable to move, unable to continue plundering, and unable to retreat safely. We're stuck to him."
Bronn blinked.
"So! Why don't we launch a surprise attack tonight!"
Roderick's face grew even uglier. Bronn's analysis hit home, making him increasingly feel that the opponent was unfathomable and treacherous. So he automatically ignored the suggestion of a night attack. Are you kidding? He still wanted to live to compete for the Iron Islands throne later.
He seemed to think of something and suddenly sneered. When good news arrived from his uncle, when Seaguard was taken by his uncle, this group of turtles would have no place to die.
Ultimately, Roderick was forced to issue the order he least wanted to: "Pass the order! No one is to attack without permission! Assemble the troops! Strengthen the guard!"
His plundering activities ceased. The Ironborn, craving blood and wealth, could only grudgingly remain under close surveillance, engaging in a strange, long-distance standoff with the equally inactive army on the hillside.
Two large armies, one on the hillside, one on the plain, faced each other from afar. Campfires smoked, and the scene was so quiet it hardly seemed like a battlefield.
Only the wind howled across the empty plain between the two armies, stirring up dust.
Both sides were waiting for the news they wanted to hear.
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