This woman was like the poor widow Donella Manderly.
Arthur thought.
Lady Donella, on her way back to her territory after a feast at Winterfell, was captured and forced into marriage by Ramsay Bolton, who wanted to seize her castle.
After the wedding, she was locked in a tower, starved, and eventually died of starvation, her mouth bloody, her fingers bitten off and eaten due to hunger.
This was the reality faced by female lords in Westeros; without a husband's family, without her own family, and without personal ability, she was like a child holding gold in a busy market.
Perhaps his own actions were only slightly better than Ramsay Bolton's.
But if not for the foolishness of her husband and her husband's father, she would not have fallen to this point today.
He was willing to let them retrieve some losses at the smallest cost, as compensation for his guilt in destroying their territory.
Yet, instead of showing gratitude, they deceived the soldiers guarding Arthur, killed them, stole supplies, and set fires.
If not for Bronn's Black Lion, the cost would have been immeasurable.
But her luck was slightly better; as long as she was obedient, Arthur would not deal with this poor woman in such a way.
After all, Westeros was surrounded by wolves like Bronn, and of course, he seemed to be one himself...
"How do we do it?" Bronn looked at Arthur with ill intent.
Arthur looked at Bronn: "Aren't you going to ask what it's for first?"
"Ask?" Bronn blinked, "Of course I'll ask!"
"How much?"
"Cause some trouble for Lady Rona." Arthur sat down in his chair, "Also, take stock of how many people are still loyal to the Deep Valley Family."
"Price is not an issue, Bronn, I want results."
"I want a Lady Rona who feels utterly betrayed and abandoned in this castle."
"Deal!" Bronn almost impatiently stood up. "I guarantee it, Arthur! Lady Rona's castle will soon become a giant hornet's nest!"
"I will make you appear before her like a savior! Trust me! This will be very effective on women!"
Bronn's figure quickly disappeared out the door.
------
After the battle in the forest, ravens flew in all directions.
They carried the shocking news to every corner of the Riverlands, flew over the Bright Moon Mountains, spread to every corner of the Deep Valley, and even flew to more distant lands.
In Jon Arryn's study in the Hand's Tower, the afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows, falling upon the wide oak table covered with parchments.
Jon Arryn sat in his chair, enjoying the sunlight, his brow slightly furrowed, as he reviewed a report on coastlines from various regions.
The content was dry and boring, but as Hand of the King, he had to pay attention to every detail.
The Ironborn had been attacking everywhere, and there had been no good news for a long time.
He was exhausted, but the reason was not the Ironborn, but King's Landing, and the King on the Iron Throne.
Robert squandered the money left by Aerys II to satisfy his various material desires.
The kingdom's finances were on the verge of collapse.
Robert was like a rebellious teenager.
He was unwilling to concern himself with state affairs, never participated in the governance of the kingdom, and left everything to the Small Council.
He even had to tell Robert every day what he couldn't do, just like when Robert was a child.
He advised him to give up the idea of leading armies personally.
Suddenly, a sharp raven's cry came from outside the window, breaking the silence in the room and startling the tired, contemplative old Hand.
A moment later, a servant knocked and entered.
Maester Kemon followed closely, he was Jon Arryn's personal maester in King's Landing, holding a raven with a letter tied to its leg.
"My Lord, a raven from the Eyrie," Maester Kemon said respectfully, untying the letter and handing it to Jon Arryn.
Jon Arryn took the letter, unfolded it, and on the parchment was the Arryn Family's authentication mark.
His gaze swept over the first line, his brow slightly raised, with a hint of bewilderment.
As he continued to read, an expression of disbelief gradually appeared on his face, which was slightly tired from years of toil.
"A sixteen-year-old minor noble from the Riverlands?" he murmured, as if confirming he hadn't misread. "Three hundred farmers?"
"That small Stinkfort Family, famous for being mocked?"
And "turned into a Black Lion?"??
Maester Kemon stood quietly by, waiting.
Jon Arryn read the letter carefully from beginning to end again, scrutinizing every word.
He understood every word on it, yet it also seemed like he didn't quite understand.
The letter detailed every battle that occurred in the Riverlands, nearly two thousand aggressive wildlings intending to plunder the Daedings Family's territory in the Riverlands.
Yet they were chased and routed by a sixteen-year-old noble boy, who was given a mission in a crisis, leading three hundred farmers armed with farming tools and no training whatsoever.
The letter was conclusive, even mentioning the wildling chieftains' heads piled into a small mountain at the junction of the High Mountain edge and the Bright Moon Mountains by this young boy, as a warning.
And the stone tablet erected by this young boy at the small mountain: "Those who invade the Riverlands! Their bones shall have no return!"
The wildling tribes of the High Mountain Clan now changed their color at his name and migrated into the Deep Valley.
He put down the letter, leaned back in his chair, and looked at Maester Kemon with his blue eyes.
Sixteen? Three hundred farmers? Over two thousand wildlings? A Black Lion? This sounded like an exaggerated heroic legend from a bard's mouth.
A story for common folk to gossip about, not a brutal war in reality.
Although the wildlings were undisciplined, their ferocity was well-known.
The Deep Valley had suffered greatly from them; they had almost coexisted with the High Mountain Clan, and there had never been a way to completely wipe them out. King Roland Arryn I of the Deep Valley even died at their hands.
He certainly knew the reason why a High Mountain Clan of two to three thousand wildlings could survive for thousands of years in the Bright Moon Mountains.
It was simply that someone didn't want them to be completely annihilated, letting them help do some dirty work.
But he still doubted the accuracy of the news; perhaps it wasn't three hundred farmers, or perhaps it wasn't over two thousand wildlings.
However, this raven came from the Eyrie, and they usually wouldn't easily spread unverified news to him.
More importantly, in the past day, he had received countless raven letters from the Riverlands and the Deep Valley, though none as detailed as this one.
But they all mentioned keywords such as "High Mountain Clan wildlings suffered a crushing defeat," "Riverlands young general," and "Riverlands Black Lion."
Perhaps this young man could be used to wake up those nobles in the Deep Valley.
He could imagine that this news was now spreading like wildfire in the Deep Valley and the Riverlands.
People would talk about it, exaggerate it, and turn it into a legend.
"This young man's name will resound throughout the Riverlands and the Deep Valley," Jon Arryn murmured softly.