Dawn broke over the Riverlands. The eastern waters of Ironman's Bay lay calm and gray.
Balon Greyjoy's eldest son, Rodrik, sailed with his younger brother Maron and Maron's close friend Ser Haras Harlaw—the knight known for wielding the Valyrian steel blade Nightfall. The three of them led the raid Balon had ordered.
To the ironborn, this was little more than a training run—a chance for the heir to blood his sword and earn easy glory. Balon had sent Haras along to keep his sons safe. The man was a rising star among the ironborn, fierce and deadly with that ancient blade.
The ironborn knew the Westerlands and the Reach well enough, but the Riverlands felt foreign. The Hoare kings had once ruled here, yet in Targaryen times the Greyjoys had always struck richer shores first—Lannisport, the Arbor, even the North. The western coast of the Riverlands was short, and Seagard was its only real port. Anyone sailing from the Sunset Sea had to come through Mallister waters.
Rodrik brought thirty or forty longships and more than a thousand ironborn warriors. Their sails bore the golden kraken of House Greyjoy, snapping in the wind as they closed on Seagard.
"Let us hunt in the Riverlands," Rodrik declared, voice thick with excitement. "Blood and fire for the Old Way!"
He was tall and broad, every inch the perfect ironborn son—eager for slaughter, hungry for renown.
"What if the Riverlands lords are ready for us?" Ser Haras asked.
"They won't be," Rodrik scoffed. "The lords here are slippery little fish who only care about today's profit. We'll only face Mallister men. Their blood may be old, but their lands are small and their strength is weak."
"Lord Jason is a famous knight," Haras reminded him.
"He's old," Rodrik said with a sneer. "I'll take his head for my sword."
"Maybe," Haras answered, hand tightening on Nightfall's hilt. He had little respect for Seagard either. Courage and steel would carry the day.
"Seagard's in sight," Rodrik said, eyes gleaming as he pictured the sack. He could already taste the smoke and screams.
The longships crept closer, black dots on the water.
Then the bell rang.
Inside Seagard's Bell Tower the great bronze bell tolled for the first time in three hundred years. Every time longships had appeared on the western horizon in the old days, that bell had warned villagers and farmers to run for the walls.
"Back to the castle! Back to the castle!"
Seagard's lookouts were sharper than Lannisport's had been. The castle itself was built for war, and Lord Jason Mallister was no soft lord.
On the water the ironborn rowed harder, hoping the alarm would create chaos they could exploit. Golden krakens snapped and writhed on the sails like living beasts.
For the first time in three centuries, ironborn longships sat off Seagard's shores.
The bronze bell boomed, deep and savage, shaking the air until men's heads rang. Townsfolk dropped tools and baskets and ran for the walls—fishermen and dockhands first.
Seagard was built in layers: the lord's keep in the center, a stout outer wall around it, and beyond that the harbor town and market clinging to the shore.
Lord Jason Mallister strode the battlements already in full plate—indigo armor chased with silver, his eagle-wing helm tucked under one arm. His brown hair was streaked with gray, his beard shaved clean, and his blue-gray eyes burned with the same cold fury that had once killed three of Rhaegar's bannermen at the Trident.
"Arthur, how do you want to play this?" he asked.
Arthur Whent had crossed the Trident's fords at first light, his scouts having mapped every shallow. He had not missed the fight.
"Charge out and hammer them down the causeway," Arthur said.
He wore black-enameled plate over a yellow surcoat, the bat-wing helm already lowered. Valyrian steel gauntlets gleamed on his hands.
Behind him his seven captains stood ready: Ser Lucas Dayne, squires Wylis Wode and young Lucas Roote, big Rolly, and the three hedge knights—Lothor Brune, Clarence Crabb, and young Tristimont.
Lord Jason gave a low whistle. "Seven good fighters at your back. Most lords don't ride with that kind of company."
Seagard sat on high ground above the sea. The ironborn would have to come up the narrow causeway. A perfect killing ground.
"Exactly," Arthur said. "I'll ask you and your knights to cover our flank. The ironborn think we'll hide behind stone. I say we ride out and meet them head-on."
Jason laughed, a hard, satisfied sound. "My kind of talk." The man who had once charged Rhaegar's host was still a killer at heart.
He had two hundred of his own riders. With Arthur's three hundred black-armored Whent horsemen, their numbers felt solid.
"Patrick," Jason told his son, "you command the reserve. Get every archer onto the walls."
His boy wasn't much of a fighter, but he could follow orders.
"Men of Seagard!" Jason roared from the battlements. "The bell is ringing—those filthy reaver dogs have come to burn our homes and take our wives! What do we do?"
"Kill the bastards!" the riders shouted back.
Seagard could not raise many levies, but the castle stores were full and Harrenhal's gold had bought extra arrows and grain. Jason's confidence ran high.
"Drowned God's children—charge!" Rodrik bellowed. He split his force, putting Maron and Haras on the wings.
"Kraken! Kraken!" the ironborn roared.
They had burned Lannisport. Seagard would be easy.
Most of the reavers left skeleton crews aboard the ships and formed a spearhead aimed straight at the gates, dragging a single heavy ram behind them. The oak-and-iron doors of Seagard loomed ahead. Rodrik already felt victory in his grasp.
The angle was uphill. He never noticed the danger.
"Eagle! Eagle!"
A roar went up from the walls. Arrows hissed down in a sudden black rain. A few unlucky ironborn screamed and fell.
"Keep pushing—ram the gate!" Rodrik shouted, still believing he was the hunter.
Then the great oak-and-iron gates groaned open.
"Charge!" Horns blared. Lord Jason Mallister, purple cloak streaming, led the thunder of hooves straight down the causeway into the ironborn ranks.
Beside the Mallister eagle banner flew another—gold field, black bat.
Rodrik felt ice slide down his spine. The hunters had just become the prey.