The people of Lannisport had fallen into the trap of peaceful complacency.
The ironborn attacking Seagard had fallen into another trap of overconfidence—they underestimated the fortress far too much.
First, the ironborn's surprise raid on Lannisport had been a resounding success, but lords elsewhere in the realm strengthened their defenses as a result.
Without the advantage of surprise, any assault would now be a straight fight.
Second, the ironborn never expected Lord Jason to be such a tough, cunning opponent.
Third, they never imagined Seagard would receive cavalry reinforcements—and that the Whent family of Harrenhal would arrive so quickly to help.
This string of unexpected developments left Rodrik reeling. The situation had spiraled far beyond the plan.
"How is this possible?" Rodrik muttered in disbelief, the script unfolding nothing like he had imagined. "Damn it—why are there eagles and bats here today?"
"It's them. That bat knight must be the young whelp from House Whent," Haras said, his mouth twitching. The luck here was truly rotten.
Identifying opponents on the battlefield was easy enough—only the great lords rode with such ornate armor and warhorses.
Haras spotted Lord Jason's eagle-wing helm and Arthur's bat-wing helm immediately. Both stood out like beacons.
Seeing the cavalry charge, Haras felt a chill of dread.
In the minds of the ironborn, the men of the Riverlands were still a bunch of cowards. For them to sally out and fight in the open was almost unheard of.
But Rodrik had forgotten that the man he had come to face was one of the few true warriors among the riverlords. Lord Jason Mallister and Arthur Whent had brought their finest troops.
The longships drew closer, black specks 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. Whenever longships appeared on the western horizon in the old days, that bell had warned the villagers and farmers to run for the safety of the walls.
"Back to the castle! Everyone back inside!"
Seagard's sentries were far sharper than those at Lannisport. The castle itself had been built for war, and Lord Jason Mallister was no soft lord.
On the water, the ironborn rowed harder, hoping the alarm would sow panic they could exploit. Golden krakens writhed on the sails like living beasts.
For the first time in three centuries, ironborn longships sat off the shores of Seagard.
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 at 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.
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.
The ironborn were tough bastards. They fought hard even when the odds turned against them. Axes rose and fell. Shields splintered. Men screamed as lances punched through leather and flesh.
But the cavalry had the high ground and momentum. Arthur's black-armored riders carved through the ironborn like a black storm, while Jason's men hammered the flanks.
Rodrik swung his sword in wild arcs, trying to rally his men. "Stand your ground! For the Drowned God!"
His voice cracked with desperation.
Arthur spotted him. The little kraken was easy to pick out—tall, broad, fighting like a cornered animal.
"Rodrik!" Arthur called, voice carrying over the chaos. "Come meet your maker!"
Rodrik's head snapped toward him. Recognition flashed in his eyes. The Bat Knight. The upstart from Harrenhal who had humiliated ironborn pride before.
He charged straight at Arthur, shield raised, sword high.
Their blades met with a ringing crash. Rodrik was strong—stronger than most men his age—but Arthur's strength came from something deeper. Training. Talent. The raw power of the Greenhand blood running through his veins.
Rodrik's arm shook from the impact. Arthur pressed forward, relentless.
"You fight like a boy playing at war," Rodrik spat, swinging again.
Arthur didn't answer. He sidestepped, shield slamming into Rodrik's side. The ironborn staggered. Arthur's sword flashed out, slicing across Rodrik's thigh.
Blood sprayed. Rodrik roared in pain but kept swinging.
Arthur's men closed in around them, forming a deadly circle. No one would interfere. This was between the two of them now.
Rodrik fought with everything he had. He was Balon Greyjoy's heir. He would not die like some common reaver.
But Arthur was faster. Stronger. More precise.
A heavy blow knocked Rodrik's shield aside. Arthur's sword came down like judgment, shearing through Rodrik's guard and biting deep into his shoulder.
Rodrik dropped to one knee, gasping. Blood poured down his arm.
Arthur stood over him, sword raised.
"For the Trident," Arthur said quietly.
The blade fell.
Rodrik Greyjoy's head hit the ground with a wet thud.
The ironborn line broke.
Haras and Maron saw their brother fall. They tried to reach him, but Jason's riders cut them off. The battle turned into a slaughter.
By the time the sun climbed higher, the ironborn were finished. Those who could still run fled back toward their longships. Most didn't make it.
Seagard's gates opened wider. More men poured out—archers, spearmen, townsfolk with whatever weapons they could grab.
The ironborn who reached the water found their ships already under attack. Arthur's reserves had circled around and hit the skeleton crews from the flank.
It was over.
Rodrik's body lay on the causeway, armor dented and blood-soaked. His head was gone—taken by Arthur's men as proof of the kill.
Jason Mallister rode up beside Arthur, breathing hard.
"You fight like the gods themselves sent you," Jason said. "The ironborn will remember this day."
Arthur wiped his sword clean on a dead man's cloak. "They'll remember the price of crossing the Trident."
In the distance, the bronze bell of Seagard tolled again—not in warning this time, but in victory.
The little kraken was dead.
And the Riverlands had just proven they were no longer easy prey.