Riverlands, Seagard.
Lord Jason Mallister, the eagle-winged helm tucked under one arm, gripped the raven scroll from Casterly Rock so tightly the parchment creaked.
The great bronze bell in the Bell Tower had rung for the first time in three hundred years, he thought.
The Iron Islands sat right on the doorstep of the Westerlands and the Riverlands. But when the Greyjoys ruled the ironborn, they always went for the richer prize first—the Westerlands—then the Reach, then the North. The Riverlands barely rated a look.
The western coast here was short, and these days the ironborn didn't like pushing deep inland. The Greyjoys weren't the Hoares; they had no interest in holding ground. Grab, burn, run.
Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, had terrorized the Westerlands, sacking Lannisport and Fair Isle. In 211 AC, Dagon Greyjoy and his reavers used the chaos of the Blackfyre Rebellion to raid the Sunset Sea and the western coast again. They burned Little Dosk, carried off half of Fair Isle's wealth and a hundred women, and even struck the southern shores of the Arbor.
They hit the North too.
Dagon made the entire Sunset Sea his playground. He reached into the lion's den and yanked its whiskers, tied the direwolf's tail in knots. But even he couldn't stand against the dragons.
"I'm sending ravens to the Riverlands lords," Lord Jason told his son, Ser Patrick. "Lannisport's fleet is ash. The Sunset Sea belongs to the ironborn now. Once the Redwyne and Oldtown fleets are ready, those reavers will turn on the Riverlands."
Jason was one of the Riverlands' finest knights, but this wasn't the time for lone-hero bullshit. No telling how many longships Balon would bring.
The smart play was the same one Tywin would use: call in every sword you could. Pride be damned.
"I understand, Father, but will anyone actually come?" Ser Patrick asked, frowning. "Without the king or Lord Hoster's direct order, the only lords who'll move are the ones who see profit. And right now Lord Hoster's in no shape to give orders. He'll beg the Iron Throne first."
Hoster Tully had taken a bad beating at Stone Mill from the Griffin. He'd survived, but the wound never fully healed, and age had taken the rest of his fire. Edmure? Useless. The only reliable sword in the family—the Blackfish—was still up in the Vale.
Patrick was Edmure's friend, but even he knew his drinking buddy wasn't much of a commander.
The Riverlands lords had always done their own thing—basically a watered-down Reach. The only time they'd ever pulled together was when Tywin burned half the Trident and gave them a common enemy.
"Some men see trouble. Others see opportunity," Lord Jason said shrewdly. "Fame and honor are won on the battlefield, not in the hall."
"You mean Arthur Whent," Ser Patrick said. "He's the hottest young name in the Riverlands right now. He won't miss a chance like this. But this is war, not the lists."
"Exactly. Glory costs risk," Lord Jason nodded. "Send the ravens—to Riverrun, to the Twins, to Harrenhal, everywhere. Whoever answers is the real warrior."
In his gut, Jason already knew the truth. The only man who would actually ride to their aid was Arthur Whent.
Hoster and Edmure had zero command talent. The Freys were rich but never spent a copper unless the profit was guaranteed—and they hated the Mallisters anyway. They'd probably cheer if Seagard burned. The Brackens and Blackwoods were too busy hating each other. The rest were mediocre at best.
"Done," Patrick said, noting the order.
"Father… won't this anger Lord Hoster?" he asked.
"Right now I don't give a damn," Lord Jason said flatly. "Seagard is the Riverlands' western gate. I'm not letting my lands and people burn just to keep the Tullys happy. Even if it reaches King Robert, His Grace loves brave men. Lord Hoster can't even control Walder Frey—how's he going to punish warriors who actually defend the Trident?"
The ravens flew. First Casterly Rock's warning, then Seagard's desperate call.
Even a proven warrior like Jason Mallister felt the knot of dread in his stomach at the thought of a full ironborn invasion.
Harrenhal, Flowstone Yard.
Lord Walter Whent, Ser Lucas, and Arthur stood on the hastily built platform. Below them, three hundred black-armored riders waited in perfect silence.
Arthur held his dark knight helm under one arm, the two raven scrolls crumpled in his fist.
The moment had finally arrived. Balon had gone mad exactly as the histories said.
He looked out at the cavalry he had forged—these men would be the spearhead.
Yellow cloaks embroidered with black bats fluttered over black plate. Lance points glittered coldly in the sun.
Every rider had been hand-picked. Their gear, their food, their training—nothing in the Riverlands came close. Rolly and Clarence rode at the front, the sharpest blades in the formation.
Arthur would take three hundred with him. The other two hundred would stay to guard Harrenhal.
Once the Iron Throne reacted, it would call every lord in the North and Riverlands to the counter-attack. That was certain.
Arthur had a perfect excuse: Lord Jason Mallister had asked for help. No one could fault him.
"You all know by now," Lord Walter announced. "Balon Greyjoy has rebelled. He calls himself King of the Iron Islands. The Riverlands will bleed again. We ride at Lord Jason Mallister's request to defend Seagard."
"Fuck those bastards!" Commander Rolly bellowed. Months without a real fight had left him itching for blood.
"Fuck those bastards!"
"Fuck those bastards!" The riders slammed mailed fists against breastplates.
The Riverlands had suffered under the ironborn for centuries. Only the last three hundred years had been quiet. The memory still burned.
"Arthur Whent, my heir, will command you," Lord Walter said. "War is always dangerous, but I will not sit here while the Trident runs red."
It was the plain truth. A knight who feared battle stopped being a knight. During Robert's Rebellion, Robert, Eddard, and Jon Arryn had all ridden at the front. Only a boy like Edmure had been kept safe.
"Arthur! Arthur!"
"Dark Knight!"
The yard thundered with his name.
Arthur raised a hand. The roar died instantly.
In the new year he had grown even taller and stronger—the very image of a warrior the riders worshipped.
Months of hard training, rewards, and personal gifts had turned these men into his own. They would follow him anywhere.
"I won't promise you easy glory," Arthur told them, voice carrying. "I only swear this: I will lead you to victory. I will be the bravest man on the field. And you will not go home empty-handed. We ride to Seagard to hunt krakens. The man who takes a Greyjoy head will be rewarded by both his lord and his king."
He opened his palm. The riders answered with a single roar.
"Kill the krakens!"
"Kill the krakens!"
House Whent had the gold. Arthur had the steel.
All the riders had to do was risk everything for the prize.
"House Whent—ten thousand hearts as one!" Lord Walter shouted.
Arthur joined the cry. It was their house words, and he meant every syllable.
Words were just words. The Arryns had used a cheap shadowcat trick to murder the Bronze King and still claimed "As High as Honor." The Whents had backstabbed their way into Harrenhal and still shouted "Ten Thousand Hearts as One." Seemed fair enough.
"Move out!" Arthur drew his sword and pointed west.
This was the stage of blood and fire, and he was finally stepping onto it.