"Do we have to wait until night to attack?" Nymeria asked, her gaze fixed on the Ironborn camp sprawling below.
"No, let's do it now!" Lynd shook his head decisively. "The timing is perfect."
The Ironborn camp was in chaos. Rodrik's orders had the nobles scrambling to gather their troops, while Ironborn soldiers frantically searched for their leaders. All eyes were focused inward, oblivious to the uninvited guests observing from the nearby hill.
Lynd rode back to the army formation hidden behind the hill and began assigning tasks. "Nymeria, you'll lead the army of Tumbleton and clear out the deserters on the outskirts. The cavalry patrols will ride and shoot as trained, conserving their arrows for later. They may charge only after their quivers are emptied." He then turned to Stevron Frey and Jon Umber. "Ser Stevron, Lord Umber, you will lead the House Frey cavalry and charge with me."
Jon Umber raised his weapon high, his eagerness plain. In contrast, Stevron looked uneasy. "My lord," he stammered, "many of our cavalry are newly formed and lack the ability to fight effectively on horseback…"
"This is an order, not a suggestion, Ser Stevron," Lynd interrupted sharply. "Stay close behind me, and do not fall behind. Understood?"
"Yes, my lord." Feeling Lynd's authority, Stevron bowed his head in reluctant compliance.
As the orders went out, the troops quickly moved into position. The cavalry of House Frey assembled behind Lynd, with Stevron at the front, his expression still uneasy. Once everyone was in place, Lynd signaled Glory to remain by Nymeria's side before spurring his warhorse, Ebon, into motion. Ebon trotted confidently to the crest of the hill, and as Lynd rode ahead, Stevron scrambled to keep up, leading the Frey cavalry. Behind them, Jon Umber's Northmen cavalry followed as a supervisory force.
The moment the group crested the hill and began their descent, the Ironborn camp finally took notice. Shouts erupted as the defenders scrambled to react. Rodrik bellowed orders, hastily organizing the Greyjoy soldiers and rallying their forces. Ironborn warriors armed themselves and rushed out to meet the attackers, while nobles from the Iron Islands hurriedly directed their men into defensive positions.
But they had underestimated the speed and power of Lynd's charge. Ebon tore downhill with unmatched swiftness, outpacing the Frey cavalry trailing far behind. The Ironborn, seeing one rider charging alone, assumed him to be mad. Yet, as Ebon bore down on them, their courage faltered. They raised spears to stop him, hoping to impale horse and rider alike.
Their hopes were short-lived. The custom-forged heavy armor of Ebon deflected their weapons effortlessly. Lynd and Ebon smashed into the ranks of defenders like a boulder crashing down a mountainside.
Ironborn soldiers were flung aside, crushed beneath Ebon's hooves or cleaved apart by Lynd's blade. Those on either side of his path fared no better, many cut down before they even realized what was happening. Blood sprayed in every direction, painting the ground in a crimson trail of carnage.
By the time Stevron and the Frey cavalry reached the camp, the fledgling Ironborn defenses were in ruins. Lynd had already carved his way to the camp's center, leaving a trail of hundreds of dead in his wake.
Stevron reined in his horse, momentarily stunned by the sheer devastation wrought by Lynd. A flicker of admiration surfaced amidst his shock, but there was no time to dwell on it. The Frey cavalry plunged into the remnants of the Ironborn forces, who were too scattered and demoralized to mount a proper defense. One after another, the Ironborn fell to the swords of the now-emboldened Frey cavalry, who reveled in the unexpected ease of their victory. It felt almost unreal—like hacking apart stationary targets instead of real opponents.
Meanwhile, Jon Umber's Northmen cavalry bypassed the Frey forces entirely, charging headlong into the remaining assembled armies deeper within the camp.
Meanwhile, outside the Ironborn camp, Nymeria led her troops, splitting them into two groups. They galloped swiftly along the camp's perimeter, expertly wielding their specially crafted shortbows. The archers shot powerful arrows high into the air, sending them arcing diagonally downward into the densely packed enemy camp.
Against a camp teeming with enemies, precision wasn't necessary. The arrows rained down indiscriminately, cutting through the air with deadly accuracy. The metal-tipped projectiles pierced through the Ironborn's leather armor with ease, embedding deeply into their bodies, injuring vital organs and incapacitating them instantly.
The arrows, coming from all directions, created chaos within the camp. The Ironborn had nowhere to hide. Warriors dropped in droves, felled by the relentless rain of projectiles. Panic overtook the survivors, who frantically sought shelter, some even using the bodies of fallen comrades as shields. Amidst the turmoil, many knights and nobles, key figures commanding the army, were struck down, leaving the Ironborn unable to organize any meaningful defense.
Those who could still move instinctively clustered toward House Greyjoy's Kraken banner at the center of the camp, seeking safety in numbers and leadership.
But as they neared their symbol of unity and strength, they were met with a chilling sight: the Kraken banner had fallen. At the base of its severed pole stood a knight clad in resplendent armor, holding two greatswords. In his hands was the severed head of Rodrik Greyjoy, the Ironborn army's commander.
The sight struck a fatal blow to the morale of the remaining Ironborn. Around the knight, bodies lay piled high, a testament to the futility of challenging him. No one dared attack. Instead, a sense of overwhelming despair swept through the camp. Somewhere amidst the chaos, a weapon clattered to the ground as one soldier dropped to his knees, hands on his head. One by one, the Ironborn followed suit, surrendering en masse.
The surrender began at the Kraken banner and spread like wildfire, consuming the entire camp. The Ironborn who had once fought fiercely now abandoned their weapons, falling to their knees in complete submission.
Inside the camp, the cavalrymen of House Frey and The North continued to fight. Fueled by the heat of battle, some ignored the enemy's surrender, raising their swords to strike the kneeling Ironborn. Before they could act, dozens of arrows whistled through the air, striking their arms and halting their movements. Turning, they saw Dacey leading her cavalry patrols toward them. Her voice rang out sharply, cutting through the chaos.
"Ser Stevron! Lord Umber! Have you forgotten Ser Lynd's orders? Or are you defying Ser Lynd's command?"
Her words snapped the two lords out of their bloodlust. Realizing their mistake, they galloped to their respective forces, shouting, "Stop! Stop it all! Ser Lynd commanded—surrender and you will not be killed! Surrender and you will not be killed!"
Their subordinates, jolted by the reprimand, began pulling back. Those who hesitated or continued to act on instinct were promptly knocked off their horses by their comrades, who had no desire to face Lynd's wrath over foolish disobedience.
The battle had ended as swiftly as it had begun. The soldiers of House Frey and The North were left in awe of Lynd's extraordinary combat prowess. The propaganda spread by the Faith of the Seven about Lynd's power suddenly seemed like a gross understatement. It wasn't clear how many men Lynd had killed, but all agreed the number was well into the thousands. The swift resolution of the battle was entirely due to his godlike display of strength.
Stevron, Jon Umber, and the rest of the troops, overcome by a mix of fear and reverence, instinctively raised their weapons and roared in unison, "Lynd the Chosen! Lynd the Chosen!"
While the fighting inside the camp ceased, chaos continued beyond its borders. Many Ironborn who refused to surrender fled the camp, scattering in all directions. They ran toward distant forests, hills, and even the sea, desperate to escape what they now believed was inevitable slaughter.
However, Lynd had trained his cavalry—both his own and Nymeria's—to relentlessly pursue fleeing enemies. The retreating Ironborn were swiftly cornered by Nymeria's cavalry from Tumbleton and subjected to an unrelenting barrage of arrows, a grim harvest. In the end, only two or three fortunate individuals managed to escape into the sea and dive beneath the waves. Thousands of others perished during the pursuit.
On the walls of Seagard Castle, Patrek Mallister, his staff, and the city's garrison soldiers stood in stunned silence, watching the ferocious battle outside the Ironborn camp unfold. It wasn't that they lacked the will to join the fight; they simply had no time. From the first clash to the final blow, the entire engagement lasted barely twenty minutes.
By the time Patrek had donned his armor, rallied all of Seagard's cavalry, and reached the castle gates, prepared to raise them and join the reinforcements in their assault, the battle had already ended.
As Patrek returned to the castle walls, a chorus of cheers erupted from the Ironborn camp. The name on everyone's lips was unmistakable: the Chosen One, Lynd.
From their vantage point, the identity of the Chosen One was unmistakable. At the heart of the Ironborn camp, where Rodrik Greyjoy's grand tent had once stood, a knight clad in resplendent armor sat astride a towering, heavily-armored warhorse. The ground around him was littered with blood, severed limbs, and broken bodies, while thousands of Ironborn knelt in terror, unable to meet his gaze.
"This scene will become a world-renowned painting!" Patrek, an amateur artist himself, was overcome with excitement. He etched every detail into his memory, silently vowing to immortalize it on canvas.
"My lord, you should go and greet Ser Lynd," Tristan said, his own excitement mirroring Patrek's as he gazed at the aftermath of the battle.
"Yes, yes! I must greet Ser Lynd," Patrek agreed eagerly and began descending the castle wall.
"Wait, Patrek," Castellan Hoth interjected, stepping forward to halt him. "The battle may be over, but the Ironborn camp is still teeming with men. Though they've surrendered for now, they could regroup and rebel if they realize their numerical advantage. Your presence there could put you at risk and disrupt Ser Lynd's efforts. It would be wiser for you to remain here. I will go out to meet the reinforcements on your behalf."
Patrek was reluctant to concede, but Hoth's reasoning was sound. In the end, Hoth led a contingent of a dozen knights, over three hundred cavalry, and a thousand soldiers out of the castle to greet Lynd and assist in securing the prisoners.
The process of incorporating the Ironborn prisoners was fraught with challenges. During the initial efforts, some captives attempted to resist or escape by seizing horses from the cavalry. However, Lynd's patrols swiftly detected and eliminated the would-be escapees. Their deaths served as a grim warning, extinguishing any lingering thoughts of rebellion among the rest.
The disarmament and restraint of the captives followed strict measures. One by one, the Ironborn were stripped of their weapons, their hands bound behind their backs. Every ten prisoners were connected by a noose tied to a single rope. They were warned that if one attempted to escape, the entire group would be executed.
This method of collective punishment, harsh as it was, became a necessity given the overwhelming number of prisoners. The Ironborn camp had housed more than ten thousand people, nearly six thousand of whom had perished in the twenty-minute battle.
Lynd alone had directly slain at least a thousand Greyjoy warriors in his initial charge, primarily those protecting Rodrik. Along his path to the main camp, he claimed nearly another thousand lives. In total, his blade had cut down nearly two thousand men.
House Frey's cavalry and the Northern cavalry under Jon Umber followed Lynd in the aftermath of the main battle, hunting down and killing over 2,000 stragglers. Meanwhile, Nymeria and her forces used archery to eliminate over 1,000 Ironborn outside the camp, and another 1,000 fell during the pursuit of the fleeing remnants. In total, approximately 6,000 Ironborn perished.
Of the remaining 9,000-plus Ironborn, those who were fatally wounded or who had inflicted fatal injuries on others were executed. When the counting and selections were complete, more than 8,000 prisoners remained.
To manage such a massive number of captives, Lynd implemented a strict system of collective punishment. The prisoners were divided into teams, and each team was made accountable for its members. If one prisoner escaped, the entire team would be punished; if an entire team of ten escaped, then all ten teams within the group would face punishment.
Barbaric as it was, the system proved highly effective. On several occasions, captives who attempted escape were reported by their fellow prisoners before they could act. In some instances, the prisoners even joined forces to strangle potential troublemakers among them, unwilling to risk collective retribution for individual actions.
Throughout the battle, Lynd's cavalry patrols and Nymeria's forces concentrated on attacking from horseback, using archery to harry the enemy or chasing down deserters. They encountered little organized resistance, and Nymeria's forces suffered only minor losses, with just a few dozen soldiers injured.
House Frey's cavalry followed close behind Lynd, charging directly into the Ironborn camp to cut down those who had lost the will to fight. Their losses were minimal, with only about a hundred casualties.
However, the Northern cavalry led by Jon Umber faced a more brutal challenge. Engaging the Ironborn head-on, they encountered an enemy who, though demoralized by Lynd's earlier devastation, retained their savage instinct for a fight to the death. Disorganized and unable to form proper formations, the Ironborn resorted to desperate, ferocious combat, often trading one life for one life in clashes with the Northern horsemen.
The cost to the Northern cavalry was significant. Over 400 were killed, and more than 200 suffered severe injuries. Nearly all who survived bore minor wounds, including Jon Umber himself. The losses were heavy, but the results were undeniable. Thousands of Northern soldiers had faced and defeated an Ironborn force over 10,000 strong, inflicting thousands of casualties and capturing nearly 10,000 prisoners.
Rather than resenting Lynd for leading them into such a perilous battle, the Northern cavalry regarded the experience as a point of pride. The scale of their achievement would be spoken of as a classic triumph. Even Jon Umber, who had always looked down on southerners, found himself begrudgingly impressed.