GOT: Chapter 325/326

Chapter 325: Dragon’s Horn

The passive defense strategy proposed by the Flayer struck Euron where it hurt. It was clear to anyone with eyes that if this tactic were allowed to take shape and be carried out, the Ironborn would find no way to penetrate the North. They would fail to weaken King Stannis's strongest supporter before winter ended.

To prevent this from happening, the new ruler of the Iron Islands resolved to disrupt his foe's plan.

Ordinary dispersal of troops and harassment would be ineffective. After some thought, the advisors forced into his service offered a practical idea: rather than injuring ten fingers, sever one. Instead of roaming aimlessly, it would be better to attempt a daring strike, taking advantage of the Northern host's divisions while protecting evacuating soldiers and villagers. They could exploit this concern to sow confusion, concentrate their forces, set a trap, and ambush one of these detachments, cutting down several important Northern lords.

This would wound the enemy deeply, force the Northerners into bitter debate over revenge, sow divisions within, shatter their unity in the defensive strategy of retreat, and thus open an opportunity for the Ironborn.

With the aid of several clever men taken from across the Narrow Sea, Euron, who had long relied on reckless charges, planned an ambush for the first time. The plan was crude and full of flaws, but with the West Coast of the North in the midst of a vast evacuation and the land in chaos, it succeeded unexpectedly. The Northern army underestimated its foe on home ground and rushed to shield their people, walking into the trap.

Clad in scale armor black as smoke, a sinister gleam flickered in Euron's eyes as he watched the battlefield, biding his time for the moment to strike.

His aim had been no more than to destroy a random detachment. Yet this one proved stubborn. Were all Northmen so fierce in battle, or was this band unusual?

The gulf in quality and training between the two sides was clear, not something a mere surprise attack could erase. The Ironborn, who had caught the Northerners off guard by using innocent villagers as bait, charged into the column. Yet before long, the defenders steadied their formation and pushed them back.

The scales of battle tilted toward the North. Euron's eyes grew bloodthirsty. "Who commands them?"

"I see the largest flag is gray."

"Fool, that is the direwolf banner!" The sailors Euron had gathered from across the world did not know the sigils of Westerosi houses, but those born of the Iron Islands knew well the banners of the North, long seen as enemies. "That wolf with bared fangs? We've struck gold. That must be Robb Stark himself!"

"Robb Stark?" A gleam lit Euron's blue right eye.

"Your Grace, we must go to them quickly. If we wait, the brothers below will break!"

"What is the hurry?" Euron stared at the Lord of Winterfell, who fought from horseback with several young companions at his side, cutting through Ironborn ranks. The Crow's Eye pulled a flask, uncorked it, and drank deep of shade of the evening. At once, pleasure and numbness coursed through him, mingled with a surge of power and lust for blood. Madness overtook his gaze as he slowly drew his blade. "Men, follow me. Whoever slays Robb Stark and skins that wolf shall be Lord of Winterfell! Sound the dragon horn!"

Behind him, a mute giant lifted his master's horn, said to be found in the ruins of Valyria. He filled his chest and blew with all his might.


---

Without the direwolf, the battle might never have turned so one-sided. Robb's Grey Wind had grown to full size. As large as a small horse, the beast's power and speed defied belief. No man could withstand its pounce, no armor its bite or claw. Like a phantom, it darted between Northerner and Ironborn alike, evading blades and striking with purpose. With each leap, it either saved a brother or tore out an enemy's throat.

One wolf could not defeat a thousand. The number slain by Grey Wind's fangs was far fewer than those cut down by steel. Yet the terror it inspired in the Ironborn outweighed that of any veteran commander. That fear spread like a tide through their ranks, quickening the shift of the battle's balance.

Robb rode close behind, sword in hand, guarding his beloved beast and reaping foes, taking full advantage of the terror Grey Wind wrought. He had won victory time and again this way in the Westerlands, earning the name "The Young Wolf." Man and beast shared a silent bond.

Then suddenly, a horn cry tore through the air, sharp as a blade.

Ah ah ah ah ah ah uh uh uh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh—

No man had ever heard its like. Had Aegor been present, he would have likened it to nails scraping slate, but in the world of ice and fire no blackboard existed, and in truth, the sound was worse.

Its pitch was lower, its power deafening. The vibrations battered skulls like hammer blows, echoes rebounding within. The strange sorcery woven into it stirred the deepest fears of mankind's blood.

Even the bravest could not resist the body's instincts.

It was a banshee's shriek, an echo from hell, a searing sound of agony and ruin that felt as though it would burn ears and shatter minds. Horses reared and threw riders before fleeing. Sensitive men dropped their blades and clutched their ears, some falling to the ground in torment.

For that moment, the sound filled all the world. Yet only the Northerners suffered, for the Ironborn had stuffed their ears beforehand.

The battle was not ended at once. Though their lines were broken and bodies wracked with pain, most Northmen fought on stubbornly. Yet now the Ironborn reserves, led by their king himself, raised their weapons and charged into the fray, driving toward Robb Stark and his companions, who had just fallen from their horses.

"What the… Seven hells…" Eddard Karstark tried to speak, but between the fall, the pain, and the horn's wail, nausea overwhelmed him and he vomited.

"My Lord, this is sorcery. The foe came prepared!" Jon Umber hauled Robb to his feet, his body still trembling under the sound. "They are charging at us. Their target is you. I beg you, fall back while I lead men to hold them off!"

"Fool! As Lord of the North, how can I abandon my brothers to die?" Robb lifted his sword from the snow. "Gather around me! Form ranks and meet the foe!"

Under the horn's torment, summoning men in the chaos was near impossible. But then, as if fated, the sound ceased.

The mute giant who had blown it collapsed. His lips and lungs were seared by the heat the magic wrought. He swayed, unwilling to believe he had lasted no more than a minute, then fell into the snow. Another seized the horn, hot and smoking, wiped it down, but dared not raise it again.

Robb seized the moment of silence, gathering dozens of men to form a shield wall. Together they faced the vanguard, led by the King of the Iron Islands himself. Without the horn's sorcery, in fair combat, the Northmen had no fear.

(To be continued.)

Chapter 326: "Fair" Showdown

The arrival of reinforcements shifted the battle somewhat, but the North still held the upper hand.

Even Euron's mind, clouded by shade of the evening, could see the truth. No matter how much treasure he had plundered across the Narrow Sea, or how many strange relics he had scavenged from the ruins of Valyria, nothing could bridge the vast gulf between the strength of the North and that of the Iron Islands. To win, he had to seize this chance encounter with Robb Stark and strike off the head of the enemy host.

This had been his plan from the beginning, and now it was his only path. So he acted.

Of the dozens who followed Euron, half were nobles of the Iron Islands, better than nothing, and the other half were sailors from his ship, the Silence. These men, gathered from across the seas, had been trained to fight and had their tongues cut out. They were far more dangerous than common reavers. This reserve, half-mute, gave no thunderous war cries, but charged like a tide, cutting a path of blood and broken limbs. In an instant, they smashed into the young Northern lords and the soldiers sworn to protect them.

With a dull crash, a figure at the front smashed through the shield wall, sending men flying, and strode straight toward the young Northmen, his eyes blazing with murderous intent.

...

He had black hair and beard, blue lips, and wore scale armor unlike any seen before. Black as smoke, it gleamed with a strange reddish-gold along the edges, shifting as he moved. Though it covered him head to toe, sealed tight, it weighed so little it flowed like silk. Subtle engravings shimmered with eerie life.

Euron hefted his great battleaxe and pointed it at the Northerners. "Which of you is Robb Stark?"

No man spared a glance at his armor, nor did any deign to answer. The Northerners were too pressed holding the Ironborn at bay. Those just knocked down rose again, weapons in hand, joining the young men clustered around Robb. After brief glances, they roared and rushed together at the enemy captain who had dared to charge into their midst.

The North did not prattle on of chivalry, honor, or fair combat as men of the South did. They were harder and more practical. A duel was a duel, war was war. If the foe showed no courtesy, why should they thrust their lord forward to fight him alone instead of seizing the chance to cut him down?

Blades flashed. At least four men struck at once. Euron only parried the axe aimed at his skull. The rest he took upon his body.

Sparks flew from two blades that scraped across his scales, leaving faint white marks. A third sword struck his back, wedging between two plates. Its wielder drove it forward with all his strength and weight, but the blade failed to pierce. Euron only staggered.

The Valyrian steel armor turned the blade, but not the force. Pain lanced through his back, and the frenzy within him flared hotter, stoked by shade of the evening and the sorcery woven into his gear. With a snarl, he spun, teeth bared. The axe whirled upward in his hands, and in one stroke, the man's arms were hewn off, sword and limbs flying as blood sprayed.

The screams were drowned by the din of battle. The mute sailors surged through the gap their captain had opened, crashing into the Northerners with savage force.

No one spared a thought for the man with stumps for arms. Robb and his companions pressed in again, weapons flashing. Euron ducked only those strikes aimed at his face, squatting low and bracing himself as swords and axes thudded against his chest, abdomen, and legs.

Encased in Valyrian steel, empowered by black magic and strange draughts, he stood like a reef in the tide, unshaken by the waves crashing against him.

Then he struck back. The dark axe whistled as it carved a deadly arc.

A knight in full plate might endure the blows of common swords, but none could counterattack with such speed and power. When the axe's edge flashed before Eddard Karstark's eyes, he barely had time to raise his sword. With a clang, blade and boy were cut in half at the waist. The snow was painted red.

"Young Lord Eddard!" a Karstark retainer cried in anguish.

The black-haired man was not only invulnerable but strong beyond reason.

"Don't strike his body, take his head!"

There was no time to grieve. After the loss of two men in an instant, Jon Smalljon Umber barked the order. The Northerners obeyed, hacking at Euron's head.

Seven hells, if only I had a helm, Euron cursed inwardly. Reluctantly he turned from attack to defense, weaving between blades. Strength beyond mortal men let him hold his ground, parrying and dodging, keeping his head and face safe.

The delay was enough. His mute sailors closed ranks around him, breaking the Northerners' circle and pulling him free. The best chance to cut him down was lost.

The fight along the narrow forest path had raged for minutes. Though the North still had numbers, in that small space before Robb Stark, Euron and his chosen men had forced a local advantage. With his back covered, he surged forward again.

...

"My Lord, you must not be harmed. Withdraw!"

Smalljon's shout betrayed him. Euron's sharp eye swept the field, picking out the true lord clad in armor marked with the direwolf.

"Withdraw? Withdraw to hell!"

Euron laughed madly and charged once more.

Earlier he had fought ten men and taken no hurt. Now, with his own at his side, he was unstoppable. His axe swung wide, a murderous sweep aimed straight at the Young Wolf.

Robb Stark was brave and trained, but he was no great warrior. Facing that monstrous force, he reacted on instinct, raising his sword just as Eddard Karstark had moments ago.

"You cannot block it!"

"Look out!"

The cries came too late.

A loyal guard leapt between them, raising his shield. The axe struck with a crack like thunder. The shield split, the man was hurled into Robb, blood streaming from nose and mouth. Dead before he hit the ground. Even so, the force smashed into Robb, knocking him back two steps. He parried desperately, but his arm was numb, his blade chipped, his strength spent. He stumbled, tripped, and fell hard on the snow.

His chest heaved, his mind reeled. If Aegor had seen it, he would have sworn Euron was no man but a White Walker in a man's skin.

The Winterfell guards who threw themselves forward were slaughtered one by one. Within three yards, no aid could reach him. Euron raised the axe once more to finish it.

But Robb was not alone.

A smoky-gray shadow burst from the side. Grey Wind struck like a thunderbolt, jaws clamping on Euron's arm, his weight bearing him down at last. The great wolf pinned him, teeth sinking deep. Yet it was like biting iron. The armor bent no more than steel bars.

Euron dropped his axe and flung his free arm around the wolf's neck, locking it tight. The three-hundred-pound beast thrashed, claws scoring white lines across his armor, but Euron held firm, snarling. "Beast! I'll skin you first, then your master!"

Robb struggled to his feet, sword in hand, but his arm was useless, the blade little more than battered steel.

Before he could switch it to his left, Smalljon Umber seized him by the collar. "Take the Lord away!" he roared.

The last two guards obeyed, pale with fear, hauling their lord back as Northmen rushed in to cover their retreat. Horses were gone, scattered by the horn.

The last thing the Young Wolf saw before being dragged away was Grey Wind's bloodied body, writhing beneath Euron's grip, and Smalljon Umber's back, unyielding as he raised his sword to meet the Ironborn charge.

(To be continued.)