Chapter 418

Aegor could never have imagined that the devastating weapon he had meticulously prepared to combat the White Walkers would first demonstrate its power on the living.

Amid several thunderous explosions accompanied by blinding flashes of light, countless obsidian shards scattered into the crowd. Although dragonglass held no special properties against the living, its razor-sharp edges still tore through clothes and flesh, leaving painful wounds that bled freely. More terrifying than the shards, however, was the blast wave from the explosives. The Ironborn, entirely unprepared for such a weapon, were thrown into chaos. A third of them were incapacitated, writhing on the ground and screaming in pain. While few were outright killed, most were left dazed, their heads ringing from the concussive force, or paralyzed by fear, their minds exaggerating the weapon’s destructive power in the pitch-black chaos.

Seizing the opportunity, Jaime Lannister led his Westerlands soldiers, now fighting as Icebay Port’s defenders, into the disoriented Ironborn ranks with a battle cry.

The two forces clashed, and while the Ironborn had the advantage in numbers, the Kingslayer carved through them like a wolf among sheep. Leading from the front, Jaime's bold charge galvanized his followers. Soldiers who had been hesitant after the earlier surprise attack now roared with renewed fervor, surging forward with reckless determination.

The Ironborn, for all their boasts, were experienced raiders, not disciplined warriors. These men were veterans of looting, pillaging, and destruction—but when it came to pitched battles against trained soldiers, they were no match. Jaime, clad in full plate armor, moved through their ranks with deadly precision, cutting down or knocking aside anyone in his path. His sword danced, his strikes sharp and decisive, while the Ironborn’s crude weapons glanced harmlessly off his steel-clad form.

With every sweep of his blade, blood splattered the cobblestone street connecting the port to the fortress. The ground became slick and treacherous, a testament to the slaughter. Soon, the Ironborn’s makeshift formation collapsed as their leaders fell one by one, cut down by Jaime himself. The survivors scattered, fleeing toward the shore.
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Meanwhile, on the southeastern wall, the Ironborn who had previously been repelled returned to launch another assault on the gates. This time, however, the defenders were prepared. The Icebay Port commander and his reserve troops, having learned from their earlier mistakes, countered the attack decisively, thwarting the Ironborn’s attempts to coordinate with their forces inside the fortress.

At the heart of the fortress, Jaime regrouped his men after their initial victory. Sending a small contingent northeast to the shipyard to coordinate with the Northern soldiers stationed there, he led the bulk of his forces down the main road toward the docks.

The situation remained dire. Fires raged across the harbor, with several warehouses and residential areas set ablaze by Ironborn saboteurs. One of the Northern navy’s three new warships was engulfed in flames, the fire reaching its ammunition stores and triggering a series of wildfires that forced the crew to abandon ship. The other two vessels, desperate to protect themselves, unleashed wildfire grenades on the Ironborn attackers hurling torches and oil jars from the docks. While the green flames sent the enemy scattering, they also set the wooden pier ablaze, turning it into an inferno that lit up the night sky like a beacon.

After breaking through the first Ironborn barricade, Jaime encountered little resistance until his forces neared the shoreline. Isolated groups of raiders scattered at the sight of his well-equipped, determined troops. Only a hundred meters from the shore, however, they faced the second—and seemingly final—Ironborn defensive line.

This time, the raiders were ready. Their backs to the longships beached on the shore, the Ironborn had regrouped, reinforced by survivors from earlier skirmishes. They numbered around two hundred and stood in grim silence, their formation far more disciplined than before. At their head stood a tall man clad in strange black armor, his face obscured by an eyepatch. He leaned on a massive battle-axe, his other hand holding a dark liquid in a crude leather flask. Taking a long swig, he tossed the flask aside and raised his voice.

“I am Euron Greyjoy, the most powerful captain in all the seas, King of the Iron Islands.” His tone dripped with mockery as his single eye locked onto Jaime. “Kingslayer! You bedded your sister and killed two mad kings. I thought you were a man of principle, someone who stood for something. Yet here you are, dressed in black, playing lapdog to the Starks. How disappointing.”

Jaime clenched his teeth, his anger simmering. I’d love to ask Aegor what madness brought me here, too, he thought. But now was not the time for words, especially not with a lunatic like Euron. Jaime had always believed in action over talk.

With renewed focus, Jaime gripped his blood-stained sword and pointed it at Euron. “The King of the Iron Islands, is it? At least you’ve given me a king worth killing.”

Before Euron could reply, Jaime charged, his blade flashing as he closed the distance in three calculated steps. His years of training and natural talent propelled him forward, his strike aimed at Euron’s unguarded flank—a killing blow, fast and precise.

But something was wrong.

Even at his best, Jaime knew he wasn’t an assassin. Clad in full armor, starting his attack from ten paces away, there was no way he should have moved so quickly that a veteran like Euron couldn’t react.

The sword struck home, meeting Euron’s armor with a metallic clang. Jaime’s steel blade, forged for strength and sharpness, should have pierced through any defense. Instead, it felt as if he’d struck solid iron. The impact jarred Jaime’s arm, sending a numbing shock through his wrist. Before he could recover, Euron’s axe-handle slammed into his chest, sending him staggering backward.

The force of the blow left Jaime reeling. He’d once sparred with Robert Baratheon, whose strength had seemed almost superhuman. But Euron’s casual strike carried even greater power, knocking Jaime off his feet and leaving him gasping for air.

As Jaime struggled to stand, Euron advanced, his eyepatch glinting ominously. The Ironborn king was a whirlwind of strength and malice, his strikes relentless and devastating. The dragonglass bombs and earlier victories seemed distant as Jaime realized the full extent of Euron’s unnatural power.

The battlefield was chaos. Jaime’s soldiers fought valiantly but were no match for Euron’s elite raiders. Each clash drained their strength, and one by one, they fell.

With no other choice, Jaime shouted the order to retreat. “Fall back to the shipyard!” His voice cut through the din of battle, and his men reluctantly disengaged, retreating in an orderly fashion while Jaime held the line.

Euron, grinning wickedly, hefted his axe for another charge—only to stop as he noticed a line of torches approaching from the fortress. Reinforcements.

The Ironborn king sneered, raising his voice over the sounds of battle. “Kingslayer, you’ve escaped with your life today. Consider it a gift. But mark my words: next time, I’ll finish what I started. Ironborn, fall back! We’ve done enough here.”

With that, Euron and his remaining forces retreated to their ships, leaving behind a smoldering, blood-soaked battlefield.