Chapter 325

The arrival of reinforcements shifted the tide slightly, but the North still held the upper hand.

Even Euron Greyjoy, with his madness steeped in shade of the evening, could see the truth: no amount of treasure plundered across the Narrow Sea or magical artifacts scavenged from the ruins of Valyria could bridge the massive gap in strength between the North and the Iron Islands. If he wanted to win this war, his only chance lay in seizing the opportunity to eliminate Robb Stark in this unexpected encounter.

It was his original plan, and now it was his only viable path forward. And so, he acted.

The group following Euron was a mixed batch. Half were Ironborn nobles from various houses, better than nothing, while the other half consisted of sailors from his flagship, the Silence. These men, drawn from oceans far and wide, had been trained into ruthless killers and had their tongues cut out. Compared to ordinary pirates, they were terrifyingly effective in battle. This mute vanguard carved through the battlefield like a hot knife through butter, leaving blood and severed limbs in their wake. In no time, they reached the frontlines, where young Northern lords and their guards fought fiercely.

With a few heavy thuds, a shadow at the forefront smashed through the Northern line, sending soldiers flying. The figure stopped before the Northern nobles, its menacing presence radiating dread.

The man’s hair and beard were jet black, his lips an unnatural blue. He wore an otherworldly suit of scale armor, black as smoke yet impossibly light. It fit him like a second skin, completely covering his body without hindering his movements. The scales shimmered faintly with a strange red-gold hue, their shifting patterns and etched runes giving the illusion of life.

Euron raised his massive battle-axe, pointing it at the Northerners. “Who among you is Robb Stark?”

No one cared about the strange armor adorning the madman, nor did anyone intend to answer him. The Northern soldiers were focused entirely on the battle in front of them, while those knocked to the ground scrambled to their feet, weapons in hand. With a glance among the Stark bannermen surrounding Robb, they roared and charged the Ironborn leader, unwilling to let the enemy insult their honor by asking for a duel.

The Northerners cared little for the South’s notions of chivalry. Practicality mattered more than words. This was war, not a tournament. If their enemy was foolish enough to charge recklessly into their midst, they wouldn’t waste the chance to kill him.

Swords and axes flashed in unison. At least four strikes found their mark on Euron simultaneously. But the madman, grinning wildly, blocked one blade aimed at his head with his axe while letting the others strike his body.

Two weapons sparked harmlessly off his Valyrian steel armor, leaving only faint white marks. A third, thrust with all the wielder’s strength, struck his back. Though it lodged between the scales, it failed to pierce the enchanted metal. The soldier, pressing his full weight into the blade, could only push Euron slightly off balance.

Though the armor blocked the blades, it couldn’t absorb the impact entirely. Euron snarled in pain, his drug-induced frenzy igniting further. He turned and glared at the soldier who had struck his back. With a savage burst of strength, he swung his axe upward. The Northern soldier’s arms were severed at the elbows, and his sword flew into the air, blood gushing from the wounds.

Amid the screams, the fight raged on. The mute sailors, slower than Euron, arrived behind him and reinforced the breach he’d created. They clashed fiercely with the Northern soldiers, preventing them from surrounding their leader again.

Robb and his bannermen launched another attack, but Euron fought like an immovable stone in the tide. He ignored strikes to his chest, abdomen, and legs, dodging only the most threatening blows aimed at his face. His armor and the dark magic enhancing him made him nearly invincible, his sheer physical power and speed overwhelming his foes.

Euron’s black axe swept through the air, carving a brutal arc. Eddard Karstark, caught off guard, raised his sword to block, but the force of the blow cleaved through both the blade and its wielder, splitting him in two.

“Lord Eddard!” A Karstark guard screamed in anguish.

“He’s unstoppable! Aim for his head!” shouted Smalljon Umber, rallying the remaining soldiers.

Euron cursed under his breath, lamenting his lack of a helmet, and shifted to a defensive stance. Despite his overwhelming strength, the Northerners’ coordinated assault forced him to focus on deflecting strikes aimed at his unarmored face. He stood firm, weathering the storm until his reinforcements arrived. The mute sailors surrounded him, breaking the Northern formation and denying them the chance to overwhelm their foe.

The battlefield, a snow-covered forest path turned killing ground, had been raging for minutes. While the Northerners still outnumbered the Ironborn, Euron and his elite guard had gained a local advantage, cutting deep into the Stark forces’ command center.

“Lord Stark, you must retreat!” Smalljon shouted urgently. His cry inadvertently betrayed Robb’s identity, drawing Euron’s attention to the young lord in his wolf-emblazoned armor.

“Retreat? To hell, perhaps!” Euron roared with laughter, hefting his axe and leading another charge. His strength undiminished and morale unshaken, he radiated an unstoppable ferocity. Targeting Robb, he unleashed a devastating swing.

Robb raised his sword instinctively, but the force of the blow was beyond his ability to block. A nearby Winterfell guard threw himself between them, raising his shield to intercept the strike. The impact shattered the shield and sent the guard flying into Robb, knocking them both to the ground.

Disoriented and gasping for breath, Robb struggled to rise. His sword was chipped and dull, and his right arm hung limp, numb from the impact. As he fumbled to switch his weapon to his left hand, Smalljon seized him, yelling, “Get Lord Stark out of here! I’ll hold them off!”

Reluctantly, the remaining Winterfell guards obeyed. They hoisted Robb onto their shoulders and began retreating, shielded by the desperate efforts of their comrades. Robb’s last sight of the battlefield was of his direwolf, Grey Wind, savagely attacking Euron but being overwhelmed by the Ironborn sailors. Smalljon Umber stood defiantly, sword raised, facing the enemy alone.

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