Chapter 324

The strategy of passive defense proposed by Roose Bolton struck a critical weakness in Euron Greyjoy’s plans. It was clear to anyone with a sharp eye: if this tactic were fully implemented, the Ironborn would lose their ability to attack the North effectively. They wouldn’t be able to significantly weaken King Stannis’s most important ally before the end of winter.

Determined to disrupt this strategy, the new ruler of the Iron Islands resolved to take action and throw his enemies into disarray.

Ordinary raids and distractions would no longer suffice. After some deliberation, Euron’s reluctant but intelligent advisors proposed a more decisive plan: rather than harassing many targets with scattered efforts, why not aim to destroy one key target entirely? By exploiting the chaos of the North’s evacuation, they could lure and ambush a Northern force. Killing a few high-ranking Northern nobles in the process would sow discord among their ranks, forcing them to debate between revenge and survival, fracturing their unity and creating opportunities for further attacks.

With the assistance of some clever minds captured from across the Narrow Sea, Euron—normally prone to reckless aggression—managed to plan an ambush for the first time. Though the scheme was crude and riddled with flaws, it succeeded amidst the chaotic retreat along the western coastline. The Northern forces, overconfident on their home turf and anxious to protect civilians, fell into the trap.

Dressed in black-scaled armor that seemed to shift like smoke, Euron’s single blue eye gleamed with malice as he watched the battle unfold, waiting for the perfect moment to intervene.

He had aimed to eliminate just one Northern detachment, but it appeared he had bitten off more than he could chew. Were all Northmen this fiercely skilled, or was this particular unit exceptional?

The difference in training and discipline between the two sides quickly became apparent, far too significant to be erased by the advantage of a surprise attack. Using innocent villagers as bait, the Ironborn had caught the Northern forces off guard. Yet after the initial shock, the defenders quickly stabilized and counterattacked. What started as a confident charge by the Ironborn had devolved into a back-and-forth melee, with the Northerners gradually gaining the upper hand.

As the tide began to turn, Euron’s bloodlust burned brighter. “Who commands this force?” he asked coldly.

“The largest banner is grey,” a sailor replied.

“Fool! That’s the direwolf of House Stark!” Euron barked, his tone dripping with scorn. Unlike his motley crew of raiders, Ironborn born and raised on the islands knew the Northern banners well. “See that snarling wolf? We’ve struck gold—it could very well be Robb Stark himself leading them!”

“Robb Stark?” Euron’s blue eye glinted dangerously.

“Your Grace, we must act now! Our men are on the brink of collapse!” one of his lieutenants urged.

“There’s no rush.” Euron took a swig from a small flask, uncorking it with a flourish. The liquid inside was “shade of the evening,” a substance that brought euphoria and hallucinations while amplifying his strength and bloodlust. As the concoction coursed through him, Euron’s frenzied grin widened, and his gaze became utterly deranged. Drawing his weapon, he declared, “Men, follow me! Whoever brings me Robb Stark’s head and that wolf’s pelt will rule Winterfell in my name! Sound the Dragonhorn!”

Behind him, a mute giant raised a large Valyrian artifact—a magical horn said to have been salvaged from the ruins of Valyria itself. Taking a deep breath, the giant blew into it with all his might.

...

If not for the direwolf, the battle would have already swung decisively in the Ironborn’s favor. Robb’s wolf, Grey Wind, was fully grown now, its massive, horse-sized body a terrifying force of nature. No blade could parry its pounce, no armor could withstand its teeth or claws. It darted through the battlefield like a ghost, avoiding weapons with uncanny agility and precision. It didn’t attack recklessly, but every strike either saved a Northern soldier or ended an Ironborn life.

A lone wolf couldn’t turn the tide of a thousand-man battle. The number it killed was far fewer than those felled by swords and spears. Yet as a feral beast of death and chaos, Grey Wind terrified the Ironborn more than any veteran warrior or renowned commander. That fear spread across the battlefield like wildfire, hastening the Northerners’ path to victory.

Robb Stark followed closely behind his wolf, sword in hand, cutting down foes to protect his companion while exploiting the tactical advantage Grey Wind created. This synergy of man and beast had brought him countless victories in the Westerlands, earning him his reputation as an undefeated commander.

Then, suddenly—a horn blast pierced the battlefield.

Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhooooooooooo...

No one had ever heard such a sound before. If Aegor had been present, he might have likened it to nails on a chalkboard, though no such analogy existed in the world of ice and fire. The noise was lower in pitch but carried an incredible sharpness, reverberating like a blade slicing through the air. Its magical resonance struck directly at the primal fear buried in human instinct.

Even the bravest warriors couldn’t resist their bodies’ reaction to the sound.

It was the wail of a banshee, the echo of hell itself. Burning with pain and despair, it clawed at the mind, making ears feel as though they were on fire and shredding any semblance of rational thought. Horses reared and threw their riders to the ground, bolting in terror. Soldiers with sensitive hearing dropped their weapons, clutching their heads as they writhed in agony.

The Ironborn, however, had stuffed their ears with wax beforehand and were unaffected.

The battle didn’t immediately shift in their favor—many Northern soldiers continued fighting through the pain, relying on sheer grit. But under the command of the “King of the Iron Islands,” the final Ironborn reserves charged into the fray, cutting their way toward Robb Stark, who had just been thrown from his horse along with his bannermen.

“What... witchcraft... is this?” Eddard Karstark spat, his voice trembling as he vomited into the snow, unable to suppress the nausea caused by the horn’s magic.

“My lord, they came prepared!” Smalljon Umber shouted over the din as he hauled Robb to his feet. Though his body quivered, he forced himself to stand. “Their target is you! You must retreat while we hold them off!”

“What nonsense! I am the Warden of the North! I will not abandon my brothers to save my own skin!” Robb bellowed as he retrieved his sword. “Rally the men to me—we’ll face them together!”

The ear-splitting horn made it impossible to coordinate the scattered troops. Just when it seemed the cursed sound would last until the battle’s end, it abruptly ceased.

The silence wasn’t a mercy—it was the cost of the horn’s magic. The mute giant’s lips and lungs had been scorched by the heat generated through its use. He staggered, unwilling to believe his role had ended so quickly, before collapsing into the snow. Another man picked up the still-smoking artifact but dared not attempt to blow it again.

Taking advantage of the lull, Robb quickly gathered a group of fifty soldiers into a defensive formation, preparing to face the charge of Euron’s personal guard. Without the horn’s interference, and in a fair fight, the Northmen feared nothing.

...