Aegor never imagined that the ultimate weapon he had meticulously prepared for the White Walkers would first be used against living men on the very night the enemy launched an all-out assault.
With several thunderous roars and blinding flashes, hundreds of thousands of dragonglass fragments scattered through the crowd. Though they had no restraining effect on the living, their razor-sharp shards tore through cloth and flesh, causing bleeding wounds. More terrifying than the shrapnel was the shockwave from the Powder explosion. One-third of the Ironborn, who had never faced such a weapon before, dropped instantly, rolling on the ground, howling in confusion. Few were killed outright, but many lost combat effectiveness due to ringing ears, dizziness, or an inability to judge their injuries in the darkness. Overwhelmed, they instinctively overestimated the power of the blasts, leaving them unable to rise.
It was in this moment of chaos that Jaime and the Ice Canyon Port defenders under his command, led by the Westermen, roared and charged into the disoriented Ironborn.
The two sides collided in a fierce melee. The Ironborn held the advantage in numbers, but the Kingslayer was like a lion loosed in a pen of sheep. He struck first, while the enemy was still stunned. With their commander charging ahead, the soldiers—still reeling from the surprise attack but inspired by his courage—screamed and surged forward as if possessed.
Their foes were among the best the Iron Islands could offer, but they fought less like elite warriors and more like seasoned raiders. These men had experience in slaughter, pillaging, arson, and the torment of captives, but when it came to pitched battle, they were no match for the Lannisport guards trained under Jaime. Using the protection of his full plate, Jaime threw himself into the thick of the enemy, cutting down every Ironborn he reached, shrugging off their crude weapons, blocking, dodging, and sometimes ignoring weak blows altogether.
He cut through them like stalks of wheat. Blood sprayed as he advanced, and the soldiers behind him followed like reapers in a harvest. They had no formation, no tactical coordination—only the momentum of one warrior's skill and fury driving them forward.
With his practiced form, honed strength, and hardened will, Jaime slaughtered his way forward. The port road was soon slick with blood and bodies. The makeshift Ironborn vanguard fell into chaos after their two captains were cut down by Jaime in quick succession, scattering and fleeing toward the harbor.
...
To the southeast, the Free Folk who had been repelled earlier launched another assault on the main gate, as expected. But their deception failed this time. The defenders, having learned from previous mistakes, were no longer fooled. The Ice Canyon Port commander who remained at the gate, supported by his reserves, dealt a heavy blow to those hoping to breach the walls. The Ironborn's plan to capture the port from both inside and out was fully foiled.
In the heart of the fortress, after a brief halt following their victory, Jaime sent a small detachment to the northeastern shipyard to make contact with the Northern soldiers stationed there. The rest of his men continued advancing down the main road toward the docks.
Though the situation had stopped worsening, it was far from resolved. Fires and shouting echoed from all directions. Several warehouses and residential quarters near the port were ablaze from Ironborn arson. One of the three new warships had caught fire, its sails consumed by flames after repeated attacks. The heat ignited wildfire bombs in its armory, forcing the crew to abandon ship and leap into the icy waters.
Worse still, the remaining two warships, seeing their sister ship burning and the Ironborn still on the docks, unleashed their own wildfire, throwing it at the invaders despite the danger. Though the green flames scattered their enemies, they also set the wooden docks ablaze. The towering infernos lit the shoreline as bright as day.
After breaking through the first line, Jaime's group encountered no organized resistance until they neared the coast. Groups of arsonists dropped their torches and fled. Scattered raiders, targeting isolated soldiers and civilians, backed away cautiously when faced with the well-equipped, bloodied attackers.
Only a hundred yards from the beach, they finally came upon the second, and likely last, Ironborn formation. These men had regrouped with the survivors of the earlier clash and the retreating arson teams, forming a force of one or two hundred. Though not large in number, their morale was stronger. At their front stood a one-eyed man clad in strange black armor, his feet planted wide, standing as if all the Ice Canyon Port soldiers meant nothing to him.
Even those behind him appeared more disciplined than the usual Ironborn—silent, organized, and emanating a pressure that halted Jaime and his men despite their momentum.
...
"I am the mightiest captain on all the seas, Euron Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands." The man in black armor leaned on a great axe with one hand, a waterskin in the other. He took a long swig of the dark liquid, then cast the skin aside. "Kingslayer! You slept with your sister and killed two mad Kings. I thought you were a man who knew what he wanted and dared to act. And now look at you, wearing black, serving the Starks like a dog."
I'd like to ask that bastard Aegor the same thing, Jaime thought. But no matter how inexperienced he was with politics, he knew better than to insult his commander in front of the enemy. Besides, he had no interest in talking to a lunatic like Euron.
Robb Stark was ambushed by Euron, even his wolf was killed. If I kill him now, I'll not only surpass the Young Wolf, but give the Westerlands peace from Ironborn raids for years.
With that justification, his will to fight surged.
He raised his steel sword, the blood on it already frozen, and pointed it at Euron. "King of the Iron Islands, is it? Fine. At least you're a 'king.'"
Without waiting for a reply, Jaime charged. The earlier clash had been a warm-up. His body felt sharp and ready. Drawing on years of practice and the instincts in his veins, he took three quick steps, steady, swift, and sure. Launching from his right foot and driving through his left, he brought his sword down in a deadly arc toward Euron's ribs—so fast that the Ironborn captain had no time to lift his axe.
Wait... something was off.
Jaime felt it. He was fast, yes, but not that fast. He was a warrior, not an assassin. He wore armor. He had charged from ten paces. Even at full speed, someone like Euron should have reacted.
But there was no turning back now. Jaime followed through with the strike.
He hit armor, as expected. But instead of bending or breaking, Euron's black scale mail absorbed the blow with the feel of striking solid iron. The impact bounced back through Jaime's arms, numbing his wrist. He pulled away quickly, but Euron's axe handle slammed into his chest with brutal force.
Strength overwhelmed skill. A bitter taste rose in Jaime's throat. He staggered back. He had once fought Robert Baratheon and been shocked by the man's raw strength, even as a bloated drunk. But Euron's blow, casual and precise, hit harder than Robert's warhammer. Jaime stumbled back over a yard.
The rumors were true. Euron wore some kind of enchanted armor, immune to blades and spears, and possessed monstrous, inhuman strength.
Jaime barely had time to think. He arched backward just in time to avoid the killing blow. The axe screeched across his breastplate, denting it and hurling him to the ground. Only luck—or the fact that Euron had found armor, but not a Valyrian steel weapon—saved his life. A dragonsteel axe might have gutted him.
The soldiers of Ice Canyon Port, roaring with fury, rushed to save their commander. Several Westermen threw themselves between Jaime and Euron, sacrificing blood and bone to buy time. Amid the ringing steel and shouts of pain, it became clear: few could survive more than one or two of Euron's attacks. The potions he had taken and his Valyrian armor made him unstoppable in close combat, even against the elite.
Even the former Lannisport guards, trained and hardened, could not hold him back. The New Gift recruits stood no chance. The warriors behind Euron, dressed unlike the typical Ironborn, were eerily silent even as they fought. Had they not been wounded, one might have mistaken them for wights.
Only someone like me can even hold his ground, Jaime realized. The others are just being butchered.
He fought his way back to his feet, forcing himself to calm the blood pounding in his chest.
This time, he changed tactics. After probing twice, he confirmed that Euron's legs were armored too. Jaime stopped trading blows directly and began targeting exposed areas—the face, the gaps at wrists and knees.
It was the right idea, but hard to execute. Euron was no farmhand wearing fancy mail. He had been a fearsome reaver even before being exiled. His skill wasn't on Jaime's level, but with magic and brute strength on his side, he didn't need to be. He fought with reckless aggression, each swing a death sentence, giving Jaime no room to maneuver.
Jaime had never believed he was the best warrior in the world. Even after joining the Kingsguard, men like Ser Barristan had reminded him of his limits. But among his peers—those of similar age and build—he had always considered himself near the top.
Euron shattered that belief. And the only way to reclaim it was to win.
Jaime kept attacking. He didn't know Euron had taken a potion. He simply believed no man could fight like that forever. Again and again, he struck from every angle, while his hundred-plus men surrounded the Ironborn rear guard and charged like waves crashing against stone.
The soldiers on both sides were evenly matched. The losses were also close. But Euron's unnatural power tipped the balance. Jaime dodged and parried, but he couldn't stop watching his men fall—one after another, dying to cover him or protect his flanks. He wanted to order a retreat, to face Euron alone, but the truth was clear. He couldn't survive without their support.
Casualties rose past one-third, then approached half. Especially among the Westermen, the cost was steep. That none had fled was testament to their loyalty and courage. But how much more could he ask of them? Could he really let them die for his pride?
The wounded groaned, breath heavy. Jaime, battered and bruised, felt his armor pressing against his body like a vice. Sweat blurred his vision. His heart screamed, I can still fight! But he was their commander. Their lives were his responsibility.
"Retreat! Fall back to the shipyard!"
At the edge of exhaustion, Jaime gave the first retreat order of his life. It tasted like ash, but with it, he found a burst of clarity. He swung to cover their escape. Euron, of course, would not allow them to leave unchallenged.
Grinning, axe raised, Euron stepped forward. But before he could chase, he spotted a long line of torches heading down the main road toward the docks. By their numbers and formation, they clearly weren't his men.
He cursed and sent Jaime flying back with a sweeping blow, then halted his pursuit.
"Hmph. Kingslayer, is it? You're not much after all. I'll take your life another day. Ironborn, we've done enough. Time to leave!"
(To be continued.)