Chapter 418: Defending Westwatch-by-the-Bridge
In his wildest dreams, Egger never imagined that the grand trump card he had meticulously prepared for the White Walkers would first be unleashed upon the living on the night of the enemy's all-out assault.
Accompanied by several blinding flashes and thunderous roars, hundreds of dragonglass fragments whistled through the air. While dragonglass held no special power over the living, its razor-sharp edges sliced through clothing and skin just as painfully, drawing blood. Even more terrifying than the shrapnel was the concussive shockwave of the gunpowder reaction. The Ironborn, never having encountered such a weapon, saw a third of their ranks collapse instantly, rolling on the ground and howling like banshees. Among those incapacitated, few were killed outright; most were simply dazed by the blast, their ears ringing and minds numbed. In the pitch darkness, unable to gauge the severity of their wounds, they subconsciously exaggerated the explosion's power and found themselves unable to even stand.
Seizing the moment the enemy formation fell into disarray, the Westwatch defenders—led by Jaime and his squad of Westermen—charged into the Ironborn with a roar.
The two forces collided in a chaotic melee. The Ironborn had the numbers, but the Kingslayer was like a tiger among sheep. He dove into the fray while the enemy was still reeling. With their commander leading the charge, the soldiers—who had been hesitant after the initial sneak attack—felt their blood boil as if they had taken a potent draught, and they surged forward with feral shouts.
Opposite them were some of the finest warriors of the Iron Islands, but they were more old brigands than disciplined elite. These men had the most seniority among Ironborn raiders; they were experts at killing, burning, looting, and raping. However, when it came to a pitched frontal engagement, they were no match for the professional Lannisport guards Jaime led. Clad in full plate armor, Jaime twisted and spun through the Ironborn, hacking down and trampling every enemy he caught, dodging and parrying every strike aimed his way. Occasionally, he would even ignore the iron-scrapped, inferior weapons of the raiders, shrugging off blows as if he were invulnerable.
He cut through them like a knife through grain. Amidst flying blood, the soldiers following him felt as if they were merely harvesting a crop. Eschewing formal formations and relying solely on their leader's prowess and soaring morale, the defenders crushed the opposition like a strong man bullying children.
Superior skill and raw strength allowed the Kingslayer to mow down enemies in swathes. Soon, the main road connecting the harbor to the fortress was slick with blood, as slippery as ice. In mere moments, this hastily assembled blocking force broke and scattered toward the shoreline after Jaime cut down their two captains in rapid succession.
...
To the southeast, the enemy outside the walls—who had been repelled shortly before—returned as expected to assault the gates again. This time, however, their ruse failed. The defenders, having been fooled twice already, did not fall for the diversion. The Westwatch commander and his reserves remained at the walls and delivered a crushing blow to those hoping for an easy victory, completely thwarting the conspiracy to seize Westwatch from within and without.
In the center of the fortress, Jaime paused briefly after the first victory. He dispatched a few men to the northeast shipyard to contact the small squad of Northern soldiers stationed there, while the rest of his men continued down the main road toward the docks.
The situation had stabilized, but they were still far from driving the enemy back into the sea or exterminating them. Firelight and battle cries filled the air. Several warehouses and residential areas near the harbor were ablaze thanks to Ironborn arsonists. At the docks, one of the three new warships had caught fire after its sails were ignited; the intense heat eventually triggered a sympathetic detonation of the wildfire incendiaries in the magazine. The sailors, seeing their efforts to save the ship were futile, were forced to leap into the bone-chilling water to survive. Worse, the other two warships, seeing the danger, began recklessly firing wildfire at the Ironborn on the docks who were pelting them with torches and oil flasks. While the green flames sent the enemy scurrying, the wooden boarding docks were turned into a massive inferno. The towering flames acted like a giant spotlight, making the coastline as bright as day.
After breaking the first blocking force, Jaime's group met no organized resistance until they neared the shore. Arson squads carrying torches and oil fled the moment they saw them. Even larger cleaning crews—targeting lone defenders or random civilians—were intimidated by the Westermen's superior gear and murderous intent, retreating hastily toward the landing point.
Barely a hundred meters from the coast, they finally encountered the second and seemingly last group of Ironborn clustered together. They were backed against the longships used for the landing. If this group could be broken and their ships burned, the remaining Ironborn scattered throughout the fortress would be like rats in a jar, with nowhere to run.
But this time, Jaime did not immediately lead a charge.
The enemy had gathered the remnants from the previous skirmish and added arsonists to form a group of nearly two hundred. Though their numbers weren't overwhelming, their presence was far more formidable than the first wave. At the front of the crowd stood a man with an eye patch, encased in eerie black armor. He stood with his legs braced, treating the entire squad of Westwatch defenders as if they were nothing. Even the soldiers behind him looked far more capable than typical Ironborn—they stood in silent, disciplined rows, unlike the boisterous men who had been panicked by the bombs earlier. This silent pressure forced Jaime's victorious company to an involuntary halt.
...
"I am the greatest captain of the fourteen seas, Euron Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands." The man in black armor leaned on a large battle-axe with one hand while holding a waterskin with the other. He tilted his head back, taking a deep swig of a dark liquid that could have been water or wine, then tossed the empty skin aside. He announced himself loudly, then gave a cold snort: "Kingslayer! You bedded your own sister and finished off two mad kings. I took you for a man who knew his own mind and dared to act on it. Why have you put on the black, only to become a lapdog for the Starks?"
I'd like to ask that bastard Egger the same thing! Jaime thought. But however socially blunt he might be, he knew better than to criticize his commander in front of an enemy. Moreover, he had no desire to trade words with a madman like Euron. Action over talk—that was his rule for living.
(Robb Stark was ambushed by Euron, and they even killed his wolf. If I can kill Euron today, not only do I outshine the Young Wolf, but I also ensure the Westerlands won't be bothered by Ironborn for years.)
With a personal reason to fight established, his battle spirit soared.
Flicking the frozen blood from his steel sword, Jaime leveled the blade at Euron. "King of the Iron Islands, hm? Good. At least you're a 'King'!"
Without giving the man a chance to ponder the hidden meaning in his words, Jaime lunged forward. The small victory with the bombs earlier had been the perfect warm-up; his body was in peak condition. Relying on skills honed over years and the instinct flowing through his blood, he took three tactical strides toward Euron—steady, precise, and lethal, as he had done a thousand times before. Starting with a push from his right foot and ending with a powerful plant of his left, his entire body's strength exploded into a fatal slash aimed at Euron's ribs. It was so fast the enemy shouldn't have had time to raise a weapon to parry!
Wait... something's wrong. Jaime instinctively sensed an anomaly. He was confident in his speed, but he was a warrior, not an assassin. Clad in heavy armor and charging from ten meters away, even at full burst, how could he be so fast that a famed pirate captain couldn't even react?
Though confused, a sword swing the enemy doesn't block is not a sword swing one retracts. Guarding against a potential trap, his blade struck Euron.
The feel of armor met his blade—that much Jaime expected. But given the quality, weight, and force of his steel sword, any normal helm or plate struck head-on should have at least buckled or cracked, transferring part of the shock to the torso and rattling the muscles and organs. However, Euron's black scale armor, though seemingly light, felt like hitting a solid block of pig iron. Most of the force bounced back with a loud clang, vibrating through Jaime's thick gauntlets and numbing his wrist. Realizing something was amiss, he tried to pull back, but the haft of Euron's axe slammed into his chest with a heavy thud.
Raw power overwhelmed technique. A metallic tang of blood rose in his throat as Jaime staggered backward. He had once sparred with Robert Baratheon; the Usurper, though turned into a fat pig, had still possessed a divine strength that had shocked Jaime. But today, Euron's casual shove with an axe-handle carried more force than a swing from Robert's warhammer, knocking him back more than a meter.
The rumors were true. Euron Greyjoy possessed a suit of invulnerable, eerie armor and a monstrous, inhuman strength that defied all gods!
Before he could overthink, Jaime threw himself into a backbend, narrowly avoiding a lethal follow-up swing of the axe. The blade scraped across his breastplate with a hideous screech, leaving a deep gouge and pushing him roughly to the ground. He was lucky; Euron had only found one suit of Valyrian steel armor in the ruins of Valyria and hadn't unearthed a corresponding weapon. Otherwise, that axe stroke across his chest would have disemboweled him without question.
The Westwatch defenders surged forward with a roar to save the fallen Kingslayer. Several Westermen, at the cost of wounds or their lives, blocked Euron from finishing the kill, giving Jaime a moment to scramble back to his feet. Amidst the clashing steel, battle cries, and spurting blood, few could withstand even a single move from Euron. The magical potion enhancing his physique and his suit of Valyrian steel armor made him utterly invincible in close combat for a short duration. Even the elite Night's Watchmen from Lannisport could not block him, let alone the New Gift recruits. And it wasn't just Euron; the dozens of burly men behind the Ironborn King—clad differently from the typical raiders—remained silent from start to finish, even after the fighting began. Had they not bled when cut, the Night's Watch would have thought they were a different breed of wight.
(Only a fighter of my caliber can even hope to trade blows with Euron; the others are just being harvested!)
Realizing this, Jaime suppressed the blood rising in his chest and stood his ground, meeting the powerful foe once more.
Having learned his lesson, he grew cautious. After two probes confirmed Euron also had greaves, Jaime stopped meeting him head-on, instead targeting the gaps between the armor and the exposed areas of the face and hands.
The tactic was sound, but execution was another matter. His opponent was no mere peasant in Valyrian steel. Before being exiled by his brother, Euron had been a formidable raider. Perhaps his technique was inferior to Jaime's, but the gap wasn't so large that Jaime could overcome a double-cheat of physics and magic. Euron, fully aware of his advantages, replaced defense with relentless aggression. Every two or three swings resulted in a breach of armor and blood. This mountain-crushing offensive left Jaime's refined martial arts with nowhere to flourish.
He was not the greatest warrior in the world; Jaime had realized this at a young age. Even after joining the Kingsguard, veterans like Barristan Selmy would occasionally put him in his place. He wasn't arrogant, but he believed that among men of his age and build, he was the absolute pinnacle.
And now, Euron was destroying that confidence. The only way to reclaim it was to defeat this bizarre opponent!
The man was indeed possessed of infinite strength, but Jaime didn't believe he wouldn't tire!
Like a stubborn gamer unaware that his opponent was using a performance-enhancing hack, Jaime charged Euron again and again, swinging his weapon from every angle with every trick he knew. His hundred defenders surged around him like waves hitting a rock, clashing with the Ironborn guarding the ships. The quality of the average soldier on both sides was similar, and casualties were nearly equal, but Euron's monstrous combat power tilted the scales heavily toward the invaders. Jaime relied on his agility and reflexes to dodge Euron's killing blows, but he watched helplessly as his subordinates were wounded or killed one by one while trying to coordinate with his attacks or cover his flanks. He wanted to order them to stand back so he could duel Euron alone, but reality showed that without their help, he couldn't survive Euron's heavy onslaught.
Casualties quickly surpassed a third and neared half, particularly among the Westermen he had brought. That they hadn't fled yet was a testament to their immense trust and courage, but could he really lead them all to their deaths just for his personal pride?
Wounded men panted and groaned. Jaime, having been struck heavily by Euron several times, was not cut by the axe, but his dented and deformed armor was pressing painfully against his body. His vision began to blur with sweat and dizziness. His competitive instinct screamed "No, I can go another twenty rounds"—if Jaime were fighting alone, he would have followed that instinct to the death. But now he was a commander; he was responsible for the soldiers who trusted and followed him.
"Fall back! Retreat toward the shipyard!"
At the end of his rope, Jaime finally shouted the first retreat order of his life. Yet he rallied himself, summoning his final strength to cover the soldiers' rear. Euron, of course, had no intention of letting them leave so easily. He grinned and raised his axe to pursue, but he looked up to see a long dragon of torches running along the main road toward the shore. Judging by the numbers and formation, this was not the land-based ambush he had sent. His heart skipped a beat; he used a savage horizontal sweep to force the Kingslayer back, then stopped his pursuit.
"Hmph. 'Kingslayer,' my arse! You're nothing special. I'll spare your life today and take it another time. Ironborn, our business here is done! We're out of here!"
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