Chapter 324: Dragonbinder
The passive defense strategy proposed by the Old Flayer hit Euron's Achilles' heel—anyone with eyes could see that if this tactic were allowed to take root, the ironmen would have no way to sink their teeth into the North. Before winter's end, they would find no effective way to weaken King Stannis's primary supporter.
To prevent this outcome, the new leader of the Iron Islands resolved to do something to throw the opponent's plans into chaos.
Ordinary raiding by split forces yielded little result. After some deliberation, the forced counselors proposed a constructive idea: rather than bruising all ten fingers, it was better to break one—instead of aimless guerrilla warfare, they should plan a risky operation. They would seize the opportunity while the main Northern host was scattered protecting the withdrawal of civilians, exploit the concern breeds chaos effect, concentrate their forces, and set a trap to intercept and annihilate one of the columns, taking out several key Northern nobles.
By dealing a painful blow, they would force the Northmen into a debate over whether to seek revenge, creating internal rifts that would prevent them from maintaining a unified turtle defense, thus granting the Ironborn an opening.
With the help of a few clever minds captured from across the Narrow Sea, Euron—who was accustomed to mindless brute force—arranged an ambush for the first time. The plan was crude and riddled with flaws, but against the backdrop of a massive retreat across the entire west coast of the North where the situation was a mess, it achieved unexpected success. They relied on the Northern army's local complacency and their desperate haste to reach the scene and protect the smallfolk.
Clad in scales of armor as black as smoke, Euron's eyes gleamed with a sinister light. He watched the fray silently, waiting for the optimal moment to commit his strength.
His original intent was to destroy any random Northern company, but he seemed to have bitten off a hard bone. Were all Northmen this valiant in battle, or was this particular unit special?
The gap in overall quality and training between the two sides was obvious, and it was not something a simple first strike could erase. The Iron Fleet sailors, who had used innocent villagers as bait to catch the Northern army off guard, had charged into the column with ferocity. Yet, before they could achieve much, the defenders steadied their footing and held the line. After a few moments of slaughter, the Northmen were even beginning to push back.
The scales of victory were tipping toward the Northern army. Witnessing the unfavorable situation nearby, a bloodthirsty aura emanated from Euron's eyes. "Who is leading that unit?"
"I see the largest banner is grey."
"Idiot, that's the running wolf!" The sailors the Crow's Eye had recruited from the four corners of the world were unfamiliar with the heraldry of the Seven Kingdoms, but those born in the Iron Islands knew the Northern lords—their primary hypothetical enemies—by heart. "Do you see that biting direwolf? We've hit the jackpot—the one leading them is likely Robb Stark himself!"
"Robb Stark?" A sharp glint flashed in Euron's blue right eye.
"Your Majesty, we must help them quickly! Any later and the brothers below will break!"
"What's the rush?" Watching the Lord of the North, who was mounted and circling while cutting down ironmen alongside several young squires, Euron pulled out a small flask, uncorked it, and took a deep draught of the shade of the evening. The ecstasy and numbness brought by the special potion, mixed with a powerful sense of strength and a desire for slaughter, instantly filled his body. The madness in Euron's eyes overrode everything else. He slowly drew his weapon. "Boys, follow me! Whoever slays Robb Stark for me and flays the wolf shall be the future Lord of Winterfell! Blow the Dragon Horn!"
Behind Euron, a mute giant of a man lifted his master's magic horn—said to have been recovered from the ruins of Valyria—took a deep breath, and blew with all his might.
Without the direwolf, the battle would never have developed so one-sidedly. Robb's direwolf, Grey Wind, was fully grown. His massive body, as large as a pony, displayed staggering power and an agility that defied his size. No man could ward off his pounce; no armor could withstand his bite or claw. His shadow flickered like a phantom between the Northern and Ironborn soldiers. He skillfully avoided the blades that could harm him, never attacking blindly, but every leap saved or claimed at least one life.
A lone wolf could not defeat an army of over a thousand men by itself, and the enemies he bit to death were far fewer than those killed by weapons. However, as a beast of nightmare in the eyes of the ironmen, the deterrent force Grey Wind generated exceeded that of any veteran or champion. This fear rippled through the battlefield like a wave, greatly accelerating the tipping of the scales toward victory.
Robb rode behind Grey Wind, reaping heads with his sword, both to protect his beloved pet and to exploit the massive tactical advantage the direwolf created. He had won countless victories this way in the West, earning his fame as the Young Wolf; man and beast had long ago formed a perfect understanding.
Then, suddenly—a horn blast tore through the air, sharp as a blade.
AAAAAHHHHHRRRRREEEEEEEEEEE—
No one had ever heard a sound like it. If Egger had been here, he would have instantly thought of fingernails on a chalkboard, but the world of Ice and Fire had no smooth chalkboards, and this sound was not quite like that.
Its frequency was slightly lower, yet it was resonant and lethal. Its incredible penetration made the sound waves hit the human skull like bullets, ricocheting and vibrating between the bones. The special magic mixed within it instantly triggered the primal fear and nausea buried deep within human DNA.
No matter how brave a man was, he could not fight his body's instincts.
It was the wail of a banshee; it was an echo from hell. The scorching breath, laden with agony and destruction, felt as though it would sear the ears and shatter the mind. Horses reared in terror, throwing their riders and bolting into the distance. Those with sensitive hearing began to drop their weapons and clutch their ears, some even rolling on the ground in agony.
The world seemed to contain only this one sound, yet only the Northern soldiers were affected. The reason was simple: the Ironborn attackers had plugged their ears beforehand.
The battle didn't flip in an instant. Despite the violent interference, most Northern soldiers stubbornly continued to fight while battling their physiological distress. However, the enemy's final reserve, led by their "King of the Iron Islands," joined the fray with weapons raised. They charged toward the center of the crowd, where Robb Stark and his companions had just been thrown from their horses and were helping each other up.
"What... in the Seven... Hells..." Eddard Karstark tried to speak, but under the dual effects of the impact of hitting the ground and the magical horn, he was overcome by nausea and vomited violently.
"My Lord... this is sorcery! The enemy came prepared!" Jon Umber pulled Robb up through the shrill horn blast, his body shaking uncontrollably. "That group is coming for us. Their target is you! I suggest you retreat first; I'll take men to hold them off!"
"What nonsense! I am the Warden of the North! How can I leave a thousand brothers behind to save my own life?" Robb picked up his sword from the snow and shouted, "Brothers, rally to me! We stand and fight!"
Under the horn's blast, which made muscles shudder, issuing orders to pull soldiers from the melee seemed an impossible task. But by a stroke of both chance and destiny, just as everyone thought the devilish sound would continue until the end of the fight, it stopped abruptly.
It wasn't that the enemy intended to show mercy; the horn-blower had collapsed. The man's lips and lungs had been severely scorched by the high temperatures triggered by the magic. He swayed, as if unwilling to accept that he had only lasted a minute, before the magical artifact fell from his hands and he crumpled into the snow. Another man beside him hurried to pick up the glowing, smoking horn. He brushed away the melted snow but didn't dare try to blow it himself.
Robb Stark took advantage of this moment of peace to gather dozens of soldiers into a formation, meeting the vanguard of the reserve personally led by the King of the Iron Islands. Without the interference of the hellish horn, the Northmen feared no one in a fair fight!
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