Chapter 325: A "Fair" Duel
The arrival of fresh reinforcements shifted the dynamic, but the Northern forces still maintained the upper hand in numbers.
Even Euron, his mind saturated with the shade of the evening, could understand this: no matter how many treasures he plundered from across the Narrow Sea or how many magical artifacts he scavenged from the ruins of Valyria, they could not bridge the nearly tenfold gap in overall strength between the North and the Iron Islands. If he wanted to win this war, he had to seize this chance encounter with Robb Stark to achieve a decapitation strike.
This was his original plan, and now the only viable way forward. He acted upon it.
Among the dozens following Euron, half were nobles from the Iron Islands—useful enough—but the other half were the crew of his ship, the Silence. These outlaws from every ocean, meticulously trained and with their tongues cut out, were far more lethal than ordinary pirates. This reserve of mutes, though unable to let out a battle cry, cut through the fray like a hot knife through butter. Wherever they passed, blood sprayed and limbs flew; in an instant, they reached the young Northern lords and slammed into the soldiers guarding them.
With several dull thuds, a shadow at the front broke through the wall of men, knocking aside several soldiers to stand before the young Northern nobles, staring them down with murderous intent.
The newcomer had hair and a beard as black as pitch, his lips stained blue, and he wore a suit of scale armor unlike anything anyone had ever seen. It was as dark as smoke and looked extraordinarily light on the wearer; though it covered him from head to toe without a gap, it seemed to move as fluidly as the finest silk. The edges of the dark scales shimmered with a strange red-gold light that ebbed and flowed with his movements, faintly revealing various patterns and symbols etched into the surface, giving the armor a haunting, dynamic appearance.
Euron raised a massive battle-axe, pointing the tip at the Northmen. "Who! Who is Robb Stark?"
No one was in the mood to admire the eerie armor, and certainly no one intended to answer his question. The Northmen engaging the remaining Ironborn focused entirely on the fight at hand, while the men who had just been knocked down scrambled up with their weapons. They coordinated with the noble sons surrounding Robb and, with a collective roar, closed in to kill the enemy commander who had recklessly charged into their midst.
Due to differences in environment, culture, and faith, Northerners did not prattle on about chivalry and honor like Southerners did. They were practical, valuing action over words—a duel was a duel, but war was war. With the enemy showing such blatant disregard for them, why would they pass up the chance to kill him? Did he truly expect them to push their own commander forward for a one-on-one?
Amidst the flying steel, at least four men simultaneously found openings and struck Euron. The madman only used his axe to parry a blade aimed at his head; he took the remaining three hits squarely with his body.
Two weapons slid across the scales with a shower of sparks, leaving only faint white marks. The last sword hit him dead center in the back, wedging between two metal scales. The wielder put every ounce of strength and weight into a desperate thrust, but failed to pierce the thin metal layer, only causing Euron to stumble slightly.
While the Valyrian steel armor stopped the blades, it could not block the kinetic impact. Feeling the pain in his back, the frenzy fueled by the shade of the evening and the magic in the metal surged. Euron spun around with a furious glare and bared teeth. With a powerful upward swing of his long-axe, the Northern soldier still gripping his sword had both arms severed cleanly. The man's limbs and weapon flew into the air amidst a fountain of blood.
Through the screams of agony, the fierce battle continued. The other Ironborn sailors, a step behind Euron, followed their king into the breach he had carved, engaging the rest of the Northmen in a desperate melee.
No one had time for the maimed soldier. Taking a breath, Robb and those beside him launched another coordinated attack. Several weapons struck at Euron in turn, but he repeated his previous tactic: he only dodged the blows aimed at his face, bracing himself to let the rest of the blades clatter, stab, or slash against his chest, belly, and legs.
Clad in a suit of Valyrian gear and enhanced by black magic and stimulants, Euron stood like a solid reef in the middle of the ocean—let the waves crash and the winds blow, he remained unshaken!
Then, finding an opening, he launched a counterattack. His blackened battle-axe whistled through the air in a savage semi-circle.
A soldier in full plate armor might be able to ignore ordinary blades like this, but they could never strike back with such swift, ferocious, and seamless transition. When the reflection of the axe's dark blade appeared before Eddard Karstark's eyes, he had no time to dodge. He raised his sword to block, but with a sharp crack, both he and his sword were hewn in two. The scene was sickeningly gruesome.
"Lord Eddard!" a Karstark guard screamed in despair.
This black-haired man who had appeared out of nowhere was not only invulnerable but possessed monstrous strength!
"Stop hitting his body! Go for his head!"
With no time to mourn their friend and having paid the price of two lives in an instant, Small Jon found the way to deal with this powerful foe. The surrounding soldiers shouted in unison, all aiming for Euron's head.
Damn it, if only I had a helmet! Euron cursed inwardly, but he was forced to shift from offense to defense. He ducked and weaved through the blizzard of steel, parrying the threats to his vitals. Standing tall at the center of the battlefield, he used strength no mortal should possess to ward off the multi-directional assault. For a moment, not a single blow touched his face.
This delay allowed his mute sailors to reach their captain. They silently formed a perimeter around him, instantly breaking the Northmen's encirclement and stripping them of their best chance to quickly slay the enemy commander.
On the forest path serving as a makeshift battlefield, the fight had raged for several minutes. The remaining Northern soldiers were not at a numerical disadvantage, but in the small space before Robb, Euron's group—having cut into the fray at the perfect moment—had established local superiority. Having regained his footing under his sailors' protection, Euron charged back into the center of the fight.
...
"My Lord, you cannot fall! Retreat, now!"
Small Jon's roar was meant well, but it at least revealed the fact that he was not Robb. Euron glanced at the few remaining Northern nobles and spotted the target clad in armor bearing the winter wolf.
"Retreat? Retreat straight to hell!"
Euron laughed loudly. Gripping his long-axe, he led his men in a second charge.
Having remained unscathed against ten opponents earlier and no longer outnumbered locally, the Crow's Eye, bolstered by his magical gear, was a force of nature. Knowing his flanks and back were covered by his men, he cast aside all caution. Before he even reached his target, he swung his weapon, adjusted his stance, and delivered a vicious horizontal sweep toward the young Warden of the North.
Though well-trained, Robb was not a warrior of legendary prowess. Faced with this earth-shaking, powerful assault, he failed to learn from the fate of Little Eddard. He instinctively raised his sword to parry.
"You can't block it!"
"Watch out!"
The warnings from those nearby came too late. Fortunately, a Winterfell guard closest to Robb lunged forward with his shield, leaping between the two men and using the thick wooden plank to take the direct hit of the axe.
With a massive boom, the shield shattered into splinters. The loyal guard was sent flying backward, slamming into Robb; blood leaked from his nose and mouth as he went silent forever. Even with the impact cushioned, the force hit Robb like a hammer through a wall, rattling his organs and breaking his balance. He staggered back two steps, struggling to parry two follow-up strikes, but he was no match. In his frantic retreat, his foot caught on something, and he tumbled backward onto the ground.
His hands and arms were numb, a knot of nausea curled in his chest, and his mind was reeling from such a savage assault. If Egger had been in Robb's place, he would have thought Euron was a White Walker in human skin. The Winterfell soldiers who repeatedly lunged to save their lord were cut down one by one. Now, within three meters, no one could lend a hand. Euron raised his axe one last time, eager to bring it down.
Indeed, no human could save Robb in time. Fortunately, he had a non-human partner.
A smoke-grey shadow lunged from the side at that exact moment, sinking its teeth into Euron's right arm. Using the weight and momentum of its massive body, it finally brought the demonic enemy to the ground.
The direwolf stood on Euron's chest, its jaws clamping down hard on his arm. But it felt like biting a bar of iron; not only was there no satisfying snap of bone, but the arm didn't even deform. Before Grey Wind could process why, he sensed the whistle of a weapon behind him. Just as he prepared to release his grip and leap away for the next opening, the enemy beneath him dropped his axe. Euron used his free arm to wrap tightly around the wolf's head. A direwolf weighing over three hundred pounds was caught in a literal chokehold by a human half its weight!
"Cursed beast!" Euron's eyes bulged as he let the giant wolf drag him across the ground, rolling and thrashing. The wolf's claws left white streaks across the Valyrian armor covering his body, but Euron exerted massive strength in his arms, locking the neck like an iron vice. "Since you're in such a hurry to die, I'll skin you first before I deal with your master!"
Despite his incredible strength, strangling a direwolf to death was still a tall order for one man. However, Euron was surrounded by armed sailors with blades and swords!
"Grey Wind!" Robb scrambled to his feet, picking up his weapon to fight alongside his wolf, only to find his fine steel sword was notched and blunted, and his right arm was so numb and painful that he couldn't even lift it.
Just as he prepared to switch the sword to his left hand for a desperate gamble, Small Jon rushed behind him. He grabbed his liege lord and roared at the remaining Winterfell guards, "What are you waiting for? Take your lord and go! I'll hold them here!"
Facing an opponent who seemed like a demon crawled out of hell, the two remaining Winterfell guards were shaken. They followed the order, hoisting their lord. Surrounded by other Northern soldiers who continued to surge forward regardless of the danger, and with the horses all bolted, they dragged Robb Stark back toward the way they came.
The last thing the young Warden of the North saw before being forcibly pulled from the clearing was the body of his direwolf—unable to dodge and restricted in movement—being hacked into a bloody mess by the mutes, and the fearless back of Small Jon Umber as he raised his sword against the pursuers.
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