The passive defense strategy proposed by the Flayer struck Euron where it hurt. It was clear to anyone with eyes that if this tactic were allowed to take shape and be carried out, the Ironborn would find no way to penetrate the North. They would fail to weaken King Stannis's strongest supporter before winter ended.
To prevent this from happening, the new ruler of the Iron Islands resolved to disrupt his foe's plan.
Ordinary dispersal of troops and harassment would be ineffective. After some thought, the advisors forced into his service offered a practical idea: rather than injuring ten fingers, sever one. Instead of roaming aimlessly, it would be better to attempt a daring strike, taking advantage of the Northern host's divisions while protecting evacuating soldiers and villagers. They could exploit this concern to sow confusion, concentrate their forces, set a trap, and ambush one of these detachments, cutting down several important Northern lords.
This would wound the enemy deeply, force the Northerners into bitter debate over revenge, sow divisions within, shatter their unity in the defensive strategy of retreat, and thus open an opportunity for the Ironborn.
With the aid of several clever men taken from across the Narrow Sea, Euron, who had long relied on reckless charges, planned an ambush for the first time. The plan was crude and full of flaws, but with the West Coast of the North in the midst of a vast evacuation and the land in chaos, it succeeded unexpectedly. The Northern army underestimated its foe on home ground and rushed to shield their people, walking into the trap.
Clad in scale armor black as smoke, a sinister gleam flickered in Euron's eyes as he watched the battlefield, biding his time for the moment to strike.
His aim had been no more than to destroy a random detachment. Yet this one proved stubborn. Were all Northmen so fierce in battle, or was this band unusual?
The gulf in quality and training between the two sides was clear, not something a mere surprise attack could erase. The Ironborn, who had caught the Northerners off guard by using innocent villagers as bait, charged into the column. Yet before long, the defenders steadied their formation and pushed them back.
The scales of battle tilted toward the North. Euron's eyes grew bloodthirsty. "Who commands them?"
"I see the largest flag is gray."
"Fool, that is the direwolf banner!" The sailors Euron had gathered from across the world did not know the sigils of Westerosi houses, but those born of the Iron Islands knew well the banners of the North, long seen as enemies. "That wolf with bared fangs? We've struck gold. That must be Robb Stark himself!"
"Robb Stark?" A gleam lit Euron's blue right eye.
"Your Grace, we must go to them quickly. If we wait, the brothers below will break!"
"What is the hurry?" Euron stared at the Lord of Winterfell, who fought from horseback with several young companions at his side, cutting through Ironborn ranks. The Crow's Eye pulled a flask, uncorked it, and drank deep of shade of the evening. At once, pleasure and numbness coursed through him, mingled with a surge of power and lust for blood. Madness overtook his gaze as he slowly drew his blade. "Men, follow me. Whoever slays Robb Stark and skins that wolf shall be Lord of Winterfell! Sound the dragon horn!"
Behind him, a mute giant lifted his master's horn, said to be found in the ruins of Valyria. He filled his chest and blew with all his might.
---
Without the direwolf, the battle might never have turned so one-sided. Robb's Grey Wind had grown to full size. As large as a small horse, the beast's power and speed defied belief. No man could withstand its pounce, no armor its bite or claw. Like a phantom, it darted between Northerner and Ironborn alike, evading blades and striking with purpose. With each leap, it either saved a brother or tore out an enemy's throat.
One wolf could not defeat a thousand. The number slain by Grey Wind's fangs was far fewer than those cut down by steel. Yet the terror it inspired in the Ironborn outweighed that of any veteran commander. That fear spread like a tide through their ranks, quickening the shift of the battle's balance.
Robb rode close behind, sword in hand, guarding his beloved beast and reaping foes, taking full advantage of the terror Grey Wind wrought. He had won victory time and again this way in the Westerlands, earning the name "The Young Wolf." Man and beast shared a silent bond.
Then suddenly, a horn cry tore through the air, sharp as a blade.
Ah ah ah ah ah ah uh uh uh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh—
No man had ever heard its like. Had Aegor been present, he would have likened it to nails scraping slate, but in the world of ice and fire no blackboard existed, and in truth, the sound was worse.
Its pitch was lower, its power deafening. The vibrations battered skulls like hammer blows, echoes rebounding within. The strange sorcery woven into it stirred the deepest fears of mankind's blood.
Even the bravest could not resist the body's instincts.
It was a banshee's shriek, an echo from hell, a searing sound of agony and ruin that felt as though it would burn ears and shatter minds. Horses reared and threw riders before fleeing. Sensitive men dropped their blades and clutched their ears, some falling to the ground in torment.
For that moment, the sound filled all the world. Yet only the Northerners suffered, for the Ironborn had stuffed their ears beforehand.
The battle was not ended at once. Though their lines were broken and bodies wracked with pain, most Northmen fought on stubbornly. Yet now the Ironborn reserves, led by their king himself, raised their weapons and charged into the fray, driving toward Robb Stark and his companions, who had just fallen from their horses.
"What the… Seven hells…" Eddard Karstark tried to speak, but between the fall, the pain, and the horn's wail, nausea overwhelmed him and he vomited.
"My Lord, this is sorcery. The foe came prepared!" Jon Umber hauled Robb to his feet, his body still trembling under the sound. "They are charging at us. Their target is you. I beg you, fall back while I lead men to hold them off!"
"Fool! As Lord of the North, how can I abandon my brothers to die?" Robb lifted his sword from the snow. "Gather around me! Form ranks and meet the foe!"
Under the horn's torment, summoning men in the chaos was near impossible. But then, as if fated, the sound ceased.
The mute giant who had blown it collapsed. His lips and lungs were seared by the heat the magic wrought. He swayed, unwilling to believe he had lasted no more than a minute, then fell into the snow. Another seized the horn, hot and smoking, wiped it down, but dared not raise it again.
Robb seized the moment of silence, gathering dozens of men to form a shield wall. Together they faced the vanguard, led by the King of the Iron Islands himself. Without the horn's sorcery, in fair combat, the Northmen had no fear.
(To be continued.)
***
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