The arrival of reinforcements shifted the battle somewhat, but the North still held the upper hand.
Even Euron's mind, clouded by shade of the evening, could see the truth. No matter how much treasure he had plundered across the Narrow Sea, or how many strange relics he had scavenged from the ruins of Valyria, nothing could bridge the vast gulf between the strength of the North and that of the Iron Islands. To win, he had to seize this chance encounter with Robb Stark and strike off the head of the enemy host.
This had been his plan from the beginning, and now it was his only path. So he acted.
Of the dozens who followed Euron, half were nobles of the Iron Islands, better than nothing, and the other half were sailors from his ship, the Silence. These men, gathered from across the seas, had been trained to fight and had their tongues cut out. They were far more dangerous than common reavers. This reserve, half-mute, gave no thunderous war cries, but charged like a tide, cutting a path of blood and broken limbs. In an instant, they smashed into the young Northern lords and the soldiers sworn to protect them.
With a dull crash, a figure at the front smashed through the shield wall, sending men flying, and strode straight toward the young Northmen, his eyes blazing with murderous intent.
...
He had black hair and beard, blue lips, and wore scale armor unlike any seen before. Black as smoke, it gleamed with a strange reddish-gold along the edges, shifting as he moved. Though it covered him head to toe, sealed tight, it weighed so little it flowed like silk. Subtle engravings shimmered with eerie life.
Euron hefted his great battleaxe and pointed it at the Northerners. "Which of you is Robb Stark?"
No man spared a glance at his armor, nor did any deign to answer. The Northerners were too pressed holding the Ironborn at bay. Those just knocked down rose again, weapons in hand, joining the young men clustered around Robb. After brief glances, they roared and rushed together at the enemy captain who had dared to charge into their midst.
The North did not prattle on of chivalry, honor, or fair combat as men of the South did. They were harder and more practical. A duel was a duel, war was war. If the foe showed no courtesy, why should they thrust their lord forward to fight him alone instead of seizing the chance to cut him down?
Blades flashed. At least four men struck at once. Euron only parried the axe aimed at his skull. The rest he took upon his body.
Sparks flew from two blades that scraped across his scales, leaving faint white marks. A third sword struck his back, wedging between two plates. Its wielder drove it forward with all his strength and weight, but the blade failed to pierce. Euron only staggered.
The Valyrian steel armor turned the blade, but not the force. Pain lanced through his back, and the frenzy within him flared hotter, stoked by shade of the evening and the sorcery woven into his gear. With a snarl, he spun, teeth bared. The axe whirled upward in his hands, and in one stroke, the man's arms were hewn off, sword and limbs flying as blood sprayed.
The screams were drowned by the din of battle. The mute sailors surged through the gap their captain had opened, crashing into the Northerners with savage force.
No one spared a thought for the man with stumps for arms. Robb and his companions pressed in again, weapons flashing. Euron ducked only those strikes aimed at his face, squatting low and bracing himself as swords and axes thudded against his chest, abdomen, and legs.
Encased in Valyrian steel, empowered by black magic and strange draughts, he stood like a reef in the tide, unshaken by the waves crashing against him.
Then he struck back. The dark axe whistled as it carved a deadly arc.
A knight in full plate might endure the blows of common swords, but none could counterattack with such speed and power. When the axe's edge flashed before Eddard Karstark's eyes, he barely had time to raise his sword. With a clang, blade and boy were cut in half at the waist. The snow was painted red.
"Young Lord Eddard!" a Karstark retainer cried in anguish.
The black-haired man was not only invulnerable but strong beyond reason.
"Don't strike his body, take his head!"
There was no time to grieve. After the loss of two men in an instant, Jon Smalljon Umber barked the order. The Northerners obeyed, hacking at Euron's head.
Seven hells, if only I had a helm, Euron cursed inwardly. Reluctantly he turned from attack to defense, weaving between blades. Strength beyond mortal men let him hold his ground, parrying and dodging, keeping his head and face safe.
The delay was enough. His mute sailors closed ranks around him, breaking the Northerners' circle and pulling him free. The best chance to cut him down was lost.
The fight along the narrow forest path had raged for minutes. Though the North still had numbers, in that small space before Robb Stark, Euron and his chosen men had forced a local advantage. With his back covered, he surged forward again.
...
"My Lord, you must not be harmed. Withdraw!"
Smalljon's shout betrayed him. Euron's sharp eye swept the field, picking out the true lord clad in armor marked with the direwolf.
"Withdraw? Withdraw to hell!"
Euron laughed madly and charged once more.
Earlier he had fought ten men and taken no hurt. Now, with his own at his side, he was unstoppable. His axe swung wide, a murderous sweep aimed straight at the Young Wolf.
Robb Stark was brave and trained, but he was no great warrior. Facing that monstrous force, he reacted on instinct, raising his sword just as Eddard Karstark had moments ago.
"You cannot block it!"
"Look out!"
The cries came too late.
A loyal guard leapt between them, raising his shield. The axe struck with a crack like thunder. The shield split, the man was hurled into Robb, blood streaming from nose and mouth. Dead before he hit the ground. Even so, the force smashed into Robb, knocking him back two steps. He parried desperately, but his arm was numb, his blade chipped, his strength spent. He stumbled, tripped, and fell hard on the snow.
His chest heaved, his mind reeled. If Aegor had seen it, he would have sworn Euron was no man but a White Walker in a man's skin.
The Winterfell guards who threw themselves forward were slaughtered one by one. Within three yards, no aid could reach him. Euron raised the axe once more to finish it.
But Robb was not alone.
A smoky-gray shadow burst from the side. Grey Wind struck like a thunderbolt, jaws clamping on Euron's arm, his weight bearing him down at last. The great wolf pinned him, teeth sinking deep. Yet it was like biting iron. The armor bent no more than steel bars.
Euron dropped his axe and flung his free arm around the wolf's neck, locking it tight. The three-hundred-pound beast thrashed, claws scoring white lines across his armor, but Euron held firm, snarling. "Beast! I'll skin you first, then your master!"
Robb struggled to his feet, sword in hand, but his arm was useless, the blade little more than battered steel.
Before he could switch it to his left, Smalljon Umber seized him by the collar. "Take the Lord away!" he roared.
The last two guards obeyed, pale with fear, hauling their lord back as Northmen rushed in to cover their retreat. Horses were gone, scattered by the horn.
The last thing the Young Wolf saw before being dragged away was Grey Wind's bloodied body, writhing beneath Euron's grip, and Smalljon Umber's back, unyielding as he raised his sword to meet the Ironborn charge.
(To be continued.)