Jon Fossoway whipped his head around, glaring at Samwell with savage fury as he shouted,
"Samwell Tarly, put that mercy of yours away! This is war! Can't you see it? This is their trick! If we hesitate, if we give ground now, they'll march over those poor wretches' corpses, slaughter every one of us, and then go on to ravage even more villages. Then it won't be a thousand dead, it'll be ten thousand, a hundred thousand!"
He yanked his longsword free and pointed it toward the opposite bank.
"We must attack now, while they're still burdened by those hostages. This is our only chance. For the Reach, we cannot hold back!"
Sam was left stunned by the outburst.
He looked at the sobbing civilians, then at the soldiers around him. Their faces showed the same reluctance, yet Fossoway's words were hardening them, stirring a grim resolve. Sam's heart was torn apart.
As Sam hesitated, Victarion watched the disorder in the Reach host with cold, pitiless eyes.
His massive hand chopped downward.
Suddenly, wild shouts erupted from the woods behind the Reach lines.
Nearly a thousand Ironborn warriors burst out from the trees, smashing into the completely unguarded flank and rear of the Reach army.
"Ambush! An ambush!"
"We're surrounded!"
The Reach formation collapsed in an instant.
At the same time, Victarion gave the order to advance from the front.
The Ironborn brutally drove the terrified hostages forward, using them to shatter and churn the already wavering front ranks of the Reach coalition.
Ser Jon Fossoway, eyes bloodshot, tried desperately to rally his men.
He shouted commands, swinging his longsword and cutting down two Ironborn who charged at him.
But the sudden attack from flank and rear utterly wrecked his command.
Countless Reach soldiers were cut down in the chaos, or hesitated for fear of harming the hostages, only to be mercilessly butchered in turn.
In the turmoil, Sam was desperately shielded by his guards. He saw Ser Jon Fossoway surrounded by Ironborn, his warhorse hacked down beneath him. Fossoway hit the ground and was instantly swallowed by a storm of axes and blades.
Sam saw the civilians used as human shields falling in swathes, trampled and cut down by both sides, their screams filling the air.
He saw the banners of the Reach topple one after another.
"Retreat! Retreat at once!"
Sam finally gave the order, but the outcome was already sealed.
What was meant to be a delaying battle became a one-sided massacre and rout.
Victarion watched Sam shouting in panic in the distance. He lifted his longbow and loosed an arrow.
It struck Sam in the back, and he fell, unmoving.
Several thousand soldiers of the Reach were annihilated along the banks of the Mander under Victarion's tactics.
Blood stained the river red. Corpses lay piled like hills.
Ser Jon Fossoway and Samwell Tarly fell in battle.
Victarion stood amid the field of the dead, gazing over it all with cold indifference.
...
Whispering Sound.
The once-tranquil waters were now choked with ships.
The combined fleet of House Hightower and House Redwyne, more than a thousand warships of every kind, held firm control over the vital sea lane leading to Oldtown.
At the heart of the armada, on the deck of the massive flagship Honor of Oldtown, three powerful figures stood at the rail, gazing into the distance.
Baelor's expression carried a trace of arrogance.
He held an exquisitely crafted Myr lens, studying the cluster of sails rising along the far horizon, a mocking smile tugging at his lips.
"So this is the fearsome Iron Fleet?"
His voice dripped with open disdain. "Not even two hundred longboats? It seems the boasts of House Greyjoy were nothing more than empty noise. They wouldn't even be enough to wedge between our teeth."
Beside him, Lord Paxter frowned slightly and raised his own lens to look more closely.
He saw the golden Kraken banner snapping in the wind and confirmed it without doubt. It was Euron Greyjoy.
The enemy fleet was indeed far smaller than their own.
The Ironborn longboats were famed for their agility and shallow draft, but facing such an overwhelming armada, especially in open waters, those advantages hardly seemed enough to change the outcome.
Instinctively, he glanced at the wind vane.
The wind favored them strongly. They could easily take the windward position and greet the attackers with arrows and catapults.
His tightly knit brow eased a little.
Gunthor Hightower, however, looked eager for battle.
"Let them come," he said. "We'll wash away the shame they brought upon the Shield Islands with their blood."
At the same time, aboard the Iron Fleet's eerily silent flagship, Silence.
Waldon Wynch stared at the Reach fleet spreading across the horizon, nearly blotting out the sea itself. His face was pale, his palms slick with sweat.
He swallowed hard and turned to the man beside him.
"Your Grace..."
Waldon's voice was dry. "Their fleet outnumbers ours more than five to one, and the wind is with them now. Can we really..."
He couldn't bring himself to say the word "win."
Euron Greyjoy leaned casually against the rail, his single eye sweeping over the crushing enemy armada. Instead of fear, a wicked, unhinged smile spread across his face, sending a chill through Waldon.
"The wind?"
Euron chuckled softly. "Who told you we need to rely on that feeble wind, Waldon?"
He did not answer the question directly. Instead, he turned and gave an order.
"Bring up our sacrifices. It's time to feed our friends and pray for a true Storm."
The command raced through the Iron Fleet.
On every longship, Ironborn soldiers brutally dragged groups of bound captives onto the decks, their faces twisted with terror and despair.
They wore tattered clothes, mostly common folk and a handful of minor nobles taken from the Shield Islands.
They seemed to sense what was coming. Their desperate cries and pleas rang out, answered only by savage blows and cruel laughter from the Ironborn.
"For King Euron!"
The fanatical shouts drowned out the victims' wailing, followed by the merciless stabbing of defenseless bodies.
Blood flooded the decks in an instant. Entrails and severed limbs flew in all directions.
The sudden, horrifying slaughter left all who witnessed it stunned.
Next, the Ironborn collected the blood in buckets and helmets, then hurled it wildly over the white sails.
The thick canvas drank it in, turning a dark, ominous red.
Then, a miracle.
The sails, which moments before had been stirred only by a light breeze, suddenly billowed outward violently, as if an invisible giant hand had shoved them forward.
The rigging snapped taut, creaking under the strain.
Every Ironborn longship surged ahead.
Not just faster, but with a terrifying, unnatural acceleration.
The prows split the waves, throwing up walls of white spray.
The oarsmen had long since stopped rowing, staring in shock at what was happening.
Their ships were being driven forward by a raging, unseen Storm, almost without any need for human effort.
Waldon Wynch's mouth fell open, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets.
Was this magic?!