Chapter 85: The Ironborn Retreat

Osmund Tyrell, exhausted, swung his sword and cleaved the neck of an Ironborn. He continued to swing instinctively around him, but this time his blade met only air. The street had fallen eerily silent, and he suddenly noticed the absence of the chaotic sounds of battle.

Panting heavily, he stopped his futile swings. His hands ached terribly, and he longed to drop the sword, but years of training kept his grip firm, defying his will.

As he looked around, he saw the bodies of fifty or sixty Ironborn strewn across the street. Among the carnage, only three of his comrades remained standing, each bearing injuries. One had a short sword embedded in his waist; though still upright, it was clear he wouldn't last much longer. The rest of their group, including the ordinary men-at-arms, lay lifeless on the ground, each with numerous wounds.

Osmund Tyrell hailed from a branch of House Tyrell based in Redwall Town. As a child, he had been sent to Highgarden to train as a knight, eventually becoming a squire for House Tyrell alongside other distant relatives from branch families. Recently, he had been chosen to serve as one of Lord Willas's men-at-arms—a significant opportunity. While not qualified for the Lord's Guard, serving Willas could greatly benefit his future prospects.

He had known most of the men selected for this honor, many of whom had shared his journey as squires and later as knights. Their bond was strong, which made watching their lifeless forms on the ground all the more painful. A deep sadness welled up in his heart.

His thoughts turned to the Ironborn who had stormed the street like a relentless tide, hundreds strong. Yet now, only fifty or sixty corpses remained behind. The rest had surged into the square, where Lynd was the sole defender. Realization struck him—common sense suggested the doors of the Starry Sept had likely fallen, and Willas's fate was too grim to imagine.

"No, Lord Willas!" someone shouted, voicing the same fear. They bolted toward the square, and Osmund followed with another knight. The wounded man with the sword in his waist tried to join them but collapsed heavily after just a few steps, unmoving.

The first knight to reach the square froze in place, staring in stunned silence. His sword slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground. Osmund and the other knight assumed the worst—they thought Willas was dead. Steeling themselves, they resolved to die fighting and prepared to charge the Ironborn.

But as they reached the square, they too came to a halt, stunned by the sight before them. Their swords trembled in their hands before slipping free, landing with a sharp clang.

Half of the Starry Sept Square was covered in dismembered bodies, piled into a grotesque hill. Blood soaked the black marble, staining it a deep red. These were the Ironborn who had surged onto the square, but the mystery remained—who had killed them?

The three knights exchanged bewildered glances, scanning the scene. Apart from the carnage, only Lynd stood at the gate of the Starry Sept. At his feet lay Glory, its fur once again black and white, calmly licking its paws.

"Did Ser Lynd do this alone?" The same thought arose in the minds of the three men simultaneously. Though it seemed too absurd to believe, the scene before them insisted on confirming this implausible truth.

They had managed to kill fifty or sixty battle-hardened Ironborn at the cost of over thirty men—a more than commendable achievement in any battle. Yet Lynd had killed hundreds of Ironborn single-handedly. This was no mere feat; it was a miracle. They couldn't help but wonder if Lynd had been possessed by the Warrior of the Seven Gods, granting him the strength to accomplish such an extraordinary act.

At that moment, the small window of the Starry Sept's door creaked open. A nervous Septon peered through it, scanning the square. Moments ago, the sounds of fierce battle echoed through the air; now, there was an eerie silence. Despite the Sept being secured by sturdy walls and gates, the Septons inside remained uneasy.

When the Septon caught sight of the bodies piled in the square under the flickering light of the braziers, he gasped and quickly withdrew. A few other Septons, drawn by his reaction, stepped up to look for themselves. They, too, were shocked by the gruesome sight. After a brief, whispered discussion, they slowly closed the window, speculating amongst themselves about what had occurred outside.

"Ser Lynd." A few knights approached Lynd, awe evident in their voices as they lifted their visors.

"What happened to the others?" Lynd asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

The knights exchanged glances, their faces heavy with sorrow. In low voices, they replied, "They have died in battle."

Lynd was silent for a moment before speaking calmly. "Search the area. Ensure no Ironborn have survived."

The knights nodded, preparing to carry out Lynd's orders, when the sound of galloping hooves echoed from the road leading to the castle's northern gate. Instinctively, the knights gripped their weapons, bracing for another attack.

A team of heavily armed cavalry emerged, charging up the road and into the square. As they approached the scene of carnage, the cavalry instinctively slowed their horses, pulling back on the reins. It was only when the knights noticed the swallowtail banner of House Tyrell, bearing the golden rose, that their tense posture eased. Reinforcements had arrived.

The cavalry, too, were visibly stunned by the devastation in the square. However, the captain of the patrol, a seasoned soldier who had witnessed many battles, quickly regained his composure. He dismounted, walking past the knights and approaching Lynd directly. Bowing slightly, he said, "Ser Lynd, I was ordered to protect Lord Willas. How is he?"

"He is safe and still inside the Sept," Lynd replied with a nod. Then, with authority, he added, "Take your men and patrol the perimeter of the Starry Sept. Clear out any Ironborn who might have escaped."

Lynd's expression grew more focused as he continued, "What's the situation at the docks and Oldtown City Hall?"

The cavalry captain answered truthfully, "We arrived as soon as we entered the city. The situation at the docks and City Hall is unclear, but Jon and the other knights have already led soldiers to reinforce them. I believe they will soon drive out the Ironborn."

Before Lynd could respond, a piercing horn resounded throughout Oldtown. Those familiar with the Ironborn recognized it immediately—it was the signal for retreat.

What was surprising, however, was that the fighting at City Hall did not subside, nor did the clashes at the docks. Even the situation in the commercial district remained unchanged, as if all the Ironborn had abandoned their pirate code and transformed into berserkers, willing to risk their lives without hesitation.

This situation brought Lynd's thoughts back to the Ironborn who had just charged into the square. Those men had clearly witnessed him effortlessly slaughter hundreds, perhaps thousands, yet showed no hint of retreat or fear. They had continued to attack him recklessly, heedless of their lives, until every last one of them fell at the tip of his sword. The attack had only ended when the final Ironborn succumbed.

Now, the fighting in various parts of Oldtown bore a striking resemblance to what had transpired earlier. These Ironborn were no longer mere pirates seeking plunder; they had become soldiers intent on fighting to the death. Even when the retreating horn sounded, many of them refused to comply. There was no doubt—they had fallen under the influence of some sort of drug.

Not all the Ironborn in Oldtown, however, were caught up in this frenzy. A significant number retained their senses. Upon hearing the horn, they immediately ceased their looting and killing, retreating swiftly toward the docks. There, they boarded the pirate ships waiting for them and began their escape.

"Set sail, set sail!" the captains shouted as they issued their commands. The ships, laden with stolen treasure, started to depart from the docks.

"Our winches haven't come up yet! You can't—" an Ironborn on one of the ships protested upon seeing the vessel leave without being fully loaded. He approached the captain, demanding an explanation.

"Get lost. If you say another word, I'll throw you overboard," the captain growled, his face twisted in fury.

The Ironborn man, silenced by the hostile glares of his crewmates, quickly backed off and retreated to a corner without further complaint.

Eventually, to the sound of the horn, more than a hundred pirate ships from the Iron Islands departed the docks. Yet even with the Ironborn gone, Oldtown's plight did not immediately improve. The fighting remained intense, as those left behind were frenzied berserkers who showed no fear of death.

Soon, however, a discovery was made: if the defenders kept a certain distance from the crazed Ironborn, the berserkers would attack one another instead of their enemies. With this revelation, the tide of the battle shifted.

Later, with the arrival of reinforcements from House Tyrell, the remaining Ironborn were swiftly eliminated. When the last of them fell, Oldtown finally returned to the stillness of the night.

Meanwhile, on the waters of Whispering Sound, the ships that had fled Oldtown began to regroup. Among the longboats was a large sailing ship where the leaders of the Iron Islands houses had gathered. Despite their escape and the cargo holds filled with stolen goods, none of them appeared pleased.

Of the nearly 300 longships and over 6,000 men deployed in the surprise attack on Oldtown, only about 100 ships had made it back. Around 200 vessels remained trapped, and a headcount revealed that only 2,130 men had returned. This meant that roughly 4,000 men were lost in Oldtown—a devastating blow that no amount of plunder could compensate for. The Ironborn knew they faced a grim future upon their return.

As an air of despair settled over the gathered leaders, someone finally broke the silence. "This is all Euron's fault. If he hadn't changed targets at the last minute, we would have sacked Lannisport by now."

The accusation struck a chord with the others, and soon the room was filled with agreement. Euron, who had proposed the attack on Oldtown, was quickly condemned as the scapegoat for their catastrophic losses.

At this point, someone reminded the group, "Euron also had a problem with the wine he served before the attack. Everyone who drank it lost their minds and went berserk, attacking anyone they saw. Those who didn't retreat when the horn sounded were all drunk."

"Yes, the same happened to my men."

"Mine too."

"Could it be that the Greyjoys deliberately used this method to deplete our manpower?" another suggested.

As these accusations spread, the temporary commander of the fleet, Old Maron of House Botley, turned pale.

Although he didn't get along with Euron, he maintained a good relationship with the Greyjoys. Hearing Euron being blamed, and by extension the Greyjoys, for the catastrophic losses was something he could not let pass.

Old Maron slammed his hammer down on the table with a loud bang and said, "Enough! Are you all blind? Euron only had so much wine, and apart from his own men, less than half of the others drank it. How is it that, in your stories, everyone drank Euron's wine? If that's the case, how are you still standing here, accusing him?"

The room fell silent. Old Maron's reputation still held weight among the Ironborn.

However, some were still unconvinced. One of them spoke up, "Even so, that doesn't mean Euron is without fault. He disappeared with his men as soon as they attacked the docks. He didn't touch the warehouses he was in charge of. This attack on Oldtown was his idea, yet after the landing, there wasn't even a shadow of him…"

Before the man could finish, the cabin door suddenly burst open, and Euron Greyjoy entered, dripping wet.

But Euron was not the same as they remembered. His skin, once pale but with a hint of life, was now white as a corpse's, adding an eerie chill to his already sinister demeanor. The most striking change, however, was his left eye. What had once been a sea-blue pupil was now as dark as the depths of the ocean, giving anyone who looked into it the unsettling sensation of their soul being pulled away.

"Euron, your eyes…" someone muttered, unable to resist the piercing gaze, and quickly lowered their head.

"They're beautiful, aren't they? I think so too," Euron replied lazily, pushing past the speaker and sitting unceremoniously in the chair of honor. He grabbed a flagon of wine and drank deeply.

"Euron, where are your men?" another dared to ask.

"They're all dead. Every last one of them," Euron replied calmly.

The room fell into an uneasy silence as the gathered captains exchanged glances. The 800-odd men under Euron's command had been the source of much of his power. With them gone, the fear and deference he once commanded among the Ironborn began to waver. The group started to sense an opportunity to challenge him.

Just as they prepared to speak out, Euron interrupted, his tone casual yet chilling. "My men are dead. Why are you still alive? You should also die."

Before anyone could react, chaos erupted. Some captains in the room drew daggers and stabbed those seated nearby. The violence was sudden and precise—nearly half the captains fell in moments, their blood pooling on the floor. Those who died were, without exception, the loudest critics of Euron just moments before.

Euron turned his dark gaze toward the stunned Old Maron and asked, "The traitors who caused this great loss have all been found. What do you think, Old Maron?"