CHAPTER 122
Clang!
Garon's longsword crashed violently against Victarion Greyjoy's greataxe, the impact ringing across the battlefield like a smith's hammer striking an anvil. Sparks burst between steel and iron, and the sheer force of the collision sent a faint tremor through Garon's arm. Even so, he held his ground without yielding a single step.
Victarion's eyes narrowed. He, too, had felt the strength hidden behind the Northern lord's blade.
"Asha losing to you is no injustice," Victarion growled. "It seems the North is not made entirely of weaklings."
A savage grin spread across the Iron Captain's face as excitement burned in his eyes. Like a kraken scenting blood, he swung his greataxe once more with terrifying force.
Garon met the attack calmly, his expression cold and focused as he sought to undermine Victarion's confidence even while exchanging blows.
"Oh?"
"Do not concern yourself with Asha. You will soon be joining her."
"Balon sent you ashore only to die."
The words struck almost as hard as the sword. Garon drove Victarion backward, then casually cut down a nearby Ironborn who had wandered too close to their duel. Even in the midst of battle, he maintained enough awareness to observe the wider conflict unfolding around him.
The fighting had descended into utter chaos.
Northmen and Ironborn were locked together throughout the valley, hacking, stabbing, and wrestling in a desperate struggle for survival. Blood soaked the earth, and bodies lay scattered everywhere. From a distance, friend and foe were nearly impossible to distinguish.
A cold thought flashed through Garon's mind.
I must kill Victarion quickly if I want to secure victory.
The blood inherited from the First Men and strengthened by the ancient gifts of the Children of the Forest surged through him. His senses sharpened. His breathing steadied. Every movement around him seemed clearer than before.
Without reservation, he wielded his greatsword, constantly shifting positions while battling Victarion amid thousands of clashing soldiers.
Anyone unfortunate enough to be caught between them met a swift and brutal end.
As the duel intensified, it felt as though the very air around them had become solid.
For Garon and Victarion, the battlefield faded away. There remained only the relentless clash of steel, the rhythm of combat, and the sound of each other's heavy breathing.
Victarion's frustration grew with every exchange.
No matter how fiercely he attacked, he could not land a decisive strike.
What angered him even more was the sight of his warriors gradually losing ground across the battlefield.
His men were breaking.
The realization gnawed at him.
He had to kill the Northern commander standing before him.
Immediately.
Yet the more impatient he became, the more flaws began to appear in his movements.
After another earth-shaking collision, the tremendous force of the impact caused Victarion's balance to waver for the briefest instant.
Garon's eyes flashed.
Now!
He stepped forward decisively.
His body tightened like a fully drawn bowstring before exploding into motion, driving directly into Victarion's center line.
Alarm surged through Victarion.
Acting on instinct, he raised his greataxe and brought it down in a deadly chop.
But Garon moved first.
The axe blade swept past him by a hair's breadth while his greatsword flashed forward and sliced deeply into Victarion's right thigh.
Blood erupted instantly.
Victarion grunted as pain shot through his body, his massive frame stumbling forward several steps.
Before he could recover, Garon pivoted and plunged his sword into Victarion's left foot.
Then he twisted.
"Arrgh!"
This time the Iron Captain could not suppress his agony.
His face twisted with fury.
Ignoring the pain, he swung his greataxe wildly in an attempt to force Garon away.
Yet Garon's greenseer-enhanced instincts warned him before the attack fully developed.
He calmly avoided the strike.
Then he seized the opening.
Pulling free his greatsword, he brought it crashing down toward Victarion's chest.
Horror flashed across Victarion's face.
He desperately attempted to adjust his movement and raise his greataxe in defense.
Too late.
His wounded leg and mangled foot robbed him of the stability he needed.
His body betrayed him.
Victarion toppled backward.
The impact numbed his right hand, and his greataxe slipped from his grasp and crashed into the mud.
Garon moved immediately.
His figure surged forward.
The greatsword descended toward Victarion's head.
"Ngh!"
A pained and disbelieving sound escaped Victarion's throat as the strength rapidly drained from his body.
Garon showed no hesitation.
Twisting his wrist, he followed through with a merciless horizontal slash.
The blade cut cleanly through flesh, muscle, blood vessels, and windpipe.
A heartbeat later, Victarion Greyjoy's head separated from his body.
His enormous corpse crashed onto the blood-soaked ground.
Silence seemed to linger for a single instant.
Then Garon stepped onto the fallen Iron Captain's body.
Gripping his blood-covered sword in one hand and Victarion's severed head in the other, he raised the grisly trophy high above his head and roared with all the strength remaining in his lungs.
"Victarion Greyjoy is dead!"
His voice rolled across the battlefield like thunder from the storm gods themselves.
Northmen heard it.
Ironborn heard it.
Everyone heard it.
A moment later, cheers erupted from every corner of the Northern host.
"Victarion Greyjoy is dead!"
"Victarion Greyjoy is dead!"
The cry spread rapidly across the battlefield.
The Ironborn stared in disbelief at the sight before them.
The commander of the Iron Fleet.
The mighty Victarion Greyjoy.
Dead.
His head was being held aloft by a Northern lord.
"How is that possible...?"
"Lord Victarion lost?"
Shock swept through the Ironborn ranks.
At that very moment, it seemed as if the gods themselves had chosen to bear witness to the battle.
The thick clouds that had covered the sky all morning suddenly parted.
A brilliant shaft of sunlight pierced through the heavens and descended directly upon Garon.
Bathed in golden light, he stood amidst blood, corpses, and broken weapons like a warrior from the Age of Heroes.
His already imposing presence now seemed almost sacred.
"Kneel!"
"Those who surrender shall live!"
His voice echoed throughout the valley.
Immediately, the Northmen raised their weapons and shouted in unison.
"Kneel! Those who surrender shall live!"
The cry spread farther and farther.
Soon it became the only sound dominating the battlefield.
"Kneel! Those who surrender shall live!"
Unlike the triumph surging through the Northern army, terror spread among the Ironborn like a deadly plague.
Victarion's death.
Euron's uncertain fate on the western flank.
Together they shattered the remaining morale of the Ironborn host.
As the calls for surrender grew louder, some Ironborn dropped their weapons and fell to their knees.
Others turned and ran.
Then the battle completely reversed.
Garon watched the retreating enemy before tossing Victarion's severed head aside.
His gaze settled upon his own soldiers.
Leaning heavily upon his sword, he drew two deep breaths and issued his next command.
"Advance."
"Destroy the remaining enemy."
His voice was rough from exhaustion, but no one could mistake the authority within it.
"For the North!"
"For Lord Glover!"
Deafening cheers shook the valley.
The surviving Northern soldiers surged forward with renewed strength, pursuing the fleeing Ironborn like a flood bursting through a broken dam.
The battle had become a hunt.
A reckoning.
Meanwhile, the thunderous celebration reached West Horn Mountain, where Euron and his remaining warriors were still fighting desperately.
"Victarion is dead?"
Euron froze.
For the first time since the battle began, genuine panic appeared on his face.
The arrogant confidence that had never left him vanished instantly.
His followers felt the same despair.
Their last thread of resistance snapped.
Jon Snow, despite the wounds covering his body, remained standing.
A fierce smile spread across his face.
"Lord Garon has won!"
"Hold your ground!"
"Now it is our turn to strike back!"
The exhausted Northmen answered his call.
Strength they thought long spent surged back into their bodies.
Some warriors even threw themselves against two opponents at once.
Euron's expression darkened.
His gaze drifted toward the Kingsroad, where the forests seemed alive with movement.
The rustling leaves gave the impression that endless Northern reinforcements were closing in from every direction.
At last, he made his decision.
"Retreat."
The word tasted like poison.
Without another glance backward, he broke away from Jon's pursuit and led the surviving Ironborn southward along the foothills toward Moat Cailin.
Some of his ships were still guarded there.
But Euron no longer believed he could defeat the North.
Now he desired only one thing.
Survival.
Crossing the North was a mistake.
I should have sailed around Westeros and gone directly to Skagos.
When I claim a dragon, I will make them pay.
Tenfold.
A hundredfold.
Casting one final look toward the collapsing battlefield, Euron fled south along the Kingsroad like a hunted animal.
Garon chose not to pursue too deeply.
The Northern army was exhausted beyond measure.
They needed rest.
More importantly, countless matters within the North required immediate attention.
The surrendering captives.
The remaining Ironborn strongholds.
The rebuilding that would inevitably follow.
Slowly, he released a long breath thick with the scent of blood and death.
His eyes swept across the valley littered with corpses and stained crimson by the fallen.
This victory has changed everything.
I no longer need to fear Deepwood Motte falling to the Ironborn.
I no longer need to fear becoming their prisoner.
From this day forward, I can rise like a falcon upon the wind and move through the world according to my own will.
The exhilaration of victory washed over him like strong Arbor wine, briefly sweeping away his exhaustion and tension while filling him with a profound sense of accomplishment.
Yet the feeling did not last long.
The dragon horn is still not in my possession.
Next, I must negotiate with Balon Greyjoy using Asha as leverage.
But before that, I must eliminate every remaining Ironborn force within the North.
His thoughts quickly returned to reality.
Reason once more governed his mind.
Garon lifted his head and looked southward.
There, beyond the battlefield and beyond the immediate concerns of victory, remained the prize he desired most.
And he had no intention of letting it slip from his grasp.
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