The outer wall of Oldstones had fallen completely.
The sharp scent of copper blood mixed with limestone dust, a choking haze that settled in every man's throat.
Having thrown back the initial charge, Tytos Blackwood leaned his back against the cold masonry. The axe tear across his belly fired with a jagged, tearing pain. He kept his gauntlet pressed flat over the wound, but the warm, dark crimson continued to seep through his fingers, refusing to check its flow.
Raymun Darry spoke with a rasped, thin breath, his left arm hanging loose at his side, the bone clearly broken beneath the mail. "Lord Tytos, your legs are giving way."
Tytos shook his head, his dark eyes scanning the surviving ranks huddled within the yard. Fewer than three hundred remained. House guards, cooks, carls, armorers, and horse-boys—every male who could grip a strip of iron stood in the line, and every face bore fresh blood.
Patrek Mallister, the boy who had insisted on holding a squire's place, carried a full broadsword across his thin shoulder casing. Gray soot and dried blood covered his cheeks, yet his stare held a quiet, mechanical resolve that far outstripped his twelve winters.
The women and small children were packed into the deep cellars of the inner keep, their muffled sobbing mixing with the groans of the dying to form a tragic, final chorus.
Outside the timber gap, the ironborn war cries rolled over the ruts like an endless tide. A rough, booming voice cut clean through the noise, Dagmer Cleftjaw shouting from the edge of the breach.
"Tytos Blackwood!"
"Drop the iron! Bend your knees to King Balon!"
"We might leave your smallfolk with their breath! They can turn river stones in our quarries, serve as salt-wives in our cots, or pull oars on the longships! The Drowned God offers his mercy!"
A dead, heavy silence fell over the inner yard. Every man marked the terms with a different shadow across his features.
Raymun Darry tightened his right hand against his sword hilt, his knuckles turning chalk-white. "Lord Tytos..."
Tytos offered no answer. Slowly, step by heavy step, he dragged his boots toward the timber breastwork. He retrieved a broadbow from a fallen sergeant, pulling a single arrow from a dead archer's quiver. He set the nock to the hemp, attempting to draw the wood to his ear.
His arms trembled violently from the blood loss. The hemp string reached barely half its draw before his fingers slipped. The shaft loosed with a weak, fluttering sound, wobbling through the air to plant its tip harmlessly in the mud before the drawbridge, fifteen paces short of Dagmer's boots.
The ironborn went quiet for a heartbeat before erupting into a sharp, mocking laugh that echoed off the broken walls. The weak shaft cut into the pride of the defenders, yet that trembling bowstring was Tytos Blackwood's absolute answer to the fleet.
Once the mockery died down, Dagmer spat into the ruts, shoving an oarsman out of his path as his ruined jaw twisted with raw irritation. "Fool!"
"Let the crows pick their ribs!"
"All axes! Form the wedge!"
He drew a heavy battle-axe from his belt, pointing the steel toward the timber gap.
"Break the inner oak! Aside from the gentlemen, chop every breathing thing inside into dog-meat!"
"The women belong to your cots!"
The raiders answered with a wild, savage roar. Over a thousand axes surged forward like a black wave, the promise of women and silver driving their dark desires.
BWAAAAAAH!
A sharp, clear horn blast ripped through the sky from behind their rear ranks, carrying an absolute clarity that had nothing to do with the Iron Islands. It rose from the banks of the river channel.
Dagmer's sneer froze. The advancing mass of ironborn halted as one man, turning their heads back to the tracks in confusion. What their eyes marked froze the blood in their veins.
A massive plume of orange fire erupted from the creek bay where their longships were moored. Within seconds, a second fireball hit the sky, followed by a third. Bright, greedy flames devoured the timber hulls, heavy black smoke and crimson tongues of fire rolling upward to paint half the heavens in an ominous blood-red.
"The hulls..." an oarsman muttered, his voice hollow with total shock. "Our longships!"
"The hulls are burning!" another shrieked, breaking the quiet of the field entirely. "Drowned God above! The fleet is on fire!"
Panic spread through their ranks like a sudden plague. To an ironborn, a longship was everything, his home, his standing, his dragon-chest of silver, and his singular path back to the rocks.
Now, their gold and their retreat were turning into floating charcoal along the current. The ironborn formation dissolved into complete chaos within three breaths. All discipline vanished as hundreds of raiders abandoned the breach, running wildly toward the riverbank to save their only wealth.
"Hold the line! Stand your ground!" Dagmer roared until his throat bled, but his commands were swallowed by the wave of screaming, frantic sailors. The wedge was gone.
Atop the ramparts of Oldstones, Tytos and Raymun stared at the smoke in stunned silence, forgetting their wounds for a brief moment.
Raymun's voice trembled. "Reinforcements?"
"Whose banner is that?"
No man on the wall could answer. As the ironborn column broke apart, two hundred heavy cavalrymen in full plate burst from the timberline, their chargers roaring like thunder as hooves threw sheets of mud into the air. They hit the loose flank of the raiders like a black iron wedge, rolling over the axes without checking their reins.
Behind the horsemen marched a long, disciplined block of foot soldiers. Their ranks were straight, their boots moving in unison, their dark ringmail reflecting the red glare of the burning ships.
Dagmer Cleftjaw watched his longships turn to ash and marked the heavy cavalry cutting through his rear, yet he did not turn his back. He drew a second axe, turning his scarred face to his remaining captains as he delivered a fierce, blood-choked roar.
"Kill the land-rats who set the fires!"
"Reclaim the timber and the silver!"
Fury and desperation swallowed what remained of their senses. The ironborn abandoned the siege entirely, turning around like rabid hounds to throw themselves against the incoming column in a chaotic, bloody counter-charge.
On the battlements, a defender finally found his voice. "The relief is here!"
"We are pulled from the ditch!"
A thin ray of light cut through the dark despair. The flame returned to Tytos Blackwood's dark eyes.
He cared nothing for the identity of the relief force. He knew only that this was the singular opening the Seven would grant his line. He drew his ancient broadsword with the last strength in his frame, pointing the point toward the confused mass below.
"Lords of the Trident!"
His rasped shout cut through the noise of the assault.
"For our hearths! For our blood!"
"Clear the gate! Charge the ruts!"
The heavy oak doors, barred with timber beams, groaned under the weight of thirty sergeants before bursting open into the yard.
Tytos Blackwood led the way himself, guiding the three hundred broken survivors into an absolute, frantic charge. "Kill!"
It was a column of wounded men, gray carls, and boys, yet their momentum hit the ironborn like a falling mountain.
The raiders who were turning to face the cavalry never anticipated that the cornered stockade would open its doors. Trapped between the burning fleet ahead and the desperate charge from the rear, their lines collapsed into a bloody slaughterhouse.
Yet, the ironborn were born to the axe. They fought with a savage, reckless violence, turning the field in front of Oldstones into a red mire. The slaughter lasted from twilight until the dark of night settled over the trees, the corpses stacking knee-deep along the ruts.
His armor covered in dark grease, Dagmer Cleftjaw put a horseman to the sword, taking in the total ruin of his command. Recognizing that his count was slipping away, the old captain regained his cold logic. He abandoned the field, gathering the surviving oarsmen to retreat deep into the dark woods.
Gradually, the noise of the steel died down. The mud before Oldstones lay quiet, covered in fallen men and broken timber under the cold torchlight.
Tytos Blackwood rested his weight against his sword, kneeling on one knee in the clay as he fought for breath. Raymun Darry and Patrek Mallister held his arms on either side to keep his frame upright.
The survivors gathered in a quiet, blood-soaked ring, staring at the incoming column that was slowly reforming its rows. Their eyes held a complex mix of deep gratitude, awe, and quiet suspicion. Whose banner had risked everything to push so deep into a burning war zone?
The silent column parted down the center, clearing a wide lane through the mud. A single horseman stepped his destrier forward. He wore a simple, tailored black doublet over clean mail, an unadorned broadsword resting at his hip.
Raymun Darry narrowed his eyes, finding the young profile oddly familiar. He tried to clear the fog from his sight, but the loss of blood made the torchlight sway.
As the horse drew closer to the stirrup, Raymun's breath caught in his throat. His entire frame went rigid, his eyes wide with utter shock. He recognized the face. But how could this boy be standing here? How had he gathered such a massive column of iron?
Solomon looked down at Raymun's blood-caked face, a quiet, reassuring smile touching his lips as he delivered a simple greeting that carried clearly through the quiet.
"Lord Raymun, long time no see. My ledger has missed your counsel."
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