The smoke of battle gradually cleared, leaving behind a scene of chaos and heavy losses.
Five of the ten sturdy pack horses lay in pools of blood, crude arrows and short spears protruding from their bodies; their dying wails had long since faded.
The steward of House Whent was pale, his hand pressed tightly against a sword wound at his waist. Though not too deep, it wouldn't stop bleeding. His forehead was covered in cold sweat from the pain.
The casualties among the caravan guards were even more shocking. Of the original twenty-some guards, fewer than ten were still standing, and most were wounded. The bodies of their companions lay scattered on the ground, mixed with even more mangled corpses of the mountain clansmen. The heavy scent of blood almost overpowered the rich aroma of the expensive wine still gushing from broken barrels.
Fighting through intense pain, the steward swept his gaze over the miserable scene. He knew that with their current manpower and condition, reaching Harrenhal safely was impossible; they couldn't even handle another sporadic ambush. Panting, he ordered a lightly wounded guard who still looked somewhat composed in the clearest voice he could muster: "Quick! Take the fastest horse! Don't spare its strength! Ride full speed back to Harrenhal immediately! Tell the Earl everything that happened here and request troops for support at once! And pack horses—we need at least three! Go!"
The guard nodded heavily, rushing without hesitation to a frightened but uninjured horse. He mounted, whipped the beast, and galloped back along the road toward Harrenhal, pinning their hope of survival on this plea for help.
Watching the receding figure of the messenger and the battered, combat-ineffective group before him, a flicker of calculation passed through Euron's eyes. There was still some distance to Harrenhal. No one could guarantee that the scattered mountain clans wouldn't return, or that other bandits wouldn't take advantage of the chaos.
Euron made a decisive choice. He turned to the six Ironborn warriors beside him, led by Dagmer—these burly men, just catching their breath from the slaughter, were stained with enemy blood, their eyes still fierce and loyal.
Euron didn't waste words; his orders were clear and precise. "Those savages... finish off the heavily wounded. Bind the ones still breathing tightly."
After a quick count, Dagmer reported, "There are five left alive. Three with broken legs, two with slashed arms."
"Alive is enough. Stop their bleeding. We'll hand them over to the people of Harrenhal as a gift. They can surely pry something useful out of their mouths." Euron's voice allowed no question. "Count our men, bandage wounds. Send two to keep watch on the high ground ahead and to the flanks immediately; signal at the slightest movement. The rest of you, help gather the usable wagons into a simple circle formation. Move the wounded to the center."
The Ironborn warriors moved instantly without complaint. They roughly but effectively helped the caravan survivors push the scattered wagons together to form a crude barricade. Two climbed like agile goats to nearby vantage points, sharp eyes scanning the surrounding woods and hills. Others took out clean cloth strips to help apply pressure to the most heavily wounded guards.
Euron stood his ground. Though his twin blades were sheathed, his alert gaze patrolled the surroundings like a hawk. The flame named Apollo burned quietly on his shoulder, emitting an inviolable pressure. His very presence was a powerful deterrent, giving the shaken group a temporary backbone.
They would hold their ground, waiting for rescue and support from Harrenhal.
The reason for staying put wasn't just fear of further ambush ahead, but crucially, the need for horses to replace the dead ones pulling the wagons.
Black-red blood continued to seep from the wound at the steward's waist. He lay on a makeshift felt blanket, face pale as death, collar soaked in cold sweat. Every breath was accompanied by a painful groan. Lisa knelt beside him, wearing an expression of just the right amount of worry and focus. carefully, she cleaned his wound, applied herbs, and bandaged him.
Her movements were gentle and practiced, as if rehearsed countless times. In a moment when no one was watching, her fingertips secretly slipped a tiny amount of almost colorless powder from her sleeve, skillfully mixing it into the styptic powder about to be applied—a little carefully prepared "extra blessing."
Not long after the bandaging was complete, the steward's groans didn't lessen. Instead, they suddenly became rapid and shrill. His body convulsed violently. His eyes bulged in disbelief, staring fixedly at the "concerned" Lisa. A strange gurgling sound came from his throat, followed by a sudden stiffness as he breathed his last, as if the sword wound had triggered some fatal, sudden illness.
This sudden "death from severe injuries" left the remaining caravan members stunned and panicked. In the leaderless chaos, the caravan captain who had secretly passed information to Euron stepped forward. With a face full of grief and resolve, he quickly took command, comforting the crowd and handling the aftermath, displaying extraordinary calmness and capability.
This newly risen leader, Erwin Snow, was a bastard from the North—a pawn Euron had planted and infiltrated long ago.
Erwin Snow successfully replaced Lord Whent's confidant. This not only stabilized the situation but meant Euron's tentacles were now embedded deeper within House Whent. Standing beside the steward's corpse, his gaze met Euron's for a brief, imperceptible moment. Everything was understood without words.
Initially, this wasn't part of the plan.
Though Euron's layout was deep, he hadn't precisely calculated a large-scale attack by the mountain clans here, nor did he expect the family steward of Harrenhal to be heavily wounded by chance. This was purely an unexpected coincidence of fate.
However, when opportunity descends like a sudden glimmer in the dark, a seasoned strategist never lets it pass.
The savage attack by the mountain clans created perfect chaos and casualties. The steward's bleeding wound offered a godsent opportunity. On the chessboard of fate, since this unexpected piece had walked into a position where it could be taken, swallowing it and turning it to his own use was the calmest and most rational choice.
Thus, what was originally just Euron heading to Dragonstone and traveling with the caravan to Harrenhal for convenience, instantly evolved into an acceleration of the "Internal Affairs" plan due to this bloody encounter. Chaos became the best cover for conspiracy; casualties provided the most reasonable explanation for the shift in power.
The setting sun was like a crumpled piece of beeswax, crushing the last rays of red-gold onto the wilderness.
Dust rose on the distant horizon—it was the cavalry from Harrenhal. Forty or fifty chestnut warhorses trampled the grass, the sound of hooves crashing into ears like the tide of the southern seas back home.
Lord Walter Whent had four sons and one daughter. The leader of the troop was his second son, Ser Leopold Whent.
Ser Leopold dismounted, his leather boots crushing a bloody arrow shaft. He walked up to Euron, his scabbard gently tapping against his hilt, his expression angry. "These damned savages dare to touch a caravan of Harrenhal..." He looked at Euron and nodded in gratitude. "If not for Lord Euron traveling with the caravan, the situation would have been far worse! It's getting late. Return to Harrenhal with us. Wine and meat are ready!"
"Send my regards to the Earl! I will definitely be there before the tourney begins. As for now..." Euron shook his head and pointed southeast. "I have other places to go."
He didn't tell him about going to Dragonstone. It wasn't distrust, just the caution bred from years of wandering.
So, at the crossroads, they parted ways, each taking their own path.
---