Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 276 The Battle of the Bell

After the allied forces of Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne and Jon Arryn, Warden of the Vale, marched eastward from the Eyrie, they did not rush into action. Instead, they chose to rest and recuperate in the town of Lord Harlowe, while simultaneously deploying scouts to gather intelligence on the movements of all sides.

Soon, some Stormlands soldiers who had been defeated and scattered by Jon Clinton on the banks of the Blackwater River began to come to them. From their scattered and panicked accounts, the two men pieced together Robert's harrowing journey of being defeated at Centree Beach and ambushed again on the banks of the Blackwater River.

Lord Jon Arryn listened to the report, his aged but sharp eyes sweeping across the map. His finger precisely pointed to the location of Stonehall, and he said in a deep voice, "Robert was wounded and routed, and the fleeing soldiers said he fled north. Therefore, the most likely place for him to hide is Stonehall. Ser Wilbert is always loyal and will not stand idly by."

Before he could finish speaking, Prince Oberyn Martell, nicknamed "The Red Viper," had already stood up, his eyes flashing with excitement and determination. He decisively ordered, "I will lead two thousand cavalry ahead, marching day and night, straight to Stone Hall Town!"

Prince Dorne led two thousand light cavalry, like a red desert storm, stirring up clouds of dust, and galloped toward Stonehall, intending to wrest their stag king from the iron grip of the royal army.

As Prince Dorne's cavalry vanguard approached the outskirts of Stonehall, a new cloud of dust suddenly rose on the northeastern horizon.

A larger cavalry force surged forward like a steel torrent, its two leading banners fluttering in the wind—Euron Greyjoy's golden kraken banner and Eddard Stark's direwolf banner. Their three thousand fresh troops quickly joined forces with Prince Oberyn's army, greatly boosting the morale of the allied forces.

The speed at which these reinforcements arrived far exceeded Jon Clinton's worst expectations. He had calculated the time it would take to send troops from Riverrun, but he never imagined that the messenger sent by Wilbert Paxson would be so incredibly lucky—shortly after leaving Stonehouse, the messenger encountered the cavalry of the North-Riverside-Iron Islands allied forces, who were speeding from Riverrun to Stonehouse.

After Euron deduced from Riverrun that Stonehall was likely Robert's likely route, he immediately mustered his troops and set off. This decisive action allowed the messenger to complete his mission en route, without having to travel to Riverrun, thus buying the allied forces crucial time.

Standing atop the low wall of Stonehall, Jon Clinton gazed at the ever-growing, clearly superior Allied forces in the distance, his face grim. The cage he had meticulously constructed might, in the blink of an eye, become his own doom.

As the iron hooves of the allied cavalry approached Shitang Town, the earth trembled as if muffled thunder were rolling down from the horizon.

An ordinary monk from the local sanctuary, a lowly clergyman who devoted himself to rural sacraments year-round, rushed out of his humble dwelling upon hearing the commotion. Looking up, he saw the sky shrouded in dust, and vaguely made out the banners of a golden sea monster, a sun-piercing spear, and an ice wolf. He immediately turned and, without hesitation, ran towards the sanctuary's weathered bell tower.

He pulled with all his might the heavy bell rope, slamming it against the ancient bronze bell with all his might.

"Dong—dong—dong, the loud and urgent chimes instantly tore apart the tranquility of the town, like invisible waves, quickly sweeping over every street and every house."

This is not a clarion call to summon warriors to battle, but an ancient and time-honored warning signal of danger.

Its message was clear and unambiguous, already ingrained in the blood of every town resident: "A deadly danger is approaching. All civilians must immediately cease all activities, retreat to their homes, lock their doors and windows, and do not come out no matter what noises they hear!"

The tolling of the bell served two purposes: firstly, to protect the innocent townspeople, creating an invisible barrier to shield them from the impending bloody street battle; secondly, it was a declaration to Robert and his supporters in hiding, telling them that reinforcements had arrived and the final moment was approaching.

As the shouts of battle from the allied forces breaching the city's defenses could be faintly heard, the bell towers of the various shrines in Shitang Town seemed to be pulled by the same invisible thread, and they all rang their alarm bells in unison.

It began with a single, lonely, and hurried chime; then, as if in response, a second, a third—

Until all the bells in the town joined this mournful chorus.

The resounding bronze bell and the clear, melodious small chime intertwined, converging into a deafening torrent of sound that swept through every street and house in the town like an invisible tide. This was no longer the peaceful chime of daily prayers, but a supreme warning of danger passed down through generations, its meaning deeply understood by all the townspeople.

The tolling of bells echoed and reverberated in the air, sternly urging everyone still outdoors to hurry on.

In an instant, the last few scattered pedestrians on the street vanished as quickly as water droplets seeping into sand, followed by the sounds of doors and windows being bolted shut and gates slamming shut. In the time it takes for a few dozen heartbeats to pass, the once somewhat lively streets and alleys were completely empty, leaving only the echoing tolling of bells and dust swirling in the wind.

The lingering echoes of the bell reverberate through the valley, serving as both a dirge for protection and a prelude to a fierce battle.

The low walls of Shitang Town crumbled under the first charge of the Allied cavalry, like a sandcastle built by a child being washed away by the tide.

Warhorses neighed and trampled the wooden fences as soldiers surged into the town like an iron torrent.

However, the real hell had only just begun. Jon Clinton had already consolidated his forces within the town, relying on every street and every stone house for defense. Every step the allied forces took was paid for with blood.

Street fighting broke out instantly and quickly became a stalemate.

On the narrow street, soldiers from both sides were crammed together, the sounds of spears snapping, swords slicing through flesh and bone filling the air, and the cries of the dying echoing through the air. Blood quickly pooled into streams, spreading across the uneven cobblestones.

The battle quickly spread into three-dimensional space. Archers and lightly armed soldiers climbed onto the connected rooftops, leaping and fighting on the sloping tiles. Every now and then, figures screamed as they fell from the heights, crashing into the battle below.

The entire town of Stonehall was gone, transformed into a vast, bustling slaughterhouse. Every alleyway was a battlefield, every house a small fortress requiring a bloody battle to conquer. While the Allied forces held the overall advantage, in the specific, localized battles, Jon Clinton's army was putting up the fiercest resistance with experience and desperation.

As the alarm bells rang and shouts of battle drew near to Peach Inn, Robert Baratheon flung open the attic window. He held not the fearsome warhammer he once wielded, but a longsword he'd found in the inn; yet, his eyes burned with a long-lost fire, even more intense than before.

During his brief but profound respite at the Peach Inn, Elisa's care and warmth acted like a panacea, not only healing the horrific wounds on his shoulder and neck but also soothing the pent-up resentment that had accumulated over the past few days. At that moment, he was filled with surging power, a fierce courage that needed to be released.

Robert roared like a lion, leaped from the window, and charged straight into the battle at the street corner. His longsword, though not as powerful as his warhammer, possessed a sharper and more agile edge. His footwork was steady, his sword strokes expansive and powerful, each strike carrying pent-up rage and renewed strength.

Blood quickly stained his clothes, and six royal soldiers had fallen to his sword. The most notable among them was the renowned knight, Misty Mouton. A former squire of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, he was a highly skilled and illustrious warrior. The two met in the narrow alleyways, their swords clashing, sparks flying. After several swift exchanges, Robert, with a masterful feint followed by a swift thrust, pierced Mouton's defenses and felled him.

This scene greatly boosted the morale of the Allied forces and announced to everyone that the invincible stag had returned.

While Robert fought fiercely through the streets, on the other side of the battlefield, Prince Oberyn Martell's sharp, hawk-like gaze pierced through the chaotic crowd and locked onto the figure in snow-white armor—his uncle, Kingsguard Levin Martell.

Oberyn cut into the battle like a red lightning bolt, his specially made spear held horizontally, precisely blocking Levenma's path.

"Uncle!" Oberyn shouted, his voice still clear amidst the clashing of swords, "Whether it's the Mad King on the Iron Throne or that self-important Rhaegar, have they ever truly respected Dorne? They are not worthy of our loyalty!"

Sir Levine's white robes were stained with dust and blood, but his eyes remained as firm as a rock. He calmly replied, each word carrying immense weight: "Oberyn, the day I donned this white robe, I swore an oath. From this day forward, I belong no more to any family, but only to the Royal Family, a vow that will never waver until the end of my life."

A flicker of regret crossed Oberyn's eyes; he knew words could not undo the damage. "It seems," he slowly lowered his spear, assuming an offensive stance, "that we can only speak with our spears and swords now."

The uncle and nephew said no more and immediately started fighting.

The spears moved like venomous snakes spitting their tongues, the swords flashed like bolts of lightning, their martial arts originating from the same source, making it difficult to determine a winner for the time being. However, just as they were completely focused on their duel, a ghostly figure silently leaped down from the side of the roof!

Euron Greyjoy, like a sea monster lurking in the shadows, precisely seized the opening left by Ser Levin's parry, striking him hard on the back of the neck with the back of his scimitar instead of the blade. Levin groaned and immediately lost consciousness.

Oberyn's spear stopped abruptly, and he looked at Euron in shock and anger. Euron flicked the back of his blade, a signature, enigmatic smile on his face. "Don't blame me for meddling, Your Highness. But I think it's better to take this noble uncle back to Sunspear than to let him die here. The battlefield," he kicked the dust from his feet, "isn't a good place to discuss family matters."

Before he could finish speaking, two sharp whistles rang out in the air! As if he had eyes in the back of his head, Euron wielded his twin swords like a whirlwind, accurately deflecting two cold arrows that shot from the shadows. The blades and arrows collided, creating ear-piercing sparks.

He let out a wild laugh, then suddenly exerted force with his feet, his figure flashing like a ghost as he turned and charged into the horde of royal soldiers from which the arrows had originated. His twin blades transformed into two deadly silver arcs, leaving a trail of blood and flesh in their wake, instantly clearing a small vacuum zone.

At the height of this chaos, Jon Clinton stood atop a slightly elevated stone step, calmly surveying the entire battlefield. He saw Robert descending like a god of war, Prince Oberyn had subdued Ser Leven, Euron was reaping lives indiscriminately, and his own soldiers' lines were collapsing completely. This commander, known for his rationality, instantly made the coldest yet most accurate judgment: defeat was inevitable; preserving manpower was the best course of action.

Without further hesitation, he gave the messenger beside him a concise and clear order: "Sound the bugle, retreat. Each unit will provide cover for the others, breaking through to the southeast!"

The bugle call for retreat sounded mournfully, and the remaining Wang troops, like the receding tide, began to disengage in an orderly fashion under the command of their officers, retreating out of the town. A bloody street battle had finally come to a conclusion.