Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 279 Advantages and Disadvantages of Harrenhal

When Euron Greyjoy returned to the Allied camp, it was already late at night. The command tent was brightly lit, and all the core leaders—Robert, Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, Hoster Tully, and Oberyn Martell—were gathered there, awaiting his message.

Euron said nothing more and recounted everything he had overheard in the Harrenhal Hall. When he spoke of Ariana, the daughter of the Earl of Heinrich, not being a simple hostage, but being possessed by Iris II and pregnant, the air in the tent seemed to freeze instantly.

At first, there was a deathly silence; everyone needed time to process this horrifying news. They had initially thought the girl was merely a common bargaining chip for maintaining loyalty, serving as a respectable handmaiden in King's Landing, but the ugliness of reality far exceeded their imagination.

"Bang!"

A deafening crash shattered the silence. Robert Baratheon's massive fist slammed onto the heavy wooden table, knocking over wine glasses that spilled like blood. Veins bulged on his forehead, his face contorted with rage, and a beastly growl roared from deep within his throat: "That damned old madman! How dare he—! How dare he sit on the Iron Throne?!"

Immediately afterward, Duke Horst Tully also stood up abruptly, trembling with rage, his white beard shaking uncontrollably: "Blasphemy! This is the most shameless desecration of the trust between the lords and nobles of the Seven Kingdoms! To use a father's love for his daughter to blackmail his loyalty—this is utterly unheard of!"

Even the usually calm and composed Eddard Stark was now ashen-faced, his fingers gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly they turned white, and his grey eyes held a chilling intensity reminiscent of the harsh winter of the North. His voice was low, yet carried an undeniable resolve: "Such actions are not befitting a king. This further proves that the cause we fight for is just."

Prince Oberyn Martell's reaction was particularly unusual and cold. This Dornish lord, known as the "Red Viper," may not adhere to the code of honor like knights, and may be adept at using poison and other methods that are despised by traditional knights, but he has his own inviolable principles, a set of almost harsh fairness and justice rooted in the Dornish sands and in his blood.

The most crucial of these is: never harm innocent women and children.

Aerys II's actions far exceeded the bounds of political maneuvering or the cruelty of war; they trampled on the most basic principles of humanity and precisely shattered the untouchable red line deep within Oberyn Martell's heart. He didn't roar like Robert, nor did he vehemently condemn like Horst. He simply rose slowly, extremely slowly, his black eyes, which always held a hint of mockery and languor, now as cold as ice and as sharp as venomous fangs. The sweltering air in the tent seemed to freeze around him.

He gently stroked the shaft of his rifle, his voice low but clear to everyone present, each word seemingly squeezed from a crack in the ice: "Some people—no longer deserve to be called human." These words carried more weight than any roar. Those who knew him understood that "Oberyn Martell's" anger was never expressed through volume, but rather would manifest as a precise, protracted, and irreversible revenge at some point in the future.

The crowd inside the tent was filled with righteous indignation. This latest act of evil by Aerys II not only failed to dismantle the alliance, but instead poured oil on the already raging fire, making the determination to overthrow the Targaryen dynasty even stronger and purer.

After Lord Jon Arryn's somber words, a brief silence fell over the tent. Attacking Harrenhal meant immense sacrifice, but the Earl of River's predicament and the Mad King's wickedness had sealed off all possibilities of reconciliation. The men exchanged glances, and finally, with grave expressions, they all nodded slowly—only war remained.

"Now that we've decided to fight," Jon's gaze swept over each commander in the tent, "then the next step is to figure out how to fight this battle."

As everyone was still processing this difficult decision and frowning in thought as they stared at the Harrenhal model on the map, Euron Greyjoy broke the silence. He stepped forward and pointed precisely at the menacing fortress model on the sand table.

"Since we're going to discuss this, let me start," Euron's voice carried a calm clarity bordering on cruel. "First, we must take Harrenhal's defenses seriously; it's far from an ordinary castle."

He surveyed the crowd, meticulously dispelling any unrealistic fantasies: "The wall's thickness far exceeds our imagination, especially in sections repeatedly forged with dragonfire by the 'Blackheart' Harren. The twisted and fused rocks are even harder and more resilient than before. Our catapults would likely only leave a few white marks."

"The height of the city walls is even more despairing; ordinary ladders can't even reach the crenellations, and the construction of siege towers will be a long and arduous project."

"Geographically, the north side is close to Shenyan Lake, which we cannot encircle. We can only focus our attacks on the east and south sides, which allows them to concentrate their forces for defense."

"The most troublesome thing is its defensive system consisting of multiple city gates and barbicans. Even if we pay a heavy price to break through the first gate, what awaits us is just another slaughterhouse."

Euron's analysis was like a bucket of cold water poured on the newly ignited fighting spirit, but it also forced everyone to abandon any wishful thinking and face the cruelest reality.

He abruptly changed the subject, precisely dissecting Harrenhal's seemingly invincible defensive shell to reveal its inner decay and cracks. His voice carried the sharpness of a hunter discovering the weakness of its prey: "But even the strongest shield can be shattered with a single blow if a crack is found. Harrenhal's advantages are obvious, but its flaws are equally fatal."

His fingers traced the towering tower models on the sand table: "First, there's its historical trauma. During Aegon's Conquest, Baelorion's dragonfire not only melted King Harren but also severely damaged this castle. Dread Tower, Widow's Tower—all five main towers were struck directly by dragonfire. The surface rock may have twisted and solidified, but the internal structural integrity was long ago destroyed, leaving unseen scars."

His fingertip pointed to certain sections of the city wall: "Secondly, it has been neglected for years. The massive city wall is indeed thick, but many sections have developed huge cracks and gaps due to the financial difficulties of the He'an family. These gaps are large enough for people to see the tower from outside the city, and even large enough for our siege ladders to be placed directly on top of it—they are no longer walls, but back doors opened for us."

He raised his head, a calculating glint in his eyes: "Finally, and most importantly, there's the conflict between scale and manpower. Because the castle is so large and the maintenance costs are so high, the He'an family has long since abandoned the upper towers and many areas, which are now a paradise for bats and ghosts, completely undefended. Once war breaks out, the limited garrison will inevitably be stretched thin, forcing them to shrink their defenses, which will create numerous blind spots and vulnerabilities."

He finally surveyed the crowd and revealed the core tactic: "The castle is too large, and the garrison too small, meaning their movement, communication, and coordinated defense will be extremely slow and difficult. This is our opportunity. We can create disturbances simultaneously from all sides, launching feint attacks in multiple locations, keeping them running around like headless chickens, never guessing where our true main attack is. Using this diversionary tactic, we can wear down this clumsy stone elephant!"

Euron's analysis was like a ray of light shining through the fog, pointing the Allied forces in the right direction for their attack—not brute force, but skillful exploitation of their weaknesses.