Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 280 The Fall of Harrenhal

Under the immense shadow of Harrenhal, the Allied camp did not immediately sound the call to attack.

Every commander knew that any reckless charge against this legendary fortress would be tantamount to suicide. Instead, a grand and orderly war preparation was slowly unfolding around the castle.

Like busy worker ants, the allied forces began the arduous but necessary preparations:

Soldiers marched into the forests around Shenyan Lake in droves, the sound of axes and chisels felling trees day and night, and thick timbers were continuously transported back to the camp.

Another group of people quarried and moved boulders on the nearby hills and riverbanks to prepare "ammunition" for the catapults.

Under the direction of craftsmen and engineers, temporary workshops were erected on the vast plain, where the sounds of hammering and sawing siege engines mingled together. Huge siege towers, heavy battering rams, and powerful catapults gradually took on their menacing forms in the hands of these skilled craftsmen.

The entire Allied camp resembled a giant arsenal, the air thick with the scent of fresh timber and sweat. This seemingly slow pace was far more suffocating than a direct, shouting charge. It was a silent declaration, a resolve expressed through action: we have the patience and the strength to break through your shell in the most thorough way possible!

The soldiers on the city wall looked at the bustling yet orderly camp in the distance, and at the siege beasts that were growing taller day by day. The pressure in their hearts also increased day by day.

The Allied forces' massive siege equipment was still under construction, but the psychological warfare against the defenders of Harrenhal had already begun quietly and continued brutally, day and night.

This became a nightmare for the defending soldiers. Every few minutes, without any discernible pattern, the booming of war drums and deafening shouts of battle would suddenly erupt from some direction of Harrenhal—sometimes from the east, then a moment later from the south, and the next moment from the northeast.

Each sound sent shivers down the spines of the soldiers on the city walls. They rushed toward the source of the noise, nocked their arrows, and braced their spears, preparing for a bloody assault. But when they arrived, breathless, they found only a vast expanse of darkness outside the city, or the shadows of a few allied scouts quickly disappearing into the night. There were no ladders, no charges, only the fury of being toyed with and the dwindling weariness of the enemy.

Night, a time that should have been for rest, became a deeper torment. Just as the defenders closed their eyes and drifted into a restless slumber, the terrifying war drums and shouts would suddenly shatter the silence. They had no choice but to rise again, rush up the city walls in the dark, their nerves taut in the cold night wind, until all was silent again.

This cycle repeats endlessly.

The defending soldiers became like frightened birds, their eyes darkened, and their nerves were stretched to the limit.

They never knew when or where the next "attack" would begin. This fear of the unknown and the despair of being deprived of rest were gradually eroding their will, more deadly than swords.

This harassment tactic, combining feints and real attacks, lasted for two full days, leaving the defenders of Harrenhal exhausted and on the verge of mental collapse. On the third day, the allied forces suddenly escalated their strategy.

In the south, Oberyn Martell and Horst Tully's armies set up camp in a grand manner, with the sound of war drums resounding day and night.

But this time, they were not merely bluffing. Under the cover of drums, Dorne's pikemen and the warriors of the Riverlands launched several fierce small-scale assaults on the city walls.

Using grappling hooks and short ladders, the soldiers climbed with the swiftness of monkeys. Several times, elite squads successfully leaped onto the ramparts and engaged the defenders in close-quarters combat. Although these assaults were ultimately repelled, each one sent chills down the spines of the defenders, who dared not relax their guard for a moment, their nerves on edge.

While the fighting in the south drew most of the defenders' attention, Euron Greyjoy was carrying out a more covert plan.

He personally led an elite Ironborn corps, and under the cover of night, they silently infiltrated the icy waters of Lake Divine Eye. Utilizing the blind spots created by the lake's surface, they moved like water ghosts, clinging to the massive city wall base, carefully searching for abandoned drainage outlets or underwater tunnels near Harrenhal's shores, places that might have been forgotten long ago.

Day four, dawn.

As the first rays of sunlight swept across Lake God's Eye, illuminating the menacing silhouette of Harrenhal, the allied forces' general offensive finally commenced. The three armies, like a meticulously choreographed musical movement, began the prelude to the final decisive battle.

The first force, heading towards the main gate, consisted of Robert Baratheon's most elite troops, joined together with Lord Horst Tully's Riverlands legions, forming a massive array before Harrenhal's imposing gates. War drums thundered, horns blared, and the soldiers' roars shook the heavens and earth. Robert himself stood at the forefront, warhammer in hand, his imposing presence enough to draw the attention of every vigilant eye within the castle. The mission of this force was clear and arduous: to hold the main force of the defenders firmly in check with the utmost ferocity.

The second route, along the eastern ruins, saw the combined forces of Prince Oberyn Martell and Lord Eddard Stark quietly advance to the pre-surveyed, dilapidated sections of the eastern wall of the castle. Prepared ladders were swiftly erected, and Dornish spearmen and Northern warriors, like a silent pack of wolves, began their ascent along the ancient scars, intending to deliver a fatal blow to the defenders from this most unexpected weak point.

The third wave, an aerial assault, a torrential rain of stones. Further back, Duke Jon Arryn commanded the Vale Legion, operating massive catapults hastily constructed over several days. At his command, huge stones, whistling through the air, ripped through the sky, soaring over the walls and raining down upon the castle's inner courtyard, towers, and garrison areas. This was not precision strikes, but a widespread, indiscriminate bombardment designed to create chaos, destroy morale, and create an opportunity for the assault troops.

Harrenhal, this ancient and weathered behemoth, finally found itself under attack from both the ground and the air on this day.

The fifth day, early morning.

The night is darkest, the chill is deepest, and it is precisely the time when the human body is most exhausted and least vigilant.

Harrenhal’s massive silhouette resembled a sleeping black beast under the moonlight. The harassment and feints of the past few days had pushed the defenders to their physical and mental limits.

Suddenly, without warning, war drums thundered from all directions! Torchlight instantly ignited the night, and the roars of the allied forces erupted like long-suppressed thunder. It seemed as if the allied forces from all directions launched a full-scale assault on the city at the same moment! Arrows rained down on the city walls, siege ladders were erected again, and soldiers surged towards the ramparts like a tidal wave. This unprecedentedly fierce offensive threw the exhausted defenders into a panic, all their attention now focused on defending the ramparts.

This thunderous final attack was, in fact, the most magnificent cover for the real killing move.

Amidst this deafening clamor, Euron Greyjoy and his carefully selected elite Ironborn, like true phantoms, used the shadows of the lakeshore and the deafening sounds of battle as cover to silently infiltrate the vicinity of the East Gate.

There, several guards, exhausted from days of torment, were barely holding on to the frontal assault, completely unaware that death was approaching from behind.