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The moment the heavy eastern gate began to budge, the thunder of hooves erupted from the inner streets of the castle!
Casimodo Whent and Lahn Whent, the two brothers, led dozens of cavalry and nearly a hundred infantrymen in a desperate charge, diving straight for the breach.
"Open the gate! Faster!" Euron roared at the Ironborn straining against the mechanism. He stood alone before the opening, holding his dual blades, barring the way like a demon gatekeeper.
The iron gate was immensely heavy; even with dozens of men pushing, it moved agonizingly slowly. It would take moments before it was wide enough for the army to flood in.
Seeing the Whent cavalry bearing down on him, a blazing, massive fireball suddenly leaped from Euron's shoulder into the air. The sphere was blindingly hot and bright, like a miniature sun. Strangely, in the center of this sun were eyes, a mouth, a nose—it was the elemental lifeform Euron had created with the Soru Soru no Mi (Soul-Soul Fruit): Apollo.
With a wave of Euron's arm, Apollo exhaled a sky-filling torrent of fire, transforming into a wall of flame that instantly swallowed the narrow approach to the gate.
The infantry at the front were forced back by the searing heat, screaming in agony.
However, urged on by their knights, the warhorses made a desperate leap. Enduring the pain of singed hides, they smashed through the wall of fire! The lance tips of the cavalry glinted with deadly cold light amidst the flames.
At this point, the iron gate was only open a crack, barely wide enough for one man to squeeze through sideways. Seeing the cavalry about to strike, Euron took a deep breath, his eyes snapping shut and then open—
Conqueror's Haki!
An invisible pressure, palpable as a tsunami, surged forward!
This was not magic, but a majestic aura that transcended martial skill.
The warhorses charging at the front reacted as if they had encountered a prehistoric apex predator. Terrified, they reared up, throwing their riders. More horses seemed to have their bones suddenly removed; their front legs buckled, and they collapsed to the ground, letting out mournful cries of distress.
Inside and outside the gate, for a moment, there was only the crackle of burning fire, the wailing of horses, and the groans of fallen knights.
Casimodo and Lahn Whent stumbled to their feet beside their panicked mounts, their longswords ringing as they cleared their scabbards. The brothers did not roar. They simply stared silently at Euron blocking the gate, their eyes a mix of despair, resolve, and the death wish driven by family honor.
Euron crossed his twin blades in front of him. With a light scrape of the metal, a string of blinding sparks burst forth. Crimson flames seemed to draw life from the void, suddenly wrapping around the blades, turning them into two roaring swords of fire.
No more words were wasted. Combat erupted in the next second. The Whent brothers attacked from left and right, coordinating perfectly. Casimodo's sword style was steady and fierce, aiming for vital points; Lahn's style was more agile, attacking the lower body.
Euron's figure moved like a ghost amidst the flashes of steel. His burning blades drew brilliant, lethal arcs of light. The fire brought not only the threat of burning but also dazzled his opponents' vision. After a few ear-piercing clashes of metal, Euron seized a tiny opening in Lahn's defense. His flame-wreathed blade drilled into the gap like a viper, instantly piercing the younger brother's chest.
Seeing his brother fall, Casimodo let out a roar of grief and rage. His attacks grew faster but lost their discipline. Euron sidestepped a desperate, sacrificial lunge, and his other flaming sword swept up from below. A scorching arc of light flashed, and Casimodo's sword arm was severed cleanly! Before he could even scream, Euron's backhand slash swept precisely across his neck.
The brothers fell one after another, blood spreading rapidly over the ancient flagstones. Euron flicked the bloody flames from his blades and turned to look at the gate, which was finally yawning open.
The sight of the open gate inspired the coalition forces more than any war drum.
The blood-soaked soldiers outside let out earth-shaking cheers. Like a flood breaking a dam, they swarmed toward the fatal breach.
The myth of the impregnable Harrenhal collapsed in that instant.
With the East Gate forcibly opened by Euron, the coalition army poured into Harrenhal.
The mere two thousand defenders inside, facing tens of thousands of battle-hardened coalition troops, put up a resistance that seemed pale and powerless. Furthermore, the coalition boasted unstoppable warriors like Robert Baratheon, skilled fighters like Oberyn Martell, steady commanders like Eddard Stark, and the terrifyingly unpredictable Euron Greyjoy.
Under such absolute advantage, the other main gate was soon breached from the inside. The primary battle for Harrenhal was declared over in a short time, and the banners of the Rebel Alliance rose along the walls.
However, conquering a castle as massive and labyrinthine as Harrenhal was far more than just controlling the gates. The fortress was vast, filled with countless towers, cellars, secret passages, and abandoned halls—perfect places for hiding. Sporadic, desperate resistance erupted from the shadows, and cold arrows occasionally flew from unexpected corners.
The coalition had to organize squads to sweep the castle like a comb. They cleared the towers floor by floor, searching every corner and secret room. The process was tedious and dangerous, requiring immense patience and time.
It wasn't until nightfall that the last resistance inside the castle was completely extinguished.
The remaining members of House Whent and their loyalists were either killed in desperate fighting or captured after exhaustion took them. Harrenhal, the weathered behemoth, after enduring days of torment, had finally fallen completely into the hands of the coalition. Illuminated by firelight, its shadows seemed to carry a different meaning.
After Harrenhal fell, a complex emotion permeated the hearts of the coalition leaders.
On an undecided battlefield, House Whent was an enemy to be crushed without mercy. But once the dust settled, facing these people who were, ultimately, also victims of the Mad King's tyranny, thoughts of mercy naturally grew.
The lords were inclined to show leniency, to offer this traumatized family a path to survival.
But the cruelty of war lies in the fact that it rarely grants happy endings.
After the headcount, it was discovered that of the direct line of House Whent, only the third son, Matthias Whent, was still breathing, though he was gravely wounded and his survival was uncertain.
In the deepest bedchamber of the main keep, a silent tragedy had already frozen in time. Lord Walter Whent, the moment he heard the thunderous sound of the gates falling, had calmly swallowed the poison he had prepared long ago.
When coalition soldiers found him, he was lying quietly on the massive bed. His face was unusually peaceful, as if he had simply fallen into a deep sleep, all pressure, humiliation, and struggle having left him.
His wife, Lady Shella Whent, did not cry, nor did she flee. She simply sat quietly by the bedside, one hand gently holding her husband's cold hand, the other arranging the silver hair on his forehead. Her back was straight, silently guarding her husband's final dignity, as if the noise and victory outside had nothing to do with this room.
Outside the window, the horns of the coalition celebrating victory could be faintly heard. Inside, there was only eternal silence and the companionship of a wife.