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The blizzard didn't just hammer Winterfell itself. The people crowded in Winter Town outside the walls suffered just as badly—maybe worse.
They had no hot springs and no castle walls for shelter. Most of them had clustered on the southern side of Winterfell to block the north wind. Nobody expected the storm that night to come howling up from the south instead.
Many of the old and weak froze to death where they huddled.
Even the younger and stronger suffered terrible frostbite. When the Ironborn came at them with short swords and curved blades, they didn't have the strength to fight back—or even run.
Men died under cold steel. Women screamed beneath the reavers. The entire winter town had been dragged straight into hell.
Just when the pillaging was at its peak, their leader gave the order to stop and withdraw immediately.
The raiders were furious. Many ignored the command and kept grabbing whatever they could.
The North might be vast and sparsely populated, but the locals had stockpiled plenty of grain for winter. Half the wealth of the North was concentrated around Winterfell. After marching through snow and ice, the Ironborn weren't about to leave empty-handed.
The reavers didn't know their ships were already trapped in thick ice, but Euron did. After he asserted his authority by killing a few of the loudest complainers, the rest grudgingly swallowed their anger and obeyed.
"What the hell is he thinking? We grab one crippled kid and suddenly we're running back?"
"That's it? Just one? No other Starks? We didn't even find any of Eddard's daughters?"
Even under Euron's iron fist, the men still muttered bitterly among themselves.
Sawane Botley quickly ordered them to shut their mouths.
He suspected Euron was rushing back because something had gone wrong with the fleet.
How Euron knew didn't matter. A man who could summon blizzards probably had ways of knowing what was happening hundreds of leagues away.
Sawane rode up beside Euron. "My lord, has our fleet been discovered?"
"Yes," Euron replied curtly, his face grim.
"Is the fleet still intact?" Sawane asked carefully.
If the fleet was gone, they'd be facing the full wrath of the Northern army on foot.
"Our ships are still in the bay."
Sawane breathed a sigh of relief. "How many men do they have, my lord?"
"Thirty ships. Maybe one or two thousand men." Euron was estimating based on the number of sails he'd seen.
Sawane relaxed. They had three hundred longships and thirty larger vessels—more than four times the enemy's numbers.
He remembered how cautious Euron had been when choosing their landing site. Clearly he'd been expecting trouble. The enemy had just been smarter.
"Lord Euron, let my men take the vanguard when we get there," Sawane offered earnestly, leaning closer. "Our longships have been fitted with new rams. We'll smash their hulls to splinters!"
Victarion was dead. Balon's son was dead. Euron was Aeron's brother and now the most likely man to claim the Seastone Chair. Sawane figured it was time to pledge his loyalty early.
But Euron's reaction was lukewarm. He stared toward the western coast and said flatly, "Our ships can't move. Tell your men to prepare for a fight on foot."
"Can't move? On foot?"
Sawane didn't understand. Their ships were supposed to be safe in the bay. Why fight on land?
He could tell Euron wasn't going to explain further. Euron simply rode over to the horse carrying Bran, who was held by one of the mute thralls.
Bran lifted his blue eyes as Euron approached.
"I once had a dream," Euron said casually, "when I was very young. I dreamed I could fly—"
Bran's gaze flickered. He'd had the same dream. But he had no interest in talking to the man who had invaded Winterfell.
Euron didn't care. He continued, "Do you know who kept speaking to me in that dream, telling me I could fly? You'll never believe it—a three-eyed crow!"
When Euron mentioned the three-eyed crow, Bran's expression changed. Euron smiled like a fox who'd caught a rabbit.
"That's him, isn't it? The thing that saved you back in the Wolfswood. Hmph. That creature really does favor you Starks. Has your bastard brother Jon had the same dream?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Then I'll ask him myself."
---
Back at the hidden bay where the Iron Fleet was trapped, the Ironborn were desperately trying to free their ships. Men hacked at the ice with pickaxes and tried melting it with fires, but the frozen shell was brutally thick. Even carving out a hole the size of a man's head took back-breaking effort.
The reavers were sweating despite the freezing cold.
"Enemy sighted!"
A shrill horn blast cut through the air. In the distance, a fleet of black sails was approaching.
The white wolf-head banners made it perfectly clear these weren't friends.
Brynden had brought the fleet right up to the edge of the ice Jon had created with his sacrifice.
The arrival sent the men left guarding the ships into panic. Only about a thousand defenders remained here, while thirty ships could easily hold two thousand fighters.
Their best bet was to use the longships and larger vessels as makeshift fortresses and wait for reinforcements.
Each ship became a fortress. They could hold out.
Then one of Euron's mute thralls left the frozen ships and began walking straight toward the approaching fleet.
"Who the hell is that idiot?"
"Looks like one of Euron's men."
No one understood what he was doing. They just watched him walk to his death with strange expressions.
On the Iron Islands, men on the same ship worked together seamlessly. But once you crossed ship lines, that was the captain's problem.
Most of the captains had gone to Winterfell, so no one bothered to warn the fool. Whether he was deserting or committing suicide, it was none of their concern.
"Hey, that guy's got a raven on his shoulder," one man said, peering through a spyglass.
"Look! Someone's coming out from the other side too—gods, look at that armor! It must be worth a thousand gold dragons!"
The Ironborn leaned over the rails, pointing and whispering.
It was Jon.
Through his divine vision, he had already seen that the man walking toward him was Euron—or rather, a body controlled by Euron's soul.
"Euron Stark," they said at almost the same time.
"Such classic villain dialogue," Jon replied with a smile.
For some reason, Jon always found himself speaking to Euron in a slightly mocking tone. Maybe because the man was evil in such a pure, uncomplicated way.
"You continue to surprise me, Stark. How do you know this magic? Don't tell me you sacrificed your own family too?" The raven's voice was harsh and rasping.
"Is your brain really that small? Where would I get blood relatives to sacrifice right now? My magic is simply stronger than yours, and my talent far greater. I only needed the blood of those two warlocks."
"Talent." Euron couldn't accept the implication that his gift was inferior. The raven on the mute thrall's shoulder lowered its head aggressively, as if ready to strike.
He had spent years demanding that men worship him as a god. To be openly dismissed by a boy not even half his age was infuriating.
But Euron had sailed half the world and walked the ruins of Valyria. He quickly regained control of his emotions.
"You don't know yet, do you? I have Bran."
"Oh? You're threatening me with Bran? You think I care? Or are you saying you'll kill him if I don't let you through? You won't. You and Bran had the same dream. He still has value to you."
Euron narrowed his eyes. How does he know that?
"Euron, Robb's army is already on the way. You'd better hurry. Otherwise you'll die right here."
"My lord," Brynden said, coming up beside Jon. "When do we attack?"
"We don't. We're not attacking first. The main Ironborn force won't reach us for another three or four days. We'll fight a defensive battle. Let them come to us!"
Jon planned to cut and stack ice blocks to build defensive walls.
He had already sent ravens to Robb, ordering him to march for Winterfell with all speed.
Soon Robb's army would arrive. Euron would have no choice but to launch an assault before the Northern army could reinforce Jon.
Euron might be clever with schemes and dark magic, but when it came to real warfare, he was only a second-rate commander at best.
Even with his sorcery, against proper preparation he was no match for someone like Randyll Tarly.