On the ice-locked surface of the bay, a dark-red wall more than two meters high rose like a miniature version of the Wall itself.
The main material was ice blocks hacked straight out of the frozen sea. The deep crimson came from the blood and meat of fish pulled from the water and chopped into chunks. Fish flesh freezes fast, so Jon used it as mortar. Up close you could see scales embedded everywhere, with fish heads and tails poking out of the seams like grotesque decorations.
Most of the men Jon had brought could draw a heavy war bow. He'd even hauled every expensive crossbow they owned. Safe behind the solid ice wall, his soldiers could pour fire into the enemy without breaking a sweat.
Jon had zero intention of trading blows with Euron. Time was on his side. The longer they dragged this out, the more trapped the Ironborn became. Once Robb's Northern army arrived, these reavers were finished.
Across from Jon's lines, the Ironborn clustered on their frozen ships, waiting for captains and commanders to give orders.
Euron had ridden in late last night after a brutal forced march. Some of his men had fallen behind, so the fleet had become their temporary camp for a quick rest.
They didn't take Jon's ice wall seriously. They'd climbed taller barriers for loot before, and Euron had told them the bastard only had about a thousand men while they had eight thousand. Even without his words, the Ironborn could count the ships and see the enemy force was tiny.
They just wanted to finish the fight, free their ships, and sail off to raid somewhere else.
"My lord, let me lead the first assault," Sawane Botley urged. "The wall isn't that high. With enough men we can push right over it."
Euron wasn't a battlefield commander. His first thought was always whether some new sorcery could win the day. But the fact that Jon could also perform blood sacrifice had caught him flat-footed. He had no more tricks prepared.
He had his ravens for eyes. Jon had his own ravens—and seemed far better supplied.
No way around it. They'd have to do this the hard way.
"Go ahead," Euron ordered. "Put the armored men in front."
"Yes, my lord."
With the command given, Sawane took two thousand men to hit the right flank of the ice wall.
From the deck of a frozen longship, Sawane watched his warriors. Their clothes were mostly gray-black. Hair ran heavy on black, dark brown, and flaxen, with a few reds and yellows mixed in—probably Riverlands or Westerlands blood from salt wives or war prizes. The brighter the hair, the shabbier the gear.
Most wore leather. They fought on ships; plate meant drowning if you fell overboard. Now they were on land—or ice, same difference—and their lack of armor was a serious disadvantage. All they really had was numbers.
Botley took a deep breath of freezing air, then bellowed, "We are the ironborn! We are the sons of the Drowned God! That bastard Stark used foul sorcery to trap our ships—this is blasphemy against the Drowned God! For the Drowned God! For the Iron Islands! Tear them apart!"
"Drowned God! Iron Islands forever!"
The reavers roared, morale surging. They grabbed crude ladders and charged the ice wall.
On Jon's side, no speeches were needed. The moment the Ironborn started running, every Westerlander's eyes lit up with hunger.
Under Jon's rules, every head meant land or gold. When they learned the enemy numbered over eight thousand, hearts started pounding.
They looked at their thick plate, fine bows and crossbows, sharp swords and spears, and felt the heat rising off them so strong it could almost melt the ice under their boots.
The battle kicked off.
The Ironborn had a few archers for covering fire, but out of eight thousand men fewer than five hundred carried bows—and those were cheap and mismatched.
A thin, ragged volley of arrows pattered against the wall, leaving nothing but white marks. No damage.
The ladder-carrying reavers used that weak fire to rush forward.
Then everything went wrong.
Their feet slipped like they were on greased glass. Jon had ordered water poured in front of the wall to make the ice as slick as possible. Men carrying ladders went down in chains—one slip took down five more. The ones behind tried to slow up and only made it worse, a domino effect of falling bodies.
Nothing kills morale faster. Even Sawane Botley, still at the rear of the charge, slowed his steps so he wouldn't eat ice in front of his own men.
"Everyone ready—" Brynden's voice was flat and calm.
Behind the wall, nearly every man nocked an arrow.
"Draw—"
The creak of hundreds of bowstrings sounded like teeth grinding. The Ironborn heard it and scrambled to get up, but the ice was too slick.
"Loose!"
The bows sang. Massed, continuous fire began.
Arrows hissed through the air. Forty meters out, bright red flowers of blood exploded across the ice. What had been clean white quickly turned dark and slick.
Botley, still at the very back, rolled and crawled out of the killing zone. What he saw would haunt him forever: wounded men trying to stand, only to slip again because of the ice and their own unbalanced bodies. Others who managed two stumbling steps were dragged down by desperate comrades grabbing their ankles.
Under that steel rain, every man fought for his life. But the arrows found them one after another, punching through flesh like they had eyes.
After more than five hundred bodies littered the ice, the Ironborn fire went out. Even the ones who hadn't charged yet lost any stomach for another try.
"Hey," Sandor said with dark humor, staring at the fleeing reavers and the bloody ice wall, "I just got to play Night's Watch for a day."
The other soldiers were laughing and already counting heads. They hadn't lost a single man, and every pair of them would split at least one kill.
"I dropped four! I can get married when we get home!"
"Shit, they couldn't even stand up. Easier than shooting rabbits."
The men of Casterly Rock were in high spirits.
On Euron's side the mood was black.
Through his ravens Euron knew exactly where Robb's army was—thundering up the Kingsroad toward Winterfell. Three thousand riders. Three more days and they'd reach the castle. Two days after that and they'd hit this bay. Time was running out.
"If you ask me, attacking Winterfell was a mistake," a captain from House Drumm grumbled. "Anywhere else we wouldn't be dealing with this gods-damned ice! Our ships wouldn't be stuck in this frozen hell!"
The words had barely left his mouth before a dagger punched through his chest.
The other captains froze. The killer was one of Euron's mute thralls.
Euron's cold voice slithered out. "Right now our only option is to break out. Anyone else wants to whine, I'll send him first against that fucking wall tomorrow."
Under the threat, every captain shut his mouth. They remembered—this man was Balon's brother.
"My lord, perhaps we could try using that Stark boy," one man offered. He was the son of Lord Gorold Goodbrother.
The suggestion was simple: use Bran as a hostage or bargaining chip. Make Jon open a path and let them sail away.
A lot of heads nodded silently. Trading one crippled kid for all their lives seemed like a bargain.
None of them noticed Sawane Botley staying completely quiet.
Sawane knew Euron placed special value on Bran. He'd never agree to trade him.
A man who could summon blizzards didn't bow to mortals.
Sure enough, Euron's voice turned icy. "You're of House Goodbrother, yes?"
"Yes, my lord."
"I hear your house likes digging iron ore and trading it to the green-landers for coin. We ironborn pay in iron. Why do the Goodbrothers love paying in gold so much?"
"My lord, we—"
Euron cut him off. "We have eight thousand men. That bastard brought barely a thousand. Are you suggesting eight thousand ironborn surrender to a thousand? Are you even a descendant of the Grey King?"
After Euron's moral shaming, no one dared suggest negotiation again.
Then a servant burst in, face pale with panic.
Everyone rushed outside.
The bodies they'd left on the battlefield were being put to use.
The corpses had suffered the same fate as the fish—chopped up and used as mortar.
With the fresh meat and bone, Jon's cursed wall had grown another three feet taller overnight.
Arms, legs, and severed heads now jutted from the ice blocks, turning the barrier into a true rampart of flesh and blood.