Game of Thrones White Wolf

Chapter 211 213: Iconic Scene Recreated

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The unnamed bay woke up to a beautiful clear day. The sky was a perfect blue, and the sunlight bouncing off the surrounding ice and snow made everything look twice as bright.

If you could just ignore the ugly, mottled bloodstain in the center of the frozen battlefield—a massive hundred-meter-wide smear—and the grotesque wall built from ice blocks and chunks of frozen flesh and bone, the view might actually qualify as pretty.

Right now nobody gave a damn about the scenery. Euron had that cursed ice wall staring him down. Jon had to get Bran back from being shoved out as a human shield.

A hundred-plus meters from the wall, Bran was dragged forward on horseback right into the middle of both armies. Euron stood behind him and shouted up at the top of the ice wall.

"Stark! Let our ships go and I'll release the little cripple!"

Euron genuinely didn't want to give Bran up. Some deep instinct told him that through this boy he could chase real power—something far beyond what he already had.

But he had several thousand ironborn at his back right now. He couldn't force them to keep fighting forever. Given enough time, maybe he could puppet together an army of fearless thralls, but not today.

Everyone with eyes could see the math: keep fighting and Jon's wall would just keep getting taller. They couldn't outlast him and they sure as hell couldn't break through. Negotiation was the only card left.

And Euron figured he had a winning hand. Jon had boarded the Silence alone to save Alerie. He'd run all the way back from the Wall just to avenge Ned. To everyone watching, Jon was clearly the family-first type. Threaten Bran's life and they should walk free.

"My lord—it's Bran." Sandor passed the spyglass to Jon, voice tight with worry.

Jon's eyesight had been enhanced long ago; he didn't need it. He pushed the glass away and called back.

"Euron, of course I don't want my brother dead. But you can leave. The butchers who burned and raped their way through the North and the Westerlands? They stay. Here's the deal: hand Bran over and I let you sail away."

Killing Euron was a nightmare. Unless you hunted down every last thrall and puppet he controlled, even slitting his throat wouldn't finish him for good.

Jon knew damn well Euron would never accept. Especially not after Jon had shouted the terms loud enough for every ironborn to hear.

Sure enough, Euron felt the eyes on him instantly. He bellowed back.

"Stark! You won't divide us! Either let every last one of us go or I kill him right now!"

He pressed the short sword against Bran's throat.

The cold steel made Bran shiver. His blue eyes trembled for a second.

Jon stared at his little brother. He'd thought about it before—maybe magic in this world really could fix Bran's legs someday.

He genuinely liked the kid. Back at Winterfell they'd gotten along great. The original Jon had even visited comatose Bran before leaving, despite knowing Catelyn would curse him out for it.

But Jon wasn't about to throw away the chance to wipe out eight thousand of the Iron Islands' best fighting men just to save one boy. Annihilating them here would make swallowing the Iron Islands later a hell of a lot easier.

Maybe even kill Euron for good in the process.

Absorbing the Iron Islands was a core piece of his plan. Once they were his, no more rear-guard worries. He could pour everything into the Sunset Sea bloc—strong enough to handle Stannis's paranoia or the Long Night and the Others when they finally came.

Letting these pirates sail away meant more innocent blood down the road.

With that settled in his mind, Jon opened his mouth to speak to Bran one last time.

But Bran beat him to it.

The panic in those blue eyes cleared, replaced by steady courage.

"Jon! I'm a Stark—you're a Stark. I want you to kill this bastard right here. Avenge me!

Jon—I've always thought of you as my real big brother. Name your son after me! Jon!!"

Bran's words hit like a slap. Grown men on both sides turned to look. Even the ironborn—who wore burning and reaving like badges of honor—suddenly felt a flush of shame. They were down to using a crippled child as a bargaining chip just to survive.

Sandor was already shouting beside Jon.

"My lord—send the cavalry! We can get Bran back!"

Behind Bran, Euron's face twisted with fury when the boy begged for death instead of begging for life.

"Stark! I don't believe you'll really do it!"

The next second Jon shoved Sandor aside, drew his bow, nocked, and loosed.

Thwip—

The arrow streaked like a comet straight at Bran.

Euron instinctively jerked back. Bran felt his body jolt—but no pain. He looked down. An arrow had punched clean through his thigh. The fletching was still quivering.

Warm blood welled up fast. Bran froze, stunned.

Euron looked just as shocked. He whipped his head toward Jon—who was already drawing another arrow.

"Bran—remember what Father said!

Only fear can make you brave! Lift your head. It won't hurt long. I'll make sure Euron goes down with you."

Up on the ice wall the soldiers' eyes turned red. Jon was willing to kill his own brother rather than let them throw their lives away for nothing.

Euron watched Bran slowly raise his head, exposing that pale, fragile neck. He realized Jon was dead set on taking every last one of them—and especially him.

That same helpless feeling from the Silence washed over him again. His face twisted into something ugly. He had to win something back here, or Jon would become a permanent thorn in his mind.

"Stark! You really don't care about his life? Fine!"

Euron kicked Bran hard off the horse, then pointed at Jon and roared.

"Go on—crawl to your brother! Crawl all the way and I'll let you live!"

Bran didn't budge at first. Then he understood: Jon would never actually shoot to kill him.

Euron had just forced both brothers into an impossible position.

Jon clearly had the chance to save Bran now. If he still chose to kill him, the moral high ground would collapse.

No choice. Bran planted both hands on the freezing ice and started crawling toward the wall.

One meter. Two. Five. Ten.

A hand-wide smear of blood trailed behind him.

Jon stared at the scene. Something about it felt eerily familiar, but he couldn't place it.

He jumped down from the wall and ran straight toward Bran.

Sandor saw him go and sprinted after him—only to realize Jon was moving insanely fast.

Harken tried to leap down too, but Brynden grabbed him.

"Get the cavalry ready!"

The gap between them shrank fast.

Behind Bran, Euron quietly raised his own bow and drew a bead on the boy who'd only crawled fifteen meters or so. When he saw Jon charging toward him, a vicious grin split his face.

He'd kill Bran right in front of him.

Jon realized what was coming. He dropped low, scooped up a fist-sized chunk of ice, and kept running.

Euron had no idea what Jon was planning, but he saw the speed—Jon was practically skating on the ice, blades of momentum under his boots.

Euron's brain short-circuited for a second, but he still released.

The arrow flew.

Jon hurled the ice chunk with everything he had.

The next instant something impossible happened.

A white explosion of shattered ice bloomed above Bran's head.

"What the hell—he threw ice and knocked Euron's arrow off course?!" Brynden, still on the wall, couldn't believe his own eyes.

It looked like goddamn magic.

The deflected arrow buried itself in the ice a foot to Bran's left-rear.

Euron stood frozen. Jon hadn't been indifferent to Bran's life at all. That first shot had been deliberately off-target!

Otherwise how could the man snipe an arrow mid-flight with a rock but "miss" a stationary boy with a bow? It made no sense!

The mind game had gone to Jon.

Realizing he'd lost again sent Euron into a blind rage.

"Full charge! All of you—charge!!"

Jon had a cripple with him now. No way he outruns the whole army.

Kill Jon and they still had a shot at living!

Jon reached Bran, saw the ironborn horde surging forward, and didn't plant himself like some one-man gatekeeper. Instead he grabbed Bran by the collar, planted his boots, and skated backward fast—dragging his brother with him.

Sandor had only covered twenty or thirty meters.

Seeing Jon retreating, he started to rush forward to cover them—only for Jon to wave him back hard.

Jon skated backward, dodging arrows that hissed past, keeping Bran shielded.

When the three of them finally made it safely behind the wall, Euron completely lost it.

He'd heard Northmen used sleds. Who the hell taught them to ice-skate?!

But the army was already committed. No turning back now.

The wall erupted in volley after volley. The soldiers didn't even need to aim anymore—blind fire was dropping men like flies.

Behind the wall, Bran—still shaking—heard a thunderous rumble.

Hundreds of fully armored heavy cavalry exploded out from behind the ice barrier. The steel wave of their charge slammed into the ironborn like a hammer.

The impact was brutal. Lances and sheer momentum shattered bones and tore men apart.

Heavy horse against unarmored infantry was already a massacre. Against pirates who barely owned proper plate? One-sided slaughter.

Jon knew the second these reavers realized they couldn't crack the wall, they'd scatter. Eight thousand men running in every direction? You'd spend days rounding up eight thousand pigs—let alone eight thousand ironborn.

A little blood now to keep them all here was worth it. And he could see it—their morale had cratered.

Failed assault on the wall. Jon skating right under their noses to snatch Bran away. Humiliation and despair soaked every last one of them.

Perfect moment to break them for good.

Jon mounted up and personally led three hundred heavy horse out from behind the wall, smashing straight into Euron's lines.

Euron tried to organize a pocket to trap him. But with God's Perspective active, Jon always found the perfect angle, always read their defensive shifts before they happened.

Three hundred heavy riders carved a bloody, thundering dance across the thick ice.

The fight stretched from morning till dusk. Jon had worried the piling corpses would make footing treacherous for the horses.

But pirates were human too. They got scared. They ran.

The battlefield kept spreading. Eventually even the men on the wall poured out to chase.

Corpses and blood painted half the bay red.

Through his ravens Jon counted over two thousand ironborn dead.

Prisoners would push the number higher.

The outcome was never in doubt. The only thing that pissed Jon off?

Euron slipped away again.

Too many bodies, too much chaos. The bastard escaped with his thrall puppets, using his own ravens to block Jon's birds.

Looked like their final showdown would have to wait for the invasion of the Iron Islands.