GOT: Chapter 418/419

Chapter 418: The So-Called Hero

The scattered, undulating blue lights, like countless sapphires sunk deep in a dark abyss, shimmered brilliantly, rippling faintly like water. They were hauntingly beautiful, almost dreamlike, like stars arranged across the night sky, flickering and floating upon a sea of black silk.

If one could ignore the fact that this was a dense horde of wights rushing forward with eyes glowing blue, the scene might even be called mesmerizing. If one were optimistic enough to see beauty in horror, the wights' glowing eyes at least revealed their positions. Even without torches or the occasional moonlight breaking through the clouds, the defenders could clearly mark where the wights were approaching the defense line and where they were still far away, allowing them to adjust their defense by the pressure of the battlefield.

However, the truth was simple: this scene was enough to terrify anyone. The defenders along the mountain paths of the Great Gorge had no interest in admiring the view. Their hair stood on end as they fought with every ounce of strength, using every possible method to prevent this magnificent blue ocean from swallowing their line.

The Great Gorge formed a broad U-shape. It was easy for the wights to descend the northern slope and cross the frozen Milkwater River below, but climbing the southern slope into the Gift meant scaling near-vertical cliffs. That was why the Night's Watch rarely worried about Wildlings bypassing the Wall here. Though terrain as sheer as the Wall itself was rare, steep slopes dropping dozens of meters at sixty or seventy degrees were everywhere. These slopes, made of crumbling soil and rock, were in many ways less solid than ice, yet they were the defenders' greatest advantage.

The Black Brothers stood in a scattered line, weapons in hand. The narrow path prevented them from standing shoulder to shoulder, forcing them to fight ten meters apart, each nearly on his own. The wind and snow thickened, dusting their armor white, but each shake and movement cast it off again. Everyone was firing arrows desperately. Aim hardly mattered now. The slope below was filled with pairs of glowing blue eyes. All they needed to do was shoot at the light.

The soldiers drew and loosed their bows again and again, the draw time so short it could barely be called aiming. Each silently thought, Die, monster, and released another dragonglass arrow into the swarm.

If they were unlucky, the arrow did nothing. If they were lucky, one less pair of glowing eyes stared back. Muscles burned, breathing quickened, and heartbeats thundered. They had to keep firing while also keeping control of their own trembling bodies, desperate not to lose control completely.

At their feet were bundles of dragonglass arrows and boxes of wildfire jars. Lit torches flickered along the railing as arrows whistled through the dark Gorge. Though wildfire was limited, dragonglass weapons were abundant. The problem now was not supply, but manpower. There were not enough men or bows to unleash the rain of arrows they needed to hold the tide at bay.

After a dozen arrows, one soldier finally broke, snatching up a wildfire jar and hurling it down the slope. A burst of emerald fire erupted among the leading wights, flames and shockwave tearing through the mass and knocking many down. Seeing that wildfire could kill the enemy, confidence briefly surged. But when the blast faded, that confidence dimmed again.

...

Even without counting the reserves in the fortresses, the preparations along the Great Gorge should have been enough to destroy the entire wight army, provided the White Walkers did not intervene. But that assumed the enemy stood still and undefended. Reality was far different. The White Walkers had learned from human defenses. Now, under their guidance, the wights advanced in an organized honeycomb formation, keeping a steady distance from each other as they surged forward.

From above, they seemed to be charging chaotically, relying on sheer numbers and weight. But when the defenders, full of grim determination, unleashed their volleys, they discovered that only two or three out of ten arrows found a mark. Wildfire jars burst upon impact, but the cold air and snow weakened the flames. The fire spread little, only igniting a few unlucky wights. Those knocked down rolled down the slope, then rose again, while the burning ones stayed still, smoldering in place so as not to obstruct the others.

Those still unburned circled wide around the flames, even the wights behind instinctively moving to avoid them. It was impossible to form the hoped-for wall of fire to block their advance.

Where wildfire burned, the advance stalled. Elsewhere, the wights pressed on like a breaking flood, climbing slowly but relentlessly, trampling over the fallen, bypassing flames, and surging up toward the defense path.

The defenders were killing many, but not enough, and not fast enough.

Faced with the oncoming tide, the soldiers' first instinct was to throw more wildfire, but the Commander forbade it. The jars were limited, each man had only a few. If they used them all now, the line would collapse even faster.

The wights continued their climb. No one had yet fallen among the living, but fear was spreading nonetheless. It rode the wind, filled the air, slipped into their lungs. It was in the Commander's voice, in the sound of comrades breathing beside them, whispering faintly in their minds:

(Oh gods… what do we do?)
(This can't be held.)
(Will we even survive the night?)

When someone finally gave voice to these thoughts, the fear erupted aloud.

"There's too many!"
"When will reinforcements get here?"
"I hit one and it didn't die!"
"They haven't stopped, Lord!" shouted a trembling young soldier. The wights had climbed halfway up, now only thirty yards away. "There's more coming! Gods have mercy, they know how to roll to put out the fire! If we don't throw wildfire now, we'll never have a chance!"

If they threw all the wildfire and reinforcements still hadn't come, they could retreat. That was the plan. They wouldn't be deserters, just following orders to preserve strength.

They all thought the same thing.

...

"All of you shut up! I've killed White Walkers! You think I'll be scared off by a few dead men?"

Gared's roar silenced them. He was a coward, but he couldn't stand others being more cowardly than him.

This veteran, once Aegor's guide when he joined the Night's Watch and a survivor of that fatal patrol against the White Walkers, had served forty-four years. Nearly fifty now, he had earned promotion under Aegor's command, more through loyalty and age than skill.

He was respected, if not for his talent, then for his survival. Aegor had wanted him retired in Crown Town, but when the Gorge needed officers, Gared volunteered. Commanding a few dozen recruits from the Mountains and New Gift felt better than guarding a gate in the South.

A White Walker's sword had once pierced his shoulder, crippling his left arm, but he was still fit enough to lead and teach. Now, the so-called "Hero Officer" could not let that name be stained.

"Don't just use dragonglass arrows! Light the arrowheads with wildfire!" he shouted after thinking hard for several minutes. "Kill and burn a line of them, make a wall of fire! Force them to bunch up. When they get closer, smash them with wildfire jars. Conserve what we have, hold until reinforcements arrive!"

Dragonglass could kill wights but left only corpses. Wildfire could burn them, but the wights did not thrash about or spread the flames like the living would. Instead, they stayed still under the Walkers' control, minimizing damage. But combining dragonglass with fire could fix that.

The fire magic of dragonglass would kill instantly, leaving the wights burning in place, forming obstacles. If shot precisely, the line of corpses could create an unbroken barrier. Even weakened by snow, the fire would disrupt the wights' formation and force them into clusters, perfect for another round of wildfire.

Under the command of the veteran who had once slain a White Walker and saved the current Commander's life, the soldiers pushed their fear aside and obeyed. Each opened a jar of wildfire, dipped arrowheads into it, and lit them from torches. Ordinary arrows turned into eerie, green-glowing wildfire dragonglass arrows. Wildfire ignited so easily that they didn't need to wait for heat or fear the flame going out mid-flight. They only had to be careful not to set themselves ablaze when releasing the string. These arrows were far deadlier than simple oil-soaked flames.

The wights crept closer, crawling up as the slope steepened. The distance was close enough for torchlight to reveal their ghastly forms. Few looked human anymore. Most were shriveled and dry, like ancient corpses clawed from tombs. Torn flesh exposed glistening corpse oil beneath. The few who still looked human were somehow worse—their clothes, faces, and wounds clear reminders of the lives they had lost. Were they Night's Watch brothers? Wildlings? Did they once have families? Would the living here soon look the same?

Even drenched in sweat, the soldiers trembled anew at the thought.

"What are you cowards scared of? I've killed White Walkers! You think I'll run from a few corpses?"

Under their officer's bellowing, courage flickered back to life. The flaming arrows streaked through the darkness like green meteors, and before long, a jagged wall of fire took shape just ten meters from the path. The burning wights fell where they stood, forming an oily, blazing blanket that melted the snow and ice, feeding the fire.

The heat was suffocating. Even from ten meters away, they could feel it, as if standing before a great forge. Gray smoke billowed upward, swirling through the falling snow.

The soldiers cheered hoarsely, but the fire needed constant feeding. Wildfire and oil had to be thrown down steadily, and though they rationed carefully, the supply was dwindling fast. In ten minutes, it would be gone. By the plan, reinforcements from Ice Canyon Port should have arrived long ago. But when Gared looked west and saw the port itself burning, he knew no help would come. The only choice left was retreat.

"Don't drop your bows when we fall back! Take a quiver each and form a line. We might need to fight again!"

Gared whistled and began organizing the retreat. He wasn't afraid. He had escaped White Walkers before and led many successful captures of wights. No one was better at running from the dead than him. But as he raised his head to give the order, he froze. A mass of blue lights surged toward them from the western path.

"Damn it! The west has fallen! Change of plan, retreat east! You there, stop shooting, are you addicted to it? Move, move!"

Throwing down their last jars of wildfire, the squad of thirty men, still unscathed and high-spirited, followed their captain into retreat. But what Gared hadn't realized was this: the reason the enemy had attacked on all fronts was that every stronghold had its weakest point. His clever tactics had kept their section holding longer than expected, allowing them to kill nearly a thousand wights without support. It would be remembered as a great feat in Night's Watch history, but it also doomed them.

The mountain paths to both east and west had fallen. Their allies had fled or died. They stood alone, an island of fire amid an ocean of death.

Four years ago, Gared had tried to lead Aegor south past the Gorge to escape. Now, facing the encroaching blue tide, could he still run from death itself?

(To be continued.)

Chapter 419: Guarding Ice Canyon Port

Aegor never imagined that the ultimate weapon he had meticulously prepared for the White Walkers would first be used against living men on the very night the enemy launched an all-out assault.

With several thunderous roars and blinding flashes, hundreds of thousands of dragonglass fragments scattered through the crowd. Though they had no restraining effect on the living, their razor-sharp shards tore through cloth and flesh, causing bleeding wounds. More terrifying than the shrapnel was the shockwave from the Powder explosion. One-third of the Ironborn, who had never faced such a weapon before, dropped instantly, rolling on the ground, howling in confusion. Few were killed outright, but many lost combat effectiveness due to ringing ears, dizziness, or an inability to judge their injuries in the darkness. Overwhelmed, they instinctively overestimated the power of the blasts, leaving them unable to rise.

It was in this moment of chaos that Jaime and the Ice Canyon Port defenders under his command, led by the Westermen, roared and charged into the disoriented Ironborn.

The two sides collided in a fierce melee. The Ironborn held the advantage in numbers, but the Kingslayer was like a lion loosed in a pen of sheep. He struck first, while the enemy was still stunned. With their commander charging ahead, the soldiers—still reeling from the surprise attack but inspired by his courage—screamed and surged forward as if possessed.

Their foes were among the best the Iron Islands could offer, but they fought less like elite warriors and more like seasoned raiders. These men had experience in slaughter, pillaging, arson, and the torment of captives, but when it came to pitched battle, they were no match for the Lannisport guards trained under Jaime. Using the protection of his full plate, Jaime threw himself into the thick of the enemy, cutting down every Ironborn he reached, shrugging off their crude weapons, blocking, dodging, and sometimes ignoring weak blows altogether.

He cut through them like stalks of wheat. Blood sprayed as he advanced, and the soldiers behind him followed like reapers in a harvest. They had no formation, no tactical coordination—only the momentum of one warrior's skill and fury driving them forward.

With his practiced form, honed strength, and hardened will, Jaime slaughtered his way forward. The port road was soon slick with blood and bodies. The makeshift Ironborn vanguard fell into chaos after their two captains were cut down by Jaime in quick succession, scattering and fleeing toward the harbor.

...

To the southeast, the Free Folk who had been repelled earlier launched another assault on the main gate, as expected. But their deception failed this time. The defenders, having learned from previous mistakes, were no longer fooled. The Ice Canyon Port commander who remained at the gate, supported by his reserves, dealt a heavy blow to those hoping to breach the walls. The Ironborn's plan to capture the port from both inside and out was fully foiled.

In the heart of the fortress, after a brief halt following their victory, Jaime sent a small detachment to the northeastern shipyard to make contact with the Northern soldiers stationed there. The rest of his men continued advancing down the main road toward the docks.

Though the situation had stopped worsening, it was far from resolved. Fires and shouting echoed from all directions. Several warehouses and residential quarters near the port were ablaze from Ironborn arson. One of the three new warships had caught fire, its sails consumed by flames after repeated attacks. The heat ignited wildfire bombs in its armory, forcing the crew to abandon ship and leap into the icy waters.

Worse still, the remaining two warships, seeing their sister ship burning and the Ironborn still on the docks, unleashed their own wildfire, throwing it at the invaders despite the danger. Though the green flames scattered their enemies, they also set the wooden docks ablaze. The towering infernos lit the shoreline as bright as day.

After breaking through the first line, Jaime's group encountered no organized resistance until they neared the coast. Groups of arsonists dropped their torches and fled. Scattered raiders, targeting isolated soldiers and civilians, backed away cautiously when faced with the well-equipped, bloodied attackers.

Only a hundred yards from the beach, they finally came upon the second, and likely last, Ironborn formation. These men had regrouped with the survivors of the earlier clash and the retreating arson teams, forming a force of one or two hundred. Though not large in number, their morale was stronger. At their front stood a one-eyed man clad in strange black armor, his feet planted wide, standing as if all the Ice Canyon Port soldiers meant nothing to him.

Even those behind him appeared more disciplined than the usual Ironborn—silent, organized, and emanating a pressure that halted Jaime and his men despite their momentum.

...

"I am the mightiest captain on all the seas, Euron Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands." The man in black armor leaned on a great axe with one hand, a waterskin in the other. He took a long swig of the dark liquid, then cast the skin aside. "Kingslayer! You slept with your sister and killed two mad Kings. I thought you were a man who knew what he wanted and dared to act. And now look at you, wearing black, serving the Starks like a dog."

I'd like to ask that bastard Aegor the same thing, Jaime thought. But no matter how inexperienced he was with politics, he knew better than to insult his commander in front of the enemy. Besides, he had no interest in talking to a lunatic like Euron.

Robb Stark was ambushed by Euron, even his wolf was killed. If I kill him now, I'll not only surpass the Young Wolf, but give the Westerlands peace from Ironborn raids for years.

With that justification, his will to fight surged.

He raised his steel sword, the blood on it already frozen, and pointed it at Euron. "King of the Iron Islands, is it? Fine. At least you're a 'king.'"

Without waiting for a reply, Jaime charged. The earlier clash had been a warm-up. His body felt sharp and ready. Drawing on years of practice and the instincts in his veins, he took three quick steps, steady, swift, and sure. Launching from his right foot and driving through his left, he brought his sword down in a deadly arc toward Euron's ribs—so fast that the Ironborn captain had no time to lift his axe.

Wait... something was off.

Jaime felt it. He was fast, yes, but not that fast. He was a warrior, not an assassin. He wore armor. He had charged from ten paces. Even at full speed, someone like Euron should have reacted.

But there was no turning back now. Jaime followed through with the strike.

He hit armor, as expected. But instead of bending or breaking, Euron's black scale mail absorbed the blow with the feel of striking solid iron. The impact bounced back through Jaime's arms, numbing his wrist. He pulled away quickly, but Euron's axe handle slammed into his chest with brutal force.

Strength overwhelmed skill. A bitter taste rose in Jaime's throat. He staggered back. He had once fought Robert Baratheon and been shocked by the man's raw strength, even as a bloated drunk. But Euron's blow, casual and precise, hit harder than Robert's warhammer. Jaime stumbled back over a yard.

The rumors were true. Euron wore some kind of enchanted armor, immune to blades and spears, and possessed monstrous, inhuman strength.

Jaime barely had time to think. He arched backward just in time to avoid the killing blow. The axe screeched across his breastplate, denting it and hurling him to the ground. Only luck—or the fact that Euron had found armor, but not a Valyrian steel weapon—saved his life. A dragonsteel axe might have gutted him.

The soldiers of Ice Canyon Port, roaring with fury, rushed to save their commander. Several Westermen threw themselves between Jaime and Euron, sacrificing blood and bone to buy time. Amid the ringing steel and shouts of pain, it became clear: few could survive more than one or two of Euron's attacks. The potions he had taken and his Valyrian armor made him unstoppable in close combat, even against the elite.

Even the former Lannisport guards, trained and hardened, could not hold him back. The New Gift recruits stood no chance. The warriors behind Euron, dressed unlike the typical Ironborn, were eerily silent even as they fought. Had they not been wounded, one might have mistaken them for wights.

Only someone like me can even hold his ground, Jaime realized. The others are just being butchered.

He fought his way back to his feet, forcing himself to calm the blood pounding in his chest.

This time, he changed tactics. After probing twice, he confirmed that Euron's legs were armored too. Jaime stopped trading blows directly and began targeting exposed areas—the face, the gaps at wrists and knees.

It was the right idea, but hard to execute. Euron was no farmhand wearing fancy mail. He had been a fearsome reaver even before being exiled. His skill wasn't on Jaime's level, but with magic and brute strength on his side, he didn't need to be. He fought with reckless aggression, each swing a death sentence, giving Jaime no room to maneuver.

Jaime had never believed he was the best warrior in the world. Even after joining the Kingsguard, men like Ser Barristan had reminded him of his limits. But among his peers—those of similar age and build—he had always considered himself near the top.

Euron shattered that belief. And the only way to reclaim it was to win.

Jaime kept attacking. He didn't know Euron had taken a potion. He simply believed no man could fight like that forever. Again and again, he struck from every angle, while his hundred-plus men surrounded the Ironborn rear guard and charged like waves crashing against stone.

The soldiers on both sides were evenly matched. The losses were also close. But Euron's unnatural power tipped the balance. Jaime dodged and parried, but he couldn't stop watching his men fall—one after another, dying to cover him or protect his flanks. He wanted to order a retreat, to face Euron alone, but the truth was clear. He couldn't survive without their support.

Casualties rose past one-third, then approached half. Especially among the Westermen, the cost was steep. That none had fled was testament to their loyalty and courage. But how much more could he ask of them? Could he really let them die for his pride?

The wounded groaned, breath heavy. Jaime, battered and bruised, felt his armor pressing against his body like a vice. Sweat blurred his vision. His heart screamed, I can still fight! But he was their commander. Their lives were his responsibility.

"Retreat! Fall back to the shipyard!"

At the edge of exhaustion, Jaime gave the first retreat order of his life. It tasted like ash, but with it, he found a burst of clarity. He swung to cover their escape. Euron, of course, would not allow them to leave unchallenged.

Grinning, axe raised, Euron stepped forward. But before he could chase, he spotted a long line of torches heading down the main road toward the docks. By their numbers and formation, they clearly weren't his men.

He cursed and sent Jaime flying back with a sweeping blow, then halted his pursuit.

"Hmph. Kingslayer, is it? You're not much after all. I'll take your life another day. Ironborn, we've done enough. Time to leave!"

(To be continued.)