Sandor had two dreams. First, to find some way to fix the burned ruin of his face—impossible, and he knew it. The mask Jon had given him at least let him walk around without scaring the hell out of everyone.
Second, to own a Valyrian steel sword.
He stared at the chipped, dull edge of his longsword under the moonlight, chest heaving like he'd run a hundred miles. The fighting hadn't stopped for a second. His body was screaming at its limit.
He couldn't remember how many times he'd swung or how many men he'd killed. Out of nowhere he thought of his brother Gregor—the bastard who got cranky if he went too long without murdering someone.
"Brother, wish you were here to fight beside me," Sandor muttered, then swept his blade hard and dropped another Ironborn soldier. "Oh right. Jon already took your head off."
They pushed the latest attack back. Sandor and the men around him could barely stand. Everyone leaned on swords or spears, dragging their feet into a thinner formation. No one said it out loud, but they all knew the line was getting dangerously thin.
Blood and iron filled Sandor's mouth. Nobody knew if they could survive the next wave. Then, in the dark, another block of Ironborn formed up and started moving toward them.
"Archers ready!" Sandor roared, voice raw. The archer line behind him was pitifully sparse—maybe eighty men left at most.
"Ser, we're almost out of arrows!"
Sandor's head snapped toward the squad leader. "What the fuck do you mean we're out? You were told to ration them! The enemy's about to roll right over us and you're telling me we've got nothing left?"
His voice boomed. The mask slipped off his face mid-yell, exposing the burned ruin underneath. It looked like half his head was peeling away. The archer flinched but didn't back down.
"Ser, there are too many of them! And you've been yelling the loudest the whole damn fight—Mog, cover the left! Mog, support the right—seven hells, Mog, are you blind? Shoot that pirate bastard! What, you gonna deny it now?"
Sandor squinted through the torchlight and finally recognized the man. Mog. One of the old Brotherhood Without Banners boys. They'd joined Jon's army back at Harrenhal. Most went home after getting paid, but a lot stayed on, hungry for a better future in the West.
Mog had been one of the best shots in the group. Longer "resume" than Sandor in some ways—he'd signed on with Jon even before the man accepted the title of Duke. Jon knighted him after taking Casterly Rock and he'd earned himself land and a keep after Beheading Bay. Probably looking at a viscountcy soon.
Sandor's face shifted. "Mog… shit. Sorry. I'm on edge. Jon's not far from here. Without arrows we might not hold the next push."
Mog shrugged, the edge gone from his voice. "Fine. Everyone hand your arrows to me. The rest of you grab spears and fill the line."
No one argued. Mog was the best shot they had. The last hundred arrows went to him. The rest moved forward with long spears.
For some reason the next Ironborn wave didn't come. They used the breather to catch their breath.
On Euron's side, the Ironborn had finally noticed the massive thrall army flooding toward them from every direction. Panic rippled through the lords. The front line was still holding—barely—but it felt like it was about to break.
"Your Grace, what do we do?" Rodrik asked Balon.
Balon's eyes flicked coldly toward Euron. He couldn't answer for himself anymore.
Euron was sweating. He'd never commanded a battle this big. He thought sheer numbers would crush Jon, and they almost had. Two more hours and he could've reached the bastard personally.
Then a fresh, heavily armored unit hit them from a clever angle. Yellow cloak. Blue armor. Garalt Flowers leading the charge, cutting through like a fish through water, heading straight for the command group.
Without the thralls closing in, this would've been suicide. Now it was a real threat.
"Stop them! Block that charge!" Rodrik shouted at his son Daman.
Daman looked ready to cry. "Father, our men can't get here in time. We need to pull back—now!"
Retreat? The command group was lit up by torches. Every soldier could see their banners. If this spot fell, the exhausted army would break completely.
"No retreat!" Euron stepped forward, forgetting to speak through Balon. "We still have a reserve. They'll hold!"
He meant the hidden spear unit he'd saved specifically for Jon.
When the three-hundred-man spear block appeared, Garalt's men were already within a few hundred yards.
The spears slowed them, but the lords were still rattled.
"Why the hell wasn't that unit used earlier?" Daman demanded. "They could've broken Jon's line hours ago."
Euron couldn't explain. He'd kept them back for one reason only—to pin Jon if he ever charged personally. He sure as hell wasn't telling these lords that.
Then his ravens brought worse news. A hundred-plus cavalry were charging the thickest part of the Ironborn line. At their head rode a figure in white armor, two lances in hand, moving like lightning through the dark.
One big Ironborn tried to block with a shield. The lance punched straight through it and lifted the man off his feet. Jon swept the lance sideways and sent the dying body flying like a cannonball.
The charge smashed into the formation. In the darkness, fleeing Ironborn trampled their own men. Jon's riders kept finding impossible angles, shattering cohesion wherever they hit.
The lords saw the writing on the wall. The thrall army was real and massive. Staying meant annihilation. Better to save what strength they could and run.
Some were already turning to leave before Balon even gave permission.
Euron knew if they kept fleeing like this, House Greyjoy's name would be finished. He made his choice.
"Iron!" he called.
Aeron jumped, eyes wide and terrified.
"You take our brother and go. I'll hold the rear and buy you time." Euron signaled the mute thralls beside him. They moved to Aeron and Balon.
"Go! Now!"
Aeron looked at Euron's grim face, then at the blank-eyed mutes lit by torchlight. He grabbed Balon and fled into the night like the Stranger himself was on his heels.