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Chapter Thirty: The Last Sight of the Crow's Eye
The moment the Seal Gate shattered, the pirates poured in like a black tide.
Ned Stark stood firm, Ice raised, watching as the enemy surged through the bottleneck of the broken gate.
But the trap was set.
The pirates who made it past were funneled into a narrow space, completely surrounded by heavily armed men waiting for them—Ned's men.
The first few raiders barely had time to react before the northmen cut them down.
Blades clashed, shields splintered, and war cries filled the air as Ned and Ser Walder's men met the enemy head-on.
The pirates were ill-equipped for this kind of battle. They wore mismatched armor—leather, bits of chainmail, rusted breastplates scavenged from old battles. Their weapons were just as poor, a collection of cutlasses, axes, and crude spears stolen from a hundred different places.
Against them stood seasoned warriors clad in thick plate and chain, wielding longswords, war hammers, and shields that turned aside the desperate swings of the raiders.
It was a slaughter.
Ser Walder led the charge with a booming laugh, his massive hammer crashing down onto the enemy with terrifying force. Bones shattered, helmets caved in, men were thrown back like ragdolls.
Ghost and Grey Wind prowled along the edges of the battle, pouncing on unsuspecting pirates, ripping out throats and tearing through flesh.
Above them, the archers rained death from both sides, the enemy unable to escape the merciless hail of arrows.
Ned fought with precision, cutting down every man who got close.
It was going their way.
They had barely suffered any losses, while the enemy lay in heaps, their blood soaking the stone streets.
But the pirates kept coming.
Ned could feel the weight of battle pressing down on his men. The enemy's sheer numbers were starting to wear them down.
It wasn't skill that kept the pirates fighting—it was ignorance.
The thick city walls, which had been their greatest defense, now became a double-edged sword.
The pirates outside couldn't see the massacre happening beyond the gate.
They kept pouring in, wave after wave, unaware that their own men were being butchered.
And Ned's men—though strong—were only human.
The signs of exhaustion were beginning to show.
They had held firm for a long time, but if this continued much longer, it wouldn't matter how many pirates they had slain—their defense would break from sheer exhaustion alone.
Then, the battle shifted.
From the rooftops, archers and crossbowmen from the reserve—sent by Robb—took position, raining fresh death upon the enemy.
The pirates hesitated for the first time.
That hesitation gave Ned's men a moment to breathe.
And that was when he arrived.
Euron Greyjoy.
A shadow of madness and blood, stepping through the ruined gate as if he were walking into a feast.
He moved differently than the others.
His gait was confident, almost casual, even as the battle raged around him.
He was clad in black scale armor that shimmered unnaturally under the light, as if absorbing it.
Valyrian steel.
A suit of Valyrian steel.
Ned's breath hitched. He had never seen anything like it.
In his hands, Euron carried a Valyrian steel battle-axe, its curved edges dark as midnight.
His one good eye gleamed with madness as he took in the battlefield, and then—his gaze found Ned.
And he smiled.
Ned stepped forward, meeting him head-on.
Their weapons clashed in a storm of steel.
Ned struck fast, his greatsword Ice carving through the air.
Euron was faster than he had any right to be. He parried, sidestepped, grinned like a man drunk on death.
Ned struck again, aiming for his shoulder.
The blade skidded off the Valyrian steel armor, barely leaving a scratch.
Euron let out a laugh, wild and unhinged. "Is that all, Stark?"
He swung his axe, forcing Ned back.
Ned grimaced. I can't get through that armor.
Euron's strength was terrifying. Every time their weapons met, the impact sent a jarring tremor down Ned's arms.
And his madness made him unpredictable.
"Do you even know what you've done?" Euron snarled between strikes. "You brought him into the world! That freak!"
Ned narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
Euron let out a breathless chuckle, his grin widening. "You don't know?"
Their blades clashed again.
"I see everything," Euron whispered, his voice almost reverent. "Or I did, before he blinded me."
His eye darkened with rage.
"But once I kill you, and him, I will see again."
Ned ignored his ravings and focused on the fight.
He struck low, trying to knock Euron off balance.
Euron anticipated it.
He twisted, throwing a handful of dirt into Ned's eyes.
Ned barely had time to react before he was falling.
Euron's boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground.
Pain exploded through his ribs.
His vision blurred as he looked up, seeing the shadow of Euron standing over him.
The battle-axe rose.
This was it.
If he died here, the morale of his men would break.
The gate would fall.
White Harbor would burn.
Then—
An arrow.
It pierced through the back of Euron's head.
The shaft burst out through his one good eye.
Euron staggered.
A strangled gasp left his lips.
And then he crumpled to the ground.
Dead.
Ned's gaze snapped to the walls.
Jon stood atop the Seal Gate, his bow still raised, smoke rising from the string.
Ned exhaled and nodded in silent thanks.
Then—screams.
Cheers.
Ned pulled himself to his feet as he heard thunder.
He turned, rushing up the stairs to the top of the gate.
And what he saw made his heart soar.
Charging through the streets outside the walls—
About one hundred and fifty heavy lances.
House Locke. House Woolfield. House Flint.
And many more landed knights who had ridden out with whatever men they had after receiving Wyman's ravens.
The sight of the riders charging into the disorganized pirate ranks was the final straw.
The pirates broke.
Panic set in.
They turned and ran, retreating toward their burning ships, desperate to escape.
The Northmen roared in victory.
Weapons raised, voices shouting to the sky.
White Harbor had held.
The city was safe.
The North had won the day.