A column of troops in bright armor wound like a living serpent through the rugged mountain paths of the Iron Islands. The only banner flying was Jon's — black field, white wolf.
Euron had planned to hit one fleet, lure the others in to rescue it, then drown them all with a sacrificial storm. He never expected the rest of the fleet to ignore the bait and pin most of the Ironborn navy against Paxter Redwyne instead.
Seizing the opening, the other squadrons raced in and landed Jon's three-thousand-man "behind-enemy-lines" force on Harlaw — the biggest, most populous island in the chain. As ordered, the fleet dropped men and a month's worth of supplies, then scattered in different directions.
It was a perfect open trap. Euron's blood magic only worked at full strength in a decisive battle. Jon refused to give him one. If the Crow's Eye dared strike any single squadron, the rest would close in and finish him the moment the storm passed.
After landing, Jon marched his men into a rocky highland, dug in, and let them rest. Then he turned his attention to the plantations that covered Harlaw like a rash.
On a broad hillside he called every officer together — more than a hundred men. Deep in enemy territory, nerves were raw. Jon wanted everyone on the same page and morale high before the first strike.
Opinions flew. Some wanted to hold the hills and bleed the ironborn. Others pushed to march straight on Ten Towers, the Harlaw seat. Jon noticed the loudest voices belonged to the bastards and second sons from half a dozen houses — few in number, but sharp and hungry.
The mountain clansmen stayed quiet. So did Jon's veteran heavy infantry and the Citadel acolytes traveling with them. The clansmen were simple and loyal; Jon had given them land, houses, and tax-free lives, so they would repay him with blood. Harken, for example, heard the word "plan" and immediately started yawning.
The heavy-infantry officers were already Jon's iron. They held lands and status that rivaled knights. They had followed him from the Mountain ambush to the fall of Casterly Rock and never lost. Jon pointed, they struck. Death meant generous pensions. They had no doubts.
Only the bastards and second sons burned with ambition. Some argued tactics so fiercely they sounded ready to take command themselves. Jon's authority was unshakable, though. Even in his absence, Rickard Karstark would lead — not them.
"We're camped on Ironborn Mountain," Jon said, voice cutting through the noise. "Four plantations lie within easy reach — one big, three small. In two days we hit the largest: Hall Plantation."
He looked straight at the bastards and second sons. They cared most about the plan, so he would speak in the language they loved.
"Three goals," he said clearly. "Burn every crop. Kill every plantation overseer. Empty the granaries — take what we can carry, burn the rest."
Jon knew "behind-enemy-lines warfare" was still a foreign idea in this world. Most men wouldn't grasp it yet. That was fine. He would show them.
He dismissed the meeting. That night he and Sandor walked the camp and caves, checking every post.
Sandor didn't care about strategy. He just wanted the killing to start so he could repay Jon's trust with steel and blood.
They stopped first at the mountain clansmen's camp. The mood was almost relaxed — warriors chewing raisins, trading jokes, letting off steam in the dark.
When Jon asked how they felt, one big man from the Howling Mountain clan grinned. "Feels like home, my lord. Like the Mountains of the Moon again."
Others worried aloud whether their children back in New York Town were studying hard. Jon had decreed that every future officer must read and write; these warriors had become the first fathers in Westeros who truly valued schooling.
Jon left satisfied and turned toward the bastards and second sons. These men were skilled, educated, and deep in danger — their minds worked harder. Jon knew he needed to explain the full picture so they could act on their own initiative.
The difference was immediate. Here men sparred, drew maps in the dirt, even pulled acolytes over to tell stories. Focused. Sharp. Almost refined. Jon thought: if every man in the army had this quality, they could smash the Ironborn head-on. With thirty thousand of them, they could sweep all of Westeros.
The moment Jon appeared, every man stood and saluted. "My lord Duke."
He raised a hand. "We didn't come here to take castles or wipe out armies," he said. "We are liberators."
"Liberators?" The word was strange to them.
"The Iron Islands are tiny. How do they keep raiding the Sunset Sea? Not with longships. Not with a few thousand men in sealskin. They do it by enslaving and plundering people. Their whole system runs on plunder feeding more plunder."
Jon's voice grew stronger. "Harlaw has over a hundred plantations holding the most captives. We will burn those plantations, kill the overseers, and when the time is right our fleet will carry every last thrall away. We'll leave the island empty."
"We strike everywhere and hold nothing."
A lazy voice spoke from the back. "So the plan is to starve the pirates out, my lord?" The speaker was a young man in a pale green shirt — Leo, a full maester from a Tyrell branch, not just an acolyte.
Jon smiled. "Close. We're going to do exactly what the ironborn do: destroy plantations and seize their grain for our own use."
Leo's eyes lit up. "I see it now! If the Ironborn send their best men after us, their fleet grows weak. If they leave us alone, we sweep every plantation clean. That's the real meaning of 'water and land together'!"
His excited words sprayed the apprentice beside him, but the officers around him suddenly understood. Murmurs of admiration spread.
Jon studied Leo with new interest. Some men weren't lazy — they simply hadn't found the right battlefield for their minds. This one might become very useful.
"Exactly," Jon said. "Even if we can't carry off every bushel, it doesn't matter. Our fleet dominates the sea. Supplies will come whenever we need them. Logistics are not your concern."
The officers were quick. Once they understood the larger game, the fear of being cut off turned into the thrill of striking deep into the enemy's belly. With rich rewards already promised and now a clear strategy they believed in, Jon knew one good raid would produce leaders who could operate independently.
Then three thousand men would spread across Harlaw like wildfire. In three or four months the ironborn grip on the island would be broken forever — and Jon's future rule would rest on solid ground.
Last, Jon visited the young acolytes' camp. To his surprise, they were burning with excitement for battle. Many had dreamed of knighthood but lacked the coin for armor, horses, and training, so they had gone to the Citadel instead. Now Jon had armed them and given them a real fight. Their blood sang.
Their picture of war was still romantic, but Jon wasn't worried. Real combat would temper them fast enough.
Night deepened. Jon finished his rounds. In two days the first raid would begin — and the fire he had lit behind enemy lines would spread until it consumed the entire island.