Jon's army had been raiding, burning, and killing across the Iron Islands for two or three months. Their own strength had more than tripled.
Over ten thousand thralls had joined them. Half were screened and turned into proper fighters. The rest handled logistics. Without any outside reinforcements, Jon's force had swelled three or four times over and split into dozens of small companies scattered across Harlaw.
The food and supplies seized on the island covered most of their needs. The fleets patrolling offshore kept sending fresh provisions, and Euron couldn't stop them. Once Paxter Redwyne stopped thinking about one decisive battle, the whole sea opened up for him.
Still, the squadrons couldn't pin the Ironborn fleet down long enough for a full assault. Euron could simply leave his ships and work blood magic elsewhere.
Even so, the current situation suited Jon perfectly. He had made his officers understand the plan: You fight your war. I'll fight mine.
Everyone agreed. As their numbers kept growing, more voices started talking about storming Ten Towers, the seat of House Harlaw.
Harlaw had already slipped into chaos. It no longer supplied the rest of the Iron Islands. Instead it was bleeding them dry, sucking in men and ships from every other island.
Euron had first assumed the force on Harlaw was just a few elite companies. He hadn't taken it seriously. Two or three months later, fires burned across almost the entire island.
When Jon finally showed himself openly and kept drawing attention, Euron made up his mind. He gathered the main Ironborn army—more than thirty thousand strong—and sailed to wipe them out.
Jon's ravens spotted the movement at once. He called every officer to a meeting in a valley stronghold.
Jon looked over the fifty-odd officers inside the long hall. The Citadel acolytes were growing fastest. At first their inexperience had cost lives, but they learned fast. After a few fights, several stood out. Jon's faith in training the mountain-clan children only grew stronger. Give them books and time, and he would have a modern, fanatically loyal officer corps.
The original officers still held the clear majority, keeping the army firmly under his control. The newly promoted men owed their knighthoods and lands to Jon, so their loyalty matched the veterans.
The bastard and second-son companies were excellent too. Together with the Citadel men, Jon had already promised out fifty knighthoods and matching estates.
That was nothing. He now controlled eighty-five percent of the Westerlands outright. He didn't plan to rely on the old feudal system forever, but he could still build a Westerosi-style guard system.
Traditional titles were starting to feel too crude. He was thinking of adding a rank above knight—something like "Great Knight"—to handle commands the size of a hundred or a thousand men.
Sandor at his side, Jon walked into the hall. The long table ran down the center. Knights Jon had raised sat on either side. Behind them stood the next tier who weren't yet allowed at the table.
The moment Jon entered, the officers who had been laughing and swapping stories fell silent. Armor clattered as they rose and gave him a sharp salute.
"Sit," Jon said, taking his seat at the head.
A rustle of mail and leather followed as everyone sat and pulled out small notebooks. Jon required every officer to record every council and every battle, then analyze what went right and wrong. At first they hadn't understood. Now they saw the value and stopped complaining.
The Citadel men did it best. It felt like training back at the Citadel.
Once everyone was settled, notebooks open, charcoal sticks ready, they all turned to Jon.
"Gentlemen," Jon began, "we've already finished half our mission on Harlaw. We've burned nine-tenths of the plantations. The Ironborn can no longer feed themselves. From today on, time is on our side. We can starve them out and wait for them to surrender."
Grins spread around the table. These men had built real bonds fighting a kind of war Westeros had never seen.
A few looked disappointed. They hadn't earned as much glory as they wanted.
Jon changed tack and pulled their attention back.
"But I said at the start that this war is meant to end the threat forever. House Greyjoy, House Goodbrother, House Harlaw, House Hoare—I will rip every old family out by the roots. Our enemies won't just sit and wait. Word is they've already raised more than thirty thousand men to hunt us down. The real fighting is only beginning."
Faces grew tense. Four-to-one odds on enemy ground made even veterans uneasy.
Jon gave them worse news. The landing beaches and channels on Harlaw were narrow. They couldn't fit two or three hundred ships at once, so the fleet couldn't give much direct support.
Their ships were bigger and more numerous than the Ironborn's, but Euron's blood magic meant the squadrons couldn't mass for a big assault on any harbor. They could only tie down part of the enemy army.
The room grew heavier. It felt like they were on a ship heading straight into a storm.
Rickard Karstark sat like stone. Renard beside him showed nothing.
Lazy Leo watched Jon quietly. Garlan's bastards whispered among themselves. Black Walder's second sons looked grim.
Jon swept his gaze across them. One thing gave him hope: every man, no matter how worried, was already flipping through his notebook or murmuring ideas. This army thought for itself far more than any other in Westeros. Once he returned home he would use these men as the core of a ten-thousand-man standing army, backed by twenty thousand reserves. With the forces he already held, he could have it ready in six months.
Rickard finally spoke, voice steady. "Lord Stark, the channels are narrow, but there are plenty of shallow beaches. If I stay behind with a rearguard, at least half our men can still get off the island."
"My lord, let me stay," Harken said at once. "My wife is already carrying our child. It doesn't matter if I come back or not."
In the clans, when danger came, the men with sons went first. It was simply how things were done.
"My lord, leave me here," Davos Flowers said, voice low. "You can give my knighthood and lands to my brother."
After him, Garlan's bastards, Jyles Flowers, and a cluster of Freys all volunteered. Jon's rewards were too rich to ignore. The death benefits alone would raise their families a full rank.
Jon raised a hand. The room quieted.
"Run?" he said. "When did I ever say we were leaving Harlaw?"
The officers stared. On paper it was seven thousand against thirty thousand. Strip away the thralls who couldn't fight yet and it was barely five thousand. In Westeros, fighting outnumbered like that almost always ended in disaster.
Then they saw the calm certainty on Jon's face and felt the ground steady beneath them again.
Jon laid out the plan. They would meet the Ironborn in the hills, where the terrain would blunt their numbers. At the same time, the thralls who had joined them would slip back to their old plantations. There they would form hidden cells among the other slaves and spread the word: when the time came, every thrall on Harlaw would rise.
Euron's ravens had already counted Jon's original landing force at three thousand. That was why he had waited so long to come in force.
He would never guess that the hundred thousand thralls on the island were almost all ready to become Jon's soldiers.
On the surface it looked like three thousand against thirty thousand.
In reality it would be a hundred thousand against thirty thousand.
A net of fire and vengeance had already been cast across Harlaw.
Now they only had to wait for the Ironborn to walk into it.