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Ten Towers rose from the sea cliffs of Harlaw like a jagged crown. The ten spires looked tall, but they were really just perched on a string of low hills that hugged the shore. The harbor below was packed with longships and ironborn warriors, a dark cloud of men and sails waiting for Balon's arrival.
Rodrik Harlaw stood at the dock with his eldest son, both of them stiff and respectful as Balon's flagship, the Sea Bitch, slid in on the tide. The moment the gangplank dropped, Balon stepped ashore surrounded by Aeron, Euron, and a knot of guards. They looked like the tentacles of some giant kraken stretching out from the black fleet behind them.
Rodrik's son Daman muttered under his breath as they approached. "The Greyjoys only got to rule these islands because they bent the knee to the Dragonlords. If Balon hadn't crowned himself again, we wouldn't be bleeding like this."
Two of Daman's brothers had died fighting Jon's army. The battle at Beheading Bay had already gutted their house, and now the whole island was paying for it. He was angry, and he didn't bother hiding it.
"Keep your mouth shut," Rodrik hissed. "Balon will command this battle himself. The last thing we need is you running your damn mouth where someone can hear."
Balon stopped in front of them. His voice was cold and certain. "We underestimated the Stark bastard. This time I brought the full strength of the Iron Islands. If he wants to land here, we'll bury him and every last greenlander he dragged with him."
Rodrik bowed low, voice dripping with loyalty he didn't fully feel. "Thank you, Your Grace. House Harlaw remains your most faithful servant."
Daman wasn't convinced. He walked straight up to Euron, eye patch and all, and spoke loud enough for half the dock to hear. "Lord Euron, they say your magic can smash entire fleets. My brothers died at Beheading Bay. So did half the men from Grey Ridge. We don't have men to waste. If you can really call down a storm, show us. Right here. Right now. Let the rest of us see what we're supposed to trust."
Euron didn't even blink. He climbed a low stone wall so everyone could see him, then started chanting in Valyrian and Asshai. The ironborn lords watched with a mix of boredom and contempt—especially Daman, arms crossed, one boot propped on a rock like he was watching a bad mummer's show.
Then Euron pulled a dagger and sliced his own palm open. Blood poured onto the stones. A second later the wind slammed into them like a fist. Cloaks snapped, banners cracked, horses reared. The gust died almost as fast as it came.
Daman snorted. "That all you got?"
Euron wiped the blood on his sleeve and smiled. "I only gave a little this time. If the Iron Throne's fleet shows up, I'll cut off my whole fucking arm and bring a real storm."
Balon stepped forward. "I trust Euron. I'll fight beside you myself."
That shut most of them up. Daman bit his tongue and muttered an apology when his father glared at him. Euron stared at the young man a moment too long, then raised his hand. A flock of ravens appeared out of nowhere, circling above his head before scattering across the harbor to land on the shoulders of every major lord.
"These birds are mine now," Euron said. "They'll find the enemy for us. Balon will use them to give you your orders."
The lords looked impressed—some even respectful. But a few still wondered why eight thousand ironborn had died at Beheading Bay if Euron was this powerful. They kept the question to themselves.
Euron turned and walked back to Balon's side. Inside he was seething. He'd died once. He'd beaten fate. He'd spat in the face of gods. And still these bastards kept testing him. It made his blood boil.
The army—more than thirty thousand strong—began its march inland. They passed burned-out plantations where thralls still worked the blackened fields. Every time Rodrik saw the ruined land he felt like someone was carving pieces out of his chest.
As they moved, Euron spoke through Balon's mouth. "Kill a few. The thralls are starting to forget who owns them."
Rodrik didn't argue. He gave the order. His son Daman led a squad of guards into the fields. The thralls dropped to their knees the second they saw steel. They thought they'd get a whipping at worst. Instead the swords came down.
Screams echoed across the plantations. It happened again and again as the army moved. Euron needed blood. He needed fear. He needed these slaves to remember their place before the real fight started.
What none of them knew was that Jon's men were already hidden in the hills and burned fields ahead. Every time the ironborn column passed, arrows flew from the treeline, fires erupted, and cavalry charged out of nowhere. The ironborn tried to chase, but the terrain was rough and they were used to fighting on decks, not hills.
The moment the main army moved on, the thralls Jon had already recruited slipped back into the plantations. A big Dornish man with a tangled black beard found his countrymen and spoke low and fast.
"Listen up. That lord who hit the plantations? He said if we want to live, we fight for ourselves. We take up steel and we make these pirate bastards bleed."
The Dornishmen listened. They had history fighting dragons. They still had some fire left.
Other groups were harder. Riverlands thralls had been told for years that the ironborn would always rule them. The wildlings snatched from beyond the Wall were the toughest—some of them actually believed being a thrall on a warm island was better than freezing to death in the snow. They didn't trust Jon. They didn't think he could win against thirty thousand ironborn.
But most of the thralls still had families somewhere—wives, kids, parents waiting. That was the hook Jon's men used, and it worked more often than not.
By the time the ironborn army reached the next ridge, hundreds of plantations across Harlaw were quietly turning into powder kegs. The thralls were ready. They were just waiting for the signal.
And Jon's net was already tightening.