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Lead-gray clouds drifted across the sky, shedding fat, lazy snowflakes that settled over the empty, windswept wilderness.
One of those flakes landed on a half-built fort. Calling it a "fort" was generous. Its walls were barely chest-high, slapped together from irregular stones and mud. A handful of watchtowers and huts were the only real structures.
Ever since Brandon the Burner had torched every ship that belonged to Winterfell, the west coast of the North had been cut off from the southern kingdoms—and spared the worst of the Ironborn raids. After all, there was nothing worth stealing on a frozen shore. So this lonely outpost on the Stony Shore was manned by only about a hundred men whose sole job was to light signal fires and send ravens the moment trouble appeared.
Right now, however, the tiny fort was alive with cookfire smoke. Tents sprawled across the hills in every direction. Several thousand ironborn warriors had made camp here.
The original garrison? The ones who fought back were stripped naked and impaled on the outer wall. Their blood had run down the spears and frozen into black scabs in the bitter wind.
The ironborn loved this kind of display—proof of their strength and cruelty.
But Sawane Botley, one of the commanders who had helped seize the place, wasn't satisfied.
He marched straight to the army's overall leader—Victarion Greyjoy, Balon's brother.
Victarion, as supreme commander, had claimed the largest stone hut. Inside, the hearth roared, filling the room with welcome heat. His hand was busy beneath the clothes of the mute serving girl beside him.
She was the same woman Euron had gifted him—the one who couldn't speak but somehow understood his every desire. Victarion had even broken the rule against bringing women on campaign just to keep her close, disguised among the crew.
When he heard Sawane's footsteps, Victarion quickly pulled his hand free and motioned for the woman to hide.
"Lord Botley."
"Victarion."
After the curt greeting, Sawane dropped straight into the chair opposite him.
He opened his mouth to speak, then paused, sniffing the air. "Why does it smell like a woman in here?"
"Cook must've left something behind. What is it?" Victarion answered quickly, steering the conversation away.
Sawane didn't press it. "With respect, I don't think we should listen to Euron so much."
"Oh?" Victarion's eyes flicked toward the inner room where the mute girl was hiding.
"We could have taken this pathetic little place two days ago, but Euron insisted on landing in some hidden cove. There's no danger on the Sunset Sea right now. The Redwyne fleet is far south, and that bastard Jon at Casterly Rock has no idea we're here. I think Euron's just terrified of the Snow boy. We still have days of marching before we reach Winterfell, and our food stores are already low. What happens if the castle holds out?"
Victarion nodded seriously. He agreed—Euron was being overly cautious.
For ironborn who lived by reaving, speed was everything.
Still, Victarion had spent the last few days lost in the pleasures of his new bed-slave, so he hadn't given it much thought. He promised to speak with Euron.
"Then we rest tonight and march before dawn. Damn it, I bet Winterfell already got the raven from this place." With that assurance, Sawane left.
Victarion thought it over. Euron's choice of landing site had been too careful. They had brought a third of the entire Iron Fleet—more than enough to crush anything except the Redwynes. The smart move was to strike fast, take Winterfell, and seize hostages.
He stood up, intending to find Euron right away.
But the mute woman had already slipped out of hiding and moved in front of him like a serpent. She locked eyes with him, then slowly sank to her knees between his spread legs—
"…Fine. I'll go in a little while."
---
In the stone hut right next to Victarion's, Euron sat alone. His mind, however, was riding with a flock of dark ravens.
The birds chased a smaller raven, closing the distance rapidly.
The larger ravens flew faster, overtaking their prey in seconds.
Black feathers scattered on the wind. The smaller raven was torn apart in mid-air.
One of the biggest ravens caught the bronze message tube in its beak and wheeled back toward the Stony Shore.
Soon the bird landed beside Euron. He opened the tube and read the alert—exactly as expected. A warning and plea for help sent to Winterfell.
"Jon Snow," Euron murmured, a cruel smile curving his lips. "Let's see how you stop me this time."
---
At that same moment, Jon stood in the shipyard beneath Casterly Rock.
He wore the Valyrian steel armor taken from Euron's Silence. The smiths had gilded and enameled it pure white, with a fierce white wolf's head emblazoned across the chest. If Ghost sat at his side right now, the two of them would look like a living statue of the gods.
When he had first put the armor on aboard the Silence, Jon hadn't had time to appreciate it fully. Now he felt how incredibly light and flexible it was—stronger than any plate, yet it moved like mail.
The true wonder was the way the dragon-scale plates locked together under impact, turning soft and supple in normal wear but becoming rigid armor the instant a blow landed.
Jon had tested it privately. The sharpest steel swords and spears couldn't so much as scratch it.
Wearing something that made him feel truly invincible did wonders for a man's confidence.
Today, he was sailing north to shove a spear straight up Euron's arse.
He knew a land march to save Winterfell was impossible. The only realistic plan was to find where Euron had hidden his fleet and cut off their retreat.
Brynden Tully soon appeared at his side. "My lord, the men are ready. Eleven hundred elite archers and crossbowmen, plus three hundred cavalry, just as you ordered."
"Good. Eleven hundred will be plenty."
The ironborn had numbers, but most fought without armor and had no discipline in formation. Jon planned to sacrifice the warlocks to freeze the shoreline solid, trapping the longships in ice and forcing the ironborn to fight on land—on his terms.
Brynden had also noticed something odd: even though they had plenty of ready equipment, Jon had ordered the armory to forge an entire batch of oversized saws.
He had no idea what Jon wanted with giant saws, but he didn't ask. Jon never fought by the rules anyway.
If the man wanted to bring pigs to battle, there was surely a reason.
Just then, Jon's squire Robert Frey hurried over. "My lord, the lady is here."
Jon turned. Margaery was descending the steps to the shipyard, supported by her maids Falia and Sola, with Loras walking protectively beside her.
The shipyard was cold and damp. Jon didn't want his pregnant wife anywhere near it, so he walked out to meet her.
"Jon, let me come with you!" Loras spoke first, almost pleading.
"Out of the question. No one is better suited to hold Casterly Rock than you. You need to stay and protect Margaery—and your future nephew or niece."
"But those pirates put their hands on my mother. How can I sit here doing nothing?" Loras was visibly upset. Jon noticed he was already wearing his ornate, flower-etched armor—the famous suit that earned him the name "Knight of Flowers."
Jon stepped close and laid a hand on Loras's shoulder. "This won't be our only war with the Iron Islands. There will be plenty more fighting later. I give you my word—next time we face those reavers, I'll bring you along."
"…Fine. I'll hold you to that. And you watch yourself out there."
Loras stepped back, giving Jon and Margaery space.
Margaery's figure was still slender. She was barely two months pregnant and didn't show yet, but her entire bearing had changed. The girl was gone; the Lady of Casterly Rock was already emerging.
"What's this? Your husband hasn't even left yet and you're already missing him?" Jon teased gently.
"Something like that," Margaery answered, a touch of pride in her voice. "Mostly I wanted the little one to see his father riding off to war."
"Then I'll tear down the Seastone Chair and turn it into a cradle for our child."
"Perfect. I'll hold you to that, my lord husband."
Soon the fleet cast off.
From the highest tower of Casterly Rock, Margaery watched the black-sailed ships head north. Tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.
Falia hurried to her side. "My lady! What's wrong?"
"I don't know… I just can't bear to see him leave."
---
Alester Florent watched the fleet depart from the battlements.
He was now certain: Jon Stark was no loyal servant of the crown.
He had already written to Stannis, reporting that Jon had mobilized troops without royal permission. Such behavior demanded punishment.
And if Jon happened to die on this so-called rescue mission… well, that would be even better.