In Westeros, war did not begin with swords.
It began with letters.
The council chamber of the Red Keep had long since fallen silent after the first reports from the Stepstones reached King's Landing, but the silence offered no comfort.
Rhaegar Targaryen stood at the head of the long table, a sealed letter held between his fingers. The candlelight flickered against the polished wood, casting shifting shadows across the gathered lords. His expression was calm, composed as ever, yet there was something restrained beneath it—something simmering.
"This goes to Winterfell," he said at last, placing the letter down with deliberate care.
Another followed.
"To the Eyrie."
Then another.
"To Highgarden."
"To Casterly Rock."
"To Sunspear."
Jon Connington watched the growing pile with a tightening jaw, his patience thinning with every sealed message. "By the time they answer," he said, unable to keep the edge from his voice, "this will already be decided elsewhere."
Rhaegar did not look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the table, on the letters, on the slow machinery of a kingdom that refused to move swiftly.
"Yes," he said simply.
That was the problem.
In Westeros, the king did not command an army.
He commanded alliances.
And alliances were fragile things—built on trust, bound by obligation, and broken by fear.
"If we move too quickly," one of the lords began carefully, choosing each word as though it might betray him, "it will be seen as overreach."
Rhaegar's eyes lifted, settling on him with quiet intensity. "Overreach?"
"You would be acting against a great house without consultation," the man continued. "House Greyjoy may be… troublesome, but they are still one of us."
Jon gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "They sank five ships and slaughtered every man aboard."
"And we will answer for that," the lord replied, his tone firm despite the tension in the room. "But not alone."
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible. He knew this game. He had always known it.
Even if he despised it.
"If the king can strike one lord," another voice added, "what prevents him from striking another?"
"And then," a third said, quieter but no less dangerous, "what prevents the wardens from removing the king?"
There it was.
The truth, laid bare in the open.
Rhaegar's jaw tightened, though his voice remained steady. "So we wait."
Because that was how Westeros worked.
They would send letters. They would gather opinions. They would debate, delay, and deliberate until consensus was forged—or until it fractured entirely.
And while they did—
The world would move on without them.
Far to the north, beyond the Wall, beyond even the lands that Westeros claimed to knowp—
In Narnia, there were no letters.
Harry Gryffindor stood at the center of the great chamber in Telmar, his presence commanding without effort. The room was filled with leaders, warriors, commanders—men and women who had come not to argue, but to listen.
"They attacked our ships," Harry said.
The chamber fell completely still.
"They killed our people."
His voice did not rise. There was a calm in it that carried more weight than any shout.
"We respond."
That was all.
No debate followed. No cautious objections. No careful weighing of consequences.
Jarl leaned forward slightly, his expression sharp with interest. "How many ships?"
"Three hundred," Harry replied without hesitation.
A low murmur passed through the room—not of doubt, but of approval.
Lyanna stood at his side, her gaze steady and unreadable. "No dragon?"
Harry shook his head once. "No."
Sirius frowned, disappointment flickering briefly across his face. "Why not?"
Harry's eyes shifted to him, sharp and clear. "Because dragons won't always be there."
The answer stilled him instantly.
"If we rely on them," Harry continued, his gaze sweeping across the chamber, "we weaken ourselves. We fight this as men."
Jorund stepped forward without hesitation. "I'll lead it."
Harry inclined his head. "You will."
There were no rival ambitions here. No fragile alliances to maintain.
Within days, the fleet was at sea.
Three hundred ships cut through the waters with purpose, their movement swift and precise. These were not the heavy warships of Westeros, burdened by tradition and weight. These vessels were different—lighter, sharper, designed for speed and maneuverability.
And they carried something else.
Something Westeros had never seen at such scale.
Cannons.
The Stepstones stretched before them like a broken maze—jagged islands, hidden coves, narrow channels that twisted like veins through the sea. It was a place made for ambush, a hunter's ground.
The Ironborn had always known it well.
"Another one will come," a Greyjoy captain muttered, standing at the prow of his ship as he scanned the horizon. "They always do."
His men laughed, their confidence unshaken. "Easy pickings," one called out. "Volantis traders, Braavosi merchants."
"Soft," another added with a grin.
They had grown used to it—the fear they inspired, the ease of their victories.
They did not expect what came next.
The first Narnian ships appeared at dawn, small silhouettes against the rising light. They moved quickly—faster than any ships the Ironborn had seen before.
"Ships!" a lookout shouted.
The captain narrowed his eyes. "How many?"
The man hesitated, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "…many."
Then the horizon filled.
The captain's breath caught. "What in the—"
The first cannon fired.
The sound tore through the morning like thunder, violent and alien. For a single heartbeat, there was silence.
Then came the impact.
One of the Greyjoy ships vanished in an explosion of splintered wood and fire.
"What was that?!" someone screamed.
Another blast followed.
Another ship shattered.
Panic spread like wildfire across the fleet.
"Return fire!" the captain roared.
"With what?!" came the desperate reply.
Because they had never faced this before.
The Narnian fleet did not slow. It advanced with relentless precision, cannons roaring again and again as the sea erupted into chaos.
Ships burned. Men screamed. The water itself seemed to boil with destruction.
"Retreat!" the captain shouted, voice cracking as reality set in.
The Ironborn scattered, their formation breaking apart as they fled for the safety of familiar waters.
At the front of the Narnian fleet, Jorund stood upon the deck of his flagship, his gaze fixed on the fleeing ships. His expression remained unreadable.
"They're running," one of his officers said.
"Of course they are," Jorund replied calmly.
"Do we pursue?"
Jorund did not answer immediately. His eyes followed the path of their retreat—westward, toward home.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Yes."
The fleet surged forward, closing the distance with terrifying speed.
"They won't escape," the officer said confidently.
Jorund shook his head slightly. "They will."
The man blinked in confusion. "Sir?"
"The king gave clear orders," Jorund said, his voice steady.
"Chase them… to their island."
Understanding dawned in the officer's eyes, first as confusion, then as realization.
"We're not stopping here," he said quietly.
Jorund nodded.
"No."
The chase stretched on for days. Through narrow passages and hidden channels, the Ironborn fled with every trick they knew—but the Narnians followed, relentless and unyielding.
The wind favored them. The sea carried them.
And for the first time in generations—
The Ironborn were not hunters.
They were prey.
At last, the Iron Islands rose on the horizon.
The Greyjoy fleet limped toward home, broken and burning, desperate for the safety of their shores.
"They'll think they're safe," the officer said.
Jorund's gaze remained fixed ahead. "They're wrong."
The Narnian fleet did not slow.
Behind them, three hundred ships advanced in perfect formation, armed and ready.
Jorund's voice rang out across the deck. "Prepare for full assault."
Men moved instantly, their actions precise and without fear.
The Iron Islands had never known silence like this.
Not the quiet of calm seas or windless nights, but a heavy, waiting stillness—like the breath held before a storm broke.
Yet the storm had already begun.
It began before the Narnians ever set foot on their shores.
It began before a single soldier crossed the water.
War came first as sound.
A distant thunder rolled across the horizon, low and unnatural, echoing across the waves. At first, it was mistaken for a storm—some deep, distant rumble carried by the wind.
Then it came again.
And again.
And again.
The great stone towers that guarded the Iron Islands stood ready, as they always had. Built from dark rock and reinforced with iron bands, they loomed over the coastlines like ancient sentinels. Their mechanisms were primed, their crews prepared, their firepots waiting to be lit at the first sign of approaching ships.
For generations, they had held firm.
Against rival fleets.
Against kings.
But they had never faced this.
The first cannon fired just beyond the horizon.
A heartbeat later, the impact came.
One of the coastal towers exploded.
There was no other word for it. Stone did not crumble—it shattered. The upper half of the tower collapsed inward with violent force, crushing the mechanisms inside before a single flame could be lit.
"What—?!" someone shouted, but the question never finished.
Another impact followed.
Another tower fell.
"They're too far!" an Ironborn captain shouted from the battlements, his voice cracking with disbelief. "They shouldn't be able to reach—"
The next cannonball struck beside him.
The parapet vanished in a spray of stone and splinters, throwing men from the wall like broken dolls. Screams followed them into the sea below.
Panic spread.
Ships—hundreds of them—cut through the waters with unnatural speed, their formation tight, their advance relentless.
Then the cannons spoke again.
Round after round crashed into the Iron Islands' outer defenses. Gates splintered beneath the force. Iron reinforcements bent and tore apart as though they were nothing. Towers that had stood for centuries fell in moments, reduced to rubble and fire.
The Ironborn rushed to respond.
Men ran to the engines, fumbling with fire and rope, trying to bring their weapons to life.
But every attempt was crushed before it could begin.
"They're destroying everything!" someone screamed as another tower collapsed in flames.
Smoke rose in thick columns, darkening the sky. The air trembled with each impact, the ground itself shuddering beneath the relentless assault.
The sea burned.
And only when nothing remained to stop them—
Did the Narnians come ashore.
Ships grounded in formation, their hulls cutting cleanly into the shore. Planks were lowered in unison, and ranks of soldiers moved forward with disciplined purpose.
Jorund stepped onto the sand among the first.
Behind him, thousands followed, their movements measured, each step part of something larger than themselves.
The moment their boots touched land, the next phase began.
A voice rolled across the battlefield.
Amplified.
"Lay down your weapons!"
The words echoed across the island, carried by magic and will alike, striking ears far beyond the shore.
"Those who surrender will be spared!"
Some glanced at one another. Some faltered, uncertainty creeping into their expressions.
But most did not move.
Because they were Ironborn.
And Ironborn did not kneel.
"They think they can scare us?" one warrior spat, lifting his axe high. "Let them come!"
A roar answered him—fierce, defiant, unbroken.
Jorund watched them in silence.
Then he gave a single nod.
"Forward."
The Narnians advanced.
The clash came instantly.
Steel rang against steel. Axes crashed against shields. The air filled with the sound of battle—raw, violent, unforgiving.
The Ironborn fought as they always had—fierce, brutal, relentless.
But this was not a battle between equals.
The Narnians did not break formation. They did not lose themselves to chaos. Their lines held, their movements coordinated, each soldier a part of a greater whole.
And at their center—
Jorund.
He moved through the battlefield like something more than a man.
An Ironborn warrior charged him with a roar.
Jorund stepped aside.
His blade moved once.
The man fell before his momentum had even carried him past.
Another came from behind, silent and quick.
Jorund turned without looking.
Steel flashed.
Blood followed.
He did not stop.
Around him, the Narnians pressed forward, their discipline breaking the Ironborn lines piece by piece.
"Hold the line!" an Ironborn captain shouted desperately. "Push them back!"
They tried.
Gods, they tried.
Men fell—dozens, then hundreds. The ground darkened beneath their blood, the air thick with the scent of iron and smoke.
The Ironborn began to retreat.
They fell back because they had no choice.
Jorund raised a hand.
"Hold."
The Narnians stopped instantly.
The battlefield fell quiet once more, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the distant crash of waves against the shore.
The field was theirs.
Behind them, more ships continued to arrive. More men disembarked. Supplies were brought ashore with efficient precision.
Jorund stood at the center of it all, his gaze sweeping across the island—the hills, the strongholds, the scattered settlements that still stood beyond the destruction.
"This is not a raid," one of his commanders said quietly as he approached.
"No," Jorund replied.
"This is a conquest."
Orders followed swiftly.
"This area is secured. Set up camp."
Tents rose in ordered rows. Healers moved among the wounded. Supplies were distributed, positions established, defenses prepared.
There was no celebration.
Only preparation.
Because they all understood—
This was only the beginning.
The amplified voice echoed once more across the land.
"Any who surrender will live!"
"Lay down your arms and come forward!"
This time, a few did.
They came slowly, cautiously, weapons discarded, hands raised. Fear warred with pride in their eyes.
And they were not struck down.
They were taken aside.Watched.
Word spread quickly.
Some began to understand.
Others refused.
"Better to die than kneel," one Ironborn muttered, tightening his grip on his blade.
And many agreed.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the scarred land, Jorund stood within the newly formed camp. His armor bore marks of battle, his blade still stained.
"This will take time," one of his captains said.
"Yes."
"The islands won't fall in a day."
Jorund's gaze turned toward the distant cliffs where Pyke stood, dark and defiant against the horizon.
"We take them all," he said.
One by one.
"There will be no more lords here. No more raiders."
The captain studied him for a moment. "Then?"
Jorund did not hesitate.
"Narnia."
The word carried weight. Finality.
"They will learn," Jorund continued, his voice calm, certain, "how to live without raiding."
The wind carried the scent of smoke across the island, mingling with salt and blood.
"And if they refuse?" the captain asked.
Jorund looked back toward the battlefield—toward the fallen, the wounded, the survivors who now faced a world that was shifting beneath their feet.
His answer was simple.
"Then we teach them."
With iron.
With fire.
Author's Note:
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