The first night inside the Narnian war camp was not peaceful.
Ironically, it had nothing to do with discomfort. The accommodations provided to the Westerosi delegation were better than many noble commanders received during campaigns back home. The tents were massive and heavily insulated against the bitter sea winds of Great Wyk. Thick furs covered the floors, heated stones had been placed beneath the bedding, and servants regularly brought warm food and drink without needing to be asked. The guards outside remained disciplined and respectful at all times.
Yet despite all of that, very few men in the delegation truly slept.
Because war itself never slept around them.
Throughout the night, the camp remained alive with movement. Shouts echoed constantly across the coastline while messengers ran between command tents carrying orders through the darkness. Horns sounded intermittently somewhere near the harbor, followed by the distant crashing of waves against warships shifting in the tide.
And more than once, the terrifying roar of Narnian cannons shook the ground itself.
Each blast sounded less like a weapon and more like the sky splitting apart. Even within the heavily layered tents, the explosions vibrated through the earth beneath their feet hard enough to rattle cups and lanterns.
At one point Robert Baratheon woke violently after a particularly powerful blast shook the camp. He rolled from his bedding instantly, grabbing for the warhammer resting beside him while swearing loudly.
"What in seven hells was that?" he growled.
Tywin Lannister sat calmly nearby beside a lantern, already awake and drinking wine in complete silence. The older lord looked almost entirely unaffected by the disturbance.
"Cannons," Tywin answered flatly.
Robert glared toward the tent walls while another distant explosion echoed across the coastline.
"They fire those things at night?"
Tywin took another slow sip before replying. "They fire whenever necessary."
Outside the tent more shouting followed. Men running. Orders being repeated. Then another deep explosion rolled across the sea.
No one from the delegation had been permitted to leave the tent during the disturbance. The Narnian guards stationed outside had made that very clear the moment Jason Mallister attempted it shortly after midnight.
"For your safety," the guards had explained politely.
That alone unsettled many of the Westerosi nobles more than the cannons themselves.
Because despite the courtesy shown to them, they all understood the truth.
They were being contained.
Measured carefully every moment they remained inside the camp.
And every single man there knew it.
By dawn, most of the delegation had already given up on sleep entirely. The skies above Great Wyk were gray and cold while bitter sea winds swept across the coastline carrying the scent of salt, smoke, and wet iron.
Outside, the Narnian camp had already returned fully to activity.
Thousands of soldiers moved with terrifying efficiency through the sprawling military encampment. Smiths hammered steel near open furnaces while supply wagons rolled steadily between organized rows of tents. Messengers on horseback galloped constantly across the muddy paths while ships arrived and departed from the shoreline without pause.
Everything functioned with disciplined precision.
Nothing about the camp resembled the chaotic military gatherings Westerosi lords were accustomed to seeing during war.
Rhaegar Targaryen stepped outside shortly after sunrise alongside Tywin, Robert, Jon Connington, and the others. Nearby, a Narnian guard stood calmly holding a long spear and shield, watching the delegation without hostility but with obvious alertness.
It was Jon Connington who finally broke the silence first.
"What happened last night?" he asked.
The guard answered immediately without hesitation.
"Five small boats attempted to flee from Pyke during the night."
That caught everyone's attention instantly.
"Escape?" Jason Mallister frowned.
The guard nodded once. "We intercepted them near the western blockade."
Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly. "And the cannons?"
"Warning shots," the guard replied calmly.
Several lords exchanged surprised looks.
"You fired those monsters merely to warn them?" Robert asked incredulously.
The guard nodded again as though the matter was entirely ordinary.
"We believed there might be Greyjoys aboard."
Then he added calmly, "We did not wish to sink the vessels."
Tywin studied the man carefully. "Why?"
The guard's answer came without emotion.
"Because we do not want the Greyjoys to die at sea."
A brief pause followed before he finished.
"We want them hanged publicly."
Even Robert stopped smiling at that.
What unsettled them most was not the statement itself, but the complete lack of hatred behind it. The guard did not sound angry. He simply sounded certain.
Jon Connington stepped slightly forward. "And did you capture anyone important?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Balon Greyjoy's youngest son and daughter."
Several men stiffened instantly.
Rhaegar blinked slowly. "They are alive?"
"Yes."
"Where are they now?" Tywin asked.
"Saltcliffe. They are prisoners of Narnia."
The guard rested both hands atop his spear calmly before continuing.
"We do not harm children."
That statement confused several Westerosi nobles more than the executions had.
Because everything else about this campaign had appeared utterly merciless.
"And the others aboard the boats?" Jason Mallister asked carefully.
"Executed."
No hesitation.
Then the guard added one final detail in the same calm voice.
"They attempted to flee a war zone while carrying members of House Greyjoy. They were enemy combatants."
And suddenly the Westerosi delegation understood something deeply unsettling.
The Narnians did not think like Westerosi nobles.
In Westeros, noble blood carried protections. A captured lord remained valuable alive. He could be ransomed, exchanged, married strategically, or used for negotiations. Even during rebellions, noble prisoners often survived because their names alone carried worth.
But the Narnians clearly viewed things differently.
To them, a nobleman was simply another enemy.
No more important than a common soldier.
That realization settled heavily over the entire delegation as they walked further through the camp later that morning.
Then they saw the gallows.
The structures stood openly near the shoreline where every arriving ship could see them clearly. Sea winds caused the hanging corpses to sway slowly above the crashing waves below.
Dozens of bodies.
Some still wore damaged armor.
Others remained dressed in torn noble clothing bearing Ironborn sigils.
Crows circled constantly overhead.
Robert Baratheon stopped walking entirely.
"Gods…"
Even he looked unsettled now.
Jason Mallister quietly recognized one of the corpses immediately.
"That's Lord Sparr…"
Another hanging body still wore the colors of a noble Ironborn household. Another corpse nearby wore rusted captain's armor.
Noble.
Commoner.
Captain.
All hanging alike.
Tywin Lannister stood silently observing the gallows for a very long time before finally speaking.
"They are making a statement."
Rhaegar already understood it as well.
Narnia was not merely conquering the Iron Islands.
They were dismantling the old order itself.
The old customs.
The old privileges.
The old assumptions about nobility and power.
And somehow that frightened Rhaegar more than dragons ever could.
Robert stared at the swaying corpses darkly. "If these people ever wage war against Westeros fully…"
He never finished the sentence.
He did not need to.
Every man standing there had already reached the same conclusion independently.
The fate hanging from those gallows could one day belong to the great houses of Westeros themselves.
No ransom.
No privilege.
No protection granted by noble birth.
Only victory.
Or death.
Rhaegar looked out toward the endless rows of disciplined soldiers moving across the camp and felt a cold realization settle heavily inside him.
Westeros was not prepared for enemies like these.
Not politically.
Not militarily.
And perhaps most dangerously—
Not ideologically.
They fed soldiers properly. They organized efficiently. They treated warfare like careful mathematics instead of glorious chaos. Their commanders thought beyond pride and tradition.
Worst of all—
Their soldiers believed in what they were building.
That made them dangerous in ways Westerosi lords barely understood.
As they continued walking through the shoreline camp, the delegation noticed another detail that disturbed them deeply.
Captured Ironborn were working openly beneath armed supervision. Some repaired damaged armor while others unloaded supplies from ships or reinforced barricades along the coast.
But none wore chains.
Robert frowned immediately at that.
"They trust prisoners with tools?"
Tywin observed the scene carefully before answering. "No."
Robert glanced toward him.
Tywin's eyes remained fixed on the workers. "They trust fear."
The answer lingered heavily between them.
Because no one attempted escape.
No one resisted.
The Ironborn moved quietly beneath Narnian supervision like men who already understood exactly what failure would cost them.
Ahead, massive black warships rested along the coast beneath rows of loaded cannons pointed toward the sea. Sailors moved across the decks with disciplined coordination while banners bearing the sigil of Narnia snapped violently in the harsh winds.
Rhaegar stared at them silently.
Then finally he spoke quietly enough that only Tywin heard.
"If peace fails today…"
Tywin did not look at him when he answered.
"Then Westeros enters a war unlike any it has fought before."
The commander's tent stood near the center of the Narnian war camp like the heart of the entire military operation.
Unlike the extravagant command pavilions used by many Westerosi lords during campaigns, this one appeared surprisingly plain from the outside. No colorful banners decorated the entrance. No servants rushed in and out carrying trays of wine.
Only soldiers.
Armed guards stood motionless outside the entrance, their armor dark beneath the gray skies of Great Wyk. Cannons rested nearby facing the sea while rows of supply wagons moved constantly behind them. Everything around the tent radiated discipline instead of luxury.
Rhaegar Targaryen noticed that immediately.
So did Tywin Lannister.
The delegation entered together beneath the heavy canvas flaps, expecting a crowded council filled with officers, advisers, and commanders.
Instead—
Only one man waited inside.
Commander Jorund.
The massive Northman stood beside a large wooden table covered in maps of the Iron Islands. Several markers had been placed across different coastlines showing troop movements, naval blockades, and supply routes. Oil lanterns illuminated the tent with warm golden light while rain and sea winds battered the canvas outside.
Jorund looked up calmly as they entered.
Jason Mallister frowned first. "You are alone?"
Jorund nodded once. "Yes."
Robert Baratheon looked around the tent. "Where are the others?"
"There are no others necessary."
The commander rested one hand against the edge of the table. "I am the highest-ranking officer in this campaign. What I say here becomes law for every Narnian soldier on these islands."
His pale eyes moved across the delegation calmly.
"So there is no reason to fill this tent with men shouting over each other."
The bluntness of the statement irritated several nobles instantly.
Tywin, however, remained silent.
Because the older lord already understood something important about Jorund.
This man was not trying to impress them.
Jorund gestured toward the chairs surrounding the table. "Sit."
The Westerosi delegation slowly took their places while guards remained outside the tent entrance. The atmosphere inside immediately became tense once silence settled fully between them.
Because every man present already knew why this meeting existed.
They simply disagreed about how it would end.
Jorund finally broke the silence first.
"So," he said calmly, "what is it you came here for?"
The question sounded almost absurd considering the circumstances.
But Rhaegar understood what the commander truly meant.
Jorund wanted to hear them say it aloud.
The silver-haired king folded his hands calmly atop the table before speaking.
"I came to prevent further bloodshed."
Jorund said nothing.
Rhaegar continued carefully. "What happened between the Ironborn and your people was wrong. The attack upon Narnian ships should never have occurred."
"That is true," Jorund agreed flatly.
Rhaegar nodded slowly. "And for that, House Targaryen apologizes."
Several Westerosi lords shifted slightly at those words, but none interrupted.
"However," Rhaegar continued, "it is not just to punish an entire population for the crimes committed by a few men."
Jorund's expression did not change.
"The Iron Islands," Rhaegar said firmly, "belong to Westeros. The Ironborn swear fealty to House Targaryen. If Narnia continues this conquest…"
His voice hardened slightly.
"…then eventually this becomes war between our kingdoms."
Rhaegar leaned slightly forward.
"Leave the matter of disciplining the Ironborn to the Iron Throne."
For several seconds Jorund simply stared at him.
Then finally—
The commander laughed softly.
"Do not speak to me about disciplining the Ironborn."
The calmness in his voice somehow made the words sharper.
"For three hundred years," Jorund continued, "the Ironborn have raided coastlines across Essos and beyond. Villages burned. Merchant ships taken. Entire settlements enslaved."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"And during all those years, where was this discipline you speak of?"
No one answered.
Because there was no answer.
Jorund stepped slowly around the table.
"You tolerated them," he said bluntly. "As long as they did not raid your own shores too openly, you allowed it to continue."
"That is not true," Jason Mallister snapped immediately. "The Ironborn have fought wars against the crown many times."
"And yet they still raid."
Jorund's voice remained calm.
"They still worship piracy."
"They still raise children to believe stealing and murdering across the sea is glory."
He looked directly at Rhaegar now.
"You had three centuries to change them."
The silence that followed felt heavy.
Rhaegar answered carefully. "The Seven Kingdoms are not ruled through fear alone. There are traditions. Alliances. Politics."
Jorund snorted softly.
"Yes."
"And that weakness allowed this culture to survive."
Several lords bristled immediately.
Tywin spoke for the first time then.
"You speak boldly for a foreign commander standing upon Westerosi land."
Jorund looked toward him without fear. "And yet here I stand."
The atmosphere inside the tent sharpened instantly.
But before he could respond, Jorund continued.
"The ships that attacked Narnian vessels came from these islands."
"We still do not know which house ordered it."
"Perhaps Greyjoy. Perhaps another."
He spread one hand slightly.
"But it does not matter anymore."
Rhaegar frowned. "Of course it matters."
"No," Jorund replied firmly. "Because the problem is larger than one house."
His voice grew colder now.
"As long as children are raised here beneath the teachings of the Drowned God… as long as raiding is praised as strength… this will continue forever."
The commander looked around the tent slowly.
"So Narnia will end it."
Several nobles spoke at once immediately.
"You cannot simply—"
"This is conquest!"
"You have no right—"
Jorund slammed one hand against the wooden table hard enough to silence everyone instantly.
"We have every right."
The room became deathly quiet.
"You speak of sovereignty," Jorund continued. "But sovereignty carries responsibility."
His eyes locked onto Rhaegar.
"You claim these islands belong to Westeros."
"Then their crimes belong to Westeros as well."
That statement settled heavily over the room.
Rhaegar's expression hardened slightly. "You cannot hold an entire kingdom responsible for every act committed by subjects beyond direct control."
"Why not?"
"Because no realm functions that way."
Jorund stepped closer slowly.
"And yet if one of my soldiers murders your king…"
His voice remained dangerously calm.
"…you would blame Narnia."
Rhaegar stood slowly from his chair.
"It is not wise," he said carefully, "for our kingdoms to descend into full war because of the actions of hundred Ironborn raiders and the deaths of a handful of Narnian sailors."
The moment those words left his mouth—
Jorund clapped once.
A guard immediately entered the tent.
The man wore full armor and carried both sword and bow across his back. His expression remained completely emotionless as he approached the commander.
Jorund looked at him calmly.
"Would you die for Narnia?"
The guard answered instantly.
"Gladly."
Then Jorund made a small hand gesture the Westerosi nobles did not understand.
Everything happened at once.
The guard moved with terrifying speed.
One second his hands were empty.
The next—
A bowstring had already been pulled fully taut.
An arrow pointed directly at Rhaegar Targaryen's throat.
The entire tent erupted instantly.
Robert Baratheon surged forward furiously.
"What in seven hells—?!"
Jon Connington grabbed for his blade while Tywin rose sharply from his chair.
Outside the tent, armored Kingsguards rushed inward—
Only to stop immediately the moment they saw the arrow aimed at their king's neck.
One wrong movement and Rhaegar would die before any of them reached the archer.
The tension inside the tent became suffocating.
Tywin's voice turned dangerously cold. "What is the meaning of this?"
Jon Connington pointed furiously toward Jorund. "I will have your head for this!"
But Jorund remained perfectly calm.
"If he releases that arrow," the commander said quietly, "your king dies."
The archer's hands remained completely steady.
Rhaegar himself stood motionless staring at the drawn bow inches from his face.
Jorund looked around the room calmly.
"So now," he continued, "we have one dead man."
He gestured slightly toward the archer.
"You may cut off his head immediately afterward."
The Westerosi lords stared at him in disbelief.
Jorund's eyes hardened slightly.
"Would that create peace between our kingdoms?"
Silence.
Because suddenly they understood exactly what he was doing.
"You ask us to ignore the Ironborn attack," Jorund continued. "To separate their actions from Westeros itself."
He pointed toward the drawn arrow calmly.
"But if this soldier kills your king…"
His gaze locked onto Rhaegar.
"…you will not separate his actions from Narnia."
No one spoke.
"You cannot claim the Ironborn belong to your kingdom while also claiming their actions are not your responsibility."
Jorund stepped slowly toward the table.
"So now I ask you plainly."
His voice remained utterly calm.
"Do you accept your own argument?"
He gestured toward the archer again.
"One life for one life."
Then his eyes narrowed slightly.
"Or do you allow us to keep the islands and solve the problem your kingdom failed to solve for three hundred years?"
Author's Note:
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