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"We play him like he's a damn dog!" Jon said with a smirk from the hilltop that gave him a clear view of most of the battlefield. Yellowed grass stretched down toward the distant clash of men and banners.
His officers burst into laughter around him.
Jon felt the pressure from Euron's raven scouts, but the mountains funneled the fight into a tight pocket his Divine Vision covered completely. Euron's men were uneven in quality. Even with good intel, their orders often fell flat while Jon's always landed first.
The officers still couldn't figure out how he did it. To them, Jon seemed to command on pure instinct.
Especially Leo, the so-called lazy maester. After months of fighting, his short beard now hid half his face. To a stranger he looked like a hardened veteran, not some bookish scholar.
He couldn't make sense of Jon's calls—how he knew an enemy force was sneaking up the back of a hill, which unit was exhausted, or where they'd stashed their elites.
"My lord, do you have a map in your head or something?" Leo asked.
The other bastard and second-son officers, the ones with real training, shot him dirty looks.
"I've always felt that way," Jon said casually. "Like I was born with it. Any place I've seen—mountains, rivers—it's burned into my mind. Reading march maps? Comes natural. Back at Winterfell my father tried teaching me strategy. Said I'd help Robb lead armies someday, not just swing a sword. He handed me a map and told me not to get cocky. I looked at it and thought, 'This is obvious.' He asked me to point things out. I nailed every one."
Jon spun the tale for effect. In an army where strength ruled, sounding legendary earned respect. The cheat was his gift—nothing to hide.
"You know what my father said?" Jon grinned.
The officers shook their heads, hooked.
"He said, 'Damn, kid, you're a genius!'"
Laughter rolled out. Jon's record made the boast land.
The smarter ones filed away how vital map skills were and vowed to train harder.
Jon turned to Garalt Flowers, Garlan's bastard. "Ser Garalt, I figure the plantations are about ready. Time we pushed. Ser Rickard and Sandor are up front. I need you to hit the Goodbrother forces hard. Next time we meet, it'll be Ser Garlan standing before me."
"Yes, my lord!" Garalt said, eyes bright. Earning his father's name was every bastard's dream. Jon had knighted over fifty men with lands already, but this was the first name promise.
Compared to Jon's relaxed command, Euron's side was pure misery.
Mountain fighting drained men fast. Older Ironborn kept slipping and falling—non-combat losses that crushed morale.
Worse, their army had boys as young as twelve or thirteen. Facing Jon's shiny armor, they looked ready to piss themselves.
Jon had brought over a thousand mountain clansmen who moved through the terrain like it was flat ground.
Euron saw openings but couldn't reach them in time. He was stuck fuming.
The fleet cruising near Harlaw's coast split his attention too.
Especially when longships and fishing boats flying Iron Throne colors pulled close to shore. Thralls swarmed toward them.
A longship could ferry thirty to fifty thralls at a time. Fishing boats took more. In half a day, thousands escaped.
Rodrik Harlaw couldn't sit still. If the army stayed pinned here while Jon stole every thrall off the island, what then? He demanded Euron launch an all-out attack.
Euron had no choice. Other lords were pushing too. With overwhelming numbers, he figured one big push. Worst case, retreat.
He sent raven orders for a full assault.
Now it was raw steel and flesh. In the cramped, broken terrain, no tricks—just kill or die.
But Jon held back the mobilized thralls. He wanted to grind Euron's army here first. The thrall army needed time to gather and march.
The bloodiest fighting began.
Jon's men, mostly armored, high morale, tight formation, held strong.
On Euron's side, Balon himself commanded, and Aeron chanted Drowned God prayers for buffs.
Steel clashed on steel. Spears met swords. The valley rang with screams and the wet sound of bodies tearing.
Jon's soldiers were better equipped, but Euron used ravens to rotate fresh troops in waves. Wheel war. Jon's men tired fast. Sandor himself had to pull back, dragging his wounded.
Euron felt the knot in his chest loosen a bit.
"Jon, what else you got?"
He remembered Beheading Bay—Euron's men exhausted from the march to Winterfell and back. Morale broke, thousands surrendered. Jon executed them all.
This time it was home soil. Balon watched. Every man fought like hell.
Jon's troops were elite and armored, but stamina had limits.
Euron believed Jon's only play left was charging in himself, using that monster strength to carve a path.
But Euron had spearmen hidden, waiting for that exact moment.
The fight dragged on. The sun seemed to set faster today, like it didn't want to watch the slaughter.
As the last light faded, Euron readied the final push.
Then a messenger from Daman—the one who'd mocked him earlier—rushed up. A mob of thralls had gone crazy and were attacking their lines. Daman wanted permission to pull men back to drive them off.
Euron's gut twisted. Something was wrong.
His ravens were split—some directing the battle, some watching the fleet offshore. The rest of the island? Just thralls. He'd ignored them.
He sent fresh ravens to scout.
Not a mob. Tens of thousands of thralls marching toward the battlefield.
Their faces were stone, eyes burning with bloodlust and revenge.
They'd been treated like cattle, like tools that talked. Raped in front of their families. Today, payback.
Euron watched the endless wave of thralls flooding in from every direction and felt his scalp crawl.
These "livestock" he'd dismissed had become an army.
No. Wrong.
He whipped his head toward Jon's position.
Jon's real weapon wasn't the armored army or the fleet.
It was the thralls.
The realization hit like a hammer. Euron's world spun.
He'd dreamed of commanding masses to build castles, of statues in his honor.
But if people could build, they could tear it all down.
And now they were coming, spears in hand, faces full of hate.