The command pavilion of King Robert Baratheon was a vast expanse of yellow and black canvas, heated by massive iron braziers. It held the combined martial and political power of the Seven Kingdoms.
Around the heavy oak map table stood the Lords Paramount of Westeros. Tywin Lannister stood rigid in his crimson and gold, his face carved from cold stone.
Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, took up considerable space, his doublet straining against his girth.
Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, looked weary but focused, his eyes scanning the detailed parchment map of the Iron Islands spread before them.
And leaning heavily over the table, a goblet of wine in his hand, was the King.
"Pyke is a fortress of jagged stone and miserable weather," Robert announced, pointing a thick finger at the map. "Balon sits in his towers, expecting us to break our teeth on his walls."
Jon Arryn stepped forward, smoothing the edges of the map. "Which is precisely why we must not attack Pyke immediately, Your Grace. If we lay siege to the Greyjoy seat while the other islands remain unsubdued, we expose our rear to constant harassment. The Ironborn are raiders. They will cut our supply lines and burn our transport ships while we are pinned against Pyke's walls."
Jon Arryn looked around the table, ensuring he had the attention of the high lords.
"We must sever the tentacles before we strike the head," Jon proposed. "We divide our forces. We strike Harlaw, Great Wyk, Old Wyk, and Orkmont simultaneously. We crush their bannermen, destroy their shipyards, and leave Balon entirely isolated. Only then do we converge on Pyke for the final blow."
Robert grunted, taking a long pull of wine. He slammed the goblet down. "It delays the main event. But it makes tactical sense. I want this rebellion completely crushed."
Ned Stark stepped forward from his place near the shadows of the tent. He wore his heavy grey mail, Ice strapped securely across his back.
"The Northern host will take Harlaw and Old Wyk," Ned stated clearly, his voice carrying absolute authority.
Mace Tyrell scoffed, a wet, dismissive sound. "Harlaw is the richest and most heavily populated of the islands, Lord Stark. Ten Towers is a formidable keep. And Old Wyk is their holy ground. Perhaps you should leave the heavy lifting to the Reach. We brought sixty thousand men."
"You brought sixty thousand men in transport galleys," Ned corrected, turning his cold grey eyes on the Lord of Highgarden. "My men are already embarked on warships designed for the Sunset Sea. I have the speed and the siege equipment. We will handle the Harlaws and the Drumms."
Tywin Lannister spoke up, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "The Westerlands will take Great Wyk. It is the largest island. The Goodbrothers have mines and strongholds there. We will ensure they produce no more iron for Balon's war."
"And the royal fleet, supported by the Redwyne galleys, will subdue Orkmont and Blacktyde," Jon Arryn concluded, nodding at Lord Paxter Redwyne, who stood near Mace. "We cast a net over the entire archipelago. Within a fortnight, the Greyjoys will hold nothing but the rocks beneath their boots."
The lords around the table nodded in agreement. The strategy was sound, overwhelmingly brutal, and guaranteed victory.
"Then it is settled," Robert declared, a fierce, eager light burning in his blue eyes. "We sail at first light. Prepare your men."
The lords began to turn away from the table, the meeting seemingly concluded.
"A moment," Ned said.
The lords paused, looking back at the Warden of the North.
"There is the matter of the aftermath," Ned said, keeping his focus on the Hand of the King. "What is our stand regarding the thralls once we conquer these islands?"
Mace Tyrell let out a loud, genuine laugh. He looked at Ned as if the Northern lord had just asked a question about the weather in Yi Ti.
"The thralls?" Mace asked, his tone dripping with condescension. "They are mud-grubbers and rock-breakers, Lord Stark. Half-starved captives from lesser raids. Who cares about a flock of unwashed slaves? Let the Ironborn keep their miserable servants, or let them drown in the sea. It matters not to high lords."
Ned did not raise his voice.
"Mud-grubbers feed Highgarden, Lord Tyrell," Ned retorted sharply. "Or do you conjure your feasts out of the thin air?"
Mace Tyrell's face flushed a deep, angry red. He opened his mouth to shout an insult, but a sharp look from Robert silenced him.
Ned turned back to the map, addressing the King and the Hand.
"The Ironborn reave because they do not sow," Ned explained, quoting the Greyjoy words. "They do not farm. They do not mine. The thralls do it for them. The thralls build their ships, forge their axes, and grow the meager crops that sustain their islands. They are a free labor force."
Ned placed his hands flat on the table, leaning in.
"If we defeat their lords, burn their fleets, and then sail away leaving the thralls behind, we achieve nothing but a temporary peace. In ten or twenty years, Balon Greyjoy, or his successor, will simply use that same slave labor to build another fleet. We must remove the foundation of their culture. We must take the thralls."
Tywin Lannister evaluated the proposal. "Removing the thralls would cripple the Iron Islands economically for a century. It is a harsh measure, but effective. However, it presents a logistical nightmare. There are tens of thousands of thralls across these islands. Transporting them is a massive undertaking. And once transported, what do we do with them? King's Landing is already overcrowded. The Westerlands have no need for undisciplined labor."
"I will take them," Ned said immediately.
The tent fell utterly silent.
Jon Arryn stared at him. "You, Ned? You would take tens of thousands of thralls to the North?"
"The North is vast, Jon," Ned said. "And it is empty. We have need of more labour in the New Gift."
Mace Tyrell sneered. "You wish to become a slaver, Lord Stark?"
"I wish to become an emancipator," Ned corrected, his grey eyes flashing. "Thrall-taking is an abomination. I will take these people North. I will free them the moment they step off the ships. I will offer them land in the Gift. They will be fed, clothed, and paid for their labor as free men and women."
Mace Tyrell exchanged a look of pure bewilderment with Paxter Redwyne. An honorable fool with a weak heart, the Lord of Highgarden thought, stifling a laugh. Feeding, clothing, and paying tens of thousands of destitute, broken refugees? He will empty his own treasury in a year out of misplaced Northern pity. Let the wolf bleed his own coffers dry.
Tywin Lannister, however, did not smile. His green eyes narrowed as he evaluated the Lord of Winterfell. He remembered the reports from the West—the clear glass, the potent spirits, the vast stretches of smooth stone roads. He does not want them for pity, Tywin realized, the strategic calculation clicking into place. He wants them for labor. He is expanding his industries, and he needs cheap, desperate hands to work his furnaces, his fields, and his mines. He is using our war to secure a massive workforce to produce his goods.
Yet, even recognizing the ploy, Tywin saw the immediate tactical benefit to the Crown. Removing the thralls crippled the Ironborn permanently, and transporting them was a logistical nightmare Tywin had no desire to fund or manage. If Stark wanted to absorb that staggering upfront cost to fuel his Northern factories, let him.
Robert Baratheon waved a dismissive hand, entirely uninterested in the economics of peasants. "If you want to drag a horde of miserable thralls back to the snow, Ned, be my guest. It saves us the trouble of dealing with them. Does anyone object to Lord Stark taking the spoils of labor?"
Tywin Lannister gave a single, curt nod. "The West has no objections."
"The Reach gladly yields its share of the thralls to Winterfell," Mace Tyrell added quickly, eager to wash his hands of the matter and let the Stark fool bankrupt himself.
"Then it is a royal decree," Jon Arryn finalized, making a note on his parchment. "Any thrall found on the conquered islands is to be turned over to the Northern fleet for transport and emancipation."
Ned said respectfully. "Thank you, my Lords."
Internally, Ned was smiling. It was a massive coup. He had just secured a massive influx of able-bodied workers for his rapidly expanding industrial empire. The glassworks, the concrete production, the road-building—all of it required manpower. The thralls of the Iron Islands were hard-working survivors. Given freedom, warm clothes, and regular meals, they would become the engine of the New North.
The council adjourned. The lords filed out into the cool night air of Fair Isle, preparing for the bloodshed of the morrow.
---
The next morning, the harbor of Fair Isle was a scene of controlled, massive mobilization.
Thousands of men marched up the gangplanks. Horses were loaded into the holds of the transport galleys. The air rang with the shouts of captains, the creaking of timber, and the snap of heavy canvas catching the wind.
Ned stood on the main pier, observing the boarding of the Western Fleet. The fifty heavy Northern Carracks dominated the docks, their dark wood and high castles making the Southern galleys look fragile by comparison.
Benjen Stark walked up the pier. He wore a suit of boiled leather reinforced with steel studs, a practical armor designed to float in case he was thrown overboard. At sixteen years of age, he looked serious, focused, and entirely ready for the responsibility resting on his shoulders.
"The men are boarded, Ned," Benjen reported. "The holds are packed with siege equipment and rations. We are ready to sail."
Ned turned to his younger brother. This was the moment. He had trained Benjen in the yard, taught him the rudimentary focus of the Force in the Godswood, and tutored him in the management of the glassworks. Now, he had to trust him with an army.
"You have command of half the ships," Ned said, "Twenty-five Carracks. Five thousand men. Karstarks, Glovers, and a detachment of the Wolfguard."
Benjen took the scroll, his grip firm. "Old Wyk."
"Old Wyk," Ned confirmed. "It is the holiest island of the Ironborn. It is where they hold their Kingsmoots. The Drumms rule there from Shatterstone. They are proud, hard men. They will not surrender easily."
"We will break them," Benjen said confidently.
"Do not underestimate them, Ben," Ned warned, his voice low. "They fight with the desperation of fanatics on that island."
Benjen nodded, absorbing the instruction. "I will not let pride blind me. I will take the island, secure the thralls, and meet you at Pyke."
"Good," Ned said. He reached out and gripped Benjen's shoulder tightly. "You are the Lord of Sea Dragon Point. Show the Ironborn the teeth of the new North."
Benjen offered a fierce, wolfish grin. "They will learn to fear the sea."
The younger Stark turned and walked briskly down the pier, boarding his flagship, a formidable Carrack named the Icebreaker.
Ned watched him go. He felt the steady, grounded energy of his brother in the Force. Benjen was ready.
Ned turned toward his own flagship, the Winter's Wrath.
His target was Harlaw. The island was governed from the massive fortress of Ten Towers by Lord Rodrik Harlaw, known as The Reader. Rodrik was not a typical Ironborn reaver. He was an intellectual, a pragmatist, and perhaps the only man on the islands who truly understood how doomed Balon Greyjoy's rebellion was from the start.
Ned had no intention of leveling Ten Towers if he could avoid it. He wanted to preserve the wealth of Harlaw and capture its massive population of thralls intact. He intended to offer The Reader a harsh truth, backed by overwhelming military force.
Ned walked up the gangplank.
"All lines cast off, Lord Stark!" the captain shouted. "We await your word."
Ned looked out across the harbor. The royal fleet was already moving, hundreds of sails catching the morning wind, spreading out across the Sunset Sea to deliver the King's justice.
"Raise the sails," Ned commanded, looking toward the dark horizon of the Iron Islands. "Set course for Harlaw."
The massive lateen sails unfurled, catching the wind with a loud, explosive snap. The heavy Northern leviathans pulled away from Fair Isle, cutting through the waves with terrifying speed, bringing the true winter to the shores of the Ironborn.