The battle for Ten Towers was not the chaotic brawl the Ironborn thrived in; it was a slaughter of geometry and discipline. Karlon's five hundred pikes moved in a terrifying, silent phalanx, their spearheads a rhythmic hedge of steel that turned every Harlaw charge into a suicide run.
But at the gates of the central tower, the discipline met a singular wall of fury. Lord Rodrik Harlaw, known as "The Reader," was nowhere to be seen; instead, the defense was led by the most leal of the scythe-wielders. Yet, it was the Lord of Harlaw himself who eventually stepped out, not with a book, but with the rippling, smoky dark steel of Nightfall, the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of his house.
The Ironborn rallied around him. Rodrik moved with a desperation that belied his scholarly reputation, the Valyrian edge shearing through the shafts of the "New Model" pikes as if they were dry kindling.
"Back!" Karlon commanded, his voice cutting through the noise. He didn't want his formation broken by a magical relic. He spurred his horse forward, drawing a heavy, well-balanced longsword. He wasn't just a ten-year-old; he had the muscle memory of a transmigrator who had studied every duel in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.
The clash was a blur. Rodrik was stronger, but Karlon was faster, his movements precise and economical. Nightfall hissed through the air, vibrating with a high-pitched hum. Karlon didn't try to parry the Valyrian steel directly, he knew it would bite through his own blade. Instead, he used the flat of his sword to redirect Rodrik's momentum, stepping inside the older man's guard.
With a brutal kick to Rodrik's knee and a hilt-smash to his jaw, the Lord of Harlaw went down. Karlon's boot pressed firmly onto Rodrik's sword arm, and the tip of his blade rested against the man's throat.
"Yield the steel, Lord Rodrik," Karlon said, his violet eyes glowing with a cold light. "Or I'll see if Valyrian steel can cut through its owner's neck."
Rodrik, gasping for air, looked up at the boy who fought like a veteran of a hundred wars. He let go of the hilt. Karlon claimed Nightfall, the blade's weightless balance sending a shiver up his arm.
"Load the spoils," Karlon commanded, not sparing a second look for the fallen lord. "Every bar of silver, every captured longship, and the high-born hostages. And get Nightfall into a lead-lined chest. I want them on the Manderly transports by the morning tide."
"My Lord?" one of his captains asked, eyeing the towers. "We aren't holding the castle?"
"We are holding the islands, not the stone," Karlon replied. "Send the treasures, the prisoners, and especially this blade back to White Harbor. Tell Lord Willam Dustin and the Ryswells to secure them in the Manderly vaults. When the King asks, we found nothing but salt-wives and starving thralls. If Tywin Lannister or Jon Arryn want a piece of this victory, they'll have to pry it out of a Northern dungeon. We sail for Lannisport tonight."
As the ships sailed south, the Valyrian blade was already being crated alongside the Harlaw treasury, destined for a North that was becoming wealthier, and more dangerous by the hour.
The fog of the Sunset Sea parted as the Manderly war-galleys glided into the crowded docks of Lannisport. The harbor was a forest of masts, but the atmosphere was far from celebratory. Row upon row of crimson and gold tents stretched along the shoreline, the Lannister lion flying over a camp that smelled of burnt timber and bruised pride.
Karlon stepped off the gangplank of the White Knife, his "New Model" infantry disembarking behind him in a silence that drew stares from every southern soldier on the docks. They didn't shout or boast; they simply formed ranks, their pikes held at a perfect, lethal vertical.
At the center of the camp, beneath a massive pavilion of Baratheon yellow, the war council was in session. There were no stone walls here, only the flapping of heavy canvas in the salt wind and the mud of a thousand boots.
Karlon strode into the tent. King Robert was hunched over a trestle table covered in maps and daggers, a half-empty flagon of ale at his elbow. Lord Eddard stood to his right, looking like a statue of grey granite, while Tywin Lannister paced the perimeter of the rug, his golden spurs jingling with every predatory step. Jon Arryn was rubbing his temples, trying to mediate a shouting match between Stannis Baratheon and a group of Reach lords.
The tent went silent as the boy commander entered.
"The Wolf of Starfall arrives!" Robert bellowed, his laughter booming off the canvas. He looked Karlon up and down, noting the dried blood on his leather jerkin. "Ned said you were halfway to the Sunset Sea, but I didn't think you'd be back before we'd even finished our breakfast!"
"The northern islands are neutralized, Your Grace," Karlon said, bowing with a crispness that felt more like a soldier's salute. "Blacktyde, Orkmont, and Old Wyk have seen our banners. And Harlaw... Harlaw has been dealt with."
Tywin Lannister stopped his pacing. His eyes, cold and calculating, fixed on the empty scabbard at Karlon's hip. "And the spoils, boy? Harlaw is the vault of the Iron Islands. My scouts say the Ten Towers were stripped bare before the fires even went out."
Karlon didn't blink. He knew the Manderly fleet was already miles away, carrying Nightfall and the Harlaw silver toward the safety of the North.
"The 'spoils' were ghosts, Lord Tywin," Karlon replied, his voice level. "We found pits filled with Northern smallfolk, men and women stolen from the Stony Shore and the Rills. I used every spare inch of my transports to send them home to White Harbor. If you're looking for gold, you'll find nothing but rusted iron and salt-stained tapestries. The Ironborn spend their coin on ale and axes; they don't keep treasuries for guests."
"A convenient tale," Tywin remarked, his voice a low rasp. "Sending 'refugees' back under the guard of House Dustin and the Ryswells before a Royal accounting could be made."
"Would you have had me leave our people to starve while we waited for a scribe?" Karlon countered.
"The boy did right!" Robert interrupted, slamming his hand on the table. "I'd rather have a thousand Northern pikes back in their boots than a chest of soggy silver. Jon, stop looking like you've swallowed a lemon. The lad secured our flank while we were still arguing over who gets to lead the van."
Ned Stark stepped forward, his hand resting on Karlon's shoulder, a silent warning and a gesture of protection. "My nephew has done his duty, Robert. The North has paid the iron price to bring its people home. Now, let us focus on Pyke."
Karlon looked at the map, his mind already three steps ahead. "The Iron Fleet is bottled up near the Fair Isle. If we strike Pyke now, while they are mourning Harlaw, we can end this before the moon turns."
Inside the damp, salt-crusted pavilion, Karlon stepped toward the map. He didn't wait for an invitation. He moved a carved kraken from the center of the Iron Islands and replaced it with a heavy iron weight.
"The Iron Fleet is still licking its wounds after the Battle off Fair Isle," Karlon began, his voice cutting through the humid air. "If we hit Pyke with a traditional slow-burn siege, Balon will retreat to his towers and wait for the winter storms to scatter us. My proposal: we don't wait for the siege towers. We use the Manderly galleys as a screen and drop my professional pikes directly into the port of Lordsport under the cover of a night-raid, seizing the bridgeheads before the sun rises."
Tywin Lannister scoffed, his arms crossed over his crimson doublet. "Reckless. A child's gambit. We have the numbers to grind them to dust. Why risk a specialized landing when we can starve them out?"
"Because starvation breeds desperation, not submission," a new voice rumbled. Randyll Tarly, the finest soldier in the Reach, leaned forward, his sharp eyes scanning Karlon's formation markings. "The boy is talking about a surgical strike. If we take the port, we take their only escape. It's sound infantry logic."
A light, mocking laugh rippled from the back. Renly Baratheon, clad in gleaming green silk that looked absurd in a war camp, leaned against a tent pole. "A surgical strike? Or a boy's fantasy? Perhaps we should send Lord Karlon back to the nursery with a wooden sword before he hurts himself. War is for men, not children playing at 'Legions'."
Mace Tyrell chimed in with a self-important huff. "Quite right, Lord Renly! We have the chivalry of the Reach here. We don't need... 'New Models' and pikes. A proper charge is what's required!"
The air in the tent suddenly plummeted. Eddard Stark stepped into the light, his face a mask of frozen rage that silenced the room.
"Which of you," Ned asked, his voice a low, lethal rasp, "has won a war since the Rebellion? Lord Renly, you were a child in the Siege of Storm's End. Lord Mace, you sat outside those walls feasting while my men bled. This 'boy' you mock has already captured three islands and broken the back of House Harlaw. He has done more in a fortnight than the entire Reach has done since we landed in Lannisport. Keep your tongues, or leave the council."
The silence was deafening. Even Robert looked impressed by Ned's uncharacteristic outburst.
Stannis Baratheon broke the tension, his jaw grinding. "The boy's plan for the port is efficient, but it lacks naval depth. Lord Paxter Redwyne and I have calculated the tides. If we combine the Northern landing with a full-scale blockade by the Royal Fleet and the Redwyne Fleet, we can pin them between the pikes on the shore and the hammers at sea."
Tywin looked from the map to Karlon, then finally to the Northmen. He saw the cold efficiency of the plan and the political reality: the North was already winning.
"Very well," Tywin said, his voice clipped. "The Lannister forces will provide the heavy siege engines for the final walls of Pyke, but the Northern vanguard will take the port as Karlon suggests. It is... a logical synthesis."
Robert slammed his fist on the table, grinning. "That's it! Stannis, Paxter, get your ships in line. Ned, get your 'New Model' ready. We sail at dawn! We'll show Balon what happens when the Wolf and the Stag hunt together!"