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Far out at sea, the smoke from Great Wyk was visible all the way from Pyke.
Balon's pupils shrank to pinpricks. Pure animal terror flooded him; his legs almost moved on their own, ready to run.
Dragons are invincible.
"No," he growled, forcing himself to stop. "I have to think."
He made himself breathe, then stalked toward his father's bedchamber.
He didn't have the cunning he'd possess in later years. Right now his cruelty was still half daydream.
Quellon had spent decades trying to drag the Ironborn out of the Old Way—marrying greenland nobles, even taking a Riverlands wife himself. The old man had to have a plan.
---
Lord's Bedchamber
Quellon lay gray-faced, stomach pain and arrow wound tearing through him at the same time. Even a warrior who had mastered Vitality couldn't hide the cold sweat soaking his sheets.
Balon walked in just as his father swallowed a dose of milk of the poppy.
"Balon?" Quellon rasped. "What is it?"
One look at his eldest son's face and the old man felt dread settle in his gut.
Balon's voice was hoarse. "The dragons are coming."
He recounted everything that had happened on Great Wyk—every burning ship, every scream.
Quellon felt ice crawl down his spine. He had seen the red dragon on the Mander. He knew exactly how hopeless this was.
A dragon and a full fleet attacking the Iron Islands? Unless the Drowned God himself rose from the depths, the Ironborn were just meat on a spit.
"Father, Great Wyk is falling!" Balon snarled. His burned, ruined face twisted into something demonic. The old maester shivered and looked away.
Quellon waved a weak hand. "Maester, leave us."
The old man fled like his robes were on fire.
When the door closed, Quellon sighed. "Take half the fleet. Sail for the Summer Sea. Do not fight the dragons head-on."
"Run?!"
Balon exploded.
He had just been named heir. The Seastone Chair was almost his. Running now would make him look weak forever.
Quellon fell silent.
He had seen the dragon too. The nightmares were the same.
Sending his son away was the only mercy he could still give.
"I am going to be the next Lord Reaper!" Balon spat. "I will not flee like a coward!"
He slammed the door so hard the hinges rattled.
---
Great Wyk – Hammerhorn
The fortress sat on the island's rocky point—ancestral seat of House Goodbrother.
"Draw!"
Ironborn crouched behind every wall and crenellation, arrows trained on the monstrous red dragon that had just smashed through the gates.
"Skreeeee—!"
Caraxes coiled like a serpent on the ground, neck arched, jaws wide. A continuous river of crimson flame poured out, exploding outward on impact like a flamethrower on steroids.
Arrows hissed in from every direction.
Daeron looked bored. He drew Dark Sister.
"Skreeeee!"
Caraxes snapped his massive wings open—two living shields of red scale and membrane. Arrows pinged and snapped harmlessly against them. The few that slipped through Daeron casually sliced out of the air with Valyrian steel.
The return fire gave away every hiding spot.
Caraxes answered with another roaring column of flame. Veteran Ironborn who had been nocking second shots simply vanished in red fire.
"NO—!"
One grizzled raider tried to dive aside. The flame caught him full in the chest. His body exploded like a firework—limbs and torso scattering in burning chunks before the charred pieces hit the ground with wet thuds.
"Charge!"
Moments later the Redwyne fleet slammed into the docks. What was left of the Ironborn defenders was massacred in minutes.
Daeron's lips curved. He patted Caraxes' scalding scales. "We're done here."
"Skreeeee!"
The dragon bunched its hind legs and launched skyward, wings snapping wide, happy to leave the noisy, smoky battlefield behind.
Dragons hated chaos.
They just caused it.
---
Days Later – Seagard, Docks
Daeron stripped off his hardened leather and fed the three dragons fat special fish pulled fresh from Ironman's Bay, checking every inch of scale and membrane for damage.
"Clean… clean…"
Caraxes and Tessarion were perfect—not a scratch. They tore into their bonus meal with happy snarls, black fangs flashing.
Then he reached Toothless.
Daeron's brows slammed together.
On the young dragon's shoulder, right where the coal-black scales met the wing joint, was a fresh axe-cut gouge. Not deep, but it had definitely scraped the scale.
Daeron grabbed Toothless by the neck, pried open the massive jaws, and roared, "You stupid lizard—did you eat someone?!"
"Skreee—skreee!"
Toothless had been happily chewing a huge halibut. Suddenly throttled, he gave a guilty squeak.
Daeron reached in, yanked the fish out of the dragon's mouth, and tossed it to Tessarion.
"Skreee!"
The blue dragon caught it mid-air and gulped it down with obvious delight.
Toothless: !!
No matter how he squirmed, Daeron refused to let go.
Dragons had strict feeding schedules. Normal days they ate every few days. Long flights or battles meant extra meals for stamina.
Daeron already spoiled them rotten to speed up their growth.
Eating dead enemies after a battle? Fine.
But a fresh gouge on the scales meant Toothless had hunted a living Ironborn for sport and gotten chopped for it.
That was completely forbidden.
"You little shit—stop acting like you're the king of the world just because you're a dragon! Got it?!"
Daeron's voice was pure threat.
Toothless immediately went limp, belly on the ground, eyes huge and pitiful.
"Skreeeee…"
Caraxes let out a low warning growl from deep in his throat. Molten-gold eyes locked on his little brother with pure big-brother authority.
Toothless snapped to attention. "Skree!" Green eyes cleared instantly; he pressed himself flat and tucked his fangs away like a scolded puppy.
Just as Daeron finished disciplining his rebellious youngest son, Lord Paxter Redwyne and Lord Jason Mallister approached together.
Seagard was Mallister land.
Jason Mallister was a tall, lean, clean-shaven man with iron-gray eyes and the hard bearing of a lifelong warrior.
"Prince," he said without preamble, "you have been in Seagard for three days. With respect, I cannot shelter you any longer."
Daeron glanced at him, washing his hands in a barrel. "No problem. I was about to leave anyway."
Jason's shoulders relaxed a fraction.
"As apology for the short stay," he continued stiffly, "I will supply your army with three days' rations and ten sheep for each of your dragons."
In the middle of the continent-wide rebellion, his liege lord Hoster Tully still hadn't declared for either side. Jason was honoring his oath to House Tully while still showing basic courtesy to the crown.
Daeron dried his hands. "Your nephew made it home safely, didn't he? Did he not tell you what happened that day in King's Landing?"
One of the noble sons who had followed Brandon Stark to the capital had been a Mallister.
Jason's voice stayed firm. "Rickard Stark plotted treason. My liege lord is… cautious. Whatever happens, I stand with Lord Hoster."
House Tully hadn't openly rebelled yet. The marriage to the Starks didn't automatically damn them.
The Riverlands lords were watching Hoster like hungry wolves, ready to replace him the second he slipped.
Jason Mallister would not break knightly honor.
Seeing the man's rigid spine, Daeron simply nodded. "Good luck to you, Lord Jason."
"And to you, Prince."
Jason escorted them to the docks and had the promised supplies loaded without another word.
---
Harlaw Island – Ten Towers
"Skreeeee—!"
Caraxes soared over the jagged rocks, dragonfire scattering the defensive lines and opening the way for the landing force.
Daeron kept the dragon focused on the longships at the docks first—burn them before they could sail.
This time the Shield Islands fleet was doing the heavy lifting, storming ashore and rolling over the panicked Ironborn like a green tide.
"Straight for Ten Towers—that's the Harlaw seat," Randyll Tarly ordered, voice calm as ever. His army advanced in perfect order, sweeping the island clean.
"Not bad," Daeron muttered from his perch on a cliff, watching the disciplined push.
He and Randyll had worked out the perfect harassment doctrine for the Iron Islands:
Dragons hit first and hard.
Army follows.
Army pulls back.
Dragons cover the retreat.
Hit fast, leave, come back later. Never tie the army down holding captured ground. Keep the Ironborn exhausted, terrified, and guessing.
In half a month the entire Iron Islands would be broken.
Daeron's smile faded. "The Tullys are surprisingly patient. Still haven't moved."
Hoster Tully definitely had treason in his heart—everyone knew it. In the original timeline he'd jumped at Jon Arryn's invitation.
Right now the only things keeping him quiet were the Lannister army on his border and his own bannermen sharpening knives behind his back.
Won't be long now.
---
Ten Towers
Blackfish Brynden and Jaime Lannister led the final assault that smashed open the gates.
Harlaw wasn't huge. The whole island basically belonged to House Harlaw and its branches.
Take Ten Towers and the island fell.
"Targaryen dog!" a massive Ironborn roared, stepping out in full plate. "Face me one-on-one!"
Rodrik Harlaw—Lord of Ten Towers and one of the strongest captains in the Iron Islands—spun a heavy flail, House Harlaw's sickle sigil gleaming on his chest.
"Let me handle this, Ser," Jaime said, sliding in front of Brynden with a cocky grin.
Brynden's voice was gravel. "Kid, he's mastered Vitality too. Don't get cocky and lose your head."
Jaime had heard that tone a thousand times. He just twirled his sword. "I'm one step from forming my Life Seed. One dumb Ironborn doesn't scare me."
"Arrogant pup!"
Rodrik bellowed and charged, flail whistling.
Jaime danced aside again and again, closing the distance with effortless grace.
After half a dozen exchanges both men understood the other's level.
"Die, boy!"
Rodrik hurled the flail, lunged with a short-handled axe in his off-hand.
"The one dying is you."
Jaime's sword rang against the axe—then his free hand flashed to the dagger at his lower back.
Shunk.
The blade punched straight through Rodrik's eye socket and twisted.
Rodrik froze mid-swing, mouth open in shock.
Thud.
Jaime yanked the dagger free and shoved the corpse over.
"One brainless brute, just like those Northern savages," he laughed.
"You got lucky he was a brute," Brynden grunted, though the corner of his mouth twitched. He still wouldn't let anyone bad-mouth his niece's former betrothed in front of him.
Jaime wiped the dagger clean. "The prince wants us to find a Harlaw with a Valyrian steel sword. Supposedly called Nightfall."
Two hundred Valyrian steel blades existed in all of Westeros.
Maybe twenty were famous enough that everyone knew the name.
Even Tywin Lannister—ruler of the richest realm—had been turned down every time he tried to buy one from fallen houses.
But Ironborn were different.
Ironborn paid the iron price.
Everything they owned had been stolen.