Lordsport was the largest harbor on the Iron Islands. More than a decade earlier, Robert had burned it to the ground to celebrate his victory.
But it wasn't long before the ironborn rebuilt the port—and made it even bigger than before.
Wooden piers stretched far out into the sea, allowing far more ships to dock.
Most of the vessels here were longships, their high, curved prows rising like the heads of striking serpents.
Each longship could carry between eighty and a hundred and fifty sailors. They had no distinct bow or stern; the crew simply turned the ship around when they needed to change direction.
Right now, more than three hundred longships and several dozen larger sailing ships sat at anchor, ready for war.
Not far from Lordsport, over eight thousand ironborn had gathered. The sea of heads covered nearly every open patch of ground near the harbor. They loved wearing clothes made from sealskin—warm and waterproof—so from a distance the crowd looked like one giant, oily black rag.
These ironborn sailors had almost no experience with large-scale battles, especially on land. They cared little for formations or discipline. Even when greeting Balon, they made no real effort to look orderly.
Still, they were unmatched at sea. The ironborn loved to boast that aboard a ship, they were invincible.
Even with such a loose, disorganized formation, it was easy to mistake them for a rabble at first glance. But every single man was buzzing with excitement for the coming raid.
A few months earlier they had plundered the Westerlands, and the spoils had kept them comfortable ever since. The number of salt wives on the islands had tripled. Every ironborn was looking forward to the next raid with greedy anticipation.
"I heard we're heading for the North this time?"
"Why the North? It's cold and far away—what's there worth taking?"
"Exactly! I say we should hit the Reach instead. The girls there are the prettiest."
"Or even farther south. If we could reach the Arbor, my lifelong dream would be to bathe in wine."
"Dream on. The Arbor has the Redwyne fleet!"
The ironborn chattered among themselves as if they were heading out on a pleasure cruise rather than to war.
Suddenly someone shouted—"King Balon has arrived!"
"Quiet! It's His Grace!"
"It's the king!"
The moment Balon's name was spoken, the ironborn fell silent. Some even pulled out spyglasses, only for them to be snatched away by the men beside them.
"Long live King Balon!"
"Long live King Balon!"
Amid the roaring cheers, Balon arrived at Lordsport, accompanied by his daughter and his three brothers.
The sea wind tugged at Balon's gray-streaked hair like a tattered but still defiant banner.
Balon raised his hand, and the cheers from the ironborn crowding the harbor slowly died down.
Euron, standing nearby, watched the scene with open envy. He had to admit that, magic or no magic, Balon possessed a natural charisma that he himself could never match.
"Ironborn!" Balon's voice rang out, deep and powerful like crashing waves. "Our ancestors split the cold winds of the North with their axes and crushed the waves of the Riverlands with their longships! We are ironborn! Sons of the storm! Hammers of the Drowned God! We never bend the knee!"
The moment Balon finished, the ironborn at the harbor erupted in wild cheers and roars that drowned out even the sea wind.
Hidden in the shadows, however, a raven's eye glinted with mockery. Balon seemed to have forgotten that House Greyjoy only rose above the other families of the Iron Islands because their ancestors bent the knee to the Dragonlords.
"This time, we will make the North remember: the Iron Islands do not sow! We sow fear! We do not raise cattle or sheep—we raise storms! We do not pray for good harvests—we pray that our enemies have beautiful daughters and plenty of wine! Go! Go! Reaving is better than reaping!"
"The Drowned God protects us!" Aeron, the most famous drowned priest on the Iron Islands, stepped forward and roared.
Soon the sails unfurled, and the ironborn rowed their longships eastward.
Euron stood on the deck of the merchant ship he had stolen, looking up at the ravens circling overhead. A sinister smile curved his lips. He knew he couldn't drive away every single one of Jon's ravens, but he was confident he could capture Winterfell quickly enough that Jon could only watch helplessly.
He would hang the Starks of Winterfell from the walls and make Jon pay for taking his ship!
Jon pulled his consciousness back. He was sitting in his study at Casterly Rock. Dark clouds hung heavy over the Iron Islands, but bright sunlight bathed Casterly Rock.
The jarring contrast felt almost like waking from a dream.
Jon knew this was Euron's way of mocking him. Euron believed Jon had no way to assemble enough ships and men in time to stop the invasion of Winterfell.
Jon was certain Euron had also stationed ravens near Winterfell, just as Jon had done at the Golden Tooth and Casterly Rock. Warning Winterfell directly would be almost impossible.
There was only one thing Jon didn't understand: Euron seemed to have overlooked something simple—Jon didn't need to warn Winterfell. He could warn Robb instead.
That way, even if Jon couldn't reach them in time, Robb could.
But Jon didn't think Euron was stupid enough to ignore Robb's army. The man would have factored that in.
Winterfell's defenses were formidable. Even with limited troops, it could hold for ten days or more—unless Euron had a way to breach it before Robb could return.
But was that even possible?
Jon knew Winterfell's strength well. There was also Winter Town nearby. An ironborn fleet couldn't possibly arrive unnoticed.
With Maester Luwin and Catelyn in charge, Winterfell would not fall easily.
And ironborn raiders hated wearing armor. Attacking a castle without armor was basically suicide.
When Jon had taken King's Landing, he'd used heavy infantry to spearhead the assault.
If Euron wasn't using conventional tactics, then he must be planning something unconventional.
Thinking of the black magic Euron had learned, Jon decided it was time to have a proper talk with the warlocks he kept locked away.
Ever since returning to Casterly Rock, Jon had been buried in administrative work. The warlocks had simply been kept under light guard.
He left the castle and headed for the courtyard he had granted Qyburn for his research. The warlocks were held there as well.
"My lord."
"How is the research progressing?"
"I've been organizing my notes and the materials you borrowed for me from the Citadel. As for the cesarean section you requested, I've performed several trials on sheep, rats, and dogs. The results with rats and dogs were promising, but with larger animals like sheep, horses, and cattle, severe bleeding remains a problem."
Qyburn carefully explained his recent progress to Jon.
Now that Jon was funding his work, Qyburn no longer had to wander with mercenary companies.
Qyburn was no fool. He understood that Jon wanted him to perfect cesarean sections likely for Margaery's eventual delivery.
"Keep at it. If you can solve the bleeding issue, I guarantee your name will appear in the histories—and I won't be stingy with titles."
"Thank you, my lord." Qyburn bowed respectfully, though he showed none of the usual greed for nobility.
In his eyes, only his research mattered.
Jon had no intention of letting anything go wrong during Margaery's labor. On one hand, only a healthy, living Margaery could ensure continued support from Highgarden for the West.
On the other hand, after spending time together, Jon had genuinely developed feelings for her. She was intelligent and had managed Casterly Rock with remarkable efficiency. Not long ago she had even accompanied him to visit the mountain clans' new settlements.
Jon recalled that in the Targaryen era, a king had ordered the Grand Maester to perform a cesarean on his laboring queen. Both mother and child died.
His queen had been frail, but she had successfully given birth to a daughter and suffered several miscarriages. Why did disaster strike only when she was about to deliver a male heir?
While the king's desperation played a role, it also made Jon deeply wary of the Citadel.
After all, performing such an unproven procedure on a member of the royal family was shocking. And the queen's second wife came from House Hightower—the Citadel's greatest patron. That raised even more questions.
Jon had already decided: whether or not he ever claimed the Iron Throne, he would never allow the Citadel to maintain its monopoly.
The acolytes he had requested would be his starting point. But there were simply too many things demanding his attention, so he could only proceed one step at a time.
Under Qyburn's guidance, they reached the courtyard where the warlocks were held. Two elderly mountain clansmen stood guard outside. They were somewhat hard of hearing and recognized only Jon's face—nothing else.
Jon didn't want Qyburn straying down the path of sorcery, so the old clansmen strictly controlled how long Qyburn could spend with the warlocks, allowing only medical checks and nothing more.
"You may leave."
"As you command, my lord."
Qyburn departed. Jon pushed the door open and entered alone.
Pyat Pree immediately prostrated himself on the bed when he saw Jon.
"Honored and merciful lord, may the gods bless your family and bloodline."
Although still imprisoned by Jon, the conditions were far kinder than what Euron had inflicted. Jon provided proper food and at least a room with a roof. He wasn't like Euron, who killed on a whim and delighted in breaking minds with terror. Pyat Pree felt as if he had escaped hell itself.
"No need for such formalities. I've come to ask you a few questions."
Jon looked at Pyat Pree's bald head and spoke calmly. He explained why he was there, and Pyat Pree answered without hesitation.
"My lord, that day Euron severed my legs and used a blood sacrifice to summon a wind that helped him break through the encirclement. If he wants to capture a castle quickly, he will likely employ similar magic."