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Loras slammed his fist on the table so hard the wood cracked. "What the hell is Stannis playing at? We were one good push from taking Balon's head and ending this for good!"
The other officers—newly knighted river lords, Reach bastards, and second sons—growled in agreement. They had tasted victory and smelled the lands and titles waiting on Great Wyk and Pyke. Stopping now felt like having a feast ripped away right before the first bite.
Jon stayed quiet while the anger rolled around the war council. He had already made up his mind. Euron was still breathing. The Iron Islands still existed as an independent threat. Neither of those things would stand.
Collin Florent tried to sound reasonable. "My lord, this is a royal command. The king has accepted their surrender. You would be defying the Iron Throne itself."
Jon looked at him without blinking. "I swore an oath before we ever landed here. End the threat forever. I don't break oaths just because Stannis got nervous in King's Landing."
Blackfish stepped in before things turned uglier. "The ironborn have raided the Sunset Sea for thousands of years. Now one of them is using blood magic and kinslaying to summon storms. You want to give them time to recover? That's not mercy. That's suicide for our grandchildren."
Rickard Karstark spat on the floor. "We finish it."
Garlan drove his sword point into the dirt. "We finish it."
One by one the officers echoed the same words until the tent felt like it might burst. Jon stripped the Florent officers of their commands on the spot. Then he sat down and wrote Stannis a single, blunt letter: the West would finish what it started. Two months at most. Do not interfere.
To make sure the king couldn't quietly strangle the campaign, Jon had the Citadel spread the truth across the realm. Euron had murdered his own brothers for power. He used blood sacrifice and dark magic. The ironborn faith itself was poison. Knights and lords who had been sitting on their hands suddenly found their honor again. Many started riding west to join the fight.
Stannis had no choice but to wait. Public opinion had turned too hard against any deal with the ironborn.
Back at Casterly Rock, Alester Florent felt the ground shifting under his feet. No ravens from the front. No word from his nephew Collin. Something was wrong. He decided to ride out himself with the three thousand men still under his direct control.
He never made it to the stables.
Tyrell soldiers—men who now wore the black wolf of Stark on their surcoats—surrounded his residence before dawn. Two mountain clan leaders stood with them, faces hard as stone. Margaery appeared last, one hand resting on the swell of her belly, the other steady at her side.
"Lord Hand," she said calmly. "These men are here for your protection."
Alester's face went white, then red. "Protection? You're imprisoning the King's own Hand. That's treason, Margaery. Treason!"
She didn't flinch. "You're safe. That's all that matters. My husband asked me to keep you comfortable until the war is over. When it's done, he'll make sure House Florent receives its share of the glory."
"You little whore," Alester snarled. "You think Jon can just steal the Iron Throne's victory and hand you the islands like a wedding gift? Stannis will have both your heads!"
Margaery's eyes stayed cold. "My husband is finishing what he started. He's ending a threat that has burned and raped our coasts for centuries. If that makes me a traitor in your eyes, so be it."
She turned and walked away while the mountain men took Alester into custody. She knew exactly what she had just done. If Jon failed, she would hang for this. But if he succeeded—if the Iron Islands fell and Euron died—then the Sunset Sea would finally belong to them.
Some risks were worth taking.