Commander Jorund stood atop the cliffs of Pyke, his gaze fixed upon the endless expanse of the Sunset Sea. Below him, dark waves hurled themselves against jagged black rocks, sending sprays of white foam into the air. The wind was fierce atop the cliffs, tugging at his fur-lined cloak and carrying with it the scent of salt, smoke, and fresh-cut timber.
Behind him, banners bearing the lion-and-crown sigil of Narnia snapped proudly in the sea breeze.
For a long while, Jorund said nothing.
He simply stood and watched.
The conquest was over.
The Iron Islands had fallen.
Not a single island remained unconquered. From Great Wyk to Harlaw, from Blacktyde to Old Wyk, every stronghold had surrendered or been taken. The campaign that had begun with outrage and a demand for justice had ended in complete victory.
Years from now, songs would be sung about this war.
Children would sit in Narnian classrooms and listen to teachers tell them how a kingdom born beyond the Wall had crossed the sea and humbled the most feared raiders in Westeros. Historians would write books about the campaign. Veterans would tell stories beside tavern fires. Young warriors would dream of matching the deeds accomplished here.
And at the center of those stories would be the name of Commander Jorund.
The thought filled him with pride.
Jorund had not come to the Iron Islands just seeking songs or fame. He had come because innocent Narnian merchants had been murdered. Trade ships had been sunk. Sailors had been butchered and thrown into the sea.
The Ironborn had chosen to prey upon peaceful merchants.
Now they had paid the price.
Heavy footsteps sounded behind him.
Jorund did not need to turn around to know who approached.
Only one man in the Narnian army sounded like an entire squad marching at once.
Jarl stepped onto the cliff, his massive hammer resting casually upon one shoulder. The giant warrior stopped beside him and looked toward the sea.
"It is done," Jarl said quietly.
Jorund nodded.
"It is."
For a moment both men simply stood there, allowing the reality of victory to settle in.
"Pyke surrendered easier than I expected."
Jorund laughed softly.
"After watching every other island fall?"
"Perhaps."
"They are Ironborn, Jarl. Not fools."
Jarl raised an eyebrow.
"Some of them are fools."
"Most of them."
That earned a chuckle.
Their eyes drifted toward Pyke Castle.
The ancient fortress still stood proudly upon its sea stacks, though it bore the scars of war. Several towers had collapsed under sustained cannon fire. Entire sections of wall had been shattered. The harbor below remained blackened from days of burning ships.
The Greyjoy fleet no longer existed.
What remained of it rested at the bottom of the sea.
The people of Pyke had seen the truth long before the final assault began. News traveled quickly through islands. Every village, every harbor, every fisherman knew what had happened elsewhere.
They knew the Narnanian cannons could reduce stone fortifications to rubble.
They knew Narnanian soldiers fought in disciplined formations unlike anything Westeros had seen before.
Most importantly, they knew every other island had already fallen.
When the Narnian army marched toward the gates, many townsfolk opened them themselves.
Only a handful of warriors had chosen to resist.
They died bravely.
They also died quickly.
"The Greyjoys surrendered fast enough," Jarl said.
"Not fast enough."
The Lord Reaper of Pyke had chosen war.
He had chosen raiding.
He had chosen to attack merchants who had done nothing to him.
His fate belonged to him.
His head now hung above the harbor alongside several of his closest supporters. Every sailor entering Pyke could see them.
The message was impossible to misunderstand.
The age of reaving was over.
"What about Euron?" Jarl asked.
Jorund's lips twitched.
"Euron Greyjoy remained exactly as intelligent as I expected."
Jarl burst out laughing.
The story had already become famous throughout the army.
While Balon negotiated surrender, Euron had attempted to flee under cover of darkness. Gathering a handful of loyal followers, he had stolen a ship and tried to escape through a narrow channel.
Unfortunately for him, the Narnanian fleet controlled every approach to the islands.
The moment lookouts spotted his vessel, warning bells rang.
Cannons turned.
The sea erupted.
Three shots had struck home.
One shattered the mast.
Another tore through the hull.
The third simply finished what remained.
The ship had exploded into splinters and debris.
No survivors had been found.
The Ironborn called him Crow's Eye.
Now there was little left for crows to find.
"Any body recovered?" Jarl asked.
"No."
"The sea claimed him, then."
"Perhaps."
Neither particularly cared.
Soon another figure approached them carrying a leather satchel.
A messenger.
The young man knelt respectfully and held out a sealed letter.
Jorund immediately recognized the seal.
A grin spread across his face.
"The king writes."
Jarl's expression brightened.
Harry rarely sent letters unless they mattered.
Jorund broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
He read it once.
Then read it again.
"What is it?"
Without answering, Jorund handed over the letter.
The giant warrior read silently.
His eyes widened.
"Giving it away?"
"Aye."
Only Harry Gryffindor could conquer an entire kingdom and decide to hand it away as a gift.
According to the letter, the Iron Islands would remain under Narnian administration for fifteen years. During that time they would be rebuilt, reformed, and transformed.
Afterward, they would pass into the hands of the future child of Rickard Stark and Rhaella Stark.
"He's insane," Jarl declared.
"A little."
"Generous."
"A lot."
Neither objected.
The campaign had never truly been about land.
It had been about ending piracy.
That goal remained unchanged.
The islands would be rebuilt.
And when the time came, they would be given away.
The following weeks were filled with activity.
Half the army departed for home.
The harbors became crowded with ships carrying soldiers back toward Caer Peverell. Veterans laughed and sang as they prepared for the voyage. Many had families waiting for them. Wives. Husbands. Children.
They had earned their rest.
Those who remained understood their work had only begun.
Conquering people was easy.
Changing them was difficult.
The Ironborn schools.
Trade.
Opportunity.
Most of all, they needed a future that did not involve raiding their neighbors.
Weeks later, another letter arrived from Harry.
Rickard Stark and Rhaella Stark were to be invited to the Iron Islands.
Not as rulers.
But as participants in the rebuilding.
Jorund immediately understood the wisdom behind it.
If the future rulers arrived fifteen years later as complete strangers, the Ironborn would resent them.
If they spent years helping rebuild the islands, earning trust and respect, acceptance would come naturally.
Harry was planning for decades ahead.
Far to the north, Winterfell was preparing for a different occasion.
The castle had not been so crowded in years.
Banners from every major northern house decorated the walls. Manderly banners flew beside those of Karstark, Umber, Hornwood, Mormont, and Glover. Nobles from every corner of the North had gathered.
They came for one reason.
Rickard Stark was stepping down.
The Great Hall overflowed with people.
At its center stood the old Lord of Winterfell.
Time had added gray to his hair and lines to his face, but Rickard still stood straight and proud.
Beside him stood Eddard Stark, along with Catelyn, Robb, Sansa, Arya, and Rhaella.
The hall gradually fell silent.
Rickard stepped forward.
"For many years," he began, "I ruled as Lord of Winterfell."
His voice carried effortlessly through the chamber.
"I fought wars. Buried friends. Buried family. Endured winters and celebrated summers."
His gaze found Eddard.
"And now it is time."
Eddard looked uncomfortable.
"You are ready."
"Father—"
"You are."
Turning toward the assembled nobles, Rickard raised his voice.
"From this day onward, my son Eddard Stark shall rule Winterfell. He shall be Lord Stark and Warden of the North."
The hall exploded.
Men pounded tables.
Women applauded.
Robb shouted louder than anyone.
Arya joined in enthusiastically despite having absolutely no idea why everyone was yelling.
Rickard removed the cloak of lordship from his own shoulders.
Then he placed it upon Eddard.
For a brief moment, father and son stood face-to-face.
Rickard clasped his shoulder.
"Lead them well."
Eddard nodded.
"I will."
"I know."
The cheering began anew.
That night Winterfell celebrated.
Stories flowed as freely as wine.
For the first time in decades, Rickard attended a feast without carrying the weight of an entire kingdom upon his shoulders.
The feeling was strange.
Wonderful.
And slightly terrifying.
The next morning brought another surprise.
Rickard and Rhaella announced their departure.
"You are leaving already?" Eddard asked in disbelief.
Rickard nodded.
"I am."
"Where?"
"The Iron Islands."
Apparently that had become a habit whenever Rickard spoke these days.
"You just made me Lord," Eddard protested.
"And?"
"You are leaving."
Rickard laughed.
"You are six and twenty years old, Ned. You have four children and command the largest kingdom in Westeros."
Eddard opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
"I think you will survive."
Soon preparations were complete.
They traveled south through the Neck, where rice fields stretched farther than the eye could see. Canals glittered beneath sunlight. Villages flourished where once there had been only marshland.
Rhaella stared in amazement.
"It is beautiful."
Rickard smiled proudly.
"It feeds the North."
Days later they reached the western shore and boarded ships bound for the Iron Islands.
As the coastline faded behind them, Rickard stood beside Rhaella at the railing.
The sea stretched endlessly before them.
Ahead lay a future neither had expected.
An old northern lord.
A former queen.
An unborn child.
And an entire kingdom waiting to be rebuilt.
Rhaella leaned gently against the railing.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asked softly.
Rickard glanced toward her.
"Regret what?"
"Marrying me."
His answer came without hesitation.
"No."
A smile touched her lips.
"Not even once?"
Rickard looked toward the horizon.
"I spent most of my life doing what duty demanded. What others expected."
Then he turned toward her.
"For once, I chose something because I wanted it."
Rhaella felt tears gather in her eyes.
"You are becoming sentimental."
Rickard snorted.
"Do not tell anyone."
She laughed softly.
"Your secret is safe with me."
Together they watched the setting sun paint the sea gold and crimson.
Far beyond the horizon waited the Iron Islands.
And with them, a new chapter for House Stark.
The fall of the Iron Islands became the single most discussed topic in all of Westeros.
From the frozen castles of the North to the deserts of Dorne, from the bustling ports of Oldtown and Lannisport to the narrow streets of Gulltown and White Harbor, every tavern, market, sept, and noble hall seemed consumed by the same conversation.
The Ironborn had fallen.
Not merely defeated in battle.
They had fallen completely.
For thousands of years, the Iron Islands had been a curse upon every coastline in Westeros. Entire generations had grown up fearing the appearance of black sails on the horizon. Merchants dreaded hearing reports of raiders at sea. Fishermen watched the waves with suspicion. Coastal villages built watchtowers and warning systems because everyone knew the truth.
Whenever the Ironborn grew strong, they raided.
Whenever kingdoms fought one another, they raided.
It was as natural to them as breathing.
The Old Way had survived countless kings, countless wars, and countless attempts to suppress it.
Now, for the first time in centuries, it was broken.
And surprisingly, most of Westeros was happy about it.
King Rhaegar Targaryen had expected something entirely different.
When reports first arrived confirming the complete conquest of the Iron Islands, he had prepared himself for outrage. He had expected furious lords demanding action. He had expected accusations that the Iron Throne had failed to defend its territory. He had expected calls for war against Narnia.
Instead, relief swept through the realm.
The Small Council gathered once more inside the Tower of the Hand. Sunlight streamed through tall windows while servants quietly refreshed wine and watered lamps. The massive council table was nearly buried beneath correspondence. Letters, reports, merchant petitions, and messages from noble houses covered every available surface.
Varys sat at one end, calmly sorting the mountain of parchment with practiced ease.
Across from him, Jon Connington held a bundle of letters and shook his head in disbelief.
"I still cannot believe it."
Rhaegar looked up from a trade report.
"What exactly?"
"The response."
Jon tossed several letters onto the table.
"Half the merchants in Westeros are celebrating."
Tywin Lannister snorted.
Unlike Jon, he seemed entirely unsurprised.
"They have every reason to celebrate."
The Lord of Casterly Rock picked up one report and scanned it briefly before setting it aside.
"The Ironborn have spent generations stealing from every major trading family in the realm. House Redwyne has lost ships to them. House Farman has lost ships to them. Lannisport has lost ships to them. Oldtown has lost ships to them."
His expression remained as calm as ever.
"If anything, the merchants would host a feast in honor of the Narnians if given the opportunity."
Several members of the council chuckled despite themselves.
Even Rhaegar couldn't deny it.
Trade reports arriving from every major port painted the same picture. Shipping insurance costs had already begun dropping. Trade routes previously considered dangerous were reopening. Merchants who had avoided western waters for years were suddenly willing to sail them again.
The economic effects had begun almost immediately.
The destruction of one kingdom was making countless others wealthier.
"Not all the news is positive," Jon warned.
The room grew quieter.
No one was foolish enough to believe every problem had vanished.
The Iron Islands were conquered.
But Narnia remained.
And that reality carried its own concerns.
Rhaegar leaned back slightly.
"No," he agreed. "Not all of it."
The uncomfortable truth hung over the chamber.
The Ironborn were gone as a military threat.
Narnia was not.
If anything, Narnia had emerged from the conflict stronger than before.
Their fleet had proven superior.
Their army had proven superior.
Their weapons had proven superior.
And perhaps most troubling of all, their king had demonstrated remarkable political skill.
Tywin finally broke the silence.
"The boy handled it brilliantly."
He disliked admitting it, but there was no denying the truth.
Harry Gryffindor had somehow conquered an entire kingdom and managed to gain goodwill throughout Westeros while doing it.
The decision regarding the future of the islands had changed everything.
Had Narnia permanently annexed the Iron Islands, countless lords would already be demanding war.
Instead, Harry had announced that the islands would eventually belong to the future child of Rickard Stark and Rhaella Stark.
A child carrying both Stark and Targaryen blood.
A future lord or lady who would be unquestionably Westerosi.
The decision had disarmed criticism before it could properly begin.
"He gave away something he didn't truly want," Tywin observed.
"And gained half the realm's approval."
Rhaegar rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
The move had been extraordinarily clever.
The Iron Islands were now someone else's problem.
And somehow Harry still looked generous for conquering them.
Jon sighed.
"I hate how effective that was."
"So do I," Rhaegar admitted.