The harbor beside Ten Towers had grown into a strange, living island of color and steel. Warships of every size and banner floated linked together by thick iron chains, forming a massive floating fortress that stretched across the water like it had a will of its own.
Asha Greyjoy remembered the chains she'd seen days earlier and finally understood. Jon Stark wasn't just building a fleet. He was building something that could laugh at Euron's storms.
A clear, eager voice spoke beside her. "A ship that big ought to ride out any storm, right?"
She turned and felt heat bloom at the tips of her ears before she even saw Loras Tyrell's face. The young knight stood with his usual bright grin, eyes fixed on the chained armada.
"Only Jon would think of something like this," Loras said, voice full of admiration. "Nothing Euron throws at us is going to touch that."
Asha forced a small smile. "You're right, ser. We'll beat him." The words came out softer than she intended. The bold, swaggering captain of the Black Wind felt strangely quiet around this man.
Behind her, one of her older crewmen smirked like a fond aunt. The younger one ground his teeth loud enough to hear, jaw clenched tight.
Since arriving on Harlaw, Asha had found every excuse to seek Loras out. At first he'd nearly drawn steel on her—Euron had once held his mother hostage. But once Loras learned what Euron truly was, a kinslayer who sacrificed his own blood, the hatred cooled into something closer to grim understanding. Now they talked for hours about the coming fight.
"Pity Jon didn't name me for the vanguard," Loras said, still staring at the ships. "I'd be the first one onto Pyke."
Asha's smile stayed fixed even as her heart gave a quick, traitorous kick. Loras was three or four years younger, and she could feel the boyish fire in him, yet something about his clean, earnest energy pulled at her anyway.
They walked the deck of the linked fleet together while her guards trailed close, eyes never leaving her. Crewmen still hauled heavy ballast stones into the holds, trying to make the massive platform even steadier. No one knew exactly how strong Euron's magic had become, so every extra ton of weight might matter.
The great floating fortress wasn't one solid mass. Smaller escort ships circled it like wolves, ready to tighten the formation when the storm hit and spread out again for scouting once they sailed for Pyke.
After the excitement faded, Loras glanced at her. "Jon told you the truth. Once this is over, none of the old ironborn houses will rule these islands again. Have you decided where you'll go?"
The question hit her harder than she expected. Is he worried about me? His brown eyes held nothing but honest concern—no lust, no game. Just simple care.
Asha swallowed. "I already spoke with the Duke. When it's done he'll let me take anyone still loyal to me. I'm heading for Sothoryos."
"Sothoryos?" Loras knew the name. A lawless southern continent crawling with venomous beasts, thick jungle, and the brindled men—huge, striped warriors who fought in the fighting pits of Slaver's Bay like animals.
Loras's face softened with rare melancholy. "I've thought about going far away too. Maybe for Renly's sake. See the world he never got to."
Renly? Asha leaned closer, sure she'd misheard. "Renly Baratheon? He… he was a man, wasn't he?"
Before Loras could answer, a knight in a green cloak hurried up and whispered in his ear. Jon was calling everyone to the final war council.
Loras strode ahead. Asha followed, heart suddenly hammering with a wild, impossible idea. If I ever have a child with a man, I want him to have that clean brown hair and those warm brown eyes.
Her guards muttered behind her.
"That pretty boy doesn't even look at women. Who does he fuck—Renly?"
Asha spun, voice sharp and unashamed. "What does it matter? I've fucked women too."
She quickened her pace to walk beside Loras, the reckless thought still burning in her chest: I'll take him with me to Sothoryos when this is over.
By the time they reached the council, over a hundred lords and captains had gathered. The moment Jon appeared—Valyrian steel armor gleaming white, black cloak snapping, two swords at his hips—every voice died. Only the sea wind and the creak of chains remained.
"Knights of the West," Jon said, voice carrying clean across the water, "this is our last battle. The ironborn will never again raid the Sunset Sea. The ocean will no longer divide us—it will bind us. Kill the Drowned God. End the threat forever!"
"Kill the Drowned God! End the threat forever!"
The roar rolled out over the waves toward Pyke itself.
Jon laid out the plan with calm certainty. Rickard Karstark, veteran of the first assault on Pyke, would lead the vanguard once they landed. Randyll Tarly and the Tyrell brothers would command the flanks. Paxter Redwyne would keep the fleet tight around the island. Jon himself would hold the reserve fleet and a strike force at the rear, eyes locked on Euron.
He trusted the chained armada to weather whatever storm the Crow's Eye summoned. The ironborn left on Pyke were mostly old men, boys, and the broken. Sixty thousand battle-hardened soldiers still waited to be unleashed.
When the council ended, the great floating fortress slipped its moorings and began the slow, unstoppable crawl toward Pyke.
Inside the Selection Hall, Euron sat on Balon's driftwood throne. The room was empty except for Balon himself, standing hollow-eyed beside him.
Where did I go wrong?
Euron had sailed every sea, seen ships flee at the mere sight of his sails. He had stood before Daenerys's tiny dragons and dreamed of hatching his own. He had returned to Westeros certain he would rule.
"Jon Snow," he whispered, gray eyes flashing in memory. From the moment he met the bastard at Highgarden, he had lost at every turn.
"My brother," Euron said, turning to Balon, "tell me why. The gods gave me this power—why give the same gift to him? Am I nothing but their toy?"
Balon's voice cracked with pain. "Euron… stop. For the blood we share, surrender to Jon. Take the fastest ship and run. With your magic you could still be like the Targaryens."
Euron's face twisted. He seized Balon by the collar, one eye blazing with fury, the patch falling away to reveal the blood-red orb beneath. Then something strange happened—his remaining black eye flickered blue. The rage drained from him in an instant. He dropped to his knees, staring north, voice breaking into desperate whispers.
"I can do it… I can still do it… please… just give me more time…"
Balon watched his brother in stunned silence. Euron had always returned so sure of himself. Now he looked like a man begging ghosts.
A guard's voice shattered the moment. "Your Grace—the enemy fleet has been sighted!"
Euron's head snapped up. The blue light vanished. The mask of cold certainty slid back into place as if nothing had happened.
He rose, brushed dust from his coat, and smiled at Balon.
"Finally. Come, brother. Let's send these greenlanders to the bottom together."