webnovel Chapter 220 222: I’ll Go Myself
Chapter 220 222: I’ll Go Myself
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CaveLeather
The words hung in the Hall of Heroes like a warhammer dropped on stone.
"I'll go myself."
Every lord at the long table froze. Cups paused halfway to mouths. The only sound was the crackle of the torches.
Sandor Clegane, standing at Jon's right shoulder, slowly turned his burned face. "You what, my lord?"
Jon didn't blink. "I'll lead the landing force on the Iron Islands. Myself."
The silence shattered.
Loras Tyrell shot to his feet so fast his chair toppled backward. "Jon, have you lost your mind? That's the enemy's home ground! One wrong tide and you're trapped with no way out!"
Garlan Tyrell put a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder but his own voice was tight. "I agree with Loras. You're the Duke of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. The entire realm is watching you. You cannot throw yourself into the teeth of the Ironborn like some hedge knight."
Rickard Karstark rose next, white beard bristling, voice booming like it had at the Red Fork. "Let me go in your place, Jon. I owe you my life from the Golden Tooth. These old bones still remember how to swing an axe. I marched on Pyke once with Robert and your father. Let me finish what we started."
He thumped his chest hard enough that the sound echoed off the wolf-carved throne. "If I die on those rocks, I die a happy man—paying a debt to the best lord I've ever served."
Loras spun toward the old man, eyes blazing. "Ser Rickard, I respect you, but this is personal. Euron put his filthy hands on my mother. I want his head on a spike outside Highgarden. Send me. I'm younger, faster—"
"And hotter-headed," Garlan cut in quietly, but there was steel under the words. "Jon, think. You have a wife carrying your child. A realm that needs you alive. Let one of us take the risk."
Even Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, who rarely spoke against Jon, leaned forward. "Lad, I've stormed worse places than Pyke in my time. Name me commander of the landing. I'll bring you back the Seastone Chair as a footstool."
Rhaegar Frey waited for the clamor to dip, then spoke in that careful, measured tone the Freys used when they were counting coins in their heads. "Lord Jon, we have sixty thousand men under arms and more than six hundred sail now counting your captured longships. You are the linchpin of the entire Sunset Sea bloc. If you fall on those islands, everything we've built—the alliances, the trade routes, even my family's… understanding with you—could collapse. The risk is simply too great."
He spread his hands. "We all remember what happened at Beheading Bay. You already bled them white once. Let the rest of us finish the job."
Jon listened to every voice, gray eyes steady. When the hall finally quieted, he leaned forward on the white-wolf throne, the rubies in its eyes catching the torchlight like fresh blood.
"I thank you—all of you. Your loyalty means more than I can say." He looked at Rickard first. "Ser Rickard, you've already given enough. I won't spend your life to settle a debt I never asked you to carry."
To Loras: "Ser Loras, I know what Euron took from your mother. You'll have your chance at him—next time. This landing isn't about revenge. It's about breaking their back for good."
He turned to the rest. "Lord Alester is the Hand and supreme commander. He'll direct the fleet from the flagship. The rest of you will command squadrons and keep the pressure on. I need men I trust to hit the islands from the sea while I hit them from the land."
Alester sat up straighter at the mention of his title, but the satisfaction only lasted a heartbeat. He knew exactly what Jon was really saying: the Hand would handle logistics and naval coordination. The glory—and the danger—belonged to the man on the ground.
Jon continued, voice calm but carrying. "We split the fleet into six squadrons. Lord Redwyne takes the strongest—eighty of our best ships. Ser Brynden will command the Casterly Rock squadron reinforced by Redwyne vessels. Ser Martin, your own squadron. Ser Garlan and Ser Loras will share one. Black Walder and Harken each get their own. That puts forty thousand men at sea, raiding, blockading, and pinning Euron down."
He paused, letting the numbers sink in.
"My landing force will be small but sharp. A little over three thousand. More than a thousand mountain clansmen—they were born in broken country worse than anything on those islands. Another thousand elite household troops, mostly noble bastards and second sons who can lead companies once we start arming the thralls. Two hundred Citadel acolytes for writing orders, keeping records, and patching wounds. The veteran core of my heavy infantry—Riverlanders who remember what the Ironborn did to Harrenhal. And a handful of septons to keep the men's spirits up."
Rickard Karstark let out a low whistle. "Three thousand against the whole Iron Islands?"
"Quality over quantity," Jon said. "I already killed eight thousand of their best at Beheading Bay. What's left is boys and graybeards. If Euron puts his real fighters on the ships to stop the fleet, we tear the islands apart on land. If he keeps them home to hunt me, the fleet burns every longship in every harbor. Either way he loses."
He looked straight at Margaery's empty seat—she had stayed behind in their chambers—and his voice softened just a fraction. "Besides… I'm the best field commander here. That's not pride talking. It's fact. I've fought in the streets of King's Landing, broken the Golden Tooth, taken Casterly Rock with a handful of men, and turned Beheading Bay into a graveyard. I know how to win ugly fights on rough ground."
Rhaegar Frey opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. "At least take more men—"
"More men slow us down," Jon cut in. "We move light, hit hard, and free every thrall we find. Half those poor bastards are Westerlanders or Riverlanders. They'll fight for us once they have steel in their hands. That's how we take the islands without turning the whole place into a slaughter pen that costs us ten years to rebuild."
Alester Florent finally spoke, voice grudging. "It… has merit. Risky as the seven hells, but it has merit."
Jon gave him a short nod. "Then it's settled."
The council broke up in a storm of maps, arguments over squadron assignments, and quiet oaths of support. Rickard Karstark clapped Jon on the shoulder hard enough to rattle armor. Loras stalked off muttering about "next time," while Garlan lingered to grip Jon's forearm in silent understanding.
Hours later, in the private solar high in Casterly Rock, Margaery waited.
She sat by the window with one hand resting on the gentle swell of her belly that was only just beginning to show. Her cheeks were rounder, her brown eyes brighter with pregnancy, and the moment Jon stepped through the door she stood up—too quickly. She winced.
Jon crossed the room in three strides and caught her waist. "Easy."
"You said you'd be careful," she whispered, pressing her forehead to his chest. "You promised."
"I am being careful. That's why I'm going myself." He stroked her hair. "Euron is sorcery and madness wrapped in one eye. I've seen what he can do. I won't send good men to die while I sit safe behind stone walls."
Margaery pulled back just far enough to look up at him. Tears shimmered but didn't fall. "I know the strategy. I understand every cold, clever reason. Free the thralls, turn the islands against themselves, keep the fleet from becoming one big target. I know. But Jon… this is our child." She took his hand and pressed it to her belly. "He or she is already kicking when I think about you sailing off to face that monster."
Jon's thumb traced slow circles over the silk of her gown. "I'll come back. I always do."
"You'd better," she said, voice catching. Then, with that familiar spark of mischief fighting through the worry, she added, "Because if you don't, I'm naming the baby after the first man who volunteers to take your place. Probably Rickard. Imagine explaining to our son why he's named after a cranky old Northman with a beard like a snowdrift."
Jon laughed softly. "Cruel woman."
Margaery's fingers traced the white wolf on his doublet. "Leave me one of your ravens."
"What for?"
"I'm writing to Roslin Frey." She gave him a look that was pure Tyrell—half challenge, half promise. "If you come home safe and in one piece, I'll have her brought to Casterly Rock. She can… keep your bed warm while I'm too round to do it myself. At least then I'll know exactly who's touching my husband."
Jon's eyebrows rose. "Is this a test, my lady?"
"Call it insurance." Margaery rose on her toes—wincing again—and brushed her lips against his. "You said you wouldn't be gentle if I brought her here. Prove it when you get back. Show me exactly how much you missed me."
He kissed her properly then, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that reminded her why she had fallen so hard in the first place. When they broke apart, both breathing harder, Margaery rested her head against his heart.
"Just come home, Jon Stark. Come home to me and our child. The rest we can figure out together."
"I will," he promised against her hair. "I always come home to you."
Outside, the wind off the Sunset Sea carried the distant sound of hammers and saws—three hundred warships and longships being readied for war. Inside the solar, the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock held each other a little longer, knowing the next time they touched it might be months and a thousand leagues of dangerous water away.