ASOIAF: Celestial Conqueror - Chapter 8 (Patreon)

Flames of War

- Armenelos -

Jon took another look at the Great Map, just to confirm if he was seeing it right.

Yes, Lannisport was under attack.

The Great Port City of the Westerlands and one of their greatest Sources of income is under attack, and according to his in real time updating map was taking considerable damage.

He had made it a habit to at least check the Great Map, twice if not thrice a day.

While it never showed him any details, he would be always aware about the larger Picture. Where a great Dothraki Horde was currently plundering and attacking a City or Village.

It was the first time since getting the Map, that he had seen any such event in Westeros. Sure a few small Villages had been under attack for a few Hours, from time to time, but never a Major City.

There had been no major War in Westeros since King Robert’s Rebellion.

But more and more reports about raids on the Western Shores of Westeros had been becoming common. His Map had been a confirmation of that. So have been his newest batch newcomers from King’s Landing. The ones he brought himself, and the two other Waves, his Ship had brought over the last two months during their Trade Runs.

Deliver his Alcohol to the Royal Family in King’s Landing, and bring supplies and new Migrants from there.

All of them had similar Backstories, having lost their Homes, fleeing from the increasing Raids.

The suspects had been kinda obvious, even if they didn’t wear anything identifying themsleves. No House Banners, Sails or Flags. But their Long Boats had been a clear give away.

There were only one kind of People in Westeros using Long Boats. The Ironborn.

Until now they hadn’t been any Problem for him. In fact quite beneficial since they drove away skilled workers from different Kingdoms, right into his Hands.

But now they dared to piss off Tywin fucking Lanister himself, by attacking one of his strategically most important locations in his Kingdom and the second biggest source of Income for himself. The City right at his Front Door.

That could have only one result. War.

The question was, how should he react? What did it mean for him?

A knock on the Door towards his private Solar in Moat Cailin, and Jon quickly stored the map inside his Requip Space, “Come in.”

“Marei said you called a Meeting?” Hallis Mollen arrived followed by the four other Men his father had send with him to Moat Cailin, with them was Clayton their Blacksmith, and the usual representatives of the People living in Armenelos, and lastly Marei.

“Indeed. We may have a massive Problem coming for us.” Jon stated.

“What kind of Problem?” Hallis asked with narrowed eyes.

“An Ironborn Invasion. A trusted Source of mine told me that the Ironborn have attacked Lannisport. And that will mean War.” Jon explained seriously.

“What Source?” Asked one of the men.

“A trusted one.” Jon left it at that, not wanting to elaborate, “We all have heard that the Ironborn are on the move recently. Some of our own People have experienced it.”

That got him agreeing nods, especially from the man responsible to represent the People they picked up from King’s Landing.

“I just didn’t expect that Balon Greyjoy would be stupid enough to attack Lannisport…” he sighed.

“Stupid?” Asked one of the men, “Isn’t that like a dream for the Ironborn. A lot of Wealth to rob and all that?”

“Of course it’s a juicy target. But the consequences are dire. Not only did he piss of Tywin Lannister personally, but at the same time he declared war on all of the Seven Kingdoms. The Ironborn are in open Rebellion now. That happens if you attack the Father of the Queen. And the response will be unified. There are few things more disliked in Westeros than the Ironborn. Almost every Kingdom will join that war, solidifying King Robert’s rule.” Jon analyzed, “The question is, what should we do?”

“You are going to do nothing. Sure your Town has grown to over 5000 People now, but that will barely be enough to dispatch 50 People to the War. And you are an eight year old. Nobody will expect you to join the War.” Hallis Mollen cut in.

“That’s not what I meant.” Jon shook his head, not commenting about his own participation, as he pulled out a Map, “Balon Greyjoy is stupid enough to start a war with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms alone. But even he should know that he doesn’t have the Numbers to fight all of them. Now that he started the war, he can’t just stop it. So there will be probably something going on in his Brain, like how can he split up the enemy Forces to beat them one by one. And there is one way to stop 20 to 40 Thousand men from joining.”

His finger touching one Particular spot on the Map.

Moat Cailin.

“You believe they will be attacking here?” Joren asked worried.

“How many men can the Iron Island raise? Twentythousand?” Jon asked, recieving nods from Hallis, “While Moat Cailin is debatable almost inpenetratable from the South thanks to it’s location, it’s not the same for the North. But still the best defensible position for them to hold back a larger Host. Something like 2-3 Thousand men to hold back the entire Northern Host will sound like a good idea in that mans brain.”

“Threethousand Ironborn?” Choked someone out.

“Roughly guessed. I have no idea how an Idiot Calculates.” Jon shrugged, “The Question is what we should do. Option A, we save our People and temporarily Migrate to White Harbour, while a smaller host defends Moat Cailin until the Northern Main Host arrives.”

Grim looks appeared on the gathered faces.

“What is Option B?” Marei asked softly, over the last few weeks she had become his Second in Command, he had spent every day of their Journey teaching her about Management and Numenorean Technology. And kept doing the same during their Free Time. She had been always smart, but thanks to his teachings with his new Perk, she had surpassed herself by far.

Jon had put her in Charge of starting the Craftsmen Guild, which she had been doing so wonderfully.

Not only had she organized different Guilds for every Craft, selecting Teachers who had started teaching some of the Younger unknowing Workers in the City.

They even have Build a massive Guild Complex, the currently largest Building in the City. It connected several Guild Halls for each Craft, and People could visit the entrance Hall to register for learning a Craft and would be assigned the correct Hall.

While it costs a bit, to maintain, with all the salaries and materials he had to provide. He could easily keep it afloat with his recently starting Trade revenue, rent and tax earnings from the Town.

And overtime these Craftsmen Guilds, would boost his Revenue even more, paying for itself.

Of course she would be unwilling to give up her own hard work.

Most of the other Peoples would be too.

“Option B, we use our Manpower to start building up our Defenses and defend our Homes and hard work. They just made their initial attack, before everyone has gathered their Hosts and started marching it will be several days to weeks. We should have a few Weeks until the Iron Born attack us here. We should be able to raise decent City Walls, Towers, and equip them with War Machinery. Additionally I can provide everyone with several Crossbows and Leather Armor. Our Iron Stores will be only enough for Swords for everyone. But the Ironborn are worse equipped, most of them will Leather Armor too. Few of them Crossbows, and the richest of them some Plate Armor. After all heavy Armor makes it hard for them to Swim.” Jon mused as he weighted his Options, remebering what he knew about the Ironborn, “They are strongest on their Longboats, and will use them to sail up the Fever River to get as close as possible. Since we know where they are coming from, we can trap that Area.”

Traps were also a form of Combat, and thanks to [ Combat Prodigy ], he knew a few usable.

“These Traps would already lessen their Morale. And they are shit at Sieges, I can provide enough Crossbows that every man had 3 to 4 around him. The Woman and Children can reload them while the Men constantly put holes in the Iron Born. If everybody works togehter these bastard don’t stand a Chance. All we need are Walls that are high enough that they can’t be Climbed. And a Gate that can’t be Broken.” Jon pulled out a Blueprint he had created from the Numenorean knowledge, and looked at Clayton, “Do you think you can craft a gate like this? Every step is listed there.”

Clayton observed the skilled and detailed drawing before reading trought the instructions, everybody waiting for him to gather his toughts, “I can’t see why not. While some of the Methods used in this are unfamiliar to me, but as far as I can tell it should work. I never have crafted such a massive piece of Metal, and these Gate Mechanism seem quite complex and detailed. But all your Inventions have worked, so I have no reason to doubt this one.”

Jon nodded at that, he had spent quite a bit of time teaching Clayton the Numenorean Smithing Techniques, the man was probably not aware that he was by now one of the greatest Masters in this World.

He had even begun theaching Students at the Blacksmith Guild Hall as Leader of the hall, and the only Blacksmith in Town. His Students have begun taking some of his Workload off, with smaller works and farming Tools.

“So what do you say. Should we flee like Cowards and Rebuild our hard earned Home Later. Or should we stand here and crush that Scum from the Iron Islands?”

Hallis Mollen was about to interject, unfortunately he was oversounded by the Cheers of the other Men in the Room, even the other Guards Lord Stark had send with him had joined in.

Even tough they should be aware, that Lord Stark wouldn’t like Jon leading Men in a War at the age of eight.

Before the Man could say anything Jon had taken the reigns again, “Hallis, send a rider to White Harbor. Inform Lord Manderly of the Iron Born attack on Lannisport, and the upcoming war. Make sure that he sends a Raven towards my Father. While I don’t believe they will raise the Banners on my Word alone, but they definetly will make some Preparations.” Jon ordered, before he commented, “We seriously need our own Maester alone for the Ravens…”

Then he turned towards the other People in the Room, “Our highest Priority are the Walls, everything else can wait. Followed by the Gate House and then the Towers. If we have the time we will add Siege Engines to it. I have some designs for Trebuchets and Scorpions. Altough Trebuchet’s will be more effective against an Human Army. But some Scorpions will be good to pick off the few heavy armored enemies. Also every man should start practicing shooting with a Crossbow from the Armory. Marei make sure that everyone gets at least one. Make sure that our People collect the ressources for Arrows and more Crossbows.”

“Yes, Lord Snow!”, was the unified response of the People insde, even Hallis had given up trying to argue.

———

POV: Eddard Stark

The morning meal in Winterfell was rarely quiet, and this day proved no different. The great hall echoed with the clatter of spoons and the chatter of children. Robb, nearly nine now, sat upright and tried his best to look proper, but every so often he slipped, a laugh escaping when Arya gleefully banged her spoon against her bowl. The porridge splattered across the table, and Robb had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing louder.

Sansa, only four, wrinkled her nose at her sister’s behavior. With the seriousness of someone far older, she lifted her chin and scolded Arya in a prim little voice. The act earned her a faint smile from their mother. Beside them, Bran squirmed in his high chair, his small hands grabbing at the air as Catelyn tried to bring a spoon to his lips.

Each time she managed, he fussed, either spitting the food back out or turning away at the last moment.

At the head of the table, Eddard Stark watched in silence, his hand wrapped around a cup. He drank little, but the warmth of the hall and the sight of his children made him pause. For a brief moment, it was peace—peace in a place where peace was rare. Yet, as often happened, something tugged at him. A faint emptiness. Someone missing from the picture.

The heavy doors creaked open. Conversation thinned as Maester Luwin entered, his grey robes brushing the floor, a parchment held carefully in both hands. The calm but serious set of his face drained the noise from the hall. Even Arya stopped her racket, though her wide eyes shone with curiosity rather than concern. Only Bran carried on, fussing and whimpering, ignorant to the sudden tension around him.

“My lord,” Maester Luwin said, bowing slightly as he approached the table. “A raven has come from White Harbor. The message bears the seal of Lord Wyman Manderly. It speaks of Moat Cailin.”

Robb’s head snapped up, hope lighting his eyes. “Is it from Jon?” he asked quickly. The boy leaned forward, eager, desperate. It had been months since he had last seen his half-brother, and in that time the absence had gnawed at him. Letters were rare, almost unheard of, since Moat Cailin had no maester of its own.

Ned reached out and took the parchment from Luwin’s hands. He broke the seal and unfolded it carefully. The words were indeed written in Wyman Manderly’s familiar hand, bold and firm across the page. Yet as Ned read, the lines on his face deepened, his expression darkening. This was not the message he had expected.

“It is from Jon, he has send Word trough Lord Manderly,” he said finally, his eyes lifting to meet the stares of his children.

Robb straightened, heart racing. “What does he say?”

Ned exhaled slowly, as though the weight of the letter pressed down on his shoulders. “He writes that the Ironborn have struck Lannisport, setting the harbor aflame. He fears they will sail north next, probably towards Moat Cailin itself. He warns that there will be war—that the Ironborn are in rebellion.”

The words fell into the hall like stones into deep water. The ripples were immediate. Robb’s excitement withered, replaced by unease. Sansa tilted her head, confused but sensing the heaviness in the room.

Arya gripped her spoon tightly, banging it once more without laughter, her small brow furrowed though she did not understand why. Bran began to whimper louder, and Catelyn pressed him against her shoulder, rocking him gently.

But her eyes—cold and sharp—fixed on her husband. “A warning from Jon Snow?” she said, her voice tight. “Ned, he is eight years old. And a bastard. You cannot expect the lords of the North to rally to his word. From where would he even know about an Attack on Lannisport?”

Robb flushed red at the remark. “Jon wouldn’t lie!” he burst out. “If he says the Ironborn are coming, then they are! He’s my brother.”

Catelyn’s lips thinned, but she did not answer her son.

Ned laid the parchment flat against the table, his hand steady on it. “He was right to send word,” he said. His voice was calm but firm. “Child or man, bastard or trueborn, it makes no difference. If he has heard something, bringing it to me was the right choice. Should the Ironborn truly move against the North, we will have little time to muster our host. Better to begin our preparations now.”

“You may have trusted him with Moat Cailin,” Catelyn replied sharply. “But he is neither of age nor of name to hold such a post. Do you not see how this will look to your bannermen? You would have them march because your bastard writes you a letter?”

Ned’s jaw tightened, the words striking deeper than he allowed to show. “I set him there because I judged him ready,” he said quietly. “And he has proven himself to me. Still, he is only eight, and I know how it must look. I will not raise the Northern host on his word alone. Yet Lord Manderly confirms it—he has heard whispers of increased Ironborn activity, enough to begin his own preparations. That is no small matter. We will do the same.”

He hesitated, then continued, his voice softer. “Jon wishes to remain. He writes that he intends to hold Moat Cailin, even if it costs him the town. From what I heard he has gathered a few hundred more men from the south, and with them, he believes he can fortify until the host arrives. House Reed and House Manderly are close enough to support him.”

Robb swallowed hard, his face troubled. Still, his voice was steady. “Jon’s stronger than you think. He’ll hold. He has to.”

Ned’s eyes lingered on his son, then returned to the folded parchment in his hand. Slowly, he rose from his chair. When he spoke again, his tone carried the weight of command. “I will send scouts. If Jon speaks true, we will know soon enough, and the banners will be raised. Until then, we prepare. Luwin, send ravens to the lords of the North. Tell them to be ready for war with the Ironborn. If it comes, we must move swiftly.”

Maester Luwin bowed deeply before turning to leave.

The tension in the hall did not vanish. The children tried to return to their meal, but the mood had shifted. Robb pushed at his porridge with his spoon, his thoughts far from the table. His young face showed only worry—for Jon, for Moat Cailin, for the storm that seemed to be coming.

Catelyn kept silent, though the disapproval in her eyes was plain. She held Bran closer, rocking him slowly, her thoughts colder than her husband’s.

Jon Snow’s fate mattered little to her. What mattered was the danger his words now brought to Winterfell, to her children, and to the North.

At the head of the table, Eddard Stark brooded, the burden of a boy’s warning heavy upon him.