ASOIAF: Celestial Conqueror - Chapter 11 (Patreon)

A Song of Ice and Fire - Celestial Conqueror

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Chapter 11

POV: Jon Snow

“Absolutely not.”

Eddard Stark’s voice carried across the hall, leaving no room for doubt. His tone was sharp, firm, and final. The other Northern lords fell silent, their expressions shifting between curiosity, respect, and unease as they watched the exchange unfold.

The gathering in Armenelos was unlike anything the North had seen in years. One after another, the lords had marched with their banners and sworn men, answering House Stark’s call.

What they found waiting for them had left more than a few surprised. The city Jon Snow had built in such a short time was not some crude fort or half-finished outpost. It was a true stronghold—walls rising, markets growing, and a population already bustling with purpose.

At first, many had only been impressed. That quickly turned into something stronger once they heard the stories. Jon, still only eight years old, had personally led his men into battle.

He had crushed an Ironborn invasion, and he had done so without losing a single soldier. No one could dismiss such a feat, no matter how young he was. Respect, grudging or genuine, spread through the Northern host like fire through dry grass.

By the time every lord and his men had assembled, the host had swelled to over thirty thousand. With their strength gathered, they moved into the newly completed City Hall to hold council.

The building itself was fresh stone and timber, finished shortly after the Guild Hall, back before anyone had realized the Ironborn were plotting rebellion. Its purpose was clear—it was to serve as the heart of Armenelos’ administration.

Jon had insisted on building it early. He wanted order and organization. Citizen registration, taxation, trade permits, travel papers—everything recorded, everything managed. To him, a city without structure was weakness.

Here, at the narrow choke point of the North, both on land and—soon, with the canal—at sea, knowledge was power. And the boy clearly intended to know everything that happened in his domain. Trough it all over Westeros.

Now, inside that hall, the war council was in session. The lords filled the chamber, their voices low until Jon stood to speak.

“My plan is the best option we have,” Jon argued, his young voice firm but not childish. “We don’t yet know the exact situation in Seagard, only that the Ironborn are preparing to invade it. With the longships we captured from them, we can strike from behind. Either we move to liberate Seagard or support its defense, or we link up with the Riverlords. That way the Riverlands won’t be left vulnerable, and Father, you can join the main host with King Robert without delay. With this Fleet from the North, we immediatly will put pressure on the Iron Isles from a different direction!”

A murmur went through the hall. Several lords nodded, some even tapping their fists against the table in agreement. The boy’s reasoning was clear, tactical, and bold.

“That is not what I disagree with, and you know it,” Eddard cut in sharply, fixing Jon with a stern gaze. “The plan has merit. But you are not going to join this war. You may have defended Moat Cailin with honor, but you are still only eight years old. A war is no place for a child.”

Jon crossed his arms, unflinching. “You sound just like the guards you sent with me, Father. Did you rehearse this together?” His tone was defiant, drawing a ripple of chuckles from the lords. The loudest laugh came from Greatjon Umber, who slapped the table in amusement.

“Child or not, I am of the North,” Jon pressed on, his voice rising with determination. “The Squid milk-drinkers stand no chance against me. I am a lord of the North, and it would shame my honor to sit idly while others drive them back into the sea. This war must end with them broken, and I will see it done.”

Eddard’s frown deepened. His reply came after a long, weary sigh. “You are not officially a lord yet. I gave you leave to prove yourself, and you have exceeded every expectation I set. But you are still too young, Jon. That fact will not change, no matter how many victories you win.”

“And yet these ships are mine. I liberated them from the squids with my own men!” Jon shot back, his voice sharp with conviction.

Eddard exhaled heavily, the sound halfway between frustration and weariness. “I will not place two thousand Northmen under the command of an eight-year-old boy,” he said, rubbing at his brow. The hall seemed to grow a little quieter, every lord watching the clash between father and son unfold.

“You don’t have to,” Jon countered quickly, refusing to give ground. “Appoint one of your lords to lead them if you wish. But those ships still belong to me. And I won’t allow them to sail without men from Armenelos—fifty at the very least. They earned the right to stand on the decks they fought for.”

The boy’s eyes swept across the gathered lords, his tone steady as he pressed on. “This is an opportunity the North cannot ignore. If we break the squids now, our western coast will be safe for decades. And once the canal here in Armenelos is completed, that safety will mean wealth unlike anything the North has ever seen.

You’ve seen it with your own eyes, Father—the first half is already dug, and the port is nearly finished. In just a few months, it will all be ready. Trade will flow like never before, but only if the Ironborn threat is removed. Imagine what the North could become if we cut them out of the equation entirely.”

Some of the lords shifted in their seats, whispering low to one another. Jon noticed a faint gleam of approval in the pale eyes of Roose Bolton, and that small acknowledgement strengthened his resolve.

Eddard, however, stared at him with something closer to unease. “Jon… when did you become so ruthless?” he asked, his voice softer this time, almost disbelieving.

Jon didn’t hesitate. “If an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared,” he quoted calmly. The words of Machiavelli—lines once buried in the textbooks of his old life—slid off his tongue as though they belonged here in this hall.

Who would have thought that the lessons he studied for a career long gone would prove so useful in this world?

“From what I’ve gathered through interrogations, and from his actions, I’ve come to understand Balon Greyjoy,” Jon continued. “He is an idiot with delusions of grandeur. But he is also a vengeful idiot. He won’t forget that we crushed his first rebellion. He’ll carry that wound, and if he’s given the chance, he’ll try again.”

“But—” Eddard began, only to be cut off by his son’s unyielding tone.

“I know you, Father,” Jon said, standing firm. “And I’ve met Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn too. Robert may listen to you, but both of you will stop short of doing what is necessary. You’ll convince him to show mercy. Most likely, this rebellion will end with little more than a warning and a hostage taken. You’ll believe that will keep Balon Greyjoy in check. But it won’t. He’ll bide his time, and one day, he’ll rise again.”

The hall fell silent. The lords who had been muttering earlier now stared at Jon with open shock. None of them had thought about what would come after victory. Their minds had been fixed on the next battle, not the end of the war itself.

Jon did not flinch under their gazes. His expression remained calm, his voice unwavering as he drove his point home. “Father, Robert trusts you. He will listen to you more than anyone else. If we guide him the right way, this rebellion can end with the Ironborn crippled beyond repair. Their ‘Old Way’ would be broken, forcing them to change, while the North grows stronger than ever before.”

He paused only for a breath before finishing, his words like a blade cutting through the stillness of the hall. “I was in King’s Landing not long ago. I walked the halls of the Red Keep itself. Do you know who truly rules Westeros?”

Eddard did not hesitate, answering as if the truth were obvious. “Robert is the king. And Jon Arryn rules as his Hand.”

“On paper, yes,” Jon admitted, his voice steady but edged with sarcasm. “As pleasant as King Robert was to me personally, the truth is he has no interest in ruling. None at all. Do you know what he called it when I sat down to negotiate with him? ‘Counting coppers.’ That was his exact phrase. I’m selling the alcohol Armenelos produces to the royal household for three times the price I charge anyone else, simply because he couldn’t be bothered to argue. That alone should tell you what kind of attention he gives to the kingdom’s finances. And what it says about his attitude toward ruling in general.”

The words made several of the lords shift uncomfortably. Some muttered to their neighbors, testing the truth of Jon’s claim.

Jon pressed on without pause. “And when I visited the Red Keep, I expected to see the banners of the stag everywhere. Instead, I saw Arryn men here and there, but the majority of guards were Lannisters. They stood at every entrance, patrolled every hall, and lined the walls themselves. Baratheon men were rare. It looked less like a royal fortress and more like a Lannister stronghold. One could almost believe Robert had married into their family, not the other way around.”

“That’s…” Eddard started to reply, but the words stalled in his throat.

“Foolish? Exactly.” Jon cut in before his father could gather himself. His tone was sharp, but not cruel. “Think about it. Tywin Lannister sat out most of the rebellion, kept his men fresh, then joined the winning side at the very end. And what was his reward? A throne for his daughter and the crown prince of the realm. And what did the North gain, after bleeding more than anyone else in Robert’s war? Did we even receive so much as a tax exemption?”

A ripple of discontent moved through the chamber. Many of the Northern lords began to grumble among themselves, voices low but rising with agreement.

“He is right, Ned,” Greatjon Umber rumbled, leaning forward with his massive hands on the table. “Even the Wall sees fewer supplies sent north each year. The South grows fat, while we are left with scraps.”

Jon gave a short nod, his expression calm but determined. “And they are bleeding us dry with their food prices as well. Grain, salt, even wine—it all costs more every year. The South grows rich while the North struggles.”

Eddard raised a hand to quiet the murmurs, forcing the room back to order. His eyes fixed on his son again, stern but not unkind. “I can see your point. Yes, the North has not gained much from its loyalty to the throne. But that still does not change the true subject of this argument. Why you, Jon, should be allowed to join this war.”

“Because I want to make sure the Ironborn threat is ended for decades, not merely delayed,” Jon answered firmly. His voice was clear enough that every man in the room could hear. “We are not Aegon the Conqueror. We do not have dragons to cow them into obedience. Their culture is not like ours. It doesn’t matter if we take Balon Greyjoy’s heir. The Ironborn don’t even pass succession the way we do—their kings are chosen at the Kingsmoot. Another will rise, and the raiding will begin again.”

He paused long enough to sweep his gaze across the table, meeting the eyes of Manderly, Umber, Karstark, and Bolton in turn. None looked away.

“If we truly want peace, we must neutralize them properly. Take their fleets, take their slaves, and use them as reparations for the North. With their strength broken, they won’t be able to rise again for a long time. And the North, in turn, will grow stronger.”

“There are no slaves in Westeros,” Eddard snapped, his tone hardening. “And if there were, would you truly take them for yourself?”

Jon met his father’s gaze without flinching. “Just because they don’t sell them for gold doesn’t mean it isn’t slavery. Salt wives, thralls, men forced to labor under the lash—call it whatever you like, but it’s still the same thing. Even when Balon’s father tried to put an end to it, he was replaced, and the Ironborn returned to their old ways. It is in their culture. They will not change on their own.”

The boy’s words struck the council like a hammer.

“If we strip them of those thralls, force them to work their own farms, and deny them the ability to seize new ones, then they will have no choice but to change,” Jon continued, unshaken. “And I never said a word about keeping them as thralls in the North. Of course they would be freed. They would live as free men and women, becoming part of our people. More workers, more hands, more families to strengthen our land. That is how the North will grow.”

The chamber grew still. A few lords exchanged glances, some disturbed, others thoughtful. The idea was bold, even ruthless, but undeniably practical.

“And how will we feed them?” Roose Bolton’s voice slipped into the discussion like a whisper of cold steel. His tone was soft, yet it carried through the chamber clearly enough that everyone stilled to listen. “As you yourself reasoned, we are already being robbed by the South through their food prices. In winters, the elderly of the North are forced to go on so-called ‘hunts’ alone, never to return. Can the North truly afford more mouths to feed?”

Jon tilted his head slightly, as though the question amused him more than it troubled him. “Ah, so you haven’t heard yet?” he replied, a hint of mischief in his tone. “You may have noticed the machines on the farms here in Armenelos—those strange contraptions being pulled by oxen and horses. They’re not for show. I recently entered into a trade agreement with House Manderly to spread them throughout the North. With those tools, farming even our harsh and stubborn soil becomes easier and far less costly.”

In fact the first Factory in Armenelos was a dedicated Agricultural Machine Factory, with several different Production lines dedicated to the manufacture of his Agricultural Machines.

This was possible thanks to the increase of Smith’s and Metalworkers his Guild System began producing. While most of them were still learning, they could start out with the parts for his Machines.

The efficiency of an actual Production Line, will allow Armenelos to cover the large demand in the North, to allow at least all Lords access to his Machines, and completely cover their demands over the coming years.

Obviously with the raising population, the demand would also increase.

Later on he would expand towards the rest of Westeros, but the North should first become independent from the South’s Food chokehold.

Wendel Manderly gave a booming laugh, nodding in agreement. “Aye, that’s true enough! We’ve already begun selling them to our minor houses and farmers. Preparations were well underway to spread them across the North before this war interrupted matters. If things go as planned, within the next year nearly every Northern house will have access to them. And let me tell you—these machines work just as promised. They make farming the hard ground of the North not only cheaper, but less back-breaking.”

The lords around the table exchanged looks. Even those who had been skeptical moments before seemed more thoughtful now, weighing the idea of stronger harvests and sturdier fields.

Jon seized the moment and pushed his argument further. “So, Father, that is why I must join this war. To make sure the North is rewarded properly for its loyalty, while ensuring the Iron Isles are crippled for decades to come. We will also need ships to guard the western coast. These longboats, while not built for trade, give us a solid start—and at little cost, since they were taken from the squids themselves. Our participation in this war is already confirmed, whether we like it or not.”

His eyes swept across the gathered lords, gauging their expressions before he continued. “But there’s more. This is also a chance for me to gain real experience. You already know I can lead and plan strategy, but strategy on parchment is not the same as the reality of war. There is still much I don’t know. Robb will have years of training ahead of him—under your guidance, Father, as well as from Maesters, masters-at-arms, and knights who can polish his skills. I don’t have that luxury. I’ve had to learn by doing, and this war—clear in purpose and straightforward in its goals—is the perfect chance to learn the true nuances of warfare.”

A heavy silence followed his words. Some of the lords frowned, others nodded in grudging approval. The truth in his reasoning was hard to deny, no matter how young he was.

Then Wendel Manderly broke the tension with a booming voice. “How about this then? I’ll accompany the lad myself. The Manderly men are the most suited for naval combat—most of them grew up on the sea. I can keep an eye on him, teach him the tricks of fighting from the water, and make sure he doesn’t fling himself into the heart of the battle before he’s ready.”

A low rumble of approval spread through the chamber. Even the more stubborn lords who had scoffed at the boy earlier now looked at him with a measure of respect.

Eddard Stark sat in silence for a long moment, his hand resting heavily on the table. His eyes flicked from his son to the lords, then back to Jon again. The weight of the council’s shifting mood pressed against him like a tide. In the end, all he could do was release a long, weary sigh and concede.

No one in the hall noticed the faint glow of blue script shimmering across the ring on Jon’s finger.