Game of Thrones White Wolf

Chapter 222 224: He’s Growing Too Fast

The moment word spread that Jon Stark was personally leading the assault on the Iron Islands, it hit the Seven Kingdoms like a warhammer to the chest.

Lords in their halls, merchants in their counting rooms, and smallfolk in alehouses all stopped what they were doing. The young Duke of Casterly Rock had barely settled into his new title. He'd married the Rose of Highgarden, bedded her with the kind of passion that already had bards composing filthy songs, and gotten her pregnant on what felt like their wedding night. Most men in his boots would've kicked their boots off, poured themselves a cup of Arbor red, and let their generals handle the next war.

Not Jon.

He was charging straight into the teeth of the Ironborn like a man who couldn't sit still unless blood was on his blade.

In Highgarden, Mace Tyrell nearly choked on his breakfast when the raven arrived. He read the letter twice, then slammed it down so hard the wine cups rattled.

"Seven hells," he growled, his face turning the color of a ripe beet. "He's going to get himself killed and leave my daughter a widow before the babe even quickens."

He dictated a furious letter demanding to know why Jon would abandon his pregnant wife to risk his neck on those godsforsaken rocks. Even Robert and Eddard had waited until the Iron Fleet was broken before they set foot on Pyke. This was reckless. Suicidal. Fatherly outrage poured out of every line.

But when Jon's reply came back—calm, measured, and brutally honest—Mace read it in silence. Then he handed it to Willas and Olenna without a word.

Jon had written it himself, in that steady hand of his:

The Iron Islands have plagued the Sunset Sea for thousands of years. If I don't end this now, my son will have to fight the same war. Or my grandson. I won't leave that poison for the next generation. And I sure as hell won't leave Euron Greyjoy breathing. This ends with me.

Willas read it slowly, then passed it to his grandmother. The old woman's sharp eyes scanned the parchment, and for once, the Queen of Thorns didn't have a cutting remark ready. She simply nodded, lips pressed tight.

"He's right," she said quietly. "The boy thinks like a king, even if he won't say it out loud."

Mace exhaled, the fight draining out of him. He gave the order that same hour: two hundred of Highgarden's finest household knights—battle-hardened men in full plate, loyal to the bone—would sail at once to reinforce Jon's landing force. No half-measures. If his daughter's husband was going to war, the Tyrells would stand with him.

In the North, Robb couldn't spare a single man. He was still locked in his own grinding campaign against the wildlings beyond the Wall. But he had at least hammered out a temporary truce with the King-Beyond-the-Wall, buying the North a breathing spell. The raven he sent Jon was short and brotherly: Come back alive, you mad bastard. We'll drink to the Iron Islands when this is over.

King's Landing reacted differently.

Stannis Baratheon stood at the window of the royal solar, the Iron Throne's shadow stretching long behind him like a jagged accusation. The report from the Westerlands lay open on the table. He read it again, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.

Jon wasn't just winning battles anymore. He was building something. The West. The North. The Riverlands. The Reach. Even Dorne was tilting his way after he avenged their honor by killing Gregor Clegane. The entire western half of the realm was quietly orbiting Jon like a second sun.

And now this—personally leading the landing on the Iron Islands. Bold. Decisive. Terrifying.

Stannis's hand tightened on the stone windowsill until his knuckles whitened. He could see the shape of it clearly: once the Ironborn were broken and the Sunset Sea was secure, Jon's power bloc would be unbreakable. A king in all but name.

After this war ends, I'll summon him to King's Landing, Stannis decided, the thought settling like cold iron in his gut. Keep him close. Watch him. Wait until he produces a male heir old enough to shoulder the Rock. Only then would the boy be… manageable.

He turned away from the window, the weight of three kingdoms pressing down on his shoulders. Robert had Ned. Renly had the Stormlands and a smile that won hearts. Stannis had himself—and a growing fear that the gods had given all their favor to one bastard in the West.

Deep beneath the Red Keep, in the damp, torchlit passages few men ever saw, Varys met once more with his old ally from Pentos.

Illyrio Mopatis filled the small chamber like a silk-wrapped mountain. His gem-ringed fingers rested on the swell of his belly as he spoke, his voice rich with Pentoshi perfume and quiet ambition.

"Two months ago I received word that Tyrion and the others reached Volantis," he said, a satisfied smile stretching his thick lips. "They should be in Slaver's Bay by now."

Even Varys, whose face rarely betrayed emotion, felt a flicker of genuine anticipation. The Spider leaned forward, the torchlight catching the faint gleam of his purple eyes.

"Ah," Illyrio continued, "once Young Griff marries Daenerys and they return on the backs of dragons, Stannis's shaky throne will collapse. The Iron Throne will finally return to its rightful bloodline."

Varys's expression tightened. "But I'm growing concerned about Jon Stark."

"Stark?" Illyrio blinked, genuinely surprised. "Why? You told me yourself—he's no second Eddard. The boy's ambitious. Would he actually ride to defend Stannis's crown?"

"No," Varys said softly. "He won't help Stannis. But have you noticed how fast he's growing?"

Illyrio leaned back, cheese appearing in his hand as if by magic. He took a slow bite, listening.

"Stannis arranged the marriage to Margaery specifically to bleed the Tyrells and punish them," Varys continued, his voice low and precise. "Instead, Jon conquered the Westerlands in under three months. When Stannis demanded the Lannister treasury, I leaked the order early, hoping to drive a deeper wedge. Jon turned it to his advantage and distributed the wealth himself—buying loyalty with gold and grain."

Varys's tone grew tighter, almost frustrated. "Now the Iron Islands have become the perfect excuse. The Tyrells are already his wife's family. Robb is the brother he grew up with. He earned Dorne's gratitude by killing Gregor Clegane. I fear that once Young Griff takes the throne, he'll still have to face this growing giant. I can see it—Stannis is already worried. He's even considering summoning Jon to King's Landing after the war ends to keep him under watch."

Illyrio let out a rich, amused chuckle. He wiped his fingers on a silk handkerchief and leaned in, eyes twinkling.

"What's there to worry about? We're not Stannis."

Illyrio, a man who sat at the table of power rather than spying from the shadows, saw the board differently.

"Stannis isn't old yet, but raising a proper heir will still take fifteen years or more. That's why he fears Jon. But why should we?" Illyrio's voice swelled with pride. "Young Griff is the same age as Jon, better educated than most lords in Westeros, and already a superior warrior. He was born to rule."

He popped the last of the cheese into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

"You said it yourself—if the worst happens, we can always have Young Griff's son marry one of Jon's daughters. Double the blood ties, just like Robert and Eddard. That should be enough, no?"

Illyrio wiped his fingers again, the gems on his rings catching the torchlight.

"Besides, no matter how strong Jon is in battle, he has one fatal weakness: he lacks legitimacy. He's still a bastard at heart. Even calling himself Stark can't erase that. He doesn't have the ancient name or the history to keep the Sunset Sea lords united under him forever. Ten years? Twenty? That alliance looks solid now, but it won't last. And don't forget, Varys—we'll soon have dragons."

Varys turned his amethyst eyes slowly and gave a small nod, seeming halfway convinced. Still, a faint crease remained between his brows, as if something still didn't sit right in that intricate web of his mind.

Everything Illyrio and the others had told him painted Young Griff as an exceptional young man. But compared to Jon—who had already proven himself on the battlefield with blood and steel—Aegon had no real accomplishments yet. Still, Illyrio was right about one thing.

They would have dragons soon.

Just to be safe, Varys decided to keep a very close eye on the fighting in the Iron Islands. He could not allow any unpredictable variables to ruin their careful plans.

The game was far from over. And the Spider never left anything to chance.