For the first time in half a month, the prisoners in the Dragonpit finally ate a full meal. Not only that, but there was wine.
Jon sat among them, telling stories about his experiences at the Wall.
"My lord, are there really White Walkers beyond the Wall?"
"My lord, what do wildlings look like?"
"My lord, if you piss off the top of the Wall, does it really freeze before it hits the ground and knock someone over?"
The soldiers' questions were bizarre and varied, but Sandor could see they were beginning to accept Jon as their new commander.
Sandor didn't eat or drink. He just watched the surroundings vigilantly, ready for anything.
Jon chatted with the soldiers for a while, steering the conversation this way and that. When the mood felt right, he moved to the final step of winning them over: painting a picture of a brighter future.
"I know many of you are second sons, or the youngest in your families. You have no land. You had no choice but to become men-at-arms, craftsmen, or freeriders. But I promise you this: if you follow me, serve for three years, and I will give you fifty acres of prime land. Serve for five years, and I'll throw in farming tools, seeds, and even help you find a wife!
"Of course, if you earn merit in battle, I offer two kinds of rewards: land or gold. You will be free to choose between them." Jon stood up and waved his hand expansively.
"Land! My lord, do you really mean it? Just three years of service for land?"
A soldier who looked over thirty asked excitedly.
Even Sandor glanced sideways in surprise.
Jon was offering land!
Do you know what that means? With land, a man becomes a landowner—a lord in his own small way.
Jon smiled faintly. "What? Do you need me to write it down for you? Wait, can you even read?"
Seeing Jon tease him, the soldier scratched his head sheepishly, while the others laughed and vouched that he was excellent at plowing fields.
"Good! You can also trade prime farmland for uncultivated land. One acre of good land for five acres of wild land! If you're willing to plow, you can plow to your heart's content!" Jon's generosity stirred the Westerlands soldiers again.
Jon knew that according to the original timeline, winter was two years away.
He had to stockpile as much food as possible. Westeros had enjoyed a summer that lasted over a decade. Even if the coming winter didn't last that long, a winter half that length would still be terrifying.
If crops couldn't grow for five, six, or even eight years, finding one person alive out of ten would be a mercy from the Gods.
So Jon planned to hoard grain to prepare for the coming famine.
Finally, Jon dropped the biggest bombshell. By now, the soldiers had formed a tight wall around him. To ensure everyone heard, he raised his voice: "I, Jon Stark, promise you: I will allocate land to you during your service! If you have family, they can farm it for you. If not, you can hire someone to farm it!"
Jon's words reached every ear. The sound of gulping was audible all around.
This wasn't just painting a picture of a pie in the sky; Jon was practically shoving the pie into their mouths.
The Westerlands? Tywin? House Lannister? Sorry, don't know 'em! We only have one sun in our sky, and his name is Jon Stark!
After breakfast, Jon left the Dragonpit. He ordered tents to be delivered, slightly improving the living conditions for the soldiers who were technically still prisoners.
Jon didn't want serfs; he wanted yeoman farmers. Only those with property have perseverance. These soldiers would become the backbone of his campaign to conquer the West. They would follow him indefinitely, not just until the war ended.
With them, Jon would no longer need to scrape together an army from bits and pieces.
Moreover, in the previous battles, many Westerlands lords had died. The quality of the nobility in the West was about to drop off a cliff.
The remaining cadet branches, second sons, and bastards wouldn't be able to hold onto their family lands, especially since some would be confiscated as punishment.
If Jon could take Casterly Rock, he would control more than two-thirds of the land in the Westerlands. With land comes manpower. With manpower, everything else is easy.
Soon, Jon and Sandor were on their way back to his residence when Penny intercepted them.
Penny jumped off his horse and spoke respectfully to Jon. "Lord Duke, His Grace summons you to a Small Council meeting."
It seemed the commotion Jon caused at the Dragonpit had alerted Stannis.
Jon turned to Sandor and Robert Frey. "Let's go."
"Yes, my lord."
When Jon arrived at the foot of the Tower of the Hand, Varys happened to see him from his window.
Varys was writing a letter destined for Pentos, across the Narrow Sea.
To Illyrio, my friend,
Perhaps it is a jest of the Gods, but House Stark of Westeros has produced a remarkable figure. He used floodwaters to defeat his enemy at the Green Fork, ambushed Gregor Clegane at Darry, and descended like a god from the heavens to take King's Landing before the Lion-Flower alliance could arrive...
To ensure his ally in the Free Cities understood just how terrifyingly capable and valuable this young general was, Varys filled the letter with high praise.
...Just the night before I wrote this, he single-handedly won the loyalty of nearly five thousand Westerlands prisoners. The new King, Stannis, intends to name him Duke of Casterly Rock and send him to wrestle the West from the Lannisters. I believe this is a golden opportunity for us...
Please raise at least three... no, make it five hundred thousand gold dragons. We need to support this young man. Whether he succeeds or fails, he will drain the strength of Westeros significantly.
Varys wrote the entire letter in High Valyrian, which was more common than the Common Tongue in the Free Cities.
He placed the letter in a small lens-box and slipped it into a secret passage in the wall, then left his room for the Tower of the Hand.
In the Tower of the Hand, Stannis sat at the head of the table, the Flaming Heart banner hanging behind him. To his left sat Alester Florent, the acting Hand.
To his right sat Melisandre, followed by Davos, Adrian Celtigar, Alexander, Axel, Pycelle, and other courtiers.
The position of Master of Coin was temporarily held by Adrian Celtigar. Petyr Baelish, having lost everything overnight, had resigned and gone back to managing his brothels.
Just as the cupbearer began pouring tea, Jon arrived.
"Your Grace, my lords, my apologies. I just returned from the Dragonpit." Jon bowed slightly.
Although, aside from Stannis and Melisandre, he was practically the third most powerful person in the room, he was the youngest. A little humility never hurt.
"Lord Stark, I hear you won over thousands of Westerlands prisoners in a single night. Impressive," Alester praised him—a rare occurrence.
Since Stannis had ordered him to prepare at least three thousand men for Jon's western campaign, Jon recruiting so many soldiers himself essentially completed Alester's task for him.
"You flatter me, Lord Hand. Those soldiers are human too. They've been away from home for so long, killing or being killed every day. They're tired of it. I promised to take them home, and they were willing to follow me." Jon smiled and, at Stannis's gesture, took his seat.
"Jon, what you did was dangerous. What if some of those soldiers harbored ill will?" Davos said worriedly. "And you slept among them without a single guard."
"Ser Davos, thank you for your concern. But I believe securing peace for Westeros as quickly as possible is more important." Jon turned to Stannis. "Your Grace, I wish to depart soon. First to persuade Robb, then immediately begin operations in the West. Every day we give Tywin to prepare is another day peace drifts further away!"
Stannis's dark blue eyes showed interest. He couldn't help but think: If my men had half of Jon's competence, I wouldn't have lost my fleet!
Now he barely had any leverage when dealing with the Tyrells—even arranging a marriage felt like haggling at a market.
"Jon, I understand your urgency. But since you are going to war in the West, everything must be fully prepared."
"Lord Alester," Stannis said without turning around, "how are the preparations for Jon's army coming along?"
Alester's heart skipped a beat. Jon just recruited four or five thousand men on his own; why do I still need to gather more?
But this was Stannis's order, and as a man on thin ice, he didn't dare object. "Your Grace, preparations are ongoing. They will be ready before the coronation."
"Good." Stannis replied curtly. "Jon, you will depart after my coronation. And before you leave, I have another task for you."
"Rest assured, Your Grace. Whatever the task, I will complete it."
As soon as Jon finished speaking, he noticed people snickering—Adrian, Davos, even Pycelle.
What are you all laughing at? And Varys didn't send me any intel on this.
Jon looked at Stannis, but the King offered no explanation, keeping him in suspense.
After the brief pleasantries, Pycelle spoke up. "Your Grace, my lords, today we are discussing the details of King Stannis's coronation. We have set the date for one month from now—twenty-six days, to be precise. Following the tradition of the Targaryens and King Robert, the coronation should take place at the Great Sept of Baelor." Pycelle glanced at Melisandre. "However, before the coronation, Lady Melisandre... er, the priestess... has demanded that we burn the statues of the Seven..."
Although Pycelle had cared less about gods as his knowledge grew in his youth, in his old age, he had developed a psychological reliance on the statues in the Sept.
He was uncomfortable with Melisandre's decision to burn them as an offering.
"Absolutely not, Your Grace!" Sure enough, before Pycelle could finish, Davos stood up to object. Adrian Celtigar and the other King's Men looked terrified.