After securing this earth-shaking victory, Logar did not rush to mop up the remaining enemies on Grey Gallows and Bloodstone. First, he took stock of their losses.
His mercenary company had started the battle with over eight hundred men. After one brutal day of fighting, barely three hundred remained. The cost had been staggering.
The enemy had suffered far worse. Logar's sea of fire had not only destroyed more than twenty Triarchy and Dornish warships but had also sent seven or eight hundred men to a fiery grave.
Most burned alive on their ships. Those who jumped into the sea were picked off by archers. In the end, only four or five hundred prisoners were taken.
As for spoils, most of the enemy vessels had been reduced to ash, so the haul was modest.
Still, Logar knew the enemy's main force had been shattered. Once his men linked up with the Velaryon fleet to finish off the remnants on Grey Gallows and Bloodstone, the entire Stepstones would fall under his control.
Then the islands' remaining assets would be his, and he could finally stand firm, charging tolls on every passing merchant ship and turning a steady profit.
That work would take time, but the foundation was now solid.
Afterward, Logar ordered a victory feast in the camp.
Bonfires roared across the open ground, painting every mercenary's face in flickering orange. Barrels of mead were rolled out; the moment the bungs were popped, the rich, sweet aroma flooded the air. The scent of roasting meat mixed with the wine until the entire camp smelled like celebration.
The survivors sat in circles around the fires, cups clashing, laughter ringing out. Tonight there was no smoke of battle, no clash of steel — only joy for every man who had walked out of the valley of death alive.
"Captain! Thank you for leading us to victory!"
At the feast, Alyn — the bastard — had downed several cups of mead. His cheeks were flushed as he raised his cup. "I thought we'd never hold this island. I never imagined you'd actually pull it off!"
"Hahaha, that was nothing!" Femon, Kendel, and the others roared with laughter, cups raised high.
They had followed Logar from the very beginning — from being chased across the Stepstones by the Dornish to returning and crushing a far stronger foe. They had grown used to fighting against impossible odds and winning.
In their eyes, Logar was the favorite of the sea itself — an undefeated war god.
"Logar! Sea Burner! Scourge of Dorne and the Triarchy! King of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones!"
A few old veterans, already drunk, began shouting extravagant titles, urging Logar to crown himself king on the spot. The whole camp joined in with wild cheers.
Logar simply smiled and shook his head at their adoration.
Becoming king of these barren rocks was nothing. His true ambition reached across all of Westeros — and the shores of Essos beyond.
Of course, he kept that thought to himself. He simply ordered more wine brought out so everyone could celebrate to their hearts' content.
Once the feast ended, Logar threw himself back into work. He had to coordinate with the Velaryon fleet to finish clearing the islands and establish order across the Stepstones.
On top of that, the World Devourers had lost more than half their strength. Rebuilding the company was urgent.
After this battle, Logar felt his command skills had grown sharply. Managing a thousand-man force now felt natural. He decided to expand the World Devourers to a full thousand men.
While he was organizing the new defenses, a letter arrived from the Sea Snake on Dragonstone.
Corlys wrote that Queen Rhaenyra had been overjoyed to hear of the destruction of the enemy forces and the securing of the Narrow Sea's gateway. She was willing to personally grant Logar the title of Lord of the Stepstones and accept his service to the Blacks.
Logar let out a long breath of relief.
"Finally."
Since crossing into this world he had fought through countless bloody battles. Now he had finally stepped into the highest circles of the Blacks.
He remembered that, according to the original timeline, the Blacks would soon summon every Targaryen bastard to Dragonstone to try claiming dragons. That was his golden chance.
Excitement surged through him. He immediately gathered his officers.
He ordered Femon and Kendel to remain on the Stepstones and continue working with the Velaryon fleet to wipe out the last pockets of resistance. He himself would take Alyn and a small escort to Dragonstone, delivering the prisoners and presenting himself to the queen.
With the enemy main force destroyed, Femon and Kendel would be safe holding the islands. Only Femon looked disappointed at being left behind instead of sailing to Dragonstone to meet the Black queen in person.
Sails rose. Several large ships loaded with prisoners set out. Logar stood at the prow, eyes fixed on the horizon, full of anticipation for the journey ahead.
...
While Logar sailed for Dragonstone, several battered little skiffs slipped through the darkness along the King's Landing coast, heading quietly toward Dragonstone under cover of night.
Waves slapped against the thin hulls. Cold, salty wind whipped across the deck. Everyone aboard huddled in their ragged clothes, looking wretched and half-starved.
The passengers all shared clear Valyrian features — silver hair and violet eyes, or pale gold locks. Most came from the slums of Flea Bottom, their clothes threadbare and carrying the sour stench of the gutters.
Only two dim lanterns hung at the rails, their weak light flickering over faces that appeared and disappeared in the gloom.
"Have you heard? The Black queen went mad with rage after the Red Queen Meleys died. She's sworn to take back King's Landing!
She's on Dragonstone right now, calling every bastard with Targaryen blood to come and try taming dragons — she wants to build an army of dragonriders to crush the Greens!"
A silver-haired old man with a scarred face and sores all over his skin whispered the news to his companions, his expression a mix of excitement and nerves.
"I saw it with my own eyes! When Prince Aemond and Ser Criston Cole brought Meleys's head back to King's Landing, I was in the crowd. That dragon's head was bigger than an ox!"
A scrawny silver-haired boy nodded, still frightened by the memory.
"It's a shame such a mighty dragon had to die," someone muttered.
"Shame? It died at the perfect time!" a silver-haired man sloshed his wineskin and burped loudly. "If Meleys hadn't died, how would we bastards ever get the chance to go to Dragonstone and claim dragons?
Right now the Crownlands and the Riverlands are tearing each other apart, and the Black fleet is blockading Blackwater Bay. No grain ships can get through. In Flea Bottom we can't even find a bowl of brown anymore!"
"Ulf's right!" the others agreed at once.
Brown was the only food the poorest of Flea Bottom had — a foul stew made from whatever scraps and even corpses could be found. Now even that supply had dried up. People were starving to death every day in King's Landing.
That was why they had risked being caught and beheaded by the Greens to board the small boats Dragonstone had secretly sent.
"What do you think, Hugh?" Ulf nudged the burly man beside him — the one they called "Hammer" Hugh.
"When I get to Dragonstone, which dragon should I try for? Bronze Fury? Or Silverwing?"
Hugh gave him a cold glance. "Claim a dragon? You'd better worry about how you'll survive the dragonflame first."
His words drew laughter from some and worried looks from others.
They all knew the queen had already let her nobles and knights try taming the dragons. Many had died screaming in claws and fire.
Hammer Hugh ignored the rest and stared out at the dark sea.
"My target is Bronze Fury — Vermithor," he muttered to himself, voice low and iron-hard.
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