The Narrow Sea, The Stepstones, Cutthroat Isle
In the evening light, Cutthroat Isle betrayed its savage name. At this hour, it resembled a serene, slumbering maiden, bathed in the dying embers of the sunset—mysterious, alluring, and deceptively soft.
The island's landscape surrendered slowly to the encroaching twilight as the day's heat dissipated. The daytime clamor seemed to recede with the tide, giving way to a period of silence and heavy reflection. Sky and sea became one, the horizon blurred by a sky as vibrant as wildfire. As the sun dipped beneath the waterline, it painted the firmament in deep, bruising hues of orange and red.
Upon the water, the setting sun looked like a spilled cask of blood, reflecting golden glints that leaped across the waves like fire-sprites dancing in the surf. The island's dense foliage softened in the amber glow; leaves swayed gently, whispering secrets of the day's events to the rising moon.
"Company, atten-hut!"
A sharp, barked command tore through the evening air. In the courtyard of the Pirate Fortress, the soldiers of "The Chainbreakers" snapped to attention, their spines straightening as one.
"Good. Fine work today. You've all met the training quotas set by Lord Jon," Garo announced. He was a man who had recently been promoted by the system to the "Pirate" class—a role that granted him a preternatural affinity for the sea, enhancing his speed and strength while on the waves.
Since his transformation, Garo's physical constitution had hardened into something far more formidable than his previous self. While he lacked the raw, untapped potential of the "Ring Guard" boys, his decades of salt-crusted experience and combat savvy made him the perfect drillmaster. Jon had entrusted him with the task of turning this ragtag collection of survivors into a lethal fighting force.
For now, the Chainbreakers were being forged for naval warfare. Beyond learning the intricacies of rigging and the endurance required for long-distance swimming, the men were subjected to grueling daily drills. Jon was no tyrant; he understood that a well-fed soldier was a loyal one. Before departing for his communion at the Heart Tree, he had provided Garo with a comprehensive training manual. It was a synthesis of Jon's modern memories—military drills, corporate management structures, and tactical theories—penned during his journey south.
Had Jon taken these scrolls to the Citadel in Oldtown, he might have been granted a Maester's link on the spot, perhaps even a Doctorate. In this world, where information was hoarded like gold, any educated soul from the modern era could carve out a destiny through sheer administrative efficiency.
Garo, despite his limited literacy, was a quick study. His familiarity with the treacherous waters between Dorne and the Stepstones was exactly why the late "Skullcap" Bill had kept him as a mate.
"Dismissed!"
"Thank you, Commander Garo!"
Watching the men break ranks with a discipline they lacked only a week prior, Garo felt his admiration for Jon deepen.
"Commander Garo! Why didn't Lord Jon come today?"
As Garo and Pippin—newly promoted to the "Knight" class—prepared to leave, a small group of boys hurried toward them. They were no more than thirteen or fourteen, though the harsh reality of the Stepstones had carved years of weariness into their young faces.
These were the "native" slaves of Cutthroat Isle, many of them the unwanted bastards of the pirates. In a world where the secrets of moon tea and herbal prevention were held only by the high-born or the Maesters, the captives of the reavers frequently bore children who were treated as little more than livestock. To these boys, Jon's arrival was a divine intervention. Knowing he was a bastard like them had turned him into more than a leader; he was an idol, a living proof that they could be more than their origins. Jon had personally led their morning drills, and his absence since noon had left an palpable void in their spirits.
"You're Lemon, aren't you?" Pippin asked, recognizing a tall, gangly youth.
"Yes, Ser Pippin! I'm the one you corrected during sword practice. I didn't think you'd remember me."
Pippin beamed. Though he hadn't been formally dubbed by a king or a great lord, the system's "Knight" class had flooded his mind with the muscle memory and tactical instincts of a veteran cavalier. If given a full suit of plate, Pippin knew he could comfortably dispatch five armed men single-handedly.
"Lord Jon is praying at the Heart Tree," Pippin explained, his voice taking on a reverent tone. "The power the Gods granted him must be replenished so he can continue to bless others—to make more of us into warriors, like he did for us."
Lemon's eyes shone with fanatical wonder. Most on the island accepted Jon's "God-blessed" status as fact, primarily because they had watched the physical transformations of Garo and the others. While the system didn't provide flashy magical effects during the transition, the sudden, drastic increase in their competence was proof enough for the common folk.
However, as they spoke, they failed to notice one boy in the background whose eyes glinted with a very different light at the mention of "praying" and "replenished."
"Is that so? Can we go see him?" the boy asked.
"No," Garo cut in sharply. "Narsas was clear: Lord Jon is not to be disturbed."
Garo didn't need to know the specifics; as a man who had seen the "Shadow-binders" of Asshai and the long-winged dragons of Sothoryos, he knew better than to interfere with a man communing with the divine. He had seen a friend in Qarth murdered by a literal shadow for offending the wrong person. In Garo's mind, magic was a physical law, and the Maesters who called it superstition were simply fools.
"Rest easy. Lord Jon will be back to lead your drills by morning," Pippin added, trying to soften Garo's sternness.
"Understood, Ser Pippin. We're off to the galley, then. Goodnight, My Lords."
The boys offered a submissive, slaves' bow—a habit they couldn't seem to break despite the Chainbreakers' insistence on equality.
"No more bowing," Garo muttered, helping one of them up. "Go on, get your supper."
As the children scurried off, Garo and Pippin made their way toward the inner fortress. Jon had maintained a degree of separation from the rank-and-file, not out of arrogance, but out of a modern understanding of power dynamics. He knew that "familiarity breeds contempt." To lead this den of vipers, he had to remain a figure of mystery and distant authority.
Supper on Cutthroat Isle was a lavish affair compared to the meager rations of a slave. The pirates' stores were overflowing with looted delicacies. Tonight, the mess hall—formerly a tavern where pirates drank themselves into a stupor—served salt-baked seafood, thick cheese soup, and mushroom broth with crusty black bread. For men who had spent years starving, it was a miracle.
But in a dark corner of the bustling hall, a group of eight men sat in a tight, hushed circle.
Their bodies were maps of jagged scars, their hands calloused from decades of gripping hilts. These were not desperate laborers; they were career killers. At their center sat a man in his fifties, radiating a predatory ferocity. His right hand was missing two fingers—the mark of a reaver who had survived the Iron Islands.
"Captain Kapo," one of the younger men whispered, glancing nervously at the cheering crowd. "What's the move?"
"We're Ironborn," Kapo hissed, his voice like grinding stones. "The Drowned God gave us the right to take what we want. I didn't come to these rocks to play 'servant' to some Northern bastard and his 'Chainbreakers'."
"I've done the scouting," another man added. "The high-born pup is out at the Heart Tree, 'praying.' He's alone. If we put a knife in his throat now, this whole house of cards collapses. The others will follow the man with the loudest roar, just like they always do."
Kapo's eyes fixed on the distant treeline where the Heart Tree stood, a cold, murderous resolve settling over his face.