Bloodstone Isle. Among the shifting chaos of the Stepstones, it stood as one of the few landmasses with a name worth remembering—the largest of the chain and home to the infamous pirate stronghold of Torturer's Deep.
Since the dawn of the age, pirate kings had coveted this rock. During the Dance of the Dragons, Craghas Drahar, the "Crabfeeder," had carved his bloody legacy here, rising from these shores to terrify the Narrow Sea. Today, history repeated itself in a different hue of crimson. Jason "The Bull," the self-proclaimed king of the isle, lay facedown in the muck, driven into the dirt like a common stray.
The fortress of Torturer's Deep had fallen. Salladhor Saan's men swarmed the ramparts, their banners snapping over a harbor choked with the charred ribs of broken warships and bobbing corpses. At every major checkpoint, bodies stared at the sky with glazed, unblinking eyes—a silent, frozen protest against the unfairness of fate.
In the settlement surrounding the docks, the roar of fire and the screams of the conquered filled the air. The women were being herded and claimed by the victors; the men who still breathed offered desperate, futile resistance. It was a scene as old as the sea itself, made possible only because the gates had been unbarred from within. Salladhor Saan had bought Jason's lieutenant weeks ago, ensuring the "Bull" would be gored by his own horns.
That same lieutenant—a lithe, handsome youth named Lemon—now stood over his former master, his boot pressing Jason's face into the gravel.
"Pah... Lemon!" Jason spat, coughing up a mixture of bile and blood. "You damned chameleon... have you forgotten who plucked you from the slave-traders' cages? One day, you'll be the one left on the sand for the crabs to feast on!"
"You disgusting animal," Lemon hissed. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his sword hilt, his face flushing a deep, murderous red. "You only 'saved' me for your own... your own—"
"Hahaha!" Jason laughed, the sound wet and jagged. He had nothing left to lose. "Old Jason's bull-prick isn't a prize just anyone gets to taste, is it? Did you forget how you—gack!"
The taunt ended in a spray of red. Lemon's longsword driven through the man's throat and out the back of his neck. The youth stood there, chest heaving, his eyes wide and trembling as he wrenched the steel free from the corpse's mouth. He sank to his knees, his strength spent, and cast a fearful glance toward the man watching from the center of the square.
Salladhor Saan stood with a posture that suggested he was attending a gala rather than a massacre. His skin was the deep, rich mahogany of the Summer Isles, inherited from his father's blood. He wore a flamboyant military tunic of yellow and green, trimmed in gold and fastened with buttons of intricate silver thread. His leather boots were polished to a mirror shine, unstained by the gore of the harbor.
"Enough, Lemon," Salladhor said, his voice smooth as Lysene silk. He hid his annoyance at the youth's impulsiveness behind a practiced smile. "You are the hero of the hour. Why would I begrudge you a bit of vengeance? Someone, take the boy to rest."
As Lemon was led away, Salladhor signaled for the cleaners to haul Jason's body into the sea. He felt no ill omen from the dead man—only the intoxicating thrill of destiny. From this day forward, he was the master of the Stepstones. Here, he would stitch the warring pirate factions into a single tapestry. Here, he would build a dynasty.
He marched into the fortress's throne room. At the far end sat the seat once occupied by Prince Daemon Targaryen, the King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. Rumors whispered that the chair was ensorcelled—that only those of the True Dragon's blood could sit upon it without being cursed to a grisly end.
Salladhor Saan sat. He didn't just sit; he slammed his weight into the seat and slapped the armrests, testing the feel of the power beneath him.
"A chair is a chair," he laughed, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls. "The glorious Targaryens were chased from their seats like dogs, were they not? Gold and ships—that is the only true bloodline. These brainless savages were only ever stepping stones for my feet."
He looked down at the bloodstains on the floor, still wet, a testament to the price of his rise. For months, he had woven his web, spending over a thousand gold dragons on bribes and shadows to peel Bloodstone away from "The Bull." The investment had yielded a magnificent return.
"Now, only a few more obstacles remain," Salladhor mused, stroking his chin. In his mind's eye, he saw the other pirate lords kneeling, their fleets merging into a swarm that would make the Free Cities tremble. "The King of the Narrow Sea... it has a fine ring to it."
"My Lord! My Lord!"
The fantasy shattered. Salladhor's brow furrowed as a voice drifted up from the base of the dais.
"What is it?" Salladhor snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. "Did I not say I was to be left to my thoughts?"
"Respected San En," stammered Jommy, a long-serving slave who knew exactly how dangerous his master's moods could be. "A messenger... from Cutthroat Isle. He insists on seeing you immediately."
Salladhor's heart gave a sudden, uncomfortable thud. Cutthroat Isle. It sat in the gut of the Stepstones—a vital, jagged piece of geography that was notoriously difficult to hold. He hadn't taken it by force; the men there were Ironborn, a breed of sea-wolves who lived for battle and died for pride. He had bought their leader, "Skullcap" Bill, with chests of gold and a bevy of high-priced pleasure slaves from Myr.
"Fine," Salladhor sighed, the sun departing from his face. "Bring him in."
The man Jommy led forward was a wretched sight. His clothes were tatters, stiff with dried salt and fresher blood. He looked like a man who had crawled through the Seven Hells to reach the shore.
"Lord Saan! You must avenge us!" the man wailed, collapsing onto his knees and striking his head against the floor. "We were taken by surprise! The island is lost!"
"Speak clearly," Salladhor commanded, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "What happened?"
The messenger began to spill the tale—the arrival of Jon and his "Chainbreakers," the fall of the garrison, and the cold efficiency of the slaughter.
"Only one ship? You were broken by one ship?"
"What? You say it was Gusta's vessel? Then my shipment of slaves... they're gone?"
"A skinchanger? A direwolf? Have you been drowning your wits in rum, man?"
As the report continued, Salladhor's skepticism turned into a cold, hollow weight in his stomach. This "Jon" was no mere idealistic rebel. He was a tactician. He was a ghost. According to the messenger, the battle hadn't been a skirmish; it had been a total erasure of Bill's power.
"L-Lord... what are our orders?" Jommy whispered as the silence in the throne room grew heavy.
Salladhor stared at nothing for a long moment. "You... Tom, was it? Jommy will see you paid for your news. Go, rest. Salladhor Saan rewards those who serve."
As the messenger was ushered out, Salladhor remained on Daemon Targaryen's throne, but the seat felt suddenly colder. The Chainbreakers. If they were truly liberating slaves, they weren't just a rival pirate gang—they were a virus that threatened the very economy of the Stepstones.
"Jommy!"
"Yes, my Lord!" the servant squeaked, rushing back to the dais.
"Find me my swiftest messengers. I have letters to send," Salladhor's eyes narrowed, his mind already recalculating the cost of war. "And find Sunny. Tell him to meet me at once. We have a problem that gold might not be enough to bury."