The Godswood of Cutthroat Isle was but a fragment of the main island's ancient forest. Long before the pirate "Skullcap" Bill claimed these shores, the massive Heart Tree had stood as a silent sentinel.
In Westeros, few dared lay an axe to a Heart Tree. Though weirwood was the finest timber in the known world, most understood that to strike the pale wood was to strike at the Old Gods themselves. In the South, such trees were rarities, hidden away in the castles of ancient houses or the deepest mountain folds.
When men encountered a weirwood, their first instinct was to keep their distance. The eerie, watchful faces carved into the bark were etched into their collective DNA—a primal warning, much like the way a man recoils at the sight of a snake. It was a reflex born of ancestral memory: danger, mystery, death.
The pirates under Letho "Blackfox" knew nothing of the island's soul. They charged into the forest's edge, shouting to bolster their courage. The woods met them with a heavy, suffocating silence, like a great beast holding its breath before a pounce.
"Boss Kamos!" a pirate called out, his voice wavering. "Where do we start? There's nothing dry enough to catch here."
The Stepstones were dominated by olive, fig, palm, and coconut trees. While there were stands of nightwood and soldier pine, the damp sea air made natural ignition difficult. The pirates had brought only a meager supply of fire-oil.
"Find dry brush! Gather thorns and palm husks!" Kamos roared, his iron-bound arm gesturing toward the treeline. "What are you, children? Do I have to teach you how to strike a spark?"
His men hesitated. It wasn't incompetence that held them back, but an overwhelming instinct to stay close to one another. The forest felt wrong.
Lemon, a Dornish pirate with a trail of murders behind him, felt the urge to flee the moment he stepped into the shade. Though the Dornish prayed to the Seven, their Rhoynish blood carried a deeper, more fluid connection to the world. He felt the woods watching him.
"Lamno, Jack—get that dead soldier pine down," Lemon ordered, pointing his cutlass at a gnarled, twisted tree that had lost the battle for sunlight. "We'll keep watch. Let's get this done and get back to the ships. I'd rather face a storm at sea than another minute in this hellhole."
The two pirates grumbled but set to work, their axes biting into the pale bark. They were frantic, their swings clumsy and uncoordinated.
"You idiots, hit it harder!" Lemon hissed.
He never finished the sentence. A sudden rush of wind brushed past his ear, followed by the terrifying sound of a body being snatched into the brush.
SNAP. CRUNCH.
The sounds that followed made the pirates' scalps crawl—the wet, heavy noise of bones being splintered and flesh being torn. They turned their torches toward the sound and saw a nightmare.
It was white, massive, and matted with gore. At first, they thought it was a Hrakkar, a white lion of the Dothraki Sea. But as the silhouette moved into the light, they saw the long snout and the cold, red eyes of a wolf the size of a warhorse.
GRRRRR...
Ghost stood over the remains of their comrade, blood and gristle dripping from his jowls. He let out a low, vibrating growl that rattled the pirates' teeth.
"B-back... get together!" Lemon stammered, his legs turning to jelly.
ROAR—!
The wolf lunged. Screams tore through the Godswood, echoing back to the fortress. Pirates dropped their axes and fled, sprinting for the forest edge as if the Stranger himself were at their heels.
"Monster! There's a monster in the trees!"
Kamos watched in horror as a blood-drenched survivor burst from the treeline, only to be tackled from behind by a white blur. The pirate's throat was crushed in an instant.
"Don't be afraid!" Kamos screamed, trying to stem the rising tide of panic. "We have the numbers! It's just a beast!"
He knew his men. They were bullies and cutthroats—fierce when winning, but cowardly in the face of the unknown. To stop a rout, he needed fire.
"Throw the oil! Burn the edge!"
Under Kamos's command, the pirates began hurling bundles of dry palm fronds and jars of fire-oil into the brush. The sea breeze caught the sparks, and soon, a line of orange flame began to eat into the forest. A tall palm tree ignited like a torch, its burning fronds drifting deeper into the woods.
Ghost let out a pained, fearful howl at the growing heat, but he did not retreat. He began tearing at the low-hanging branches of nearby trees, trying to create a firebreak between the flames and the Heart Tree where his master sat.
"What is that thing doing?" a pirate asked, mesmerized.
"Protecting something," Kamos grunted. "Its pups, maybe. Like a mother bear. It'll fight until it's cinders."
But then, the wolf's howl changed. It was no longer a cry of fear, but a high, sharp yip of recognition—of excitement.
AWOOOO—!
"Boss... why is it barking like that? Why isn't it dead?"
A sudden, unnatural change took hold of the atmosphere. The sea breeze died instantly, replaced by a swirling, localized gale. The flames, instead of spreading outward, began to twist. They spiraled into a column of fire, a vortex of orange and violet light that defied the wind.
The heat became unbearable. The air hummed with a sound like a thousand swarming bees. The vortex swelled, bloating like a gas-filled lung, until it reached a breaking point.
BOOM!
The fire exploded outward, not in a wave of heat, but in a shockwave of pure energy.
SHREEE-AHHH!
A piercing, draconic shriek split the sky. A massive, ink-black shadow detached itself from the smoke, looming over Kamos and his terrified men.