The Stepstones. Cutthroat Isle Waters.
BOOM.
A final, descending pillar of white-gold Dragonfire engulfed a pirate oar-galley. Under the intense heat, the deck and mainmast carbonized in heartbeats. The sails, caught in the inferno, flared like the jaws of a flaming beast, leaving the pirates no escape but the shark-infested depths.
"You're next," Jon thought.
As Sunfyre, the golden shadow, he beat his massive wings, banking toward the stragglers. The momentum of the naval battle had shifted with the violence of a tidal wave. The Chainbreakers, once pinned and bleeding, were now invigorated by what they saw as a divine intervention. To them, Jon was no longer just a commander; he was a miracle-worker, a living god who commanded the fires of old Valyria.
They surged forward with a fanatical ferocity. When their spears shattered, they used their daggers; when their daggers broke, they used their teeth and nails.
The pirates, conversely, had devolved into a state of catatonic shock. The sight of a legend breathing death from the sky turned the fierce "wolves of the sea" into trembling lambs. Bladders failed, weapons were dropped into the surf, and many simply knelt on blood-slicked decks, pleading for a mercy the sea rarely gave. The Chainbreaker galleys capitalized on the chaos, crushing the remaining resistance with ruthless efficiency.
Seeing the battle won, Jon turned his golden gaze outward, toward the edge of the engagement.
Letho "Blackfox" was fleeing. His flagship, The Crown, was cutting through the waves with desperate speed, but compared to the golden wings of a dragon, it was a crawling beetle. Jon's transformation time was flickering in the corner of his vision, and his Dragonfire reserves were nearly dry. He folded his wings and dove.
BOOM!
He loosed a final, warning burst into the water ahead of The Crown, then spiraled directly over the flagship.
[Transformation Ending...][Unknown Module Detected...][System Scanning... Unknown Error Found...]
The mechanical chime signaled the end. Jon felt his massive skeletal structure collapse inward. Scales receded into skin; claws softened into fingernails.
WHOOSH.
Jon plummeted. He caught a section of the heavy sailcloth as he fell, the rough canvas burning his palms. As he slid toward the deck, he realized with a jolt of cold adrenaline that he was entirely, fundamentally naked.
SHING!
He drew Dark Sister mid-air. With a savage horizontal slash, he carved a section of the The Crown's massive black sail as he descended, wrapping the heavy cloth around his waist like a primitive kilt. He landed on the deck with a heavy thud, the Valyrian steel blade humming in his hand.
He wasn't Tarzan; he was a predator. The improvised wrap held firm against the sea breeze as he stood, the blade reflecting the orange glow of the burning ships nearby.
A ring of pirates surrounded him instantly, but they didn't attack. They stood in a circle of trembling steel, their eyes wide with a terror so deep it looked like madness. They had seen the dragon fall; they had seen the man emerge. To them, Jon was something worse than a beast—he was a demon in human skin.
THUD.
Jon drove the tip of Dark Sister into the deck planks. Several pirates shrieked and fell backward.
"Bring me your captain," Jon commanded, his voice cold and echoing across the quiet deck. "I have words for him."
"Who... what are you?" a pirate stammered.
The crew's eyes shifted as one toward a man in a triangular leather hat and a salt-crusted beard. He was perhaps thirty, though the harsh life of the Narrow Sea had etched lines into his face that made him look older. He wore a black leather jerkin over a ruffled silk shirt—the vanity of a man who considered himself a prince.
This was Letho "Blackfox." He styled himself a descendant of the "Ninepenny Kings," the band of sellswords and merchants who had once tried to carve a kingdom out of Tyrosh and the Stepstones. While most in the Seven Kingdoms saw the Ninepenny Kings as a historical footnote, Letho treated the bloodline as a holy mandate.
"It's a strange thing," Jon said, his eyes locking onto Letho. "You come to my home, kill my people, and burn my ships... and then you ask me who I am?"
Letho's legendary composure was gone. He looked like a cornered rat. "I... it wasn't my idea! Salladhor Saan! He told me you had a hoard of slaves... he promised us an easy harvest!"
Jon ignored the excuse. "Listen well. You are all my captives. You may buy your freedom with gold, or you may earn it through labor. My fortress needs masons, and my fields need hands."
A murmur of disbelief went through the crew.
"Why should we listen?" a burly pirate with a scarred face growled, trying to find his courage. "There's only one of him! We can—"
He stopped when Jon's eyes turned toward him.
"I am still learning the nuances of this form," Jon said, his voice dropping into a lethal, low register. "But I have heard that when a dragon eats human flesh, its fire grows even hotter. Would you like to help me test that theory?"
CLANG.
The first sword hit the deck. Then another. Within seconds, a pile of steel grew at Jon's feet. The pirates weren't just surrendering; they were abasing themselves before a power they couldn't comprehend. They didn't want to gamble their souls on whether or not the man in the loincloth could turn back into the golden god of death.
"Good," Jon said, a ghost of a smile appearing. "Since you're so cooperative, we'll skip the experiment."
Jon breathed a silent sigh of relief. He was bluffing—his Dragon Soul Energy was a finite resource, and he needed to save every drop for the wars to come. But he had bet on their fear, and he had won.
"Turn the ship around," Jon ordered. "Head for the main island. And pick up every man in the water. They're my workers now."
The pirates scrambled to obey, leaving Letho "Blackfox" standing alone by the mast, a king of nothing.