The Stepstones. Cutthroat Isle.
Fires still flickered across the surface of the water, sending columns of acrid smoke drifting far into the horizon. The harbor was a landscape of desolation—a graveyard of splintered masts, charred hulls, and the floating debris of a broken fleet.
Aboard The Crown, the atmosphere was one of leaden silence. The captured pirates stood huddled together, their faces blackened by soot and eyes wide with a lingering, hollow shock. They looked at the horizon as if expecting the sky to split open again. Among the survivors, a single rumor had taken root and grown into a terrifying gospel: that Dragonfire didn't just consume the flesh, but scorched the very soul until nothing remained to pass into the halls of the Drowned God. To them, Jon was no longer a man; he was a walking apocalypse.
The flagship glided through the channel, passing the charred remains of the blockade ship that Jon had incinerated during his flight. High above, gulls screamed and circled, drawn by the carnage. They cared little for the reasons men killed one another; they saw only the feast laid out upon the waves.
As The Crown approached the docks, Garo and the remaining land forces stood ready. They watched the massive vessel with suspicion until a lookout, squinting through a Myrish tube, let out a shout of disbelief.
"Is that... is that Lord Jon on the deck? Without a tunic?"
A pair of oar-galleys, commanded by Frodo and Sam of the Ring Guard, pulled alongside to intercept. As the ships groaned against each other, Frodo leaped onto the flagship's deck, his hand on the hilt of his longsword. He froze when he saw the sheer number of pirates—nearly a hundred, outnumbering his own boarding party.
"Who is in command here?" Frodo demanded, his voice tight.
The pirates didn't answer. They simply stepped aside, opening a path to the man standing by the mainmast.
"Lord Jon!" Frodo stammered, his bravado vanishing in an instant. "You... you're truly here."
"A fine show of spirit, Frodo," Jon said, stepping forward. He was draped in a section of rough sailcloth, his chest bare and marked by the fading heat of his transformation. "But next time, do not board an unknown vessel alone. If the enemy had no intention of parleying, you would be a corpse before your feet hit the wood. Do not let victory make you careless."
"Yes, my Lord," Frodo whispered, bowing his head.
The docking process was a somber affair. Under Jon's direction, the prisoners were sorted. The wounded were moved toward the medical tents under heavy guard. Jon's orders were absolute: any prisoner who resisted was to be fed to the sharks or to Ghost.
As if summoned by the threat, a low, vibrating howl echoed through the market streets. Ghost emerged from the shadows like a white wraith, trotting to Jon's side. The direwolf looked more like a prehistoric monster than a hound, and the captured pirates recoiled, their fear of the man only deepened by the beast at his side.
Jon walked toward the Pirate Fortress, his eyes sweeping over the remnants of the battle. The stairs were still stained with the dark, iron-scented blood of Kamos's men. Interestingly, Kamos himself had survived. The massive man had found refuge in a dung heap before the Dragonfire could take him, and though he reeked of filth and failure, he was now bound in the dungeons.
Once inside the war room, Jon gathered his captains. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and tension. Narsas, Garo, and the others stood with lowered heads; they had won, but they had been saved by a miracle, and they knew they had failed to hold the island on their own strength.
"Sit," Jon commanded, his voice echoing in the stone chamber. "I do not want your apologies. I do not want your guilt. I want your analysis. Tell me what we learned today."
The captains looked at one another, surprised. They had expected a lashing, but Jon was already looking toward the next war.
Kapo was the first to find his voice. "Lord Jon... if I may." He stood, his scarred hands resting on the table. "I wasn't in command, but I saw the holes in our net. Our patrol routes are a mess—they overlap in some places and leave miles of open water in others. We're using a pirate's map to fight a soldier's war."
Jon nodded. "Go on."
"And the equipment," Garo added, emboldened by Jon's nod. "Our men are fighting with sharpened sticks and rusted scraps. If the pirates hadn't been broken by... well, by you... our wood would have splintered against their steel eventually. We need a forge that doesn't stop."
Jon leaned back in his chair, his eyes dark and calculating. The battle had exposed the raw truth: he had a fanatical following, but he didn't yet have an army.
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