The Stepstones. Outer Waters of Cutthroat Isle.
The Old Man of the Sea was a swan ship from the Summer Isles, a vessel of such immense value that Eddard Stark had spent seven thousand gold dragons to secure it in White Harbor. Swan ships were renowned across both Essos and Westeros for their superior craftsmanship, massive cargo capacity, and sturdiness in deep-sea swells.
The North had once possessed a mighty fleet. Before the Conquest, King Brandon the Shipwright had built a navy to rival any in the world. But after he sailed into the Sunset Sea and never returned, his son—Brandon the Burner—set the entire fleet aflame in a fit of grief and madness. Since then, whether in the North or the Westerlands, the Sunset Sea remained a mystery that swallowed fleets whole, leaving the Western coast largely bereft of naval power.
Ser Rodrik Cassel stood at the prow, his face a mask of weary frustration. The sea breeze whipped his long, knotted whiskers and the thin circle of white hair atop his head, but he seemed not to notice.
As a Cassel, his family had served the Starks for three generations. Ned had trusted him with the most dangerous secrets: the Queen's incest, the illegitimacy of the royal heirs, and the rot at the heart of the capital. Rodrik had urged Ned to flee King's Landing immediately, but Ned was a man bound by ghosts. He wanted to "save" Robert, to protect Jon Arryn's legacy, and to ensure everyone came out "all right."
In Rodrik's eyes, Ned was trying to hold together a kingdom that had already fractured. Ned's plan was idealistic—unite the Seven Kingdoms, bring Daenerys Targaryen into the fold, and hold a Great Council to decide the throne after the threat of the White Walkers was dealt with.
But as Rodrik sailed away from the capital, a gnawing anxiety had taken root in his gut. He was here to deliver supplies to Jon's supposed "force," but the old knight didn't truly believe a Stark bastard could build anything substantial in the chaos of the Stepstones.
Lemon, their guide, hadn't stopped talking since they left Tarth. He told tales of Jon summoning Valyrian steel from thin air and transforming into a golden dragon—fables that Rodrik found more ridiculous than the legends of Snarks and Grumpkins.
"Look! There's the channel!" Lemon shouted, pointing excitedly. "I'll give the signal so we don't get boarded!"
Lemon had been stationed at Tarth, the "Sapphire of the Narrow Sea," where the Chainbreakers had established their first covert intelligence hub under the guise of a tavern. Narsas had chosen these men carefully, promising them the chance to become "God-Blessed Warriors" if they proved their worth.
"Keep your eyes open," Lemon chirped at the Stark retainers. "I've seen the Dragon with my own eyes. You'll see soon enough!"
The Stark men exchanged amused glances. Many of them had grown up with Jon; they knew him as a quiet, somber lad. The image Lemon painted felt like a different person entirely.
"Ser Rodrik! Two longships are closing on our flank!" a lookout yelled from the mast.
"Slow the pace," Rodrik commanded. "Let the boy handle the talking."
The encounter was swift. One Chainbreaker longship pulled alongside while the other circled warily, its crew keeping their hands near their weapons. The professionalism of the maneuver made Rodrik straighten his back. A garrison's quality could be judged by its boredom; these men were not bored. They were alert.
Even with Lemon's frantic waving, the Chainbreakers insisted on a full inspection of the swan ship. Lemon's face reddened with embarrassment—he had boasted that his presence would waive all checks—but Rodrik found himself quietly impressed.
"Rules are rules, young Lemon," Rodrik said, offering a rare, gruff comfort to the dejected youth. "Even your 'mighty Jon' must follow the laws he sets. It's the sign of a true commander."
"I know," Lemon grumbled, though he cheered up as they neared the docks. "I just wanted to show off a bit."
"You can show off by leading us to him," Rodrik grunted. "I want to see what this boy has turned into."
As they docked, a stone-and-timber market town opened up before them. The architecture was strange—sturdy, utilitarian buildings made of grey stone and heavy wood, rising three stories high. It was a far cry from the flimsy wooden hovels of the common folk in the North. Rodrik noted the quality of the masonry, wondering what kind of mortar they used to bind sea-stone so tightly.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
A rhythmic pounding drew Rodrik's attention. A group of soldiers was double-timing it across the plaza. They were bare-chested despite the salt spray, their movements synchronized with a precision Rodrik had only ever seen in the elite guards of the Free Cities.
They marched into the square, kicking up clouds of white dust. Rodrik expected them to break formation or cough, but they stood like statues in the haze.
"MARK... TIME!" "HALT!"
STOMP. STOMP.
Two hundred men stood in perfect rows—ten deep, twenty wide. They stood with backs as straight as spear-shafts. Rodrik stopped walking, mesmerized by the sheer discipline of the display.
"TELL ME!" Garo's voice boomed across the plaza, a raw, commanding roar. "WHO ARE YOU?"
The response was a single, thunderous shout that shook the very air:
"THE CHAINBREAKERS!"