The Stepstones. Throat-Cutting Isle. Dock Market Plaza.
"Tell me! What is your purpose?"
Garo stood before the ranks, his muscles bulging beneath a sheen of sweat. He spoke with the raw, salt-crusted passion of a man born to the sea, and the energy was infectious.
"We break the chains! We bring freedom! We send the slavers to the Seven Hells!"
"Good! Show me that spirit!"
Garo's grin was wide as he paced before the silent rows of men. "Your drills were sufficient today. But tomorrow, I want more. Lord Jon is preparing the next ritual. He is looking for those worthy to become God-Blessed Warriors!"
A collective intake of breath hissed through the plaza. The discipline wavered for a fraction of a second as excitement rippled through the ranks. Garo's brow furrowed, and he let out a sharp, displeased snort. The silence returned instantly, heavy and pressurized.
"I gave you a glimmer of the future because you performed well," Garo growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "But it seems you are children who cannot handle a scrap of praise. New orders: Mark time. You stay on this plaza until the fortress bells ring for the evening. No water. No rest."
The excitement vanished, replaced by the grim reality of a soldier's life.
"Young Lemon," Ser Rodrik whispered, watching the men stand like stone statues. "What does he mean by 'fortress bells'?"
"It's how we keep time here, Ser Rodrik," Lemon replied, his eyes filled with a mix of pity and envy for the men on the plaza. "Ten chimes a day, from sunrise to sunset. They'll be standing there for hours."
Lemon watched the elite two hundred—men Jon called the 'vanguard of the vanguard.' They were being pushed to the brink of human endurance. Yet, none of them complained. They were fed better than many minor lords in the North, with meat at every meal and the finest medicinal salves for their wounds. Jon's recent windfalls—the hoard of "Skullcap" Bill and the treasures from Visenya's vault—had turned him into a merchant prince overnight.
"You mean they'll just... stand there? Without a guard?" Rodrik asked, stunned. In his experience, levies and mercenaries were as slippery as eels; the moment a commander turned his back, they'd be gambling or deserting.
But as Garo walked away to greet the newcomers, not a single Chainbreaker moved. It was as if their feet had been fused to the cobblestones.
AWOOOO—!
The sound cut through the plaza, a low, vibrating howl that made the hair on Rodrik's neck stand up. A white blur streaked from the main thoroughfare.
Rodrik's eyes bulged. He had seen the Stark children's direwolves, but this creature was a nightmare of the North. It was the size of a heifer, its fur as white as a blizzard, its eyes like twin pools of fresh blood. It hit Rodrik like a falling mountain.
"Ser! Look out!"
SHING! The Stark guards drew their steel, but they were too late. Rodrik was already on the ground.
"Hahaha! Stop! Ghost, stop that! It tickles, you great beast!"
The guards froze. The "attack" was a flurry of giant, wet licks and a rumbling purr that sounded like grinding stones.
"Ghost?" one of the guards whispered. "Old Gods... what has Jon been feeding this thing? It's a monster!"
"Enough, boy! Let an old man breathe!" Rodrik laughed, pushing the massive head away. His whiskers and the thin fringe of hair around his bald pate were a tangled, slobbered mess. "Go on, take me to your master before you break my ribs."
Ghost tilted his head, letting out a soft, inquisitive whine that was absurdly cute for a creature that could bite a horse's head off.
Supported by Garo and Lemon, Rodrik stood and brushed off his travel-stained clothes, trying to regain some semblance of knightly dignity. They began the trek toward the Pirate Fortress, passing through a Dock Market that hummed with industry.
Rodrik watched the construction with a keen eye. Men were mixing a strange, pungent gray paste in massive cauldrons—a substance that seemed far more effective than traditional lime. They were slathering it between sea-stones and timber, creating structures that looked as though they could withstand a siege. Rodrik made a mental note to ask Jon about the recipe; it could change the face of construction in the North.
As they ascended the fortress stairs, Rodrik saw the scars of the recent battle—dark, iron-colored stains in the masonry that no amount of scrubbing could fully erase.
Finally, they entered the great hall on the second floor. Jon was there, standing over a set of crates, inspecting the contents with focused intensity.
"Lord Jon," Lemon called out, "the contact has arrived. This is—"
"Ser Rodrik," Jon interrupted, turning with a smile that reached his eyes. "It has been too long."
"Hahaha! Jon!"
The old knight didn't wait for protocol. He stepped forward and pulled Jon into a bone-crushing embrace. Jon laughed, returning the gesture with the strength of a man who had spent his months in the forge of war.
After the guards had exchanged greetings and the initial shock had worn off, Rodrik stepped back, looking Jon up and down. The boy he had trained in the courtyard of Winterfell was gone. In his place stood a man with the calm, heavy presence of a ruler.
"Lord Eddard would barely recognize you, lad," Rodrik said, his voice thick with genuine pride. "To carve this out of the Stepstones in a few months... many lords spend their whole lives failing to achieve half of what I've seen today."
"I had good teachers, Ser Rodrik," Jon replied, gesturing toward a seat. "You look weary. I'll have the kitchens prepare a feast tonight for my oldest friends. But first, let's see what my uncle has sent from the North."
Rodrik sat, feeling the weight of his years. "I'm an old dog, Jon, but I can still hunt. Let's get these supplies moved. I have a mission to finish before I return to the Hand's side."