The Stepstones, Cutthroat Isle
It was a night of profound stillness. Moonlight spilled across the harbor, fracturing into a thousand silver splinters upon the undulating water. The rhythmic wash of the waves against the shore provided a sense of deceptive serenity, a cooling balm after the heat of the day.
Far from the daytime clamor, the docks of Cutthroat Isle stood silent, save for the occasional groan of timber as a ship rocked in its berth. Masts and furled sails cast long, skeletal shadows across the moonlit planks. A few small watch-boats remained on patrol, their oars dipping silently, while the lighthouse had shifted its beam to sweep only the immediate approaches to the main island.
As the hours crawled toward midnight, the movement on the water ceased entirely. Even the patrols, lulled by the wine and the stillness, grew sparse until the harbor was a graveyard of silent ships. In the distance, the pirate stronghold began to dim, with only a few stray windows flickering with dying candlelight.
Deep within the island's bowels, in a prison-pit carved into the damp earth, several dark shapes moved with the fluid grace of predators.
The two pirates guarding the pit had reached that hollow point of exhaustion where the eyelids become leaden weights. They leaned against their spears, lost in a desperate struggle to remain upright.
Shhh—
"Did you see that?" one guard hissed, blinking rapidly.
A flash of white had flickered at the edge of his vision. He nudged his companion, who only groaned and rubbed his bleary eyes.
"See what? Ugh... my head is pounding..."
"Something is—"
Awooo—Crunch!
The groggy pirate never finished his sentence. A hand clamped over his mouth from behind, and a cold blade found his throat before he could draw a breath.
The first guard tried to scream, but Ghost was already airborne. The direwolf struck like a thunderbolt, his massive jaws crushing the man's windpipe in a single, wet snap. The sound of struggling was quickly replaced by the gurgle of blood.
Click... clack...
Narsas knelt by the heavy iron grate, his fingers dancing over the lock. Though the guards carried no keys, his specialized thief's tools made short work of the mechanism. As the door swung open, a thick, nauseating stench of unwashed bodies and fear wafted up from the darkness.
Nearly a hundred souls were crammed into the pit. They were the "harvest" of "Skullcap" Bill—slaves gathered for future sale to traffickers like the late Captain Gusta.
"Who's there?" "Lord of Light, protect us!" "Get away, you filthy curs!"
A wave of panic rippled through the prisoners as Narsas's group descended with torches. Many mistook them for a fresh shift of tormentors. The air was filled with a dozen languages, but the Common Tongue of Westeros rose above the rest—a necessity for survival in the Stepstones.
Among the captives were dark-skinned men and women from the Summer Isles, their colorful silks now reduced to rags. Families huddled together, their eyes wide with a shared, agonizing identity: the dispossessed.
Growl...
Under Jon's mental command, Ghost let out a low, vibrating rumble. The sheer physical presence of the direwolf forced the crowd into a terrified silence.
"We are 'The Chainbreakers,'" Narsas announced, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "We have come to put an end to these pirates and break your chains. Regardless of which gods you pray to, we stand here as servants of the Old and the New to bring you out of the dark."
The prisoners stared, the information hitting them like a physical blow.
"But understand this," Narsas continued, "the pirates still hold the heights. We have a choice to make. We fight now to ensure they never put these collars on anyone again. Are you with us?"
A hesitant murmur grew into a chorus of desperate agreement.
Clang... shing...
A bundle of stolen daggers and shortswords was dumped onto the floor.
"Then take up steel," Narsas said. "Tell me now—do you move forward, or do you shrink back?"
...
Cutthroat Isle, The Pirate Stronghold
"Skullcap" Bill was a reaver from the Iron Islands who had fled to the Stepstones after murdering his own kin. Being a man of ruthless ambition and cold cruelty, he had carved out a piece of the skull from an unlucky victim to serve as a bowl—hence the name—and eventually clawed his way to the top of the island's hierarchy.
Tonight, his crew was celebrating. Jon had sent the convert Garo ahead under the guise of Gusta's lieutenant to negotiate a trade. Not only had a deposit been paid, but Jon had "gifted" the pirates several casks of prized Arbor wine.
Jon had prepared for this. During his final days in Winterfell, he had spent his nights with Maester Luwin, absorbing everything he could about toxins and sedatives. Armed with Luwin's private notes and a supply of Sweetsleep, Jon had spiked the wine.
The drug, in small doses, induced a heavy, dream-like lethargy. The "Chainbreaker" volunteers who had "tested" the wine for the pirates had been given a much smaller amount, appearing merely tipsy while the pirates drank their fill.
In the great hall, the reavers were slumped over tables, their vision blurring and their limbs turning to lead. Only "Skullcap" Bill, a man with a frame like a mountain grizzly, seemed to be resisting the fog.
Garo, the Dornish sailor Jon had saved from the brink of death, sat opposite the pirate lord. He was playing the part of the rowdy guest, though his own head was beginning to swim from the fumes and a small sip he'd had to take for show.
"Hahaha! Drink up, Garo!" Bill roared, his face a mask of drunken crimson. "If Gusta's too sick to drink his share, you'll have to do it for him!"
Garo caught a glimpse of the door and forced a smile. "I'll drink to that, Captain."
Awooo—!
The howl of the wolf pierced the hall, sharp and expectant.
It's time, Garo thought, his heart racing. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. "Pardon me, Captain Bill. Nature calls."
"Hah! Going for a piss? Don't you dare vanish, we're just getting started!"
"I wouldn't dream of it," Garo muttered.
As he stepped into the corridor, he was accompanied by a pirate escort. The moment they cleared the hall, a dozen Chainbreakers lunged from the shadows. The escort was silenced before he could even draw a knife.
At the end of the hall, Jon stood framed by the flickering torchlight. With a fluid motion that defied the laws of the world, he summoned his iron sword from the void.
"Chainbreakers!" Jon shouted, his voice ringing with a preternatural authority. "In the name of the Gods, cast these monsters into the abyss!"
"Victory!"
The doors to the hall burst inward. The pirates, caught in a drug-induced stupor, struggled to process the sight of the boy with the glowing steel.
"What... what is this?" "My head... I can't..."
Jon didn't give them time to recover. He moved like a whirlwind, targeting the massive shape of "Skullcap" Bill at the far end of the room. A young pirate tried to heave a heavy bench at Jon, but the iron blade flashed, opening the boy's throat in a silent arc of red.
Behind Jon, the liberated slaves and the Northern recruits poured into the hall like an angry tide. Though many lacked formal training, their enemies were barely able to stand. The "battle" quickly devolved into a systematic execution. The floors of the stronghold, once the site of drunken boasts, were now slick with the blood of the men who had built a kingdom on the suffering of others.